YEAR A 2025 advent 1

Advent 1, 2025
Isaiah 2:1-5
Romans 13:11-14
Matthew 24:36-44
Psalm 122

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

So . . . as I remind you every year, the church and the society around us are not in sync when it comes to Christmas.  Five seconds after Halloween was over, people started putting up Christmas decorations.  Stores started selling inflatable lawn displays.  And, best of all, the breweries started releasing their Christmas ales.  

HOWEVER, in the life of the church, we don’t celebrate a thing until it happens.  Easter begins at sundown on Holy Saturday, and goes for 50 days.  Christmas begins after sundown on Christmas Eve and goes for the 12 days of Christmas.  (If only there were a song to remind us of that.)  Point being, in the church, we are now waiting for Christmas, no matter what the piped-in music in the stores might be telling you.

We get to soak up four weeks of blue before Jesus gets here.  (Well, plus also a little bit of rose two weeks from now, thanks to our awesome sewing guild.)  Nonetheless, I think you’ll agree that the contrast between the early Christmas cheer we see happening all around us and the Gospel reading we just heard is pretty stark.

But the two things I want to talk about this morning are promises and hope.  Promises and hope are tied together, and especially in today’s readings.  When we go back to the text we heard from Isaiah, we hear a promise that, “in days to come, the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains.”  It is a promise for the future, though we are not told when it will come to pass.  And here’s a tricky thing about promises and the future:  God can already see that future.  It is not a thing that might happen, if everything goes according to plan.  It is not a promise that will occur if we all behave, or whatever.  No, from God’s vantage point, it is a done deal.  We just can’t see it, because we are constrained by time.  But, in days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains.  Shall be.  Period.

Which leads us to hope. If God has promised something will happen, and we trust in that promise, then we hope for the future.  Our hope roots our focus in the future, you could say.  We’re not there yet, but when we have hope, we have a stake in that future promise.  Hope keeps us in two places at once, confident that a thing will happen in the future, and living in the present, before that thing takes place.  You can maybe see how that is different from wishing a thing might happen.  Hope anchors us in the future, a lifeline to the time when the promises shall be fulfilled.

But, of course, we want to know when these promises will be fulfilled.  In fact, a few verses before today’s gospel reading from Matthew, the disciples come to Jesus asking him when the end will come.  And then Jesus says that he will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.  "But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father."  Salvation will come.  But we don’t know when.  And the angels don’t know when.  And Jesus doesn’t know when.  So we live in the sure hope that it shall happen, because God’s promises are true.  Our salvation is already accomplished, but it is not yet here.

Which makes it like Advent, right?  As you and I move through the Church year together, we always know what is coming before it gets here.  We know there’s a baby coming, but he is not yet born.  We know who his mother is, and we know he will grow up and gather his disciples, and be arrested, executed, and rise from the grave, telling his disciples to tell the world that we too shall rise from the grave and  . . .

But, right now, he is not yet born.  We know what is coming, but it is not yet here.  The cycles of our church year get us in the habit of trusting that a thing is coming, even though it is not yet here.  Which is the whole point of these annual repeating cycles of the church year.  They are practice for the longer view we hold.  They keep repeating so we don’t forget the story.  We know what will happen, even though we still wait for it.  And that, my friends, is Advent.

I also want to briefly touch on the Psalm we read together a few minutes ago.  “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord’. . . Pray for the peace of Jerusalem . . . For the sake of my relatives and friends I will say, ‘Peace be within you’.  For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”

There is a theme throughout the scriptures that peace is always accompanied by justice.  I don’t mean 21st century legal punitive justice.  I mean a just society, where the naked are clothed, and the hungry are fed.  And if you give it some thought, you’ll see this is not just a biblical concept.  There really can be no peace where there is no justice.  Even if you take compassion and love out of the equation, if some people have nothing while others have everything, no one will ever really have peace.  Without justice, there is no peace.  There will always be anger and bloodshed and violence.  And look at what the psalmist says in that closing line:  “For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”  

If I truly seek what is best for you, when we truly love our neighbors as ourselves, there will be peace on earth.  From Isaiah today, we heard “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks.”  And here we see, it’s not just that war stops, or that the need for war stops.  There’s a second step, a constructive step.  A step where we stop turning the tools of violence toward our neighbor, and instead turn them into a means of helping our neighbors.  Swords into plowshares.  Hands of violence into hands of help.  Peace and justice are yoked together.

And so, back to waiting for Jesus . . . 
The sudden and unexpected return of Jesus we heard about means . . . what?  Well, clearly that will vary according to what you’re expecting, and what you feel is expected from you.  But the Spirit of God convicts each one of us to do something to get ready.  And the reason we want someone to tell us the exact date is because deep down we’re each afraid we’re not doing enough to get ready.  

Sure, the Spirit convinced Noah to build an ark.  But remember the other examples:  two people working in a field, two women grinding grain.  We are not all called to build arks.  (If we were, the world would be awfully crowded, and there would be no trees.)  We’re also not all called to work in the fields or grind grain.  We also need fresh water, and cars, and books.  But in our baptismal covenant, we do all promise to work for justice and peace.  We can’t all clothe the naked, or feed the hungry, or do whatever.  But you are uniquely called and equipped to do something to bring about God’s Kingdom.  

There is some part of preparing for Jesus’ return that you alone can do, because of who you are, and where you are, and because of what you are:  a claimed and redeemed child of God, a living witness in the world, proclaiming the hope of the one we are longing to welcome.  That same one who offers himself to us this day, at this altar. 

We do not know the hour that Jesus will return, but we do know that in this hour he is present among us.  We know that when we gather together in his name, he is already here.  So, as we wait for God’s promises to be revealed, I invite you to come to this altar, and welcome Jesus into your life once more, in the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.  As we strive together for justice, so that there will be peace.

