John 3:1-17

Dear Partner in Preaching,

I find it slightly ironic that this Sunday focuses on, in my humble opinion :), one the worst possible theme for a sermon – the Trinity – and yet features some of the more interesting stories from the New Testament. As for the theme, Trinity Sunday is the only Sunday oriented to church doctrine, and I’ve always found the prospect of offering a sermon on the Trinity not just daunting but downright dicey. Which surprises me a bit, because I’m a huge proponent of using our sermons to teach our folks about our shared faith. But the Trinity? Goodness, who really understands it? And how does a sermon on the character of God as three in one and one in three edify, let alone justify, anyone? And yet on this Sunday we also get the story of the Great Commission and Great Promise (“I will be with you always”) in Year A, Jesus’ fantastic promise that there are some things his disciples can’t hear yet so the Spirit will guide them/us into all truth in time in Year C, and the story of Jesus and Nicodemus in our current Year B.

Now, I realize these are chosen because embedded in each is at least a passing reference to Jesus, God the Father, and the Spirit, but even the paucity of passages across the Scriptures that name all three members of the Trinity should maybe tell us something. So I will, in this week’s passage, focus less – actually, not at all! – on teasing out theological implications regarding the Trinity and instead look at the story itself. And, in particular, one particular element of the story.

In addition to containing the world’s most famous Bible verse (not to mention the following verse which, again in my humble opinion, is just as important!), the story of Nicodemus offers a picture of a man who is curious about Jesus, who maybe even wants to believe, but struggles. At least, he struggles once he actually gets to talk with Jesus. Notice that he comes with a clear affirmation of Jesus’ connection to God. In response, Jesus immediately jumps to a huge assertion about being born again/anew/from above. And that’s when Nicodemus curiosity turns to struggle. This is a fairly common technique in John, as the confusion or misunderstanding of Jesus’ dialogue partner gives Jesus a chance to elaborate. Hence, after Nicodemus’ initial confusion stemming from taking Jesus’ words literally, the only other thing Nicodemus says is, “how can this be?” Which gives Jesus a good excuse to talk some more.

All well and good. And certainly there’s lots of good material for a sermon in what comes, whether that’s on the nature of being born anew or in exploring the implications of vs. 16 and, as I mentioned earlier, vs. 17, which reveal the character of a God who comes only to redeem and save the world out of love. And God’s intent to save the world (kosmos) is all the more powerful when you realize that “world” across John’s Gospel denotes an entity that is at complete enmity with God. Yes, God loves this God-hating world enough to send God’s only Son. Again, that’ll preach! 

But what strikes me this week is that Nicodemus is one of the few side characters – that is, not one of the disciples – that appears at several points in John’s Gospel. Here, in his main appearance. Again near the end of chapter 7, when Nicodemus, if not exactly standing up for Jesus let alone proclaiming his faith in him, nevertheless reminds his colleagues that, according to the law, they should not judge Jesus before giving him a trial. And for offering that reminder he is rebuked (7:45-52). Then he makes a third appearance, this time after Jesus’ crucifixion, when Nicodemus accompanies Joseph of Arimathea to collect, anoint, and bury the body of Jesus, the one just executed by the Romans (19:38-42). Again, perhaps not quite the same as standing up in the assembly and declaring his faith, yet nevertheless another significant step forward, as by his actions Nicodemus declares this allegiance to one who had just been executed for a capitol offense.

And that’s what I think makes Nicodemus such an interesting character. He is the only side character, as far as I can tell, who shows up at multiple points in John’s Gospel and grows in his faith. At first he brings questions and is confused. He later invites others to slow in their judgment. He finally risks publically honoring the one just executed. Faith, at least in Nicodemus’ case, takes time. Indeed, his journey with Jesus continues across most of the Gospel of John and, we might assume, beyond.

And that might be good for our people to hear this week. For some, perhaps coming to faith was easy and fast and strong and they’ve rarely doubted. And all we can do is give thanks for that experience. But for others – maybe most others – faith comes more in fits and starts, two steps forward and another back. Or perhaps at times things seems clear and at others just plain confusing. Or maybe faith feels a lot more like an endless series of questions rather than easy and forthright affirmations. For those like that – and I count myself among that tribe – hearing Nicodemus’ story once again might be particularly meaningful.

I’ve read somewhere – I can’t remember where – that Nicodemus is the patron saint of curiosity. I love that. I think I’d also claim him as the patron saint of all those of us with an uneasy or restless faith. Those who aren’t satisfied with easy answers, those who keep questioning, those who want to believe and also understand, but at least to believe even when we don’t understand!

Even more though, I think this story says a lot not simply about Nicodemus about also about God. God is patient. God doesn’t give up. If God keeps working in and on and through Nicodemus across three years and sixteen chapters in John’s Gospel, God will keep working in and on and through us. No matter how long it takes. And if there’s a tie to Trinity Sunday, maybe that’s it – we don’t have to understand the Trinity (and, honestly, I have a hard time trusting those who say they do!) to be part of the church created, redeemed, and sustained by the Triune God.

Well, Dear Partner, that’s what I’ve got for now. That faith doesn’t always come easy, that that’s okay, and that God won’t give up on us. Oh… and also my thanks to be surrounded by a company of preachers and seekers who share this word of God’s love for the world, for Jesus’ intent to save not to condemn, and for the Spirit indefatigable commitment to keeping us in the faith! Thanks for sharing that good news, and blessings on your proclamation.

Yours in Christ,
David

Post Image: Study for Christ and Nicodemus on a Rooftop, Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937), ca. 1898-1899.

