Frederick Denison Maurice, Priest, 1872

Frederick Denison Maurice, Priest, 1872

Socialism is a term not very much in favor at the present moment.  This is partly due to people’s misunderstanding what socialism is, and partly due to those with the loudest voices telling us that it will bring ruin upon our country and our world.  To be called a socialist these days is to be an enemy of the people.  Whoever “the people” might be, exactly.

Frederick Maurice is credited with being one of the founders of Christian Socialism.  As he wrote, “Christian Socialism will commit us into being in conflict with un-socialist Christians, and unchristian socialists.”  The idea of bringing socialism and Christianity into union seems absurd to us today.  And it was indeed absurd in Maurice’s day.  But if you look at how early Christianity is portrayed in the Bible, especially in the first chapters of the book of Acts, you can see that Christianity was a socialist movement from the very start.  It is the distortion of Christianity and—in more recent times—of Socialism that brought the two into conflict.  To our modern ears, Christian Socialism sounds like an oxymoron.  Not unlike “government progress,” or “Congressional ethics.”

And so Maurice was onto something when he said that Christianity and Socialism would be in conflict when they don’t embrace the tenets of one another.  Christianity without sharing with those in need is empty chatter; and Socialism without a foundation of Jesus’ teachings turns into stealing from our neighbors.  It is only in melding the two, by creating this obscure movement called Christian Socialism, that we can see either concept blossom into its full flower.

We can see where this leads in looking at the passion and work of Frederick Maurice.  While a professor at King’s College, he led the movement that eventually led to Queen’s College, which was founded to educate women.  When he lost his post at King’s College, he joined with others to found the Working Men’s College, specifically aimed at educating working men.  (As you can tell by the name.)  Providing pathways to education is foundational to making things better for those around us.

As does feeding the hungry.  Clothing the naked.  Giving water to the thirsty.  Freeing the captives.  Socialism—in its purest form—is about making sure everyone has what they need.  And Christianity—in its purest form—has the same goal at heart.  How often did Jesus say to do all those things?  The answer is, over and over.  In their best forms, Christianity and socialism want the same things.  And in joining them together, Maurice felt he was doing what was obvious.

But, of course, that’s not how life works.  The people of his day, on the whole, could not see what Frederick Maurice could see.  And yet, it was said of him that he was “a man to whom other men, no matter how much they might differ from him, would listen.”  Maurice did not point fingers and yell insults.  He reasoned.  And he persuaded.  He worked.  And he worked for those who worked.  And he worked for those who for whatever reason could not work.

As Frederick Maurice himself wrote, “Christianity is the foundation for Socialism, and Socialism is the necessary result of a sound Christianity.”  These are hard words to grapple with in 2025, but they are as true now as they were in 1870.  Christianity is the foundation for Socialism, and Socialism is the necessary result of a sound Christianity.

May we all learn to set aside our talking points and take this truth to heart.

YEAR C 2025 lent 4

Lent 4, 2025
Joshua 5:9-12
2 Corinthians 5:16-21
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Psalm 32

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

So, I made a living for 30 years playing in a band called Lost And Found.  And—because of the band name—we often referenced the Gospel reading we just heard from Luke.  It’s part of a series of parables about things and people that were lost and found.  A lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son.  But you can turn those parables around and consider them as stories about a faithful shepherd, a diligently seeking woman, and a waiting father.  You can do a lot with these parables, and we did exactly that, what with having the band name Lost And Found.  

In fact, we wrote three different songs about this parable we just heard.  The first one was from the perspective of the prodigal son.  And the second was from the perspective of the waiting father.  And then in seminary I wrote a third song we never recorded, which combined both those perspectives along with that of the elder brother.  So much to work with in this story!  But today, I want to focus on the relationship between the two brothers.

We’ve all heard this story many times.  The younger son demands his share of the inheritance and then blows it on loose living.  And then he realizes the error of his ways, he repents, and he returns home offering to serve as a hired hand.  The father says “nonsense," and throws a big party for him.  A beloved child who was lost has been found.  Great.  So what’s the problem?  Well . . .

This unconditional welcome makes his older brother mad.  As we heard, “he became angry and refused to go in.”  Refused to go in?  What the cheese?  There’s a fun party going on, with great food and music, where everybody’s happy because they have been reunited with the loved one who was lost and you refuse to go in?  There could be angels and archangels and the whole company of heaven singing in there, and you refuse to go in.  Why?