Amen.

YEAR C christ the king

Christ the King, 2025
Jeremiah 23:1-6
Psalm 46
Colossians 1:11-20
Luke 23:33-43

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

So, this is the last Sunday before Advent starts.  No more green . . . for a minute.  And it’s the end of our year spent hearing from the Gospel of Luke.  We call this day Christ the King Sunday, and it signals the close of the church year.  And knowing that it’s Christ the King Sunday might lead you to ask the obvious question:  Why is our king hanging on a cross?  Why don’t we hear instead about Jesus’ resurrection?  Or, you know, some part of the story that looks a little more like reigning victorious rather than dying beside a couple two-bit thieves?

Well, since we’re right on the verge of Advent, it will probably help to start with how God arrives on the scene in the beginning.  The Jewish people were waiting since forever for the Messiah, the anointed one.  Someone to knock the oppressors off their perch and throw off the yoke of oppression.  You know, someone riding in on a white horse with a blazing sword who could set things right.  A king of restoration, when it comes right down to it.

But let’s take our minds back to what we remember from the Hebrew scriptures.  God told Moses, if the people would serve God as King, they would have no need for kings. They needed a leader, yes, but not a king.  (And Moses, you’ll remember, was a shepherd, not a king.)  So God says, I the Lord shall be your king.  And Israel was led by prophets and judges—not kings—for generations.  (I’m paraphrasing whole books here, so bear with me.) 

After 400 years of being led by those prophets and judges, the people approached the Prophet Samuel, clamoring for a king “like all the other nations.”  This desire to be like other nations is the root of the problem for them.  God didn’t want them to be like other nations; God’s ways were not their ways.  And having a king (as they would soon find out) would lead them right down that same path as their neighbors.  Then we get Saul, and David, and a whole list of kings who do what is evil in God’s sight.  The kingdom splits in two:  Judah and Israel.  The people are taken away to foreign lands in captivity, and the Jewish people start coming back five hundred years before the birth of Jesus

(Almost done.)  Then Alexander the Great takes over Palestine in 331 BC; then the Jewish people revolt and take it back (which you’ll find in the books of Maccabees); then the Romans take over, the Parthians invade, and Herod gets the Romans to support him in taking it all back.  Herod dies, and his three sons take over (two of whom also named Herod, because he was so darn creative), and this leads us right up to what we could call year zero.  Or, maybe more accurately, 4 AD, but who’s counting?

After all this violence and oppression, God’s chosen people again want a mighty warrior king who will overthrow the Romans and restore them to their land and heritage as a free people.  And what do we get?  A baby.  Born to an unwed mother.  In a feeding trough, behind a sold-out hotel.  This Jesus cannot possibly be the Messiah they’ve been waiting for.  He’s a defenseless baby.  He is no king.  But that’s for next month.

Now . . . fast forward 2,000 years and here we are.  Gathered on a Sunday morning, and looking for a king.  It’s Christ the King Sunday.  And what do we get?  Not a king lifted up in glory, but a man on the verge of death, hung between two thieves.  One who is beaten and mocked and disgraced.  God’s people wanted a king, and instead they got a baby.  We want a king, and instead we get a man about to die.

You know what we have in common with God’s people across the ages?  We don’t understand kingship the way God shows kingship.  We associate being kingly with being powerful and getting our way.  We expect a ruler to force their will on others, for better or worse.  In fact, we have come to expect a leader to act like the people all around Jesus in this gospel reading.  Mocking, taunting, humiliating, full of arrogance and spite.  We expect the king to be the one who sentences someone to death. 

But, turns out, the King is the one on the cross.  The King is the one who is willing to suffer, and willing to lay down his life for others.  Not what we would expect.  And that leads us to the disconnect in this gospel we just heard.  

Notice how everyone is setting up these if/then scenarios for him.  
The people say, If he is the Messiah of God, let him save himself.  The soldiers say, If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself.  One of the criminals says, Are you not the Messiah? Then save yourself and us.  And we might also say, if you are a king, come and save us too!  Come and make things better.  Come and save us from the senseless violence and creeping despair.  Come and save us from the pain and darkness in our world.  If you are the Messiah, come and save your people!

You see where that puts us, of course.  If we are expecting that Jesus, the Christ the King who will squash our enemies and stamp out evil . . . well . . . we kind of end up sounding like the people mocking Jesus, don’t we?  Jesus has to prove himself to us through his mighty deeds.  And we end up speaking the words of the angry crowd, the mocking soldiers, the taunting thief on the cross.  And that’s the natural reaction to this scene, isn’t it?  Jesus never claimed to be a king.  But the people wanted a king, like the Israelites wanted a king, and so they made him a king.  And when the king can’t defend even himself . . . well, what kind of king is that?  Off with his head!

But today we see God offering us a different way.  We see that victory is through surrender.  We see that serving is winning.  If our way of life requires others losing, others dying, others suffering, then it is not the way of God.  Because here we see that God loses, God suffers, God dies.  God sacrifices for us.  This is kingship.  This is royalty.  Christianity turns everything on its head, every time, and God’s ways are not our ways.

And this is the point where you say, okay Father Preacher man, that’s all well and good.  But it sure doesn’t sound like . . . you know . . . good news.  We get that Jesus came to serve, and we get that Jesus is willing to lay down his life, but . . . well . . . so what?  But maybe we ask those questions because we’re still thinking like the crowd, and the soldiers, and the mocking thief.  So let’s look at the other person in this story.

Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."  Jesus replied, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

When we set aside our natural drive to get Jesus to prove himself, when we set aside our quid pro quo of “if you really are who I say you are,” when we step back and focus on what we really need from a savior rather than from a king, then we can say to Jesus what we really need to say.  And it is just this:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

That’s the one request that matters.  That is the true sign of faith in the midst of turmoil and despair.  If we ask one thing of Jesus, it should be this:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

And it is interesting, to me, that this other thief on the cross should word it this way.  The others are saying, if you are a king, then save yourself.  And if you are a king, then save us.  But the thief on the cross is saying, when you are a king.  When you come into your kingdom.  When you come into your kingdom, remember me.  When you are seated at the right hand of God, remember me.  When the angels and archangels and all the company of heaven forever sing this hymn . . . remember me.

Which brings us to this Altar.  That hymn, that song, is going on at this very moment.  You and I are remembered in that kingdom, a kingdom that is not of this world.  And in a few minutes, you and I will once again join in the timeless stream of that eternal hymn.  It is not a song sung to a leader on earth, as though we were just paying homage to some temporary ruler.  No, it is a song that goes on forever, to a Savior who rules our hearts forever.  It is a song that unites us with people of every time and every place.  A song of praise to the King of heaven, and the Savior of the world.  Christ the King, who rules this Sunday, and all the days to come.  Lord Jesus, ruler of our hearts, remember us in your kingdom.  Remember us all in your kingdom.

Amen.

Elizabeth of Hungary

Elizabeth of Hungary, Princess, 1231

Wartburg Castle, in Eisenach, sits in the Thuringia region of Germany.  I have visited this castle several times.  To Lutherans, it is something of a Mecca, being the place where Martin Luther hid out from the Pope after he was excommunicated.  While there, Luther translated the New Testament into German for the first time.  So it’s kind of a big deal for Lutherans.  On my many visits, I have always been taken aback by the mosaics that cover the walls and ceiling of what was once Elizabeth’s bedroom in the castle.  Dating from 1904, they really are quite stunning, as befits the bedroom of a princess.

But as one looks closer at the details of the mosaics, you see that they do not depict the life of most princesses, riding horses and doing cross stitch.  Rather, they show poverty and disease, and Elizabeth doing her best to tend to those in need.  They are beautiful, and colorful, and tragic, and surprising.  In short: they depict a life well lived.

As we heard in her hagiography, Elizabeth was a literal princess, being the daughter of the King of Hungary.  And yet she showed concern for the poor at an early age.  She married the Landgrave of Thuringia, which only elevated her position, and moved into Wartburg Castle where she could have lived a lavish life of luxury.  Instead, she began giving away her dowry and possessions to feed and nurse the desperate peasants living around her.

Her generous acts were deemed “extravagances” by those at the Wartburg, and she was forced to leave the castle.  Extravagances.  When you and I hear that word, we probably think of a bedroom needlessly covered in mosaics.  We might say it is extravagant to buy expensive jewelry, not sell it to build a hospital for the poor.  We think of extravagance as wasteful spending, not overwhelming generosity.

Is it extravagant to save hungry children, or to care for the needs of the dying?  Before we answer “NO!” we should consider where our money actually goes: as a nation, as a congregation, as individuals.
Is it extravagant to feed children and build hospitals?  The court at Wartburg thought so.  Do we?  Does our parish?  Does our government?  It’s an uncomfortable thing to ponder.  What at first seems obvious isn’t necessarily the case on closer inspection.

Which brings us back to those mosaics covering the walls and ceilings of Elizabeth’s bedroom in Germany.  Though they seem extravagant—maybe even wasteful—on closer inspection, they show a life of intentional poverty, giving up riches in order to save the lives of the poor and outcast.  
And maybe that’s the key to seeing God at work in the life of Elizabeth and those like her.  Beautiful mosaics created to show us true selfless giving.  A woman born into the lap of luxury pouring out her life to serve her neighbors.  Are these wasteful or extravagant?  Certainly not, especially if they inspire us to go and do the same.

Which in a way points to our Eucharistic meal.  Beautiful precious chalices pouring out the blood of the crucified Jesus.  Gorgeous architecture dedicated to proclaiming the unconditional love of One who gave up his life for us.  

From a distance, these extravagant beautiful things might seem wasteful.  But if they inspire us to serve our neighbors as Elizabeth did, then they are no extravagance at all.  They almost seem too humble, given what they offer to the world.  May Elizabeth’s life inspire us all toward extravagant, selfless giving: of ourselves, of our time, and of our possessions.

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 23

Pentecost 23, 2025
Malachi 4:1-2a
Psalm 98
2 Thessalonians 3:6-13
Luke 21:5-19

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

Well, this is quite a collection of readings this morning, I think you’ll agree.   We don’t have sufficient time to fully deal with the reading from second Thessalonians, but I feel like I have to say something. Because it really needs its own 40 minute sermon, which you won’t be getting from me.  But it is important to remember that not everything in the Bible has equal weight.  A letter written by an apostle to the church in some city is not the same as the words spoken by Jesus in one of the four gospels.  Whatever this Thessalonians reading is, it is not the heart of Christianity.  And it most certainly is not what Jesus taught.

As we heard, “Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.”  It sounds like something we intuitively agree with, which is exactly why it’s so dangerous. It fits with how we view the world. We pass laws saying parents receiving government assistance must also work, while somehow also watching their children.  And it’s a quick slippery slope to talking about the “worthy poor,” which implies the existence of the “unworthy poor.”  And don’t even get me started on that blasphemous concept!  But we can see that this is not the message of Christianity by just asking a few questions . . .