John 17:6-19

Dear Partner in Preaching,

Just two observations on this complex portion of what we often call “the High Priestly Prayer” when Jesus’ intercedes on behalf of his disciples on the eve of his crucifixion. Both are prompted by the repetition of key words.

The first is “world” (kosmos). According to John’s Jesus, the world is not a friendly place. It has rejected Jesus, it poses threats to Jesus’ disciples, and it is something that occasions Jesus’ request that God protect the disciples from it. Although some of John’s theology feels a bit gnostic in its portrayal of a remarkably dispassionate Jesus, I don’t think John’s thoroughly negative characterization of “the world” needs to be interpreted as an absolute rejection of the physical and mortal dimension of our lives. Rather, I think it reflects the experience of John’s community of being rejected by so many of their friends, neighbors, and synagogue members because of their belief in Jesus; their feelings of being orphaned (see Jn 14:18); and their feelings of abandonment after Jesus’ departure (and likely the death of the founder of their community).

In short, the “world,” to the folks for whom John is writing, feels like a pretty dark place. It’s not a rejection of nature or the environment or our physicality, but rather a deep foreboding that the deck has been stacked against you and that you just can’t count on much. In the larger context of the farewell discourses and high priestly prayer (chs. 14-17), the “world” is that entity (even more than a place) that is at deep enmity with God and so poses a threat to those who worship God.

I’m guessing that more than a few of our folks have felt like the “world” has been conspiring against them as well this year. They may not have characterized it in the religious or theological categories John employs, but it’s been a rough year. Pandemic, job loss, grief, uncertainty, new recognition of centuries old injustice, a general languishing even among those who otherwise are doing “pretty well” – these are the words and emotions that characterize so much of the last fourteen months. All of which may provide some insight into what John’s community felt and what difference Jesus’ words might make.

The second word that stands out to me is “giving” (didomi). There’s a lot of giving going on in this prayer (and some receiving, too!). God has given Jesus his disciples, his teaching, the Word, and God’s name, to name a few. Jesus, in turn, has given these things to the disciples. While one might want to explore the theological dimensions of giving and receiving in John, I’d simply note that one of the dominant characteristics of God in John’s gospel is one who delights in giving. I wonder how many of our folks realize this. Not just after a rough year, but in general. I suspect that if you pull a few folks off the street (or even out of our pews) and ask what they think of God, they’ll likely describe something approximating an old man with a white beard, sitting up in heaven, looking down in mild disapproval with an outstretched and wagging finger ready to enforce some archaic morality code or scold us for having too much fun. In short, I think that when most people think of God, they think of a meaner version of Santa Claus, you know: “he knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good so be good, for goodness sake!” But the God to whom Jesus prays looks nothing like this. Rather than a wagging finger of warning, you have arms reaching out to embrace and an open hand giving all good things. God, according to Jesus, gives, and gives, and gives some more. Why else come to God in prayer, sharing hopes, concerns, fears, and dreams. God listens, God cares, God gives.

With these two words and emphases in mind, we might acknowledge, first, that yes, the world is a challenging, at times dark place. But, second and more importantly, God is not done yet, has not given Jesus’ followers and God’s children all there is.

These two words – “world” and “giving” – come together at another place in John’s Gospel a number of chapters and, in John’s chronology, several years earlier. Jesus has just had a fairly lengthy and rather metaphorical exchange with a Pharisee and local leader who came to Jesus at night with questions about his teaching. It’s hard to tell whether Jesus’ answers were satisfactory. It’s even hard, at least at this point in the story, whether they have impacted the Pharisee at all. But near the close of their conversation, Jesus says, “For God so loved the world, that he gave he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

You know the verse. Yes, the world – the world at enmity with God and hostile toward God’s world – is the one to whom God gives the great gift. Why? Because nothing in or of the world can ultimately withstand the grace and mercy of God’s gift of love. Included in the scope of God’s sacrificial love, Nicodemus returns to speak on Jesus’ behalf later in the story and bury him with honor at its close. And included in that love, Jesus’ disciples and John’s community keep on keeping on and bear witness to the one who dwelt among us in grace and truth. And wrapped in that same love, we are encouraged, strengthened, called, commissioned, equipped, and sent out into that same world not simply to survive but flourish, sharing – that is, giving! – God’s love with others in word and deed as we have received it.

I’ve shared before that I often have a hard time with some of John’s more metaphorical passages, and typically that’s most true of this passage. But this year, at least, I find in these two words anchors to remind me of who God is and what God has invited us into. I hope you and your folks may as well. My thanks for all you give, Dear Partner, sharing what you have received from God in order that Jesus’ 21^st-century disciples may also be sanctified in the truth.

Yours in Christ,
David

John 15:1-8

Dear Partner in Preaching,

I will confess right up front that I find preaching from the Farewell Discourses (John 14-16) seriously challenging. The combination of significant metaphor; a palpable sense of, but nevertheless elusive, original context; and strange mixture of promise, exhortation, and warning have always prompted me to walk – and preach – gingerly when tarrying in this particular portion of John’s Gospel. It feels like the Fourth Evangelist was writing to a community in pain, struggling with their identity in relation to former friends and synagogue members and a host of losses and fears that are palpably present but difficult to name. (For what it’s worth, I still find Raymond Brown’s Community of the Beloved Disciple immensely helpful in understanding that context.) All of which makes me, well, pretty cautious so that I don’t read into this passage things John never intended and yet unclear as to what John did in fact intend. Which means that, this week, I come to this passage with more questions than insights, and I thought I’d share a few with you.