Well, because “this son of yours came back.”  This son of yours came back.  Not “this brother of mine,” not “this sibling whose name I’ve known since the day he was born.”  No.  This son of yours.  This son of yours, this sinner who shouldn’t even be allowed entry has been welcomed in and celebrated.  

A friend of mine named Jonathan Rundman has a great song called, “Meeting Nixon,” where he suggests that when we walk through the pearly gates we’ll all be meeting Nixon.  And what I love about that song is that it upsets everybody!  Evangelicals would say Nixon never had a born-again experience.  Catholics would say he wasn’t part of the true Church.  Republicans might say he betrayed the country and gave us the EPA.  People on the left might say he was a crook who bombed innocent civilians.  The idea of Nixon being in heaven is a universal irritant, which is what makes that song so great!  And there are so many other examples of this kind of thing.

Like here’s one.  It puts me in mind of the anger over student loans being forgiven.  I know lots of people whose loans were forgiven, and I rejoiced for them, while hoping that mine might one day also be forgiven.  But I’m sorry to say, mine has not been forgiven.  In fact, right now, I don’t even know who owns my student loans, let alone how much my payments will be once they start again.  Fat chance I’m getting invited to the student-loan-forgiveness party.

But I’ve seen lots of people, both inside and outside of government who are furious that some people’s loans are forgiven.  That these others have been welcomed into the party with the fatted calf.  People who refuse to rejoice that some other people—this son of yours—got a second chance.

My younger brother died of AIDS in 1994.  Since then, science has come up with medications that allow people with AIDS to lead healthy productive lives.  It would be absurd for me to be mad that these people are alive when my brother didn’t have that chance.  Just think of all the people whose lives have been saved through advancements in medicine and technology.  Should we be angry because that son of yours, that daughter of yours got a second chance?

The older brother's real complaint is that the underserving got a chance at life.  He’s been working hard and playing by the rules.  And for what?  A party with his little brother?  “No, father, I will not be joining in this party for the undeserving.  I’d rather sit out here by myself and pout until you give me a party of my own.  The redemption and salvation of the underserving is no reason to celebrate!  The lost being found brings me no joy.”

The older brother is self-selecting out of a good time because someone else got some grace.  But just imagine if he could take a step back a moment and consider what that grace means.  Because if his father can celebrate someone who squandered the life he had been given, if those on the very edges of acceptable behavior can receive a grace-filled welcome, well . . . what does that mean for him?  What does that mean for us?  If no one is outside the reach of God’s redeeming love, what does that mean for you and me?

Well it means we’ll be meeting Nixon, that’s what!  But only if we’re willing to step inside the celebration that’s going on.  You can view this story from a perspective of grace, or a perspective of retribution.  Each one of us can do that when we hear a story like this.  We can say, phew, my little brother was saved!  Or we can say, what is that horrible “son of yours” guy doing here?

Now you know by now that I am not the biggest fan of the writings of the apostle Paul.  But this week’s reading from 2 Corinthians is a banger.  As Paul says, 

All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.

Given us the ministry of reconciliation, and entrusted the message of reconciliation to us.  You know what our prayer book says is the mission of the Church?  “To restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.”  That’s our mission.  (You’ll find it on page 855.)  To restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.  All people.  That’s the ministry of reconciliation that Paul is talking about.  

And that’s what’s missing in the story of the prodigal son, a.k.a. the story of the waiting father, a.k.a. the story of the disgruntled brother.  The prodigal son is restored to unity with his father, through his repentance and the father’s forgiveness.  He experiences the ministry of reconciliation, as does his father.  But the older brother?  He will not be reconciled.  No way.  In fact, the reconciliation makes him angry!  So angry that he can’t even bring himself to join in when there’s a free raucous party going on in his own house!

And then his father pleads with him, trying to convince him to celebrate.  Come on in son!  It’s Laetare Sunday.  We dressed the priest up in pink!  Rejoice!

Today, we are all invited to the party because the lost have been found.  We can choose to stay outside and sulk.  We can point our fingers at the undeserving and refuse to admit that they are our brothers and sisters and siblings in Christ.  Or we can decide to take a chance that a celebration is exactly what we need, whether we deserve it or not.  As the father says, “we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”  So come into the party and celebrate; be reconciled, and rejoice.  We’ve got bread and wine and lovely music.  And oh, have you met Mr. Nixon?

