Most of you know by now that I was not raised as a Christian. The exception was Christmas. Once a year, starting right after Thanksgiving, our home began to transform. Lights went up, the tree was decorated, cookies flowed like water, my dad set up a little village of ceramic houses on a cotton snow field. We looked forward to Christmas. Really, we started celebrating Christmas before December 1, and stretched it out as long as we could. It was bad luck to take the tree down before New Year’s. We didn’t talk a whole lot about God or Jesus during that time, though they were mentioned. But we talked a lot about joy, about mystery, about light coming into dark places. To understand Christmas in my childhood, you have to understand Christmas in my father’s childhood.
My dad grew up in an alcoholic home. His father was a binge drinker who was often abusive, mostly emotionally, but sometimes physically as well. His mother, though loving, was not able to shield her six children from her husband’s abuse. Eleven months out of the year, my father spent time ducking and hiding, developing coping mechanisms and figuring out how to get out of the way. One of his favorite ways to escape, once he was old enough, was to get on his bike and ride. It was on these rides, he says now, that he most experienced grace, in the ability to find out who he was beyond the confines of the family’s dysfunction.
The only other time that things let up was Christmas. Though there was still drinking, there were also lots of people around. The number of grown-ups in the house around the holidays meant that there were buffers to my grandfather’s moods. There were aunts and cousins and friends whom he wanted to impress, and who could distract him. For the time around Christmas, their father was on his best behavior, and my dad could relax and enjoy an almost normal family life.
One consequence of life in that household was that for about 11 months a year, it was pretty difficult for my dad to believe in God. The family went to church, where he heard about God, but he didn’t really see much evidence of God in his day-to-day life. And unfortunately the church he attended did not do much to help. But for about a month each year, and when he was able to get away on his bike, my dad could hear the words of Isaiah and believe that there was such a thing as a God who would send “good news to the oppressed, bind up the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, release to the prisoners, and comfort those who mourn.” At those times, my dad could imagine what it would mean to “greatly rejoice, to exult, to be clothed in the garment of salvation, covered in the robe of righteousness.”
Many in the world today are skeptical of what we confess: that our God chose to be born into the world, chose to live here among sinners, and then chose to die on the cross for the sake of each and every one of those sinners. Given the condition of the world, I can understand their skepticism. Some days, I even share it. But at this time of year, as darkness closes in around us, we have some time to reflect on how mystery touches the world, as the year begins to turn, and the earth begins to tilt back toward the light. In this time of the year, we have the opportunity to speak to one another, and even to the skeptics, about mystery, about light coming into dark places, about joy. We have the opportunity to arise, greatly rejoicing in the Lord, and in so doing, share a bit of the good news ourselves.
In 1983, a friend asked my dad to help find a bike for her son for Christmas. She couldn’t afford a new one, so my dad pulled together some parts he found, and fixed them up. By the time he was done he had a handful of new bikes, including one for his friend’s son. Since then, he has delivered nearly 5000 bikes, including about 1000 to Africa and South America. He now has a workshop space downtown, and coordinates with local and international agencies and organizations. The Christmas bikes have become a ministry of his church, with organized work parties and donations throughout the year. When he talks about this ministry, he says that this is his way of sharing with others the moments of God that he experienced in his childhood. To put words in his mouth, this is his way of rising up and rejoicing, of exulting God, by sharing with others a foretaste of the feast to come, by allowing the kingdom some room to break in.
I see in my father’s life an example of how God works. Obviously things were hard for my dad growing up. And he still deals with the results of that broken family, as do his siblings, and even some of us in my generation. But that is not proof, as the skeptics would say, that God is not present. Rather the moments of escape, of finding ourselves in spite of the world around us, are proof that God is present, even in our darkest moments. In those moments, God is at work in us to redeem the world, one life at a time, by making room for light to come into dark places. And then God moves us, one life at a time, to share that light with others.
The words we hear today from Isaiah are the very words that Jesus spoke in the synagogue in Nazareth. God, who spoke through the prophets, who was born to us in a stable, and who comes to us again and again, year after year, and day after day, spoke these very words, and claimed their purpose as God’s own. And year after year, day after day, God works in us and in our lives, renewing us through our baptism, forgiving our sins and offering us a moment of grace, a time of joy, a touch of mystery, and a glimpse of light coming into dark places. Each of us has experienced it. And for each of us God finds a way to move us so that we too may rejoice in it, may share it with others, may arise to meet God in the light.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Advent 2 - Isaiah 40
I don’t know about you, but I have nights when I lie awake, unable to sleep for one reason or another. Sometimes it’s because of something outside myself, like the night I sat up all night with Holden because he was sick and couldn’t sleep. But usually my wakeful nights come from inside my own head. At one point, when we lived in Seattle, I realized I wasn’t sleeping because I was lying awake trying to remember everything that I had to do for the rest of the week. I solved that problem by getting myself a date-book so I could keep my calendar and make lists of things that needed my attention. For a while after that I slept really well. But more often than that, I have found myself lying awake thinking. Well, thinking isn’t really the best word for it, more like stewing, or as Nelson calls it, “perseverating.” Sometimes I’m worrying about what to say in a paper or sermon that I’m working on. But more often I’m worrying about something I said or did that I wish I hadn’t, or something I didn’t say or do that I wish I had, or how I can mess up on something that I’m going to say or do. Stewing about these things can’t actually change them, I know, but that doesn’t stop me from stewing. And it always seems like I do the worst of my fretting in the darkest hours of the night.
In the season of Advent it is easy to fall into stewing. Here in the darkest hours of the year, we are inclined to look back at the things that we have done over the past year. Though our culture likes to focus this yearly review around New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, the church year has already started, and the readings that are set for the season of Advent invite us to take some time to look back and consider where we have been. Indeed, we are invited to stew a bit in the darkest days of the year. But this is stewing with a purpose. We are stewing now in anticipation, as we prepare for the arrival of our God, whose incarnation we will celebrate in just two weeks. In the meantime, we are invited, especially in this week’s readings, to think about how to prepare ourselves for that arrival.