First, Jesus is the vine and God the vinegrower. Fine. And we’re the branches, also fine. But… how do we hear Jesus warning (or is it a promise?) that the vines that bear good fruit will be pruned so they can grow more? Pruning is part of gardening; that’s just how it works. Sometimes you cut a bush or vine back until it looks nearly like a barren stalk precisely so that new growth is possible. It feels aggressive, but I think perhaps it is, ultimately, a promise that God can and will take even what is most challenging in our lives and use it to prepare us for service. How do you hear it?

Second, “apart from me, you can do nothing.” Again, I wonder how our folks may hear that. On the one hand, I believe it. Moreover, I think that, when offered as a statement of faith, most of our people do, too. On the other hand, I’m not sure I live like that, or pray like that, or act like that. Day to day, most of us don’t act like everything we do and are and accomplish depends on God. This verse challenges our sense of being self-made men and women in the world. And yet… maybe after a year of pandemic and racial reckoning and political paralysis, maybe this is the year we can hear that affirmation more accurately and with fresh appreciation. It, too, initially sounds like a warning, or even a scolding, yet embedded in these words is a promise. It is precisely because everything we do depends on Jesus that we can count on doing something meaningful. At the end of a series of exhortations that close his First Letter to the Thessalonians, the Apostle Paul writes, “The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this” (5:24). So also, Jesus’ words here remind us that it’s not up to us. It never was. It never will be. Thanks be to God.

Third, across this whole passage is an affirmation of both the immense dependence of the branches on the vine and simultaneously the tremendous potential of being branches on the vine. I’m curious what it would look like in our own lives and in our congregations if we took that a little more seriously. That is, what does it mean to be a branch on Jesus’ vine? How might this promise shape our actions? I’ve been struck by how often when a parishioner of mine questions something I’ve said in a sermon and devotion – usually about racial equity but also about vaccines or political division – the complaint is usually that I’ve only stated one side of the issue (presumably, a too-liberal side). And I try to listen and learn and be respectful, both in that conversation but also in the sermons and devotions that come, recognizing that Christians have, do, and will disagree about strategies to move forward in realizing God’s dreams for God’s people. I have learned a tremendous amount from folks who disagree with me. But I’m struck by how seldom the conversation moves to a discussion about what Jesus actually wants for us and from us, about what Jesus might actually do in the face of the problems we’re talking about. And, just to be clear, I can be as guilty of that as the next person. Of course I try to root whatever counsel or perspective I offer to the words and actions of Jesus, but in later conversation it’s easy to be swept into the philosophical or political tides of the day, and I’m curious what it would be like to agree ahead of any such conversations to point, as often as possible, to Jesus the vine and then ask how we’re called as branches to live.

As I mentioned, Dear Partner, more questions that insights this week. I hope some of them might spark your own thinking and, if so, that you’d be willing to share your insights and questions in the comments for others to profit by. Once again, and especially with a passage like this, know how much I appreciate your faithful labor in the vineyard of the Lord (just to mix metaphors!). Blessings on your ministry.

Yours in Christ,
David

John 10:11-18

It’s Good Shepherd Sunday, Dear Partner in Preaching, which means the text before us is a portion of the “Good Shepherd Discourse” found in John 10. This long address follows, and is actually a narrative extension of, the healing of the man born blind in John 9. In light of the failure and spiritual blindness of religious authorities who condemn the healing of a man sightless from birth, Jesus offers himself as a counter example, picking up a theme that runs throughout the Old Testament of God’s good shepherds contrasted with leaders who shirk their responsibility and fail to care for God’s people. This year, we have the middle portion, John 10:11-18, before us.

While there are so many dimensions of this passage to focus on, one in particular grabs my attention at this particular time when good shepherds in our shared communal and societal life seem painfully scarce and Jesus’ promises are so desperately needed and simultaneously may be received with some skepticism by people worn out by pandemic, injustice, and anxiety.

Notice that, whereas in the previous section (v1-10) Jesus contrasted the shepherd with thieves and bandits, in this section the contrast is between the good shepherd and the hired hand. Hired hands, it turns out, aren’t out to destroy the sheep but aren’t committed enough to risk their lives for the flock. They are pretenders, in it for the cash rather than out of genuine care. They have a legitimate and important job to do, but do it for themselves with little regard to those entrusted to their care.

I think there a lot of hired hands today; that is, both people and institutions with legitimate and important roles who seem to have little to no regard for those they are called to serve. I’ll name just three. The first is a marketing-saturated world intent on creating in us a sense of lack that drives mindless consumption. Marketing has a role to play in a functioning economy but, as Jonah Sachs demonstrates in his insightful book Winning the Story Wars, in the previous century marketing has been less about sharing information and more about creating a sense of inadequacy that drives us to address real needs through consumer-consumption and retail therapy.

A second is the recent rise and now omnipresence, if not dominance, of social media. Again, a means of staying connected with others can be incredibly important and salutary. How many of us, in fact, relied on various forms of social media to help our folks stay connected with each other, their church, and their faith over the last year? But, at the end of the day, the dominant value in social media corporations is not altruistic, but monetary, and their profits are tied completely to the time we spend on their sites, which has bred sophisticated content algorithms designed to identify your proclivities and amplify them, leading you down a deeper and steeper curve of content tailored to keep you staring at the screen. In addition, the necessity of “likes” or “followers” as the primary valuation of content (and content provider; that is, you) leads to an incessant need for external affirmation and a resultant self-absorption and insecurity. Finally, the incredible number of sites competing for our attention has created a “culture of the outrageous” where getting attention by any means possible is increasingly the accepted norm.