Amen

YEAR C 2025 lent 3

Lent 3, 2025
Exodus 3:1-15
1 Corinthians 10:1-13
Luke 13:1-9
Psalm 63:1-8

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen. 

Well, here we are in the third week of Lent.  And Lent is a time when we all ask ourselves, “What the heck kind of readings were those?”  Paul tells us that bad things happen to bad people.  And Jesus tells us that bad things happen to good people.  So, essentially, if you’re a person, bad things will happen to you.  Any questions?

Of course, intuitively we know all this.  Bad things happen to everyone all the time, whether those people are being good or being bad.  What’s weird to us is, we don’t expect the point of the Sunday scripture readings to be:  Bad things are going to happen to everybody.  It feels a little threatening, to be honest.  But as always, there is good news to be had.  We just have to look for it.

Alright.  Let’s start with the first reading, from Exodus.  This is an amazing and powerful story, which you’ve heard many times in your life.  It’s the call of Moses, or sometimes known as the burning bush, or sometimes the naming of God.  It is dramatic, and mysterious, and is a hinge moment in the life of Moses and for the Israelites.  

And we need to ask ourselves, “How did Moses get here?  What brought him to this life-changing encounter with God?”  And here, you’re just asking for the plot of the Dreamworks movie, “The Prince of Egypt.”  So, let’s do a quick review:  Moses’ mother, Miriam, put her baby in a basket in the river to avoid his being killed by Pharaoh along with the other Israelite children.  Pharaoh’s wife found the baby and raised him as her own son.  Moses grew to hold a prominent place in Egypt until he killed an Egyptian guard and then fled into the wilderness.  While he’s out there on the run, he defends three girls from ruffians, and then falls in love with Tzipporah, whose father is a hight priest of Midian.  He marries her and falls into a regular life as a shepherd of her father’s flocks.

So why is all that important?  Because for Moses, his overall life has been a spectacular fall from grace.  He went from being a prince of Egypt to being rejected by the Egyptians.  And having broken one of the commandments by killing a man, he is also rejected by his own people, the Israelites, plus he is married to the daughter of a pagan priest!  To all his own people—of both cultures—he is a nobody, an outcast, and a sinner to boot.  

He is living in the desert, figuratively and literally.  He is not looking for God.  He is not trying to get right with God.  Moses doesn’t even try to come to God.  But God comes to Moses.  Turns out, after a long fall from grace, Moses falls into grace.  Nothing to deserve it, nothing to warrant it.  All God, no Moses, no matter whether he was good or bad.

And then we move to that second reading, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.  There are all sorts of problems about this reading, and we don’t have time to go into them all here.  Or any of them here.  My advice is, don’t necessarily take everything Paul says as gospel . . . because it’s not the gospel.  So then, let’s move on to the gospel.

You notice, this reading starts with the phrase, “At that very time.”  At what very time?  Well, if you back up to Luke chapter 12, you’ll see that Jesus is in the middle of a big long string of teachings and parables here.  There’s a large crowd, and he is switching back and forth between talking to the crowds and talking to the disciples.  And then, apropos of nothing, there were some present who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.  A very strange segue, I think you’ll agree. 

But Jesus uses this jarring interruption to talk about repentance and—perhaps more importantly—to remind everyone that suffering is not a consequence of bad character or bad behavior.  But we think that way, because our entire justice system is built on that idea.  Do bad things, suffer bad consequences.  But Jesus is flipping this around.  He is saying something more like this:  The fact that you are suffering does not mean that God is displeased with you.  And that is important for us to remember, because I think that’s sort of our go-to approach to things.  “If I am in pain, that means God must be mad at me.”  And then we ask, “Why are you mad at me God?”  But that’s not how God works.  That’s not how grace works.  Just as God came to Moses in his fall from grace, God comes to us in our suffering.

And then, Jesus gets to the parable of the fig tree.  As we heard, “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard.”  Stop right there.  What kind of person plants a fig tree in a vineyard?  Is this man just eccentric?  Does this man not know how grapes and figs work?  We don’t know.  But we also don’t know that Jesus means for us to view this man as representing God, so let’s not jump to conclusions.