Today’s Isaiah reading reminds us of John the Baptist’s call to repentance and our preparation for Christ’s arrival. The problem is, in our culture, and sometimes even in the church, we tend to confuse stewing with repentance. We shy away from the word “repent” because we think it means that we should sit and think about all of the things we messed up, and focus our energy on how we’ve gone wrong. And frankly, that’s a real downer, so why would we want to do it? Why would we want to repent, if it means we are going to spend our time focusing on everything that’s wrong, rather than those few things that we get right?
But that is not the kind of call that we hear from our God through Isaiah. Instead of harsh condemnation or a focus on our sins, the first words from God’s mouth are “Comfort, O comfort my people…speak tenderly to Jerusalem.” Yes, Isaiah acknowledges the sins of Israel, and indeed that Israel has paid for those sins. And Isaiah stews a bit on these sins. When God calls on him to preach to the people, to cry out, Isaiah responds, “What shall I cry? All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades…surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades.” That sounds a lot like what is going through my mind when I lie awake at 3am, going over and over my failings. Isaiah is perseverating as surely as ever I do.
Yet in contrast to condemnation, to wallowing in our wrongs, what we hear next is God’s promise: “the word of our God will stand forever.” Here in the darkest night of the year, as we stew over all that we might have done differently, all that we didn’t do that we wish we had, all that we imagine we will do wrong in the coming year, Isaiah reminds us that even here God’s word stands. And knowing that, we might actually be able to rest. We might actually find our rest and dream about God’s promises through the night.
Because there is where repentance really happens. Not in the hours that we lie awake and play over and over our worst moments. But later , after the hours of rest, when we finally allow ourselves to fall asleep and rest in the dreams of God’s promises. We confess that we are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves. Why then, would God want us to lie awake beating ourselves up for something that we can’t fix? Instead, God invites us to rest, to turn ourselves over to the dream, the vision that God has for our lives, the promises that God has set before us. The stewing has its place, but that is not the work that God has set for us.
Having planted the dreams of God’s promises here in our rest, God now nudges us awake. In the light of the new day, those worries of the wee hours always seem strange, overblown, out-of-place. In the light of the new day, we can compare our stewing to God’s promises, and we can see that God’s promises win. And then we are able to repent. In Hebrew, the word that we translate as repent means to turn back, to return. It is a word that is about remembering what God sees in us, what God has promised us, and then trying to align our lives with that vision. It is the moment when we awake and make our plans for a new day, a day that will be different from the ones that left us stewing. Of course we’ll still get it wrong, but in those moments we can remember what God has promised: Comfort and constancy.
This week we are stewing, lying awake, waiting for the rest that is to come. But we can see it, not far off. Soon we will meet God’s promises face to face, in the form of a newborn baby, God born into the world for our sake. It is the promise of Jesus Christ that we can rest in. It is the promise of Christ that gives us the strength to face the new day, the new year, and to repent, to return to what God has promised. God invites us now to rest, to dream, so that we can awaken to the reality of God’s promises in the light of Jesus Christ, and arise to meet God in the light.
In the season of Advent it is easy to fall into stewing. Here in the darkest hours of the year, we are inclined to look back at the things that we have done over the past year. Though our culture likes to focus this yearly review around New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, the church year has already started, and the readings that are set for the season of Advent invite us to take some time to look back and consider where we have been. Indeed, we are invited to stew a bit in the darkest days of the year. But this is stewing with a purpose. We are stewing now in anticipation, as we prepare for the arrival of our God, whose incarnation we will celebrate in just two weeks. In the meantime, we are invited, especially in this week’s readings, to think about how to prepare ourselves for that arrival.
Today’s Isaiah reading reminds us of John the Baptist’s call to repentance and our preparation for Christ’s arrival. The problem is, in our culture, and sometimes even in the church, we tend to confuse stewing with repentance. We shy away from the word “repent” because we think it means that we should sit and think about all of the things we messed up, and focus our energy on how we’ve gone wrong. And frankly, that’s a real downer, so why would we want to do it? Why would we want to repent, if it means we are going to spend our time focusing on everything that’s wrong, rather than those few things that we get right?
But that is not the kind of call that we hear from our God through Isaiah. Instead of harsh condemnation or a focus on our sins, the first words from God’s mouth are “Comfort, O comfort my people…speak tenderly to Jerusalem.” Yes, Isaiah acknowledges the sins of Israel, and indeed that Israel has paid for those sins. And Isaiah stews a bit on these sins. When God calls on him to preach to the people, to cry out, Isaiah responds, “What shall I cry? All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades…surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades.” That sounds a lot like what is going through my mind when I lie awake at 3am, going over and over my failings. Isaiah is perseverating as surely as ever I do.
Yet in contrast to condemnation, to wallowing in our wrongs, what we hear next is God’s promise: “the word of our God will stand forever.” Here in the darkest night of the year, as we stew over all that we might have done differently, all that we didn’t do that we wish we had, all that we imagine we will do wrong in the coming year, Isaiah reminds us that even here God’s word stands. And knowing that, we might actually be able to rest. We might actually find our rest and dream about God’s promises through the night.
Because there is where repentance really happens. Not in the hours that we lie awake and play over and over our worst moments. But later , after the hours of rest, when we finally allow ourselves to fall asleep and rest in the dreams of God’s promises. We confess that we are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves. Why then, would God want us to lie awake beating ourselves up for something that we can’t fix? Instead, God invites us to rest, to turn ourselves over to the dream, the vision that God has for our lives, the promises that God has set before us. The stewing has its place, but that is not the work that God has set for us.
Having planted the dreams of God’s promises here in our rest, God now nudges us awake. In the light of the new day, those worries of the wee hours always seem strange, overblown, out-of-place. In the light of the new day, we can compare our stewing to God’s promises, and we can see that God’s promises win. And then we are able to repent. In Hebrew, the word that we translate as repent means to turn back, to return. It is a word that is about remembering what God sees in us, what God has promised us, and then trying to align our lives with that vision. It is the moment when we awake and make our plans for a new day, a day that will be different from the ones that left us stewing. Of course we’ll still get it wrong, but in those moments we can remember what God has promised: Comfort and constancy.