Third, we live at a time of a polarized and hyper-partisan politics of division. Again, and I can’t emphasize this enough, democratic, republican government is one of God’s chief gifts to us and politics – derived from the Greek polis, “people” – unbelievably important agent by which God cares for all of God’s people. But in recent years, the emphasis is increasingly on inviting us to define ourselves in terms of what/who we’re against rather than what/who we’re for, fostering a negative political identity of opposition that too easily and quickly breeds hate and leads to violence.

What all three of these “hired hands” have in common is the emphasis on self above all others and the false narratives of scarcity, insecurity, and fear they perpetuate. The messaging is consistent: you do not have enough, you are not enough, you should be afraid, image is everything, you are what you own, etc. Beneath all of these various messages is a single and consistent demand: justify yourself! Your worth, you person, your very existence.

I know this can sound alarmist, but when I look at the spiking rates of anxiety, depression, and hopelessness – particularly among the emerging generation – I feel like we are beset by hired hands eager to have sheep/followers but ready to abandon them in a heartbeat. In contrast, Jesus offers himself as the good shepherd. And the proof of his fidelity is simply this: he is willing to lay down his life on behalf of the sheep. In fact, as Jesus says it, sacrificial love is his purpose, the source of his power, and his enduring example for his followers.

We celebrate Easter as the triumph of sacrificial love embodied by God the Son and validated by God the Father in the resurrection. But it’s so easy to overlook that Easter isn’t a past-tense, once-and-done reality but rather that God the Spirit continues to be at work, drawing us into lives oriented to, permeated by, and sustained through the same sacrificial love. Perhaps our call this week, Dear Partner, is to invite our people into the community of the Good Shepherd, to receive Jesus’ promise of presence and protection and to allow ourselves to be empowered and propelled by that promise to offer a different identity to those around us. We are sent out, that is, to offer a different message and distinct and life-giving identity: you are enough – so totally enough! You have more than enough for yourself and plenty to share to boot. You are beloved of God. You need not fear, for the Good Shepherd who laid down his life and took it back up again is with you and for you… forever.

This is a lot, I know, Dear Partner, and I trust you will discover a sermon that reminds and makes real for us the power, presence, and promise of the Good Shepherd that we may hear his call, answer his voice, welcome the other sheep he is seeking, and live more fully into the hopes and dreams God has for all God’s children. Blessings on your proclamation this week and always.

Yours in Christ,
David

Luke 24:36b-48

Dear Partner in Preaching,

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to post. A combination of my own work as a pastor and preacher at Mount Olivet, trying to navigate re-opening as conditions improve (and then worsen again), and the fact that we have opted for a more narrative approach to the lectionary have all conspired against posting as regularly as I would like. I am hoping to resume this discipline and dialogue with you but will make no promises.  For today, a few thoughts on Luke’s continuing story of Jesus post-resurrection appearances.

The plural is key, as it is “appearances.” Luke offers by far the most extended account of the announcement of Jesus’ resurrection and then his actual interactions with his disciples on that first Easter. In Luke’s story, the women at the empty tomb hear the good news of Jesus’ resurrection, Jesus himself then encounters two more disciples on the Road to Emmaus, and a bit later he meets the rest of the disciples back in Jerusalem (today’s lection). Luke, it appears, is at pains to explain how Jesus’ death and resurrection fulfill the promises of the Old Testament and its implications for the life of his community (and, by extension, all of us).

In this light, the first two panels of his resurrection triptych have always made the most sense to me. The first parallels to a large degree that of Mark and Matthew, and the second lays out a pattern for how Jesus interacts with his disciples by mirroring the worship of Luke’s community and many Christian communities ever since (encounter, word, meal, sending). But the third has always felt a bit goofy to me. My guess is that Luke, writing fifty to sixty years after the events he is narrating, is contending with questions about whether Jesus was really raised from the dead or whether the initial disciples just had visions about him. (Questions that persist to this day). Hence, Jesus’ urgency to prove to the disciples that he’s not a ghost, first by inviting the disciples to touch him – because we all know you can’t touch a ghost – and then by asking for and eating fish – because we all really, really know a ghost can’t eat! Fine, but a little goofy, if not downright weird.

Or at least that’s what I’ve normally thought. This year, though, after a year of isolation, of interacting with people primarily (and some weeks exclusively) by phone and Zoom, after preaching to a camera for 54 Sundays in a row and recording untold numbers of Bible studies to share with people I never got to see, I think about Luke’s emphasis on the physical element of Jesus’ resurrection differently. There is something ineluctably and integrally physical about our existence and, Luke wants to stress, about the promise of resurrected existence as well. And so it’s really, really important for Luke, I think, to tell the story in a way that emphasizes that Jesus isn’t, well, a ghost and that the disciples didn’t merely have ecstatic visions but actually saw, touch, and interacted physically with their Lord.

It reminds me a bit of Paul’s insistence on the resurrection in his letter to the Corinthians: “Now if Christ is proclaimed as raised from the dead, how can some of you say there is no resurrection of the dead? If there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ has not been raised; and if Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain” (I Cor. 15:12-14). Paul can almost sound defensive in these lines, as if he’s trying to threaten or bully the Corinthians into affirming Christ’s resurrection. But the urgency for Paul becomes clear just a bit later on: “But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died. For since death came through a human being, the resurrection of the dead has also come through a human being; for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ” (15:20-22). What’s at stake for Paul and, I believe, for Luke, is not about affirming a doctrinal, let alone metaphysical, assertion, but instead linking God’s redemptive work to our actual experience. To us. We who are physical, material, flesh-and-bone kind of people.