Anyway, as we heard, the vineyard owner finds the gardener and tells him to cut down the tree because it has not borne fruit for three years and is wasting the soil.  (Side note: it takes fig trees up to five years to produce edible fruit.)  And the gardener begs him to leave it be for a fourth year, that he will put manure around, and then if there’s still no fruit, “YOU can cut it down.”  Notice that subtle little twist there?  He is told to cut it down, and rather than do as he is told, he makes the case that there is still hope, but he STILL doesn’t agree to cut it down.  He throws it back on the vineyard owner who wants early figs to cut it down himself.

Now, many preachers will use this story as a scare tactic.  I’ve heard them do it.  If God sees that you are not bearing any good fruit, Jesus might step in for a season and try to help you, but after that if you fail to produce, you will be cut down.  If you don’t produce things, you will die.  But that’s not the gospel, that’s capitalism.  Capitalism turns people into producers and consumers, and capitalism isn’t the Gospel.

This is not a story about how you need to be better, or how you need to be good, or how you need to produce some results for the crazy vineyard owner who stupidly planted a fig tree in his vineyard where the grapes are supposed to grow.

What’s going on here is that Jesus is up to his old tricks again.  Subverting the system in order to save people.  Undermining the authorities in order to rescue those who don’t measure up, because they are planted in the wrong place.  Is it the fig tree’s fault that it is not producing fruit?  Well, look at the solution the gardener offers.  It’s manure; it’s a soil amendment.  The problem isn’t the tree; the problem is the soil.  And the gardener knows that by fixing the soil, by fixing the system, by fixing the location, by fixing the environment, this little fig tree might bear fruit after all!

Aha, you might be thinking.  But the gardener only guarantees one extra year.  And the first answer to that is, it’s not next year yet.  The gardener only has to save the imperiled tree right now.  Who knows what next year will bring?  Instead of wondering what will happen if the manure doesn’t work, let’s think about what will happen if the manure does work.  What then?  What then indeed.

It’s interesting to me to consider St. Timothy’s Church as the fig tree in this parable, after all we’ve all been through since 2020.  Like, some high-priced church consultant might come in and try to evaluate how much fruit we have produced lately.  How many new members?  How many people attend on Sunday mornings?  How many concerts have we hosted, or how many meals have we shared together?  And then imagine that consultant saying, 'See here! For the three years after COVID I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’

And now we should ask, who produces the fruit at St. Timothy’s?  At first glance, it seems to be us, the people, right?  People’s elbow grease in the kitchen, people offering to read or pass plates, people caring for our altars and sacred vessels, people poring over spreadsheets and making budgets.  But you find the real answer when you ask why those people do those things.  People volunteer to do all that because they love God and they love their neighbors.  Love is from God.  All love is from God.  The fruit that St. Timothy’s produces is the fruit of God.  Love.  It’s not us; it’s God.

And if we need manure poured around us, and to be given another year, then that is what Jesus is going to do for us.  We can’t control whether or not people come to church.  We can’t control people who decide they’d rather sleep in on Sundays, or people who are mad at the priest for preaching an “offensive” sermon four years ago, or last month, or two months from now.  Because that’s definitely gonna happen again.

But we also can’t control how much fruit we produce; we can only rely on God, and trust that Jesus will always opt for mercy, always give us another year, and another year after that, and another year after that.  One year of mercy after another.

God came to Moses when Moses wasn’t even looking for God.  And God comes to us, whether or not we are looking.  That is the message of grace in these readings today.  God is always coming to meet us, wherever we may wander, and Jesus is always looking to amend our soil, wherever we may be planted.  May God continue to bring forth fruit from this parish, as God has always done, one year at a time.  One year at a time.  One year at a time.

Amen.

The Burial of Bobbie Muhlbach

Bobbie Muhlbach
March 22, 2025
Isaiah 25:6-9
Revelation 21:2-7
John 6:37-40

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Perhaps you’ve heard saying, “If you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.”  Please don’t worry.  This isn’t going where you think it is going.

When I first came to St. Timothy’s 8 and a half years ago, John and Bobbie Muhlbach were super active members of the church.  A couple years in, Bobbie got a scary diagnosis and was not able to be as active.  But she did eventually give in to our nonstop requests to join the choir.

And it wasn’t long before we appointed her the Choir Social Event Director.  Because no one could throw together a social event like Bobbie could.  When our then-organist Levi Muriuki got his green card, Bobbie gave him a hat and sunglasses with American flags on them, and a cutting board shaped like the United States, and we sang “God Bless America” while drinking wine after rehearsal.  Anyone who was there that night saw Bobbie doing what only Bobbie could do.