If those who don’t work should not eat, explain to me the parable of laborers in the field, where those who show up at closing time get the same amount as those who worked all day.  Or, how has Mary “chosen the better way” by just sitting at the feet of Jesus while Martha toils in the kitchen?  Or, taken to it’s extreme, why should we ever feed babies or our pets, since they clearly haven’t worked a day in their lives?

This reading is a red herring for Christians. Don’t believe the hype.  When Paul wrote this letter to the Thessalonians, he was writing to a specific group of people, experiencing specific problems, in a specific time and place.  We are not those people.  So let me just say this:  People who do not work still deserve to eat, no matter what you just heard from this reading.  Rant over.

Now, about that Luke reading.  In some ways, this is the perfect Gospel text for our politically divided times.  Some people see what has been happening in our country as a good and proper thing.  And others sense that everything has been torn down.  We are in one of those times where two people can look at the same exact thing and yet somehow see exactly the opposite.  Some see a restoration to goodness, and others despair over something that has been thrown down.  And the problem with both those views is that we are putting our trust in things human.  We are putting our hopes in things that will ultimately pass away, whether those things are currently ascending or descending.  We cling to what is fleeting and temporary, just as the disciples did.

But, Jesus says, “do not be terrified.”    We are used to Jesus saying, “Do not be afraid.”  He says that a lot.  But here, he says “do not be terrified”—or, what he actually says is, “may you not be terrified.”  These things will happen, yes.  And when they happen, may you not be terrified.  Personally, I love that Jesus says “may you” here.  Because when he says “do not be afraid,” that sounds more like a command . . . like it’s up to us to do that thing.  But “may you not be terrified” sounds more like a blessing to my ear.  “May you find peace” as opposed to “FIND PEACE!”  But I digress.

When we hear or read this part of Luke, it’s easy to get focused on the destruction and despair.  The wars and insurrections, the nation rising against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.  We fixate on the great earthquakes, and famines and plagues, and dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.  You know, the timeline we’ve all been living in since around 2020.

It is an unsettling text, yes.  But it is meant to be settling . . . or, I mean, reassuring.  Bottom line: Jesus is not telling us what the future holds.  He is telling us who holds the future.  He is not saying, “Though there will be suffering . . . you got this.”  He is saying, “Though there will be suffering, God has got you.”  God holds the past; God holds the present; God holds the future.  Our story is God’s story; the two are interwoven from the very beginning, and God will not let us go until after the story is entirely written.  Jesus is saying: what is important is not what the future holds, but who holds the future.  Remember that.

When bad things happen (and they will), may you not be terrified.  You and I are not likely to be dragged before kings and rulers.  We probably will not be handed over to prison for our faith.  And some of the things Jesus describes will probably never happen in our lifetimes.  But there will be suffering for each of us, in one way or another.  Marriages will fall apart; family members will disown one another; jobs will be lost, and loved ones will pass away.  These things will happen . . . and may you not be terrified.

We want to be saved from suffering.  We want God to prevent sorrow and pain.  But God does not save us from suffering.  God saves us in the midst of suffering.  Since our story is God’s story, God continually meets us in our pain.  I don’t need to tell you that suffering is part of life.  Being a Christian does not mean you will not suffer.  In fact, based on what Jesus says to us today, being a Christian just might be the cause of suffering.  That was certainly true for his disciples, who suffered under Roman persecutions.  Our suffering is different from theirs, but it is still our suffering, and we still need God to meet us in our pain, just as much as the disciples did.

We look for God in our suffering.  But we should never look for God as the cause of suffering.  Some people who like to say, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”  
Please.  Just.  Don’t.  

God is not sitting around handing out suffering to see how much you can bear.  Let me say this clearly:  God does not cause the suffering in your life.  God meets us in our suffering; but God does not cause it.  Sometimes it’s us; sometimes it’s other people; and sometimes it’s just the way things are.  But no matter the cause of our pain and grief and sadness, the important thing to remember is this:  God does not cause it; but God meets us there.  

In today’s gospel text, Jesus tells the disciples, “make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”  He has just warned them about the persecution they will face, and says that persecution will give them a chance to testify.  But he tells them not to plan what they will say in advance, because he will give them the words they need.

How does that relate to us?  Well, let me suggest something like this:  Maybe we should avoid having prepared bumper sticker slogans, like “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.”  Maybe we should resist the temptation to always have a pat answer to explain away evil, and pain, and heartbreak.  God does not cause the suffering in your friend’s life; but God meets them there, and we meet them there.

Maybe we should face whatever suffering comes our way by finding where God is meeting us in that pain.  Because God is there.  Perhaps it is more helpful and faithful to seek God in the moment, trusting that God is there.  That God will give us a word when we need it.  Rather than preparing in advance to explain God’s absence in our pain, maybe we can look for God’s presence in our pain.  Trusting Jesus when he says, “I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”

But enough of that.  Here’s what I really want to get to this morning.  This section of Luke’s Gospel finishes with Jesus telling the disciples, “You will be hated by all because of my name. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.”  Let me start with that last sentence.  Though the translation we get sounds like a thing we have to do—that is IF we endure, then we will gain our souls in the future—the actual wording is more like, “keep your souls in patience.”  Which is more akin to saying, “do not let your soul be anxious.”  It’s not an if/then, meaning “If you want to gain your soul you must endure.”  Rather, it is more like, “Keep your soul at peace.”  Two very different things.

And secondly, the hair thing.  Jesus promises, “not a hair of your head shall perish.”  This is a metaphor.  As before, I point to my own head here.  Much of my hair has indeed perished.  So this statement is obviously a metaphor.  And the metaphor can be interpreted as something like this . . . 

Whether or not elections turn out the way you wanted, and whether or not you got the job, or kept the marriage, or the treatment worked . . . you are never lost to God.  The Temple that Jesus talks about was the center of Jewish worship—the very place where God was thought to dwell.  People marveled at its beauty  And it was utterly destroyed. 