The primary temptation for people of faith, I think, is not so much to disbelieve – goodness, but doubting what happens when God gets involved in our lives seems like the most natural and biblical response possible! – as it is to reduce, describe, and contain God’s actions in ways we can easily understand. Perhaps that’s because if we can’t understand God, then God remains beyond us, which in turn means we can’t tame or domesticate or ultimately control God. And, well, we tend to fear those things we can’t control. And perhaps the chief way we attempt to describe, understand, and ultimately limit and control God is the all-too-natural belief that a) God is certainly way, way beyond us and therefore b) the chief task of the religious life is to improve ourselves and reach toward God. You know, “Each and every day, I become better and better in every way.” The end result is to be, finally, less human and more like God, eventually escaping the confines of mortal life to live as spirit with the Eternal Spirit (and all that jazz).

Yet across the Scriptures and particularly in the New Testament, the story told is not one of humanity’s journey of improvement and spiritual enlightenment but rather that it’s actually the eternal and holy God that embarks on a trek… to be like us and encounter us where we are. From the pains of Mary’s childbirth and Jesus’ messy birth (is there any other kind?), to his grief over losing a friend, to both his joy in and disappointment with his disciples, to his isolation in Gethsemane and despair on the cross, the picture of Christ’s life, ministry, and death is one of God embracing all that we are so we would know God understands us as we are, embraces and accepts us as we are, loves us as we are, and redeems us as we are. So also in the story of the resurrection. God comes for real people, redeems real people, and promises to resurrect real – and so also physical – people.

Perhaps it’s understandable to want to question physical resurrection – and of course the disciples and anyone else who takes it seriously questions this! – by reducing it to a spiritual or psychological experience we can understand. But the flip side of this move is to recognize that a God we can understand and describe probably can’t save us. It reminds me of one of my favorite lines from Auden’s For the Time Being, as the shepherds making their way to Bethlehem declare, “Nothing can save us that is possible. We who are about to die demand a miracle.” Jesus is really resurrected because God really intends to redeem, save, and bless us… as we are: physical, mortal, limited, vulnerable. Really.

Which may give comfort to us anytime, but perhaps especially now, as among other things it has done, this pandemic has reminded us just how physical, mortal, limited, and vulnerable we really are. And in the midst of all these limitations, we hear the promise in this goofy, even weird little story that God in Jesus still comes for us. And so Luke is, in fact, at pains to remind us that what’s at stake in the resurrection is not a doctrinal affirmation but rather the promise that God gets us, loves us, comes for us, and redeems us. Just as we are. Now. Really.

Thanks for sharing this word, Dear Partner, in season and out, that our folks may know of God’s love, remember that they aren’t alone, and be renewed in faith and courage so they can share God’s love with those around them. Blessings, always, on your proclamation.

Yours in Christ,
David

Mark 1:29-39

Dear Partner in Preaching,

True confessions: I have no idea whether this will help with your Sunday sermon this week, but… this is what I found most interesting, and I do think it bears on our common calling as pastors and preachers.

First off… who knew Peter was married? Well, maybe you and I did, but I’m guessing that just about nobody in the congregation you’ll preach for this Sunday knew that Peter has a mother-in-law which, by implication, means he was married. J  Why does this matter? I kind of think most of our folks – and, truth be told, most of us – tend to think of the disciples as, well, not like the rest of us. Like they were cut from different cloth, led very different lives, were destined to be Jesus’ disciples from the beginning, and generally are just plain different. Yes, we know they fell short and weren’t perfect, and yet I still have a hunch that we have a hard time relating to them. (They do go on, after all, to start the Church!) But Peter has a mother-in-law… who is sick… and he’s worried about her… and he asks Jesus for help. He is, in other words, kind of ordinary. Like us. 

Second, Jesus’ ministry is comprised of proclaiming the good news of God’s coming kingdom, healing the sick, and resisting the forces of evil by casting out demons. How might that rather focused mission statement – proclaim, heal, resist – inform our congregation’s sense of its mission?

Third, Jesus also prays. He actually takes time to pray, to withdrawal and tend to his own spiritual life. Way, way too easy to forget; for our folks, for sure, but also for us. And I don’t mean to add to your “to do” list – “make time to pray!” – but rather that to remind us that breathing, resting, renewing, connecting are good things, however you may do that.

Fourth and finally, I find it fascinating that Mark says that “they brought all who were sick” and that Jesus “cured manywho were sick.” I don’t know if this contrast is intentional, but it strikes me that even Jesus didn’t seem to cure them all. Which may be instructive. We so often can focus on who we’ve missed, what we’re not doing, where we’ve fallen short, when it might help tremendously instead to focus on, and draw strength from, who we’ve reached, what we’ve accomplished, and where we have moved more fully into the calling we’ve received from God. This is important for you to hear, Dear Partner, as I know how easy it is to become discouraged in ministry, but it’s also so important for our congregations to hear, as the needs of our communities, especially now, can seem overwhelming, and yet to look and see who has been positively affected by our ministries can encourage us in our faith, life, and work.

Well… that’s all I’ve got this week, Dear Partner. I’ve written on this passage two other times on this forum and, if you’re interested, you can find those here and here. Otherwise, know of my gratitude for your ministry and my prayers that you have a moment this week to withdrawal, pray, see your ministry as a blessing to your folks, remember that God delights in working through ordinary folks, and in all these ways be renewed in faith. What you do matters and I’m so grateful for your partnership in the Gospel.