This week we are stewing, lying awake, waiting for the rest that is to come. But we can see it, not far off. Soon we will meet God’s promises face to face, in the form of a newborn baby, God born into the world for our sake. It is the promise of Jesus Christ that we can rest in. It is the promise of Christ that gives us the strength to face the new day, the new year, and to repent, to return to what God has promised. God invites us now to rest, to dream, so that we can awaken to the reality of God’s promises in the light of Jesus Christ, and arise to meet God in the light.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Advent 1: Isaiah 64
Last year, my family and I left Seattle, where we had lived for almost 14 years, and moved to St. Paul so that I could attend seminary. It was exciting and stressful all at once. Though we were looking forward to our time at Luther Seminary, we were also leaving behind our first house, our neighbors, our dearest friends and most of Nelson’s family. We had to say goodbye to the church where we both came to faith, where we were married and where both of our children had been baptized. We drove out of a city that was our first home together, a city that we know by heart and adore, heading east toward a much larger and completely unknown metropolis. Once we arrived, we had the distractions of housing problems, moving twice, unpacking, getting Grace registered for and started in Kindergarten, finding a job for Nelson, getting childcare for Holden, who was too young for the seminary daycare, and of course, getting me started on my seminary coursework. By the time the dust settled, it was Thanksgiving, starting to get cold. We weren’t quite sure what to expect of our first winter in Minnesota.
One day in early December, I hiked up the hill for class, through the cold morning air, contemplating how to deal with the coming colder weather. On the way, I passed a few people wrapped up in winter scarves and hats, so that only their eyes showed. I figured I probably knew them, but I couldn’t tell who they were all wrapped up like that, so I just nodded, and kept going. In class, I saw and spoke to a few people, talked about coursework and the coming holidays, but there were no deep conversations. As I left and headed home at the end of the day, the sky was darkening and snow was beginning to fall. I suddenly felt lonely. A deep, heavy, sinking feeling, longing to hear the voice of my best friend, to hold her kids and have dinner with her and her husband, wishing to drive to my mother-in-law’s house, where we are always welcomed with warmth, food, drink, good conversation, and games. It was such a strong longing, it was physical, visceral. I had to stop for a moment. I found my phone and called Amy, by best friend, just to hear her voice, and it helped, but the feeling lingered. It was a desire to be with the people who know me as well as anyone can know me, and who love me anyway. It was a very Advent sort of feeling.
This is a time of year when we can’t help but feel a little out-of-sorts, even surrounded by loved ones. The whole world is going to sleep, and our natural instinct is to take a nap, too – to snuggle down and wait, and dream. On a practical level, we’re dreaming of the return of warmth, the sun, green things growing. We’re dreaming of the renewal of life in the natural world, and so we surround ourselves with candles and lights and evergreens. But on another level, a more difficult-to-explain level, we’re dreaming of the renewal of life in ourselves. And so we long – my longing for my loved ones was an echo of this longing, of the dreaming we do during the Advent season. We long for God, and as the world goes to sleep around us, we may feel God’s absence more often than we feel God’s presence. Certainly as we look at the difficult times in the world, as words like recession and unemployment, terrorism and chaos are thrown around in the media, as we anticipate the coming change of government, no matter your political leanings, we have reason to feel anxious. Times of change are always difficult, and as the dust settles, we may be left wondering where we fit in, just as I did on that day last December.
The prophet Isaiah speaks about that pain in the section we just read. This was written in the time when Israel had returned to Jerusalem after years of exile. They had been expecting that everything would be perfect after their return, and they found instead that things were still difficult. There were obstacles yet to overcome, and they found themselves wondering where God was in all of this. Isaiah says that God has hidden from Israel, because of their sins. Even their righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. Things are so bad that even when they do right, they do wrong, and are left feeling that God is missing. The consequences of decisions we make, even good ones, can be painful, and we can be left wondering, “where is God in this?”
As we ask ourselves “where is God?” we also must ask ourselves, “what kind of God are we looking for? What kind of God do we long for in this dark and troubled time? What kind of God is it that we are dreaming of in this season?” Are we, like Isaiah, dreaming of a warrior God, who “would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake…so that nations might tremble”? We may feel that this is who we’re seeking – a God who will come and set things right, clear up the troubles that we have caused, set the markets right, clean up the seas and the air, put our adversaries in their place. Indeed, that may be the God we dream of in our darkest moments, as it seems that we are at our loneliest. We, like our psalmist, may pray,
O God, you are my God, I seek you,
my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.
9But those who seek to destroy my life
shall go down into the depths of the earth;
10they shall be given over to the power of the sword,
they shall be prey for jackals.
Yet Isaiah reminds us, God is our Father, our potter, our Creator. God comes to us, yes. God comes to us to support us and be with us in our darkest moment. Just when the nights are longest, just when we are at our coldest, and our most lonely, just when we are sure that we will have nothing before us ever again but our dreams, God comes to us. But God comes, not as a warrior, bent on destruction. No, God comes to us as a baby, a little vulnerable human being, bent on reconciliation and relation. At our darkest moment, when we long for those who know us as well as anyone can and who love us anyway, God comes to us in human form, and says to us, “I know you better even than you know yourself. And I love you enough to live in the broken world alongside you. And I love you enough to own everything that you are and everything that you have done.” And the light begins to shine, and our dreams begin to fade, and we begin to awake to the reality of God’s promises.
One day in early December, I hiked up the hill for class, through the cold morning air, contemplating how to deal with the coming colder weather. On the way, I passed a few people wrapped up in winter scarves and hats, so that only their eyes showed. I figured I probably knew them, but I couldn’t tell who they were all wrapped up like that, so I just nodded, and kept going. In class, I saw and spoke to a few people, talked about coursework and the coming holidays, but there were no deep conversations. As I left and headed home at the end of the day, the sky was darkening and snow was beginning to fall. I suddenly felt lonely. A deep, heavy, sinking feeling, longing to hear the voice of my best friend, to hold her kids and have dinner with her and her husband, wishing to drive to my mother-in-law’s house, where we are always welcomed with warmth, food, drink, good conversation, and games. It was such a strong longing, it was physical, visceral. I had to stop for a moment. I found my phone and called Amy, by best friend, just to hear her voice, and it helped, but the feeling lingered. It was a desire to be with the people who know me as well as anyone can know me, and who love me anyway. It was a very Advent sort of feeling.