Yet even in the destruction, it is still known to God.  Just as you and I are known to God.  The hairs on your head, and the love in your heart, and the despair you may sometimes feel, all of these are known to God, and all held close at hand.  God knows you intimately, because your story is part of God’s story, and that story is still being written.  And for that reason, no matter what may come, the blessing from Jesus remains:  may you not be terrified.  

May you never be terrified, because God holds your past, God holds your present, and most importantly, God holds your future.  God has you, just as God has always had you.  And for that reason, may you never be terrified.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 22

Pentecost 22, 2025
Job 19:23-27a 
Psalm 17:1-9 
2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 
Luke 20:27-38

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

My oh my. That was quite a gospel text there, wasn’t it? As with so many of the readings we get on any given Sunday, the first step is to break it down and get the context, so we know who is who, and what they’re saying.

So, the Sadducees. We don’t often hear about these guys, and we don’t know much about them. We usually hear the Sadducees grouped together with the Pharisees, because they were both leaders in the Jewish community of Jesus’ day. Painting with a broad brush, we could say the Pharisees typically had the regular folks on their side, while the Sadducees had the wealthy elites backing them. The Sadducees controlled the Temple during this time, while the Pharisees sort of handled education and daily laws. 

As a result, the Pharisees embraced many writings and books of the prophets, whereas the Sadducees only accepted the Torah, or the Law of  Moses . . . which we call the first five books of the Old Testament. Now the reason that is important to know is because nowhere in the first five books of the Bible is there any reference to life after death. If we only had Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy as our scriptures, then you and I would say that when you die, you die. You go to Sheol which is the land of eternal sleep. "There’s nothing past this," in the words of the band Deathcab for Cutie. 

So, there’s your background. Now a group of these Sadducees comes to question Jesus. And they proceed to lay out what sounds like an algebra problem about two trains leaving Chicago, but is really about what happens after death. It’s important to remember that they personally don’t believe anything happens after death, so it’s not like they’re trying to clear something up. This is more like trying to poke a hole in someone else’s beliefs by applying logic to it. You know like asking, “If angels play harps of gold, then how can they possibly float in the clouds, since there’s nothing to support such heavy instruments, huh Jesus?” At which point, I want to read you something written by C.S. Lewis . . .  

"There is no need to be worried by facetious people who try to make the Christian hope of 'Heaven' ridiculous by saying they do not want 'to spend eternity playing harps'. The answer to such people is that if they cannot understand books written for grown-ups, they should not talk about them. All the scriptural imagery (harps, crowns, gold, etc.) is, of course a merely symbolical attempt to express the inexpressible.” 

Lewis continues, “Musical instruments are mentioned because for many people (not all) music is the thing known in the present life which most strongly suggests ecstasy and infinity. Crowns are mentioned to suggest the fact that those who are united with God in eternity share His splendour and power and joy. Gold is mentioned to suggest the timelessness of Heaven (gold does not rust) and the preciousness of it. People who take these symbols literally might as well think that when Christ told us to be like doves, He meant that we were to lay eggs." 

I just love C.S. Lewis. But, let’s go back to the reading we heard. So the Sadducees sure sound like they’re mocking Jesus, and probably trying to let him know that they don’t believe in this life after death stuff, like he and the Pharisees do. But then Jesus answers them, using their own scriptures—those first five books of the Bible—by referring to the story of Moses and the Burning Bush. Remember that story? Of course you do; it’s kind of an important one. 

To refresh our memories, in the book of Exodus, Moses is up on the mountain, tending the flocks for Jethro. He sees a burning bush, and God calls to him from out of it. When Moses asks who God is, the reply is “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” Keep that story in mind as we go back to Jesus’ reply to the Sadducees . . . 

Jesus says to them, “the fact that the dead are raised Moses himself showed, in the story about the bush, where he speaks of the Lord as the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” You'll recall that, by the time Moses shows up in the stories, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are long gone from this earthly plane. 

We get a little tripped up here because of how we typically use phrases about the past. Like we might say, “St. Timothy’s is the church of my great grandfather,” meaning it’s the church that he went to when he was alive. But it doesn’t work that way for God. As Jesus says, “Now God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive.” St. Timothy’s  Church doesn’t work that way, right? This building doesn’t think of your great grandfather as being alive. But to God, he is. Which means to us, he is. And for that reason, when we celebrate Holy Communion at this Altar together, your great grandfather is celebrating with us. As is my great grandfather, who never set foot in Massillon.  The saints of every time and every place, every time we gather around this Altar. 

And even though Jesus doesn’t start talking about the time-space continuum and the mutability of time, it does kind of enter into this. And here’s what I mean by that. 

For you and me, time passes in a straight line. We are born, we live our lives, we die. And we can only experience things that happen within our lifetimes. As far as any of us knows, once we’re dead, we are dead. And yet, we talk about the dead as though they are currently alive, somewhere else, don’t we? Right in our Book of Common Prayer there are all sorts of places where we pray for the dead, that they would go from glory to glory, that they would increase in perfection, that they are with us on another shore, that they might pray for us. It’s as though they are dead, but they are not dead. A Schrodinger’s cat of eternal life, if you will. 

But now listen again to the words of Jesus: “God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive.” 

You and I do not know what happens after we die. I mean, we don’t really know, you know? We have faith. We have belief. We have trust. But we don’t have knowledge. Not true, factual knowledge. 

But what we do have is faith, and hope, and trust in God. We trust in the promises of Jesus that, just as Jesus was raised from the dead, so we too will rise from the dead. We don’t know when, and we can’t say how, but we live our lives trusting in that promise. That’s all we have to go on, but we trust that it is enough. 