Blessings in Christ,
David

Mark 1:21-28

Dear Partner in Preaching,

I find it amazing that we’re already drawing to the close of the first month of 2021! And, I have to say, thus far it hasn’t been quite the year many of us anticipated: violent insurrection, a second impeachment, and a muted if hopeful inauguration (oh my!), not to mention virus variants and a slower-than-anticipated vaccination rollout. All of this and more has contributed to a bit of a sense of disappointment thus far in the new year. Yes, I know, “the new year” is just an arbitrary designation, but most of us still place some stock in it, if even just emotionally, a phenomenon that was particularly true after the year we all just had. And, I also know that it’s just January and the large problems that erupted, deepened, or were magnified in 2020 are too complex to change so quickly. But, nevertheless, if 2021 were a product I’d recently purchased, I’d be inclined to send it back after my “30-day free trial.” J

The passage today is perhaps peculiarly suited to preach at the close of a turbulent and slightly disappointing first month of a new year. Most of us know it pretty well and have preached on it before, as this is the launch of Jesus’ ministry in Mark, when he casts out an evil spirit and is received as one who teaches with authority. It probably bears repeating that “first things” tend to set the tone for much of what is to come. Little wonder, then, that interpreters have noted how the first scenes of each of the Gospels offer a preview of the Evangelist’s insight into Jesus. In Matthew, Jesus climbs a mountain to teach and interpret the law, like Moses. In Luke, Jesus announces that the Lord has sent him to proclaim good news, release, and healing, a message that exemplifies his ministry even as it is met with rejection. And in John the first thing Jesus does is multiply the wine and blessing at Cana, living into the “grace upon grace” promised in the Prologue.

So what does this “first thing” tell us about Jesus according to Mark’s story? That he has come to oppose the forces of evil, defined not generically but rather as anything and everything that robs God’s children of life.

A brief word of warning: it’s easy to get hung up on the issue of the “unclean spirit” – is this demon possession (if so, how do we preach it?), or is it rather a first-century description of mental illness (and if so, how do we preach it? J). That’s understandable, as the language of “unclean spirit” is foreign to us. Until, that is, you start thinking about the unclean spirits of our age – a socially-media driven obsession with our own ideas, thoughts, and appearance; the disavowal, or at least devaluing, of truth amid a cacophony of conspiracy theories as dangerous as they are ridiculous; the increased devotion to the “unholy trinity” of me, myself, and I that measures all things in terms of how it affects me and only me you rather than the broader community. Yes, we may not be comfortable with the notion of an “unclean spirit,” and yet they abound.

And it’s just this – all of this! – that Jesus’ authoritative proclamation of God’s coming kingdom opposes. With that in mind, is it any wonder that January of 2021 doesn’t seem that different from December of 2020, or January of 1921 or 1821 or…. Yes, this has been a particularly difficult time, but the forces of selfishness and fear and violence have always been among us.

So what happened, one might understandably ask. If Jesus came to cast out unclean spirits, and if people received his authoritative teaching and life-giving actions with amazement, then why is the world still the way it is?

This is a question that the earliest Christians asked as well. It’s part of the reason why, in fact, that we have the Gospels. As the earliest Christians realized that their expectations about Christ’s return were off, they retold the stories of Jesus with an eye to equipping his disciples for the long haul. For this reason, Mark’s story, likely the earliest, ends not with an appearance of Jesus but rather by reiterating Jesus’ promise that he has gone ahead of the disciples and they are to follow him. Sometimes called a “realized eschatology,” such a theology invites the church not to place their hopes in a distance revelation but to recognize that in his death and resurrection, Jesus inaugurated God’s kingdom, opened up a future of possibility and hope, and equips his disciples to live into that kingdom now, even while they wait for its full consummation at the end of time.

Which brings me, at least, to ask what I am doing to continue Jesus’ work a month into a new year? Systemic racism, polarized worldviews that tend to demonize each other, environmental disregard and degradation; the list goes on. I likely can’t, I know, make any monumental contribution to solving these challenges, and likely neither can you. But this first act of Jesus doesn’t change the world either, except for the world, of course, of the man previously dominated by the unclean spirit. Just one man helped, one life changed. Yet it is this single act of resistance and healing that Mark chooses to highlight at the outset of our Lord’s ministry. A single act, a single life changed for the better. Perhaps that’s where we start and where we invite our congregations to start as well.

As we contemplate that invitation, I think it’s worth remembering that even amid the well-documented decline in Sunday church attendance, there is still no other single activity that people in the US do with greater frequency and in greater numbers than attend worship. Not even NFL viewership can compete. (And I say that as one who spent a lot of time last Sunday watching football!) Which means if even a fraction of the people who hear Mark’s invitation to be a disciple of Jesus by following his first and lasting example, the world will not only reflect God’s love and will more fully, but those watching may still be amazed… and inspired.

Blessings to you this week, Dear Partner, as you invite your people once more into the life of discipleship initiated so long ago and that remains both vibrant and vital today. I am grateful for your partnership in this good work!

Yours in Christ,
David

Mark 1:14-20

Dear Working Preacher,

I still remember learning the meaning of “kairos” my first year in seminary. It was such a cool and compact lesson in the difference that knowing even just a little bit of Greek made. You likely remember that as well. Chronos – root of “chronological” – as the steady, even relentless beat of the time that marks our days, our work, our waiting and watching, contrasted with Kairos, the special, even royal time of God’s intervention into human affairs. The time when chronos is interrupted by promise, presence, and fulfillment. And speaking of fulfillment, “pleroma” was another of those early and fascinating Greek words we learned, when something long planned comes to fruition, when all that was meant to be has come together and now is, the time of completion and fullness. Well, we get both of those words in Mark’s typically spare description of Jesus’ opening proclamation and subsequent calling of the disciples: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand!”

What struck me this week was not so much an insight, but a question: what makes this particular moment the right time, kairotic time, the time of fullness and God’s presence and promise?