This is a time of year when we can’t help but feel a little out-of-sorts, even surrounded by loved ones. The whole world is going to sleep, and our natural instinct is to take a nap, too – to snuggle down and wait, and dream. On a practical level, we’re dreaming of the return of warmth, the sun, green things growing. We’re dreaming of the renewal of life in the natural world, and so we surround ourselves with candles and lights and evergreens. But on another level, a more difficult-to-explain level, we’re dreaming of the renewal of life in ourselves. And so we long – my longing for my loved ones was an echo of this longing, of the dreaming we do during the Advent season. We long for God, and as the world goes to sleep around us, we may feel God’s absence more often than we feel God’s presence. Certainly as we look at the difficult times in the world, as words like recession and unemployment, terrorism and chaos are thrown around in the media, as we anticipate the coming change of government, no matter your political leanings, we have reason to feel anxious. Times of change are always difficult, and as the dust settles, we may be left wondering where we fit in, just as I did on that day last December.
The prophet Isaiah speaks about that pain in the section we just read. This was written in the time when Israel had returned to Jerusalem after years of exile. They had been expecting that everything would be perfect after their return, and they found instead that things were still difficult. There were obstacles yet to overcome, and they found themselves wondering where God was in all of this. Isaiah says that God has hidden from Israel, because of their sins. Even their righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. Things are so bad that even when they do right, they do wrong, and are left feeling that God is missing. The consequences of decisions we make, even good ones, can be painful, and we can be left wondering, “where is God in this?”
As we ask ourselves “where is God?” we also must ask ourselves, “what kind of God are we looking for? What kind of God do we long for in this dark and troubled time? What kind of God is it that we are dreaming of in this season?” Are we, like Isaiah, dreaming of a warrior God, who “would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake…so that nations might tremble”? We may feel that this is who we’re seeking – a God who will come and set things right, clear up the troubles that we have caused, set the markets right, clean up the seas and the air, put our adversaries in their place. Indeed, that may be the God we dream of in our darkest moments, as it seems that we are at our loneliest. We, like our psalmist, may pray,
O God, you are my God, I seek you,
my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.
9But those who seek to destroy my life
shall go down into the depths of the earth;
10they shall be given over to the power of the sword,
they shall be prey for jackals.
Yet Isaiah reminds us, God is our Father, our potter, our Creator. God comes to us, yes. God comes to us to support us and be with us in our darkest moment. Just when the nights are longest, just when we are at our coldest, and our most lonely, just when we are sure that we will have nothing before us ever again but our dreams, God comes to us. But God comes, not as a warrior, bent on destruction. No, God comes to us as a baby, a little vulnerable human being, bent on reconciliation and relation. At our darkest moment, when we long for those who know us as well as anyone can and who love us anyway, God comes to us in human form, and says to us, “I know you better even than you know yourself. And I love you enough to live in the broken world alongside you. And I love you enough to own everything that you are and everything that you have done.” And the light begins to shine, and our dreams begin to fade, and we begin to awake to the reality of God’s promises.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thanksgiving Day (Luke 17:11-19)
Five blocks north of the University of Washington in Seattle, near the corner of 50th and University, there was a little storefront painted Mediterranean blue. The sign, blue letters on a white background, read “Sahara” and had little camels painted on it. Frankly, it was not very promising-looking, had little street-appeal. Inside, there were 15 small tables with white tablecloths and glass tops. The walls were decorated with paintings done on white ceramic tiles, portraying the heroes of the owners, including Dwight D. Eisenhower, though the place of honor and largest painting showed the “Mahmoud grandparents,” the parents of Gus, the owner. Gus and his family were from Lebanon, and they ran the restaurant themselves, with their one employee, a gracious waiter from Morocco. Gus and his wife did the cooking, including the handmade baklava. Their son and his wife helped with the cooking and serving, and the grandkids were often to be found playing or doing homework or helping out. The food was wonderful – I still dream of their lemon chicken and shish kebabs. But what made it a truly memorable restaurant, one that we went back to over and over, was that Gus made it his business to invite everyone who walked through the door into this family, if only for a few minutes. When you walked in the door, he greeted you at the door with a huge smile and wide arms, and showed you to a seat. If it was your second or seventieth time there he remembered you. As he showed you to your seat, he asked about your health, your family, your life, and pulled the chair out for you. Whenever you thanked him, whether for seating you or for bringing water, he responded in a huge booming voice, “You are welcome!” And you knew that you were indeed welcome, in every sense of the word. And it was Gus’ great pleasure to be the source of that welcome for the time that you spent in his restaurant.
It is God’s great pleasure to be the source of that welcome for you in the world. And, like Gus, God wants to offer that welcome directly to you. So much did God want to offer that welcome directly, “in person” so to speak, that God came into the world as a human being, as Jesus Christ. In today’s story, we see an example of the welcome that God came to share. Jesus, walking along the road, enters a village and is approached by ten lepers. These are the last people to expect any welcome from Jesus, since they receive no welcome from anyone else they meet. Yet they approach him and ask him for mercy. And Jesus gives it to them. He tells them to go to the priests, and on the way they were made clean. Jesus doesn’t require anything of them, he simply sends them to the priests. It seems that they don’t even have to go there, since they are made well on their way to the priests. We don’t really know what happened to nine of them from that point on. They may have done exactly what Jesus told them to – gone to the priests. They have obeyed Jesus’ command, and they are anxious to have the priests restore them to society now that they are clean. They can’t be blamed for that.
But one, a Samaritan, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. But Jesus looked around for the other nine, “where are they?” We often hear Jesus’ remark here as scolding. Like when someone gives my daughter Grace a gift, and I nag, “Say thank you!” Read one way, Jesus says, “But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God?” But read another way we might hear the longing in Jesus’ voice, the desire to know where they are, so that he can go and find them, and know them and be their friend. “But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God?” In that reading, we hear Jesus’ desire to say “You are welcome!” He has said it to the one who came back, but he still wants to share the welcome of God with those other nine. Jesus wants more than a healing, Jesus wants wholeness. Jesus wants more than a quick encounter in the street, Jesus wants a relationship. God wants a relationship.