And in the meantime, we remember the words of Jesus: God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive. Today, we know we are alive, and we trust that we are in God’s hands. And one day, we know we will die, and we will still be in God’s hands. Because God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive, just as you will also be alive. We live our lives trusting in that promise. Our God is a God of the living, and as long as we belong to God, we are alive. You belong to God right now, and you will always belong to God. The God of the living. 

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 all souls

All Souls, 2025
Wisdom 3:1–9
Psalm 130
1 Thessalonians 4:13–18
John 5:24-27

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

Tonight we observe the Feast of All Souls, now unfortunately called the Feast of All the Faithful Departed.  That puts up something of a wall between ALL the departed, and the faithful departed.  I know that wasn’t the intention of the name change, but—in my opinion—it takes us a step backward.  But never mind all that; let’s take a moment to distinguish between All Saints Day and All Souls Day.

The Feast of All Saints is intended to honor all the saints who have gone before.  You can quickly get the gist of the intention by looking at hymn #287 in our hymnal, “For All the Saints.”  The Church sets aside All Saints Day on November 1st to remember all the heroes of the faith.  But it does not necessarily include all the heroes of our own personal faith.  The ones who drove you to Sunday School, or mentored you through middle school, or who brought you back to Jesus after your own personal time in a “distant land.”  Not to mention the people of a different faith or of no faith who still impacted your faith.

All Saints Day is a little muddy about whether my Uncle Grant and your Grandma Eunice are included in the feast.  And that’s why I’m so grateful that we have this day, All Souls Day, set aside to honor those we love but see no more.  These ones don’t enter into the level of having the Pope notice them, but if we’re honest, we might place them above the Pope.  For each of us, there are people we remember because of their incredible impact on our lives, whether or not anyone else remembers them at all.  In a sense, as long as we have breath, these loved ones will be remembered and celebrated, whether or not anyone else still remembers their name.

And so All Souls Day is set aside for us to remember and mark them as beloved of God, and beloved of us.  They may not have a feast day in the Church, but they have feast days in our hearts.As we heard, Paul writes in his first letter to the Thessalonians:
We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.

That can sound strange to our ears, as though Paul is telling us not to grieve for those we have lost and loved.  But that is not what he is saying at all.  When Paul writes, “so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope,” he is not suggesting that we should not grieve.  The key to that sentence is the phrase “as others do who have no hope.”  

It’s a different kind of grieving, you see?  We all mourn losing the ones who mean the world to us—the All Souls for whom this day is named.  We grieve and we mourn because it is how God created us to be.  It is right and good that we should grieve, because the measure of our pain is an indicator of the depth of our love.

But we should not grieve “as others do who have no hope.”  We do not grieve as others do because we grieve with hope.  We grieve as people who have hope in the promises of God.  We grieve as people who have hope, because we trust that no one is ever beyond the reach of God’s loving embrace.  We grieve as people who trust that those who are lost to us are not lost to God.

It is good and right that we should mourn and grieve the absence of those whom we love yet see no longer.  But we grieve and mourn as people with hope, because we worship the God who created it all, redeemed it all, and saves it all.

“The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them.”  All are made righteous in Jesus, and they are all, ALL in the hand of God.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 all saints

All Saints’ Sunday
Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18
Psalm 149
Ephesians 1:11-23
Luke 6:20-31

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

You’re familiar with what we call The Sermon on the Mount.  Sometimes we call it The Beatitudes.  They pop up all the time, in greeting cards, on calendars, times when people want to say, “It gets better.”  Blessed are the sad people, for they will one day be happy, and that kind of thing.  But the Sermon on the Mount is found in Matthew.  Jesus climbs the mountain and delivers a lengthy encouraging poem to his listeners.

But this year, we’re using Luke, at least for a few more weeks.  And one of the characteristics of Luke’s Gospel is what we might call, The Great Leveling.  Luke is big on lifting the poor and pressing down the rich.  And today, we even see it in the landscape: Matthew’s Jesus delivers his words on a mountain.  But in Luke, this scene is called the Sermon on the Plain.  Luke levels it out.  No mountains here.  No valleys either.  Just level.

But we also a balance in Jesus’ words.  Matthew is all about encouraging the downtrodden, and Luke also gives us the four encouragements, to the poor, to the hungry, to the grieving, and to the outcasts.  But then Luke adds the Four Woes:  woe to the rich, woe to the well-fed, woe to the laughing, woe to the popular.  Blessed are the poor, but woe to the rich.  Blessed are the hungry, but woe to the well-fed.  Blessed are those who weep, but woe to those who laugh.  Blessed are the hated, but woe to the well-liked.

You know, it’s almost like our armchair view of karma, right?  This section could be summed up as, What goes around comes around. There’s a sort of circular thinking in this.

And even when we bring this lesson into the spiritual realm, it still holds true.  The poor, the hungry, the grieving, and the outcast will all have their redemption at the grave.  And, they’ll end this life with a focus on the things that really matter, rather than worrying about whether they have the latest i-Phone gadgets.  And the rich, well-fed, happy, popular ones will end up in the same state when they face the grave.  We leave this world with nothing, just as we entered it.  So, of course, we all leave on the same footing.  Simple, right?  Blessed are the poor, and since the rich will also one day be poor, they’re blessed too . . . just not quite yet.

But that isn’t what this gospel text really says.  Or, rather, this text says much more than that.  That simplified reading overlooks what comes after this section.  The blessings and woes are kind of the preamble to what follows.  They’re the set-up for this . . .