In the depths of COVID, our choir used to meet on zoom just to check in and support one another.  Sometime around Easter, Bobbie turned her camera off for a bit.  And when she turned it back on, she was dancing in her kitchen wearing a full-body Easter bunny costume!  No one could top Bobbie for bringing joy into the depths of seeming despair.

But here’s the thing about Bobbie being part of our choir.  I’m not gonna name names, but some of our singers can’t actually read music.  But they are still able to sing in our choir.  Still able to add their voice to the beautiful music during worship.  And that’s because they sat next to Bobbie.  Her voice helped others sing.  She helped others find their own voice.  We could update that quote I started with by saying, “If you haven’t got any notes to sing, come sit next to me.”  Just by being herself—by sharing who she was—Bobbie brought others into their own.

We miss having Bobbie in our lives.  And we miss hearing her voice in our choir.  But there are people who can literally sing because they sat next to Bobbie.  And that’s not nothing.  And it’s not just in our choir.  There are people who can read and speak in public and even just laugh because they sat next to Bobbie.  Her voice goes on in the people who sat next to her.  Bobbie is still singing and speaking and laughing because they are singing and speaking and laughing.

In the gospel reading we heard a few minutes ago, Jesus says, “This is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day.”  Jesus promises that he will lose nothing.  Barbara “Bobbie” Lee Immel Muhlbach has not gone anywhere she has not always been.  Which is safely in the arms of Jesus.  Because Jesus does not lose what is his own.  No one and no thing is beyond the loving embrace of Jesus.

Bobbie’s voice goes on because others are still singing.  And that means we can still hear her singing, and one day we will see her again, face to face.  And I have a hunch that Bobbie is planning one heck of a celebration for each and every one of us when we join her where she is waiting.  

May God bless Bobbie Muhlbach, and may God bless you.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 lent 2

Lent 2, 2025
Genesis 15:1-12,17-18
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Luke 13:31-35
Psalm 27

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I want to begin by drawing your attention to the opening phrase in today’s Collect:  “O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.”  In that prayer, we are reminded not only of God’s mercy, but that mercy is God’s glory.  Think about that.  When you imagine glory, you probably picture some victorious overwhelming vision of power and might.  When you think of mercy, you probably think of something very different.  But the message in that little phrase is this: in mercy, God’s glory is displayed.  It really is quite amazing to me.  And it ties in quite well with today’s lessons.

So, let's start that reading from Genesis.  A couple chapters before this, God tells Abram that his descendants will be as numerous as the dust of the earth.  Skip ahead to today’s readings and Abram is like, “Well, I guess I’m not going to have any children.”  God says, “I am the Lord who brought you from Ur of the Chaldeans, to give you this land to possess.”  But Abram asks, “how am I to know that I shall possess it?”  Like, you know, how can I be sure, God?  And God could say, “Because I said so, you idiot!”  Or, God could say, “How dare you doubt me?”  But instead, God chooses to give Abram something he can understand.  Something that will make sense to him . . . if not to us.  And so God is going to make a covenant with Abram.

At which point, we must stop and talk about covenants in the culture of that time.  The verb used when making a covenant there is “cut.”  You would “cut a covenant” with someone.  And the reason for that is because a covenant involved cutting an animal in half.  And the point of cutting an animal in half was this:  the two people making the covenant would  walk between the two halves of the severed animal, and pledge that if they break the covenant, then may the fate of the animal be theirs as well.  Serious stuff!

Usually, both parties would walk through and make the scary pledge, but the weaker one always would.  So, you offer to lend me $100; we cut a three year old heifer in half, I walk through the middle and say, “If I don’t pay you back, may my fate be like that of this animal.”  Though that’s a bad example, since a heifer is surely worth more than $100.  But you get the point.

And so, on that day the Lord cut a covenant with Abram.  While Abram—the weaker party— is asleep!  And in the making of that covenant, God passes through the severed animal, rather than Abram doing so.  We don’t know specifically what is up with the smoking fire pot and flaming torch, but we can tell in the context that they are representative of God passing through when the covenant is made.  And this subversion of covenants is absolutely ridiculous, because we would expect for Abram to pass through, or at least for Abram and God together.  But here we have only God making the pledge.  Only God being vulnerable and willing to take a chance.  Only God’s life being put on the line, with Abram asleep at the time!  He doesn’t even know it’s happening.  God is doing for Abram what he cannot do for himself.  Stepping in for the weaker party in the covenant.  And there it is: God, whose glory is to have mercy.