It was for relationship that God came to us, that God continues to come to us. Over and over, God tells us, “You are welcome!” We first hear that message in the promises of baptism, when we are welcomed into the body of Christ, sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross. “You are welcome!” We hear it each week when we join in the Eucharist, a word that comes from the Greek for thanksgiving or grateful. While we give thanks for God’s willing sacrifice for our sake, God again offers God’s own self to us in bread and wine. “You are welcome!” And we hear it from one another, in so many ways, when we offer friendship, support, prayers, fellowship, and love. “You are welcome!” Our friend Gus chose to carry out his calling from God by opening a restaurant and sharing God’s welcome with all who entered. Each of us is called to offer God’s loving welcome to one another. Christ Church Lutheran practices hospitality and welcome with one another, and is intentionally working to turn that hospitality outward to our neighbors. It is a challenge, but it is also a joy. Gus has retired now, and the Sahara has closed. But I will always remember the hospitality that Gus offered me and so many others. It was genuine, it was a joy. It was an inspiration to learn how to share the same joy that Gus always took in saying to each person he hosted, “You are welcome!”
We are called to receive that welcome as well. God desires relationship with us so much that God came to earth in human form, as a tiny baby. God desires relationship with us so much that the Father gave His only Son to die for us. And for that, we give our thanks, not only today, but every day. God wants our thanks, not because God needs it, but because God wants the chance to say to us, “You are welcome!”
It is God’s great pleasure to be the source of that welcome for you in the world. And, like Gus, God wants to offer that welcome directly to you. So much did God want to offer that welcome directly, “in person” so to speak, that God came into the world as a human being, as Jesus Christ. In today’s story, we see an example of the welcome that God came to share. Jesus, walking along the road, enters a village and is approached by ten lepers. These are the last people to expect any welcome from Jesus, since they receive no welcome from anyone else they meet. Yet they approach him and ask him for mercy. And Jesus gives it to them. He tells them to go to the priests, and on the way they were made clean. Jesus doesn’t require anything of them, he simply sends them to the priests. It seems that they don’t even have to go there, since they are made well on their way to the priests. We don’t really know what happened to nine of them from that point on. They may have done exactly what Jesus told them to – gone to the priests. They have obeyed Jesus’ command, and they are anxious to have the priests restore them to society now that they are clean. They can’t be blamed for that.
But one, a Samaritan, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. But Jesus looked around for the other nine, “where are they?” We often hear Jesus’ remark here as scolding. Like when someone gives my daughter Grace a gift, and I nag, “Say thank you!” Read one way, Jesus says, “But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God?” But read another way we might hear the longing in Jesus’ voice, the desire to know where they are, so that he can go and find them, and know them and be their friend. “But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God?” In that reading, we hear Jesus’ desire to say “You are welcome!” He has said it to the one who came back, but he still wants to share the welcome of God with those other nine. Jesus wants more than a healing, Jesus wants wholeness. Jesus wants more than a quick encounter in the street, Jesus wants a relationship. God wants a relationship.
It was for relationship that God came to us, that God continues to come to us. Over and over, God tells us, “You are welcome!” We first hear that message in the promises of baptism, when we are welcomed into the body of Christ, sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross. “You are welcome!” We hear it each week when we join in the Eucharist, a word that comes from the Greek for thanksgiving or grateful. While we give thanks for God’s willing sacrifice for our sake, God again offers God’s own self to us in bread and wine. “You are welcome!” And we hear it from one another, in so many ways, when we offer friendship, support, prayers, fellowship, and love. “You are welcome!” Our friend Gus chose to carry out his calling from God by opening a restaurant and sharing God’s welcome with all who entered. Each of us is called to offer God’s loving welcome to one another. Christ Church Lutheran practices hospitality and welcome with one another, and is intentionally working to turn that hospitality outward to our neighbors. It is a challenge, but it is also a joy. Gus has retired now, and the Sahara has closed. But I will always remember the hospitality that Gus offered me and so many others. It was genuine, it was a joy. It was an inspiration to learn how to share the same joy that Gus always took in saying to each person he hosted, “You are welcome!”
We are called to receive that welcome as well. God desires relationship with us so much that God came to earth in human form, as a tiny baby. God desires relationship with us so much that the Father gave His only Son to die for us. And for that, we give our thanks, not only today, but every day. God wants our thanks, not because God needs it, but because God wants the chance to say to us, “You are welcome!”
Parable of the Talents
In the movie Babette’s Feast, Babette, a French woman living in a remote part of northern Denmark, spends every penny of her lottery winnings preparing an elaborate meal. She serves it to the two sisters she works for and their small congregation, in celebration of their father and founder’s 100th birthday. But this community worries more about the dangers of good food and wine, and fails to recognize the incredible gift that Babette has offered. As it turns out, she was once a renowned chef, and in preparing this meal, she is not only offering her money, but also her extraordinary abilities. Yet when a visiting general comments on the soup, the man next to him replies, “I think it will probably snow all day tomorrow!”
In my short time here at Christ Church Lutheran, I have met some incredibly gifted people. Not only are they gifted in their abilities, from music to leadership, from hospitality to fix-it-ness, and a huge variety of others, but, like Babette, they are gifted in their desire to share those abilities. I should say, you are gifted in the desire to share your abilities. And I see a desire not only to share your gifts with one another, but with the community. This congregation has made a decision to be a transforming congregation, to be a transformed congregation, not for your own sake, but for the sake of the community and for the glory of God.
I am blessed to be at Christ Church at a very special time in the life of this congregation. In Greek, it is called a kairos time. A time of receptivity, a time of openness to what God is up to, a time of pausing to listen and to see what is stirring. It is often translated as opportunity, or right time. Kairos is a word that is about the in-breaking of God’s kingdom. When Jesus begins his ministry in the book of Mark, he says “The time is fulfilled, the kairos is fulfilled, the kingdom of God has come near.” This is the context into which you offer your gifts, whether they are gifts of money or gifts of time or gifts of ability. The in-breaking Kingdom of God, here at Christ Church Lutheran, in the company of the Body of Christ, is where you bring and share your gifts.