“But I say to you, “ says Jesus, “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”  The blessings made some sense to us.  You know, for the poor, hungry, sad, and unpopular.  But, if anyone strikes you, offer the other cheek also?  If they take your coat, offer your shirt?  Give to everyone who begs, and when someone steals from you, don’t ask for your stuff back?  If we actually followed these rules, we’d end up . . . well, poor, hungry, sad, and unpopular.  

Society is based on doing the exact opposite of these things.  A good citizen goes to the police.  A good citizen defends her property.  A good citizen doesn’t give to beggars, since it might just be some kind of scam.  And being a bad citizen will make you unpopular.  If we follow the advice of Jesus, you and I will end up poor, hungry, sad, and unpopular.  That does not sound like a happy kingdom.
But let’s look at today’s other readings, with a mind toward God’s kingdom in the midst of our earthly kingdom, or—better yet—our earthly kingdom’s place within God’s eternal kingdom.

The reading from Daniel gives us a bunch of scary monsters, all seeming to put the story into the land of fairy tale, rather than some believable narrative.  And that’s sort of where this story belongs.  It’s not a newspaper account of the day scary monsters came to visit Daniel’s house.  But, at the same time, it’s more than a dream Daniel had.  There is an important truth at the end of that story: “the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom forever—forever and ever.”  

The four monsters in Daniel’s day were said to represent four oppressive kingdoms.  In our own time, they might be said to represent four things that oppress us on a daily basis.  You know, things like being poor, hungry, depressed, or lonely.  These four beasts might rule the earth for a season, and their kingdoms might rise up for a while, but the saints of God shall receive the kingdom forever—forever and ever.

And, from the reading in Ephesians, the writer hopes his readers might come to recognize the riches of glorious inheritance among the saints.  And I want to draw our attention to that phrase “glorious inheritance among the saints.”  An inheritance comes as an unearned gift.  Among the saints implies it is shared by all the saints.  We receive and we share this inheritance with all the saints, of every time and every place.  We belong together; we were meant to be together; we were meant to receive this inheritance together: In the Communion of Saints.

You’ve heard that phrase before, yes?  It’s in one of our ancient Creeds of faith.  But it’s not in the one we say every Sunday.  The Nicene Creed does not include the “Communion of Saints.”  But the Apostles Creed does.  We don’t use the Apostles Creed very often in the Episcopal Church.  But we say it at two crucial moments.  

As a community, we recite the Apostles Creed at baptisms.  And we recite the Apostles Creed at funerals.  When the Church welcomes a new member, we proclaim our belief in the Communion of Saints.  When we gather to commend to God’s care one who has passed from our midst, we proclaim our belief in the Communion of Saints.  At these bookends of the life of faith, we are reminded of our common inheritance, we are reminded that the saints of God shall receive the kingdom forever—forever and ever.  

And who are these saints?  Well, the short answer is, they’re everywhere.  Rich and poor, hungry and fed, grieving and rejoicing, lonely and popular.  There are saints who spend every possible moment in church.  And there are saints who spend Sunday mornings driving tow trucks and coaching soccer.  God’s kingdom includes all sorts of people, including ones we might not expect to be included.
And the way you know it includes so many people is because of the times when we proclaim the Apostles Creed.  A baby is baptized, and we might not see that saint again until the day when we gather to bury him or her.  A saint nonetheless, and one who receives that glorious inheritance, right along side us.  

We pray for one who has died, “Acknowledge, we pray, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.”  It is the prayer that will be prayed for you, whether rich or poor, hungry or filled, sad or joyous, outcast or welcomed.  When you enter the Church by baptism, and when you leave the Church at death, the Church gathers and proclaims your membership in the Communion of Saints.  Your citizenship in a kingdom that is not of this world, distracting though your time in this world might be.

And so I want to say to you what we heard from Ephesians this morning, “I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.” 

And in a little while, we will stand together before this Altar, with the saints of every time and every place.  Rich and poor, hungry and fed, grieving and rejoicing, lonely and popular, we all celebrate together our place in God’s kingdom, here among us now, and in the world to come.  Happy All Saints’ Day to all the saints.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 20

Pentecost 20, 2025
Jeremiah 14:7-10,19-22
Psalm 84:1-6
2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18
Luke 18:9-14

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

At last, we have a parable that makes sense!  The ironic twist at the end, that “this man went down to his home justified” is exactly how we want this story to end.  The proud man is humbled, and the humble man is lifted up.  The Pharisee thanks God that he is not like “this sinner,” and you and I can walk right into the trap of thanking God that we are not like that Pharisee.  It’s only natural, right?  The Pharisee thanks God he’s not like the Tax Collector, and we thank God we’re not like the Pharisee, which makes us like the Pharisee.  Ugh!

But my aim this morning will be to help us step out of that trap, and see how this parable from Jesus might actually be helpful to us, rather than a stumbling block.  So first, let’s look at these men’s professions—if we can call them that.

Pharisees, in Jesus’ day, were the good guys.  You’ve heard me say that before, and you will hear me say that again.  The Pharisees were the good guys.  They spent their days trying to obey the Law of Moses so that they might protect the Law of Moses.  It was important to them to be as upstanding as possible, and a good Pharisee was therefore a model citizen of the community.

On the seriously other hand, tax collectors were worse than you think.  They were more like tax farmers; they paid taxes to the Romans, and then collected it from their neighbors.  So, imagine someone pays your state tax bill of $1,000, and then comes to you and says, “Your state taxes are $2,000; pay up.”  By definition, the only way a tax collector could make money was by overcharging his neighbors.  In case it isn’t obvious, people hated tax collectors.