And then let’s look at today’s gospel reading, from Luke.  Some Pharisees come to Jesus and tell him to flee because Herod is looking to have him killed.  Jesus calls Herod a fox, which is perfect, because just a little later he imagines himself as a hen protecting her baby chicks, the very ones that a fox would be looking to snatch away.  

I love that we get this feminine imagery for Jesus just a week after International Women’s Day.  And, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always imagined this as a cozy little scene, with a hen nestling up against the baby chicks, all comfortable and smiling with their little baby chick beaks.

Turns out—as I learned 3 years ago when this text came up—when a mother hen gathers her chicks to protect them, it’s actually super aggressive.  Like the bird version of grabbing them by the collar.  She’s protecting them from imminent danger, not snuggling up with them in the hen house.  And if you picture what that looks like, you’ll also see that when the mother hen is protecting her babies—with her wings wrapped around them—she is leaving herself completely vulnerable.  She cannot use her wings to protect herself when she’s holding onto her chicks for dear life.  The hen lays down her life for the chicks that she gathers under her wings.  And there it is again: God, whose glory is to have mercy.

So, the Pharisees come to Jesus and tell him to run away because Herod is planning to kill him.  But Jesus will not die in Herod’s Galilee; he must die in Jerusalem, the holy city.  We don’t know what to make of the statement that a prophet cannot die outside Jerusalem, since Moses and Jeremiah—two chief prophets—did not die there.  Some say Jesus is talking about himself in the third person, or there’s an issue with the indefinite article.  But no matter.  The important thing to know about this is that Jesus is not stating some incorrect historical “fact” about other prophets; he is referring to his own death, not someone else’s.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!  Jesus knows what will happen to him if he continues on toward Jerusalem.  He’s known it since chapter 9, back when he set his face toward Jerusalem.  The Pharisees come to him and tell him to run, to save his own life.  And knowing he will die, he refuses to run away, refuses to rally his followers to rise up and fight.  What do we even call this?  Suicide?  Fatalism?

No, we call this courage.  This is the courage of vulnerability.  The courage of sacrifice.  The courage of laying down one’s life for others.  Or passing through the split heifer.  Or gathering the chicks under his wings.  Not striking back, but surrendering.  And there it is again: God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.

God passes through the split heifer.  For us.  Jesus goes to Jerusalem.  For us.  We get a very different message from today’s scripture readings than we get from the world around us.  That story of Abram and God, the gospel reading we heard from Luke, they both show us a different way.  And it is certainly not the way that we see in our world.  Because God’s ways are not our ways.  The courage of vulnerability we see in these readings makes us uncomfortable, because we don’t want to be that way ourselves.  What would people think?  How would people treat us?  Could we even survive?

It’s hard to think about, isn’t it?  But that’s because we’re trying to put ourselves in God’s place—rather than in Abram’s place—imagining ourselves walking through the split heifer when it should be Abram doing that.  We’re trying to put ourselves in Jesus’ place, imagining walking on toward Jerusalem, knowing that he will be killed by the religious leaders of his time.

But you and I are not the God.  You and I are not Jesus.  You and I are Abram, sound asleep while God does what needs to be done.  You and I are the tiny chickens that Jesus gathers under his wings.  And that’s probably even harder to think about, right?  Baby chicks definitely does not fit with our independent self-made self-confident image of ourselves.

We are not called to be Jesus.  But we are called to follow him.  We are called to trust him.  We are called to be gathered under his wings.  

As we saw in these lessons today, when the stronger party takes the vulnerable role by choice, it makes no sense to us.  And yet God continually sacrifices for our benefit.  This is never more clear than when we consider the Eucharistic Feast of Communion.  Where Jesus offers us his own body and blood, so that we can be strengthened for our journey, forgiven of our sins, and reassured of God’s salvation.  