But it’s scary to offer our gifts nonetheless. We see that fear in the words of the third slave in today’s gospel reading. “I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground.” Even if we do not believe that God is as the slave described the master, “harsh, reaping where you did not sow, gathering where you did not scatter seed,” we may experience community that way. Though we would hope that the church would be different, we are human, we are sinners as well as saints, and we fall short of the call that we have, to receive one another graciously. And so, it is often with fear that people meet us, the church community, and it is often with fear that we meet one another. We fear rejection, we fear humiliation, we fear being taken advantage of, and so we hide our talents in the ground. We fear that, like Babette, our gifts will go unrecognized, and while we pour ourselves out for them, people will talk about the weather.
But there is another word that is spoken in today’s text. Twice the master says, “enter into the joy of your master!” The Greek word for “joy” is chara. It is not actually related to kairos time, but the words echo one another. Chara means joy, and its relative chairo means rejoice. It is what the Magi did when the star stopped over the stable where the baby Jesus lay. They chairo-ed with great chara. They rejoiced with great joy. As we talked about in the adult forum Bible study a couple weeks ago, the magi were overwhelmed with joy. They were struck by an almost external wave of joy that washed over them and overwhelmed them. And then “they knelt down and paid him homage.” They worshipped.
In today’s text, that word comes again – enter into the chara, enter into the joy, of your master. It is a joy that is already there, and an invitation that is already there, no matter how, or even if, we choose to use our gifts. And it is a joy that is already there, no matter how, or even if, those gifts are received as we might hope. In spite of their selves, the dinner guests find themselves transformed by Babette’s feast. They find old jealousies and rivalries melting away, and they end the evening holding hands, dancing around the well in the center of the village, singing a song of worship and service. The Spirit moves through Babette’s gift, in spite of those who would ignore it.
And that is our calling: setting aside our fear, trusting that the Spirit will take care of how our gifts are used and received, we are called to enter the space where kairos time, God’s opportune moment, meets chara, the joy of our master, meets indeed the joy of our own hearts. We are called to hear what God is up to in this moment and to enter into that with our own passions and our own gifts. We are called to transform and to be transformed by the intersection of God’s kairos time and chara joy. In this way, our offering of time, of money, of ability, becomes something more than mere volunteerism. It becomes the mission of the Body of Christ in the world. It becomes the overwhelming joy that moves us to worship. It becomes worship.
What is the passion, the joy, the chara, of Christ Church Lutheran? What are the needs of our community, both inside this building and out, that our passion might serve? That is the question that this kairos time has set before us. As we listen, we will surely hear God’s answer, and God’s kairos time, God’s in-breaking kingdom, will collide with our God-given chara and passion. And the results will be spectacular!
In my short time here at Christ Church Lutheran, I have met some incredibly gifted people. Not only are they gifted in their abilities, from music to leadership, from hospitality to fix-it-ness, and a huge variety of others, but, like Babette, they are gifted in their desire to share those abilities. I should say, you are gifted in the desire to share your abilities. And I see a desire not only to share your gifts with one another, but with the community. This congregation has made a decision to be a transforming congregation, to be a transformed congregation, not for your own sake, but for the sake of the community and for the glory of God.
I am blessed to be at Christ Church at a very special time in the life of this congregation. In Greek, it is called a kairos time. A time of receptivity, a time of openness to what God is up to, a time of pausing to listen and to see what is stirring. It is often translated as opportunity, or right time. Kairos is a word that is about the in-breaking of God’s kingdom. When Jesus begins his ministry in the book of Mark, he says “The time is fulfilled, the kairos is fulfilled, the kingdom of God has come near.” This is the context into which you offer your gifts, whether they are gifts of money or gifts of time or gifts of ability. The in-breaking Kingdom of God, here at Christ Church Lutheran, in the company of the Body of Christ, is where you bring and share your gifts.
But it’s scary to offer our gifts nonetheless. We see that fear in the words of the third slave in today’s gospel reading. “I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground.” Even if we do not believe that God is as the slave described the master, “harsh, reaping where you did not sow, gathering where you did not scatter seed,” we may experience community that way. Though we would hope that the church would be different, we are human, we are sinners as well as saints, and we fall short of the call that we have, to receive one another graciously. And so, it is often with fear that people meet us, the church community, and it is often with fear that we meet one another. We fear rejection, we fear humiliation, we fear being taken advantage of, and so we hide our talents in the ground. We fear that, like Babette, our gifts will go unrecognized, and while we pour ourselves out for them, people will talk about the weather.
But there is another word that is spoken in today’s text. Twice the master says, “enter into the joy of your master!” The Greek word for “joy” is chara. It is not actually related to kairos time, but the words echo one another. Chara means joy, and its relative chairo means rejoice. It is what the Magi did when the star stopped over the stable where the baby Jesus lay. They chairo-ed with great chara. They rejoiced with great joy. As we talked about in the adult forum Bible study a couple weeks ago, the magi were overwhelmed with joy. They were struck by an almost external wave of joy that washed over them and overwhelmed them. And then “they knelt down and paid him homage.” They worshipped.
In today’s text, that word comes again – enter into the chara, enter into the joy, of your master. It is a joy that is already there, and an invitation that is already there, no matter how, or even if, we choose to use our gifts. And it is a joy that is already there, no matter how, or even if, those gifts are received as we might hope. In spite of their selves, the dinner guests find themselves transformed by Babette’s feast. They find old jealousies and rivalries melting away, and they end the evening holding hands, dancing around the well in the center of the village, singing a song of worship and service. The Spirit moves through Babette’s gift, in spite of those who would ignore it.
And that is our calling: setting aside our fear, trusting that the Spirit will take care of how our gifts are used and received, we are called to enter the space where kairos time, God’s opportune moment, meets chara, the joy of our master, meets indeed the joy of our own hearts. We are called to hear what God is up to in this moment and to enter into that with our own passions and our own gifts. We are called to transform and to be transformed by the intersection of God’s kairos time and chara joy. In this way, our offering of time, of money, of ability, becomes something more than mere volunteerism. It becomes the mission of the Body of Christ in the world. It becomes the overwhelming joy that moves us to worship. It becomes worship.