No doubt there are numerous possible answers, including of course that it was all ordained by God. Maybe. But… three things from this week’s reading stood out to me in particular that I just hadn’t really thought about before.

First, it’s a time of crisis: Israel has been living under the oppression of the Romans for some time. And it’s not just an external threat, but also an internal one, as Herod and company vacillate between being complicit in, or at least profiting from, the Roman occupation and being so corrupt that they are ineffectual to look after anyone’s interest other than their own. This is, of course, the backdrop of John the Baptist’s arrest. And I don’t think it’s an accident that this crisis is what propels Jesus into action, as Mark writes, “Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee proclaiming the good news….”

Second, Jesus has received God’s blessing and his identity via his baptism just earlier in the narrative. And so, confident that God is present, active, and with him, he announces God’s coming, even impending, kingdom and calls for the corresponding actions and response of believing the good news and repentance (another cool Greek word that is less about apologizing or confessing sin than it is about being arrested in place and turning toward a new direction).

Third, Jesus finds a willing, even eager audience of people willing to follow. Perhaps the message of good news and fulfillment he offered was so compelling that Simon and Andrew and then James and John cannot but help themselves at dropping everything and following, or perhaps Jesus already knows them and his appearance and summons is the call to action they’ve been waiting for. I think it hardly matters. What matters is that they hear the good news and believe it, not in the sense of mere intellectual assent but rather in that it creates in them a measure of trust and hope that moves them forward into active and committed response.

Crisis, confidence, and commitment. These are at least three of the ingredients that make this the right time.

Which makes me wonder, Dear Partner, if we might not also tell our people that it is still the right time, and perhaps more than ever. That is, perhaps our message this week might be that, even as we gather, “the time is fulfilled, the kingdom of God has drawn near.” After all, we are surely at a time of crisis. Pandemic and the profound loss that attends it, economic hardship and uncertainty, the brutal and deliberate stirring of long simmering differences into violence, radical and painful racial injustice, continued ecological devastation, and more. Yes, crises we have aplenty.

As for confidence, I have absolutely no concerns about that when it comes to you. You continue to attend to God’s word and labor to proclaim the Gospel faithfully, creatively, and well week in and week out during some of the most challenging months for ministry in generations. I take heart each time I think of you living into your baptismal and vocational calling each week. And a part of that call, of course, is to share that confidence with our folks, reminding them that the words addressed to Jesus at his baptism – “you are my beloved; with you I am well pleased” – were and continue to be addressed to them, to all of us, at our baptism as well.

And commitment? Perhaps here is where we might raise a question and, even more, make an invitation. God is still at work, still proclaiming the good news. And through the proclamation and our shared congregational life, God is still calling us to follow Jesus. Yes, first it is a question: are you, are we, willing to drop so much of what passes for normal and expected in order to follow in the way of Jesus? But far more than the question that demands a decision, it is an invitation: God sees you/us as worthy of God’s attention, as capable of great things, as called and equipped to be Jesus’ disciples in this new and challenging 2021. A year, we might remind our people, that whatever difficulties it may present, is still a year anno domini (AD), “the year of our Lord” 2021. It is an honor to be invited, and perhaps that invitation, issued by God and renewed in our preaching this week, may summon our folks to being arrested by the good news, turning in a new direction, and believing and trusting that, indeed, God is with us and for us. And with that call and invitation, perhaps we will be renewed in our confidence that God is working through us to care for and bless God’s world and people. If so, then in all these ways we might see and proclaim that the kingdom of God is still – and perhaps with fresh import – at hand.

Blessings on your preaching this week and always, Dear Partner, and thank you for your good work!

Yours in Christ,
David

John 1:43-51

Dear Partner in Preaching,

There’s a lot of “finding” in John’s quirky account of the calling of Jesus’ disciples. Jesus finds Philip. Philip finds Nathaniel. Philip then tells Nathaniel that they have found Jesus. And then Nathaniel finds (although the word isn’t used here) that Jesus knows a lot more about him than he’d imagined.

This has all gotten me to thinking that one of the best feelings in the world is when you are found. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it’s the delight of the child playing hide and seek who, though having put some thought and effort into his or her hiding place, is nevertheless so very happy to be found. Or maybe it’s that time you were out for a hike and got lost and had absolutely no idea where you were, not even what direction you were going in, wondered how in the world you’d make it back to the main trail or road, and then you saw a trail marker. Or maybe it’s not a geographical lost-ness, but an emotional or existential sense of being out of place. A young adult lost to addiction who finds help, a friend lost to depression who finds a measure of solace in a new relationship, a parent lost to dementia who still lights up when you hit upon particular memories that tucked deep inside. Yes, there are few things that feel better than being found when you are lost.

Except, perhaps, when you are the one who finds someone who is lost…. even, and maybe especially, if they didn’t know they were lost in the first place.

Less than a year after we moved to Minnesota, I finally ventured out to the Mall of America with my then-three year-old son so we could wander around the indoor amusement park on a cold winter day. We went from attraction to attraction, almost all of which Jack was too small to ride. And he didn’t care. He was fascinated by all of it and content to take in the sights and sounds. We tarried by the remote-control boats, as Jack loved anything motorized and anything on water, which meant this attraction was doubly intriguing. I was holding his hand, of course, and then I wasn’t, for just a moment, except that when I looked down to retrieve his hand he was gone. I did a quick 360 to scan the surrounding area, peeking in between various people to see where he might have gone, but he was nowhere to be found. I then began, a little more frantically, to widen my search. Still, nothing. Panic coursed through me as I remembered all I’d heard about how long it took someone to abduct a child from a public place. I began to call his name. No response. I then went to security and they set into motion a search that turned up Jack in what felt like an hour but was probably less than 10 minutes. He’d wandered to attraction not that far away, worming his little three-year-old self to the front of a group of other people waiting in line. When I to scooped him up into my arms, I realized immediately that he’d been blissfully watching… I can’t even remember what. He certainly didn’t feel lost, had no idea what all the fuss what about, let alone the panic he had caused me. That feeling – of finding my son who had been lost – was about the best feeling I’d experienced. Of relief, of love, of wholeness, of confidence that the world was a good and safe place.