Though we do not understand God’s ways, may we always be grateful that God’s ways are not our ways, and that Jesus has the courage of vulnerability to lay down his life for the living and the dead.  For sinners who need redemption.  For tiny chickens in need of the shelter of his wings.
As we prayed, “O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.”  Glory to God forever and ever, that we might find God’s mercy forever and ever.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 lent 1

Lent 1, 2025
Deuteronomy 26:1-11
Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16
Romans 10:8b-13
Luke 4:1-13

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

We usually say that today’s Gospel reading is about temptation, and I suppose it is: The Temptation of Jesus.  But, in the end, it is really more about the identity of Jesus. Jesus has been out in the desert for forty days and forty nights.  And then the tempter comes and offers Jesus some relief if he will just go against . . . well, go against what it means to be the Son of God.  Just go along with this one little betrayal of everything you’ve ever stood for.  I’ll make it worth your while.  You’ll be part of the powerful club who rule the world.  Just . . . surrender in advance.  But Jesus refuses at every turn.

So we could say, Jesus is very good at resisting temptation, even when he’s hungry and exhausted.  Or, we could say, Jesus is like us: tempted in every way.  We could say a lot of things.  But instead, I want to talk once again about rocks and bread.  Yes.  Rocks and bread.  And now you’re on the edge of your seat, I know.

To set the scene, Jesus is out in the wilderness.  He has been fasting.  He is hungry.  The devil, or satan, or “temptation” comes to him and says, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.”  If you really are, then you will . . .  The oldest trick in the book, right?  If my parents really loved me, they’d have bought me a baby tiger when I was ten.

The implication here today is, if you don’t command this stone to become a loaf of bread, you are not the Son of God.  It is a challenge, sure, but a false challenge with no way out (if you believe the challenger).  Either you do this thing, or you are not who you say you are.  It is not a temptation; it is a trap.  The only way to deal with it is to sidestep it, right?  And that’s what Jesus does.  But he sidesteps it by way of pointing to something much bigger.

In response to the tempter, Jesus quotes Moses when he was chastising the people for their lack of trust in God.  To review the quotation, in the 8th chapter of Deuteronomy, Moses reminds the Israelites how God has watched out for them, protected them, instructed them.  He reminds them that when they were hungry in the desert, God gave them manna in order to make them understand that “one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.”  They want bread, the thing they are familiar with.  Instead, God gives them something they have never seen.  In their smallness, and their focus on mere survival, they crave what is familiar.  Instead, God gives them something that is so out of their mindset that they actually call it, “what is it?” which is what the word manna means.  Manna.  What is it?

God continues to give them this new food, all the way to the Promised Land.  And though Israel’s trust in God during their wandering was shaky at best, Jesus in his complete trust knows that God will provide, and by quoting Moses in the desert, Jesus uses the moment to remind the tempter that God has already provided food in the past—for 40 years . . . in a desert!

But, of course, there is more here.  Much more.  “The people do not live by bread alone.”  Animals live by bread alone; but people don’t.  For animals, life is all about food.  Getting food, storing food, beating up the other animal for food.  And once the food is gone, they start again.  Food food food.  If you’ve ever had a dog, you know what I’m talking about.  

This is the way animals are: constantly in search of their next meal.  But people do not live by bread alone.  Oh sure, we might survive on bread alone.  But surviving is not living.  Merely surviving is not what God created you to do.  Surviving is thinking too small.  God created you to live, to interact with other people, to love and laugh, and weep and mourn.  Bread is something that must be replaced every day.  But living is something entirely different than just surviving.  You do not live by bread alone.  But I said we would talk about bread and stones.

So what about stones?  Luke uses stones 3 times, in interesting and consistent ways.  We have today’s example connected to changing a stone into bread.  And a few verses before today’s gospel, John the Baptist tells those who have come for baptism, “God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham’.”  And a little less than 40 days from today, we will hear the Pharisees tell Jesus to order his disciples to stop praising him.  To which Jesus will answer, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."  

In Luke, we see stones not turning into bread, stones not turning into children of Abraham, stones not praising Jesus.  So what’s the connection?  Well, in all three cases, God could turn these stones into something else, but God does not.  When the people are not living up to their calling, God could simply replace them with stones.  But God does not.  So, why not?  I think it’s because God intentionally does not deal in flashy magic tricks to accomplish things.  God does not reach down and move people and things around by forcing them to be something they are not.  The power of God is shown in drawing things into perfection—what they were meant to be—rather than forcing them to become something they were never meant to be.

Instead of an awesome overwhelming undeniable display of power of shock and awe . . . God sends a baby in a feeding trough.  Rather than some ruler who appears atop the mountain, commanding people to bow down and worship with his  arms raised in victory . . . Jesus appears atop a cross, nailed to the wood, arms open in defeat.  