What is the passion, the joy, the chara, of Christ Church Lutheran? What are the needs of our community, both inside this building and out, that our passion might serve? That is the question that this kairos time has set before us. As we listen, we will surely hear God’s answer, and God’s kairos time, God’s in-breaking kingdom, will collide with our God-given chara and passion. And the results will be spectacular!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
All Saints Day
For All Saints Day today, we took all of the names of those who had died in the history of the congregation and hung them around the sanctuary. Our inspiration came from Hebrews 12, "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us..." We also collected names of loved ones outside the congregation. At the end of the day, we had over a thousand names hung on individual slips of paper, in chronological order by date of death. You can see the installation, and a few of our family's saints by clicking here.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Matt 22:15-22 and Isaiah 45: a sermon
What is it like to live in exile? Or in an occupied country? Happily, for most of us here, that question is only speculation. Most of us live where we want to live, in a country where we are more or less free. Whether you agree with the current political administration, whether you think we should vote for McCain or Obama next month, most of us here have the right to vote, to help in the decision-making process, and to live where we want. We have some obligations that come along with those rights, but we are neither in exile, nor occupied.
The people that we read about in today’s gospel text are in a very different position from us. The principle actors in the gospel text, Pharisees and Herodians, the crowd watching, and Jesus himself, are all living under occupation. This nation has been occupied or in exile for nearly all of its history. They managed to hold their own for a short time after they conquered Canaan, but throughout their history, Israel have been fighting off one empire after another, they have been exiled to Babylon and brought home, and now they are under the rule of the Romans. How does this nation make any sense of the world around them? How can this nation understand what God is up to?
One way they have made sense of history is to realize that God is God of all, not just of Israel. In the first reading, Isaiah calls Cyrus the Lord’s anointed. In the original Hebrew is says that Cyrus is the Lord’s messiah. In Greek it says that Cyrus is the Lord’s Christ. Scandalous! How can this title be applied to Cyrus, the king of Persia, a gentile who does not even know the Lord? But it was this Cyrus who ended Israel’s exile, who returned them to their homeland and helped them to rebuild their temple. So Isaiah teaches that God can choose to work for Israel’s good through someone outside Israel, even through someone who rules over Israel.
This is where the Pharisees and Jesus and the crowds are living. On the one hand, they are occupied, and often brutalized by their occupiers. On the other hand, they know that God can work through this situation. In today’s story, they are each trying to make sense of how God is at work in this occupation. They are each trying to determine how they are called to act next. The coin at the center of the conversation is far more than a coin. This coin, imprinted with the emperor’s face, is a symbol of authority. The question at the center of the conversation is not, should we pay our taxes, even if we don’t like our government? If that were the question, Jesus has sidestepped it better than the best politician. We do not get an answer to that question at all. The question at the center of the conversation, rather, is “who has authority?”
Jesus’ opposition have laid a clever trap for him here. They come to him, flattering him with their insincere praise, and then ask him, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” Since there is nothing in Scripture that forbids paying taxes to a ruling government, and as I said, the Hebrews have had plenty of time to test that under previous empires, you can bet that these guys already know the answer to their own question. Jesus knows, as we do, that this is a trap. If he answers “no, don’t pay taxes,” they can turn him over to the Romans for sedition. If he answers, “yes, pay taxes,” the crowds watching will lose their zeal for Jesus and turn against him. Those who are plotting against him have laid the perfect trap. Either Jesus is a rebel and a traitor, or he is a collaborator and a patsy.
Rather than answer their question, Jesus asks to see the coin with which the tax is paid. This census tax can only be paid with a Roman coin, imprinted with the face of Tiberius Caesar. When his questioners produce it, Jesus asks them, “whose image is on this coin, and whose inscription?” They answer him, “Caesar’s, the emperor’s.”
In that short interaction, Jesus shows the crowd who the real collaborators are. They all know that there should not be any coins with the image of Caesar on them anywhere in the Temple compound. The moneychangers that Jesus kicked out the day before were in the Temple precisely because these Roman coins were not allowed. Furthermore, since they bear the image of Caesar, and an inscription claiming Caesar’s godhood, no good Jew should carry one, certainly not a Jew so righteous as a Pharisee claims to be. By asking them to produce the coin, Jesus has shown the crowd that the Pharisees are in fact collaborating with the Romans. He has demonstrated that, for the Pharisees, authority lies with the Romans.
In truth, this is a sensible position. The Pharisees know their history. They trust in God’s promises, and believe that God will act for the good of Israel in order to fulfill those promises. “If we are oppressed, if we are occupied,” figure the Pharisees, “God must have a reason. Until that reason is revealed, therefore, we should respect the earthly authority of the Romans, through which God has chosen to act.” Though they are not exactly thrilled with Roman rule, the Pharisees are not going to out-and-out rebel, either. They’re in the go-along-to-get-along camp. A very sensible position for those who have been under one empire or another for centuries.
The crowd, too, were waiting for God’s promises to be fulfilled. They, too, believed that God would act for the good of Israel. And they, too, looked to a governmental authority to carry it out. But the crowd were looking for the Messiah, who would reestablish the Davidic kingship. The Messiah, as God’s anointed, would overthrow Roman rule, and authority would once again rest with the nation of Israel, through its earthly ruler. For both the Pharisees and the crowds, the kingdom of God would be ushered in by the authority of some earthly governmental body.
Jesus, however, rejects both of these scenarios. When Jesus says, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” he calls attention to the image of Caesar on the coin, the symbol of authority that the government circulates. That image is posted throughout the Roman Empire, on coins, statues, temples, everywhere that someone needs to be reminded of Caesar’s authority. But Jesus does not stop with Caesar. Caesar’s is not the final word. Jesus continues, “render unto God the things that are God’s,” and calls attention to the image of God that is everywhere around him. Each face that he sees, the faces of the Pharisees, the faces of the crowd, Jesus reminds them, bears the image of God, as Genesis 1 says. It is there, in the place of God’s image, that authority rests on earth. “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” Give Caesar his place, he has his proper authority. But that is not the authority that brings in the kingdom.