There is, right now, a lot of lost-ness in our congregations, country, and world. And perhaps good reason for that: pandemic, rampant injustice, intense division, a readiness to resort to violence to achieve dubious ends, a disregard not just for facts but verifiable reality. Yes, lots of lost-ness. And, truthfully, I find it frustrating, even maddening. Yet this passage also reminds me that God seems to have a heart for the lost, for the irresponsible, self-absorbed, and reckless younger-siblings and the rule-following, rigid, and self-righteous older ones alike. Which includes people I get mad at, and people who get mad at me, and it even includes me when I am lost, whether I know it or not.

I don’t know what you may do with all this or, more importantly, this quirky story from John. But for just now, Dear Partner, I’m grateful that one of the promises tucked into this passage is that God keeps seeking us – all of us – whether we know we’re lost or not, or even whether we think we’re looking for God or not. God seeks the lost, continually looking, searching, finding, and then ultimately and always inviting, “Come and see!”

Thanks for your good work, Dear Partner, as in these turbulent times you keep sharing the good news of the God who will not give up, who sheds glory to take on our lot and life, to journeys even to the cross to show us just how far God will go to seek out the lost and tell us we are loved. Blessings on your proclamation this week and always.

Yours in Christ,
David

Mark 1:4-11

Dear Partner in Preaching,

I’m sorry for the late post. It’s been a week, as I know it has been for you. So… very briefly, just a couple of thoughts for Sunday.

I wonder how our folks will hear the story of Jesus’ baptism. In particular, I wonder if it will occur to them what an odd thing it is that Jesus is getting baptized. As you’ll remember, this was a huge question and challenge, and even a problem, in the early church. Why, after all, does the sinless Son of God need a baptism for forgiveness? These stories were among the verses Arius and his followers used to show that Jesus wasn’t the “truly God” (as the Creed eventually confessed) but rather a creature adopted by God.

Without digging into fourth century Christological controversies, we might take this verse not as a challenge to Jesus’ divinity but instead as a challenge to a limited, at times truncated, view of baptism. Yes, baptism promises the forgiveness of sin. But… it also offers the constant blessing of God’s affirmation of us as a beloved child. And can we extend that blessing to our folks, reminding them that the words from the voice in heaven addressed to Jesus are also addressed to us: “You are my child, the Beloved. With you I am well pleased.” It these words that start Jesus’ ministry. These words that equip him to deal with temptation. These words that orient his mission and anchor his ministry. These words that give him an unassailable identity that makes, well, everything else possible.

And the same can be true of us. I would write “is” true, except that baptism is one of those things that has both an objective and subjective quality. Objectively, we are absolutely God’s beloved child; this is the promise of Baptism. But subjectively, we may or may not know that, may or may not believe that, may or may not even think of that. And subjectively, baptism becomes so much more important to us as we remember that and put it to use.

Baptism grants us an unassailable identity as well. Whereas so much else in our life describes us – our occupation, our race and ethnicity, our gender and sexuality, our life experiences both good and bad, our passions and interests and commitments – our status as God’s beloved children defines us. It’s not that these other things don’t matter. They do! But it’s that none of these things is as important as our identity as God’s beloved child.

This is true in our family lives, which might be a good place to take people to. I have two children who are different in so many, many ways, and those differences are interesting and wonderful and sometimes challenging, but it does not affect just how much I love each of them. And if there’s anything that will get them through this life, it is not any of those distinctive characteristics – which are so important – but rather knowing that they are completely and fully loved and accepted for whom they are, including, and sometimes even in spite of, those differences.

Once we’ve rooted our folks in the promise of Baptism, we might then move on to say that as powerful as that blessing is, it comes with a responsibility and invitation – to see others as also beloved of God and treat them accordingly. The responsibility is that we may not always want to see others as beloved children of God, particularly when they are different from us in any of those important but merely descriptive attributes. And this is particularly the case when we’ve let those important but merely describe attributes not just describe us but define us. But it’s not just a responsibility. It’s also an invitation to realize what a larger and more interesting family we have when we see others also as God’s children!

As I watched the events of this past Wednesday unfold, and as I’ve reflected on the last few months and, to some degree, that last four to five years, it’s occurred to me that we are suffering an acute identity crisis. We’ve let regional or political or ideological commitments – which are important – define us to the point that it is so very easy to see someone who differs from us along any of these lines as threatening. We are at a cultural place and moment where the question for the citizens of this country is, “Can you differ with another person on important issues and still see this person as an American?” And for Christians the task and calling is even greater: “Can you see someone who differs from you on important issues as a fellow child of God?”

Much hangs in the balance of how we answer. But lest we feel daunted by the challenge, we might remind each other that, regardless of whether we get confused about our identity, and though we will regularly fall short of God’s desire for us in how we regard and treat each other, yet we are still God’s beloved children. And that grants us the grace and gives us the strength to try again.

So go forth and preach, Dear Partner, knowing that your words matter, that they are needed, that they will never be all you want them to be or feel sufficient to the moment, and that you will get to try again soon. And do all of this knowing that you are God’s child, the beloved, with whom God is well pleased!

Yours in Christ,
David