Sure, God could use rocks to accomplish what needs to be done, but stones have their own part to play.  Stones should not be turned into bread, or into children of Abraham, or into choirs singing praises to Jesus.  The big moment for stones comes much later in the story, when a stone is rolled away to reveal the empty tomb.  Stones have their own place in creation and revelation: to reveal our salvation.  Let stones be stones, and let bread be bread.

And, of course, bread has its place in our ongoing story as well.  Jesus is not going to turn stones into bread.  Jesus is going to turn himself into bread:  the bread of life, the bread that is blessed, broken, and shared.  When the tempter tries to get Jesus to turn a mere stone into mere bread for mere survival, he is showing the smallness of his thinking.  “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.”  Oh please!  There is a much bigger future for a stone; and there is a much bigger future for bread; and we shouldn’t settle for that kind of small thinking.

And because of stones and bread, there is a much bigger future for me and you, together.  You and I do not live by bread alone.  We do not find life alone.  We live in community.  We were built for community.  We find life in the bread shared in community, because Jesus meets us in the breaking of the bread.  A community that gathers to share bread, because the stone has been rolled away.  

The Tempter thinks too small, and assumes we do as well.  But we know from God’s Word the true power of stones and bread:

The stone is rolled away to reveal the glory at the resurrection of Jesus.  It is the curtain that rises to reveal the hope of eternal life for those who mourn.  And the bread, through the power of the Spirit in our community, becomes the body of Christ, the bread of heaven.

And after we gather at this altar, we will go out into the world taking Christ’s victory with us.  Not by some cheap parlor trick of having been turned into loaves of bread.  And not with some awesome conquering power to forcefully rule over the kingdoms of the world.  We go out into the world to share this good news: that a baby has been born into our messy world, that God has submitted to the worst that is in us on the cross, that the stone has been rolled away from the empty tomb, and that Jesus has come to us in the bread of life.  And—because of all of that—that the tempter has no power over us.

Jesus has overcome the power of death and the devil, and you and I together proclaim that good news with the saints who have gone before, and those who are yet to come.  The stone will be rolled away, and the bread of heaven comes to us this day, because we are God's beloved, the beloved children of God, forever being molded into what we were always meant to be.  May we never settle for thinking anything less.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 ash wednesday

Ash Wednesday, 2025
Joel 2:1-2,12-17
Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Psalm 103

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I think we can all agree that it is jarring to have this particular gospel reading on this particular day every year.  On Ash Wednesday, we always hear Jesus tell us not to practice our piety before others.  We hear that we should pray in private.  Going out in public we should wash our faces and not let anyone know that we are fasting.

And then, one by one, we come to God’s altar to have ashes put on our foreheads before going out into the world, which announces to everyone we meet that we have been to church.  We have let our left hand know what our right hand is doing.  There’s a huge disconnect here, and I have to admit that it really bothers me every year.

However, there is some thing else that I want to draw our attention to today.  Because there is something else going on underneath that smudge of ash on your forehead.

When you were baptized, and when you were confirmed, and when you are sick, and—yes—when you are on your deathbed, a bishop or priest uses holy oil to make the sign of the cross on your forehead.  At baptism—the start of our Christian journey—when we make that sign with holy oil, we say the words, “you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  Sealed and marked as Christ’s own forever.

This means no matter what else gets put on your forehead, this promise remains underneath it.  The slings and arrows of living in this broken world, the pain and disconnect from our friends and family, the agony of watching those we love die, and the heartache of relationships that fall apart, we wear these scars as testament that we have lived.  You could say that these things disfigure our faces, to use the words of Jesus.

And on top of all that, we then come to church on Ash Wednesday where we are each individually reminded that we are going to die.  Welcome to church.  Glad you’re here.  You’re going to die.  On the surface, it doesn’t seem very reassuring, I have to admit.

But then we need to remember something.  Underneath those ashes, underneath the scars from all the slings and arrows of this world, there’s something else.  Because underneath the cross of ashes lies another cross.  A cross made with holy oil, blessed by a bishop, inscribed on your forehead along with the words:

“You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  Sealed and marked forever.

Yes, life can be hard.  And yes, we will all one day die.  But death has no power over us, because Jesus has promised us that where he goes, we too will go.  Because we are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.  Forever.

Amen