“And unto God the things that are God’s.” We are each created in God’s image, and God’s is the authority that brings in the kingdom. John the Baptist proclaimed that the kingdom had drawn near, and Jesus preached the good news of the kingdom. In our baptism, we are each sealed with the cross of Christ, and given the authority that is ours in the freedom that Christ has won for us. Jesus took his own words seriously, rendering himself up to both Caesar and God, dying on the cross as a rebel and a criminal, bearing all of the sins of the world. In the conversation about the coin, Jesus reminded the Pharisees and the crowd that they had authority to act freely as children of God, no matter who their government was, oppressed or exiled or ruling their own kingdom. And baptized into his death and resurrection, we now bear Christ’s authority and freedom to usher in the kingdom. We don’t have to wait for the government to act, or to see who will win the election and what economic policies they will employ. As the Body of Christ, we have all authority in heaven and on earth, to draw the kingdom near today, for the sake of our neighbor. Amen
The people that we read about in today’s gospel text are in a very different position from us. The principle actors in the gospel text, Pharisees and Herodians, the crowd watching, and Jesus himself, are all living under occupation. This nation has been occupied or in exile for nearly all of its history. They managed to hold their own for a short time after they conquered Canaan, but throughout their history, Israel have been fighting off one empire after another, they have been exiled to Babylon and brought home, and now they are under the rule of the Romans. How does this nation make any sense of the world around them? How can this nation understand what God is up to?
One way they have made sense of history is to realize that God is God of all, not just of Israel. In the first reading, Isaiah calls Cyrus the Lord’s anointed. In the original Hebrew is says that Cyrus is the Lord’s messiah. In Greek it says that Cyrus is the Lord’s Christ. Scandalous! How can this title be applied to Cyrus, the king of Persia, a gentile who does not even know the Lord? But it was this Cyrus who ended Israel’s exile, who returned them to their homeland and helped them to rebuild their temple. So Isaiah teaches that God can choose to work for Israel’s good through someone outside Israel, even through someone who rules over Israel.
This is where the Pharisees and Jesus and the crowds are living. On the one hand, they are occupied, and often brutalized by their occupiers. On the other hand, they know that God can work through this situation. In today’s story, they are each trying to make sense of how God is at work in this occupation. They are each trying to determine how they are called to act next. The coin at the center of the conversation is far more than a coin. This coin, imprinted with the emperor’s face, is a symbol of authority. The question at the center of the conversation is not, should we pay our taxes, even if we don’t like our government? If that were the question, Jesus has sidestepped it better than the best politician. We do not get an answer to that question at all. The question at the center of the conversation, rather, is “who has authority?”
Jesus’ opposition have laid a clever trap for him here. They come to him, flattering him with their insincere praise, and then ask him, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” Since there is nothing in Scripture that forbids paying taxes to a ruling government, and as I said, the Hebrews have had plenty of time to test that under previous empires, you can bet that these guys already know the answer to their own question. Jesus knows, as we do, that this is a trap. If he answers “no, don’t pay taxes,” they can turn him over to the Romans for sedition. If he answers, “yes, pay taxes,” the crowds watching will lose their zeal for Jesus and turn against him. Those who are plotting against him have laid the perfect trap. Either Jesus is a rebel and a traitor, or he is a collaborator and a patsy.
Rather than answer their question, Jesus asks to see the coin with which the tax is paid. This census tax can only be paid with a Roman coin, imprinted with the face of Tiberius Caesar. When his questioners produce it, Jesus asks them, “whose image is on this coin, and whose inscription?” They answer him, “Caesar’s, the emperor’s.”
In that short interaction, Jesus shows the crowd who the real collaborators are. They all know that there should not be any coins with the image of Caesar on them anywhere in the Temple compound. The moneychangers that Jesus kicked out the day before were in the Temple precisely because these Roman coins were not allowed. Furthermore, since they bear the image of Caesar, and an inscription claiming Caesar’s godhood, no good Jew should carry one, certainly not a Jew so righteous as a Pharisee claims to be. By asking them to produce the coin, Jesus has shown the crowd that the Pharisees are in fact collaborating with the Romans. He has demonstrated that, for the Pharisees, authority lies with the Romans.
In truth, this is a sensible position. The Pharisees know their history. They trust in God’s promises, and believe that God will act for the good of Israel in order to fulfill those promises. “If we are oppressed, if we are occupied,” figure the Pharisees, “God must have a reason. Until that reason is revealed, therefore, we should respect the earthly authority of the Romans, through which God has chosen to act.” Though they are not exactly thrilled with Roman rule, the Pharisees are not going to out-and-out rebel, either. They’re in the go-along-to-get-along camp. A very sensible position for those who have been under one empire or another for centuries.
The crowd, too, were waiting for God’s promises to be fulfilled. They, too, believed that God would act for the good of Israel. And they, too, looked to a governmental authority to carry it out. But the crowd were looking for the Messiah, who would reestablish the Davidic kingship. The Messiah, as God’s anointed, would overthrow Roman rule, and authority would once again rest with the nation of Israel, through its earthly ruler. For both the Pharisees and the crowds, the kingdom of God would be ushered in by the authority of some earthly governmental body.
Jesus, however, rejects both of these scenarios. When Jesus says, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” he calls attention to the image of Caesar on the coin, the symbol of authority that the government circulates. That image is posted throughout the Roman Empire, on coins, statues, temples, everywhere that someone needs to be reminded of Caesar’s authority. But Jesus does not stop with Caesar. Caesar’s is not the final word. Jesus continues, “render unto God the things that are God’s,” and calls attention to the image of God that is everywhere around him. Each face that he sees, the faces of the Pharisees, the faces of the crowd, Jesus reminds them, bears the image of God, as Genesis 1 says. It is there, in the place of God’s image, that authority rests on earth. “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” Give Caesar his place, he has his proper authority. But that is not the authority that brings in the kingdom.
“And unto God the things that are God’s.” We are each created in God’s image, and God’s is the authority that brings in the kingdom. John the Baptist proclaimed that the kingdom had drawn near, and Jesus preached the good news of the kingdom. In our baptism, we are each sealed with the cross of Christ, and given the authority that is ours in the freedom that Christ has won for us. Jesus took his own words seriously, rendering himself up to both Caesar and God, dying on the cross as a rebel and a criminal, bearing all of the sins of the world. In the conversation about the coin, Jesus reminded the Pharisees and the crowd that they had authority to act freely as children of God, no matter who their government was, oppressed or exiled or ruling their own kingdom. And baptized into his death and resurrection, we now bear Christ’s authority and freedom to usher in the kingdom. We don’t have to wait for the government to act, or to see who will win the election and what economic policies they will employ. As the Body of Christ, we have all authority in heaven and on earth, to draw the kingdom near today, for the sake of our neighbor. Amen
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