Jesus starts the parable by saying, “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.”  Anyone listening would jump to the short hand of, a Good Guy and a Bad Guy are going up to pray, got it.  So then what happens?  And then the Pharisee begins to pray . . . “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.”  Now, we have to drill down a bit here, as they say.  Jews were required to fast once a year, on Yom Kippur.  This Pharisee fasts twice a week!  A hundred times the required amount.  And, tithing for faithful Jews consisted of tithing only on agricultural produce and reared livestock.  This Pharisee gives a tenth of ALL his income.  The Pharisee is a model of faith—not just a good guy, but a very good guy.  The best guy!

And the Tax Collector?  We don’t need to know what the Tax Collector did each week, because tax collectors were by definition bad people.  There is no such thing as a good tax collector.  This is not like “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two.”  Tax collectors cheated their own neighbors . . . for a living!  So, yeah, no need to explain how the Tax Collector is bad, because they all were.  Both these men are exactly as the listeners would expect.  A good guy and a bad guy are going up to pray.

And, of course, the key is how they pray, right?  You’ll notice that the Pharisee is announcing at God (and anyone who can hear) what a good guy he is.  He is letting God know that he deserves not only to be justified, but also to be patted on the back.  And, just to be sure it sounds exactly right, the whole prayer is framed as a thank you to God.  “Dear God, I am grateful that you made me so super awesome!  Especially compared to the people who are not so awesome, like this tax collector right here.”  The Pharisee is telling God all about himself, while throwing his neighbor under the bus.

Now, the Tax Collector tells God about himself as well.  He pleads, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”  The end.  No details, no comparison to anyone else, no justification or explanations.  Just, “be merciful to me, a sinner.”  And anyone listening to this story would’ve said, “Duh.  We already knew that!”  So there’s nothing surprising to those listening to Jesus tell this story.  Except that maybe the good guy is even better than a regular good guy would be, and he’s even thanking God for making him such a good guy.  All sounds just like we’d want it to be.

And sitting here, 2,000 years later, even we can tell who is the better man, right?  If I asked, “Which man would you rather have as your neighbor?”  The answer is the Pharisee.  (Which is not the same as, which one would you rather have a beer with, probably.)  When it comes to morality, the Pharisee wins this one hands down.  His actions are spot on.  And if good behavior is what justifies us, then move that man to the front of the line!  The obvious conclusion is that this man, this Pharisee will go down to his home justified.

But nope.  Wrong answer.  Salvation does not come from good behavior, sorry.  Being good does not make you justified.  It is not what we do that saves us; it is what God does that saves.  Your good behavior is just your good behavior.  Now you’re thinking, “Is he telling us, ‘don’t behave’?”  No, I’m not.  I think behaving is good.  (I even wish that I could.)  I’m just saying that your morality (even a super-charged Pharisee morality) will not bring you to the point of going down to your home justified.

Following the law makes society better for everyone; but it is not what saves.  Living a moral life makes things better for both you and your neighbor; but it is not what justifies.  There are plenty of reasons to do the right thing; but thinking it brings salvation is not one of them.  You cannot save yourself, no matter how good you are.

So then what?  And what about prayer?  Is there no point in talking to God?  Good question.  Let’s look at the purpose of prayer.

In a sentence, we could say that the purpose of prayer is to put us in right relation with God and our neighbor.  That is, praying to God reminds us that we are not God.  Prayer makes us mindful that we are reliant on the One in whose hands all creation is held.  Prayer humbles us before God.

And, as far as our neighbor . . . well, remember that Jesus says to pray for our enemies?  To pray for those we don’t like?  We don’t pray for them so that God will come around to loving them.  We pray for our enemies so that we will come around to loving them.  When we pray for our neighbor, we are acting in love toward them, even if we don’t like them.  We do not pray for our enemies by asking God to smite them; we instead pray for their needs, we pray for their well being, and that makes us start to want what is best for them.  So, yes, in a sentence, we could say that the purpose of prayer is to put us in right relation with God and our neighbor.

Now, with that in mind, let’s look at how these two prayed in the Temple.  The Good Guy “standing by himself,” thanks God for how awesome he himself is, and uses his neighbor as a foil to magnify just how awesome he himself is.  He lets God know how grateful he is that he is “not like other people.”  He reminds God how he goes over and above what is required, that he is above reproach, and that he lacks nothing when it comes to righteousness.  It’s like an annual job performance review.

The Bad Guy, meanwhile, is “standing far off,” and “ would not even look up to heaven.”  His prayer?  Simply this: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”  That’s it.  And Jesus then tells us, “This man went down to his home justified rather than the other.”  This sinner, who cries out for mercy, is the one who goes home justified.  Dare I say, we should be like the sinner?  Yes.  I do so dare.

The morality of the Pharisee is good for society, to be sure.  Just as the immorality of the Tax Collector is bad for society.  Obviously, life would be better for everyone if we had more people tithing, and fewer people ripping people off.  So again, I’m not saying, “Don’t behave.”

But when it comes to prayer, we would be better off having more of us praying like the Tax Collector (“God, be merciful to me, a sinner”) and fewer of us praying like the Pharisee (“Oh, Lord, it’s hard to be humble, when you’re perfect in every way.”).  And all the while, we must resist the temptation to say, “God, I thank you that I am not like that Pharisee,” since that makes us exactly like that Pharisee.

The bottom line is this:  Stick to what you know and what we confess every week:  I am a sinner in need of God’s forgiveness—just like my neighbor—and trust that we are all redeemed by what God has done, in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  And whether or not we succeed at living upstanding moral lives, we are all welcome at this altar.  Because we worship a God of second chances.  We worship a God who justifies tax collectors.  We worship a God of redemption.  And we all go down to our homes justified, because of Jesus.

Amen

Massillon Tigers Prayer Service

Tigers Prayer Service
10/25/2025
Hebrews 12:1

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

This is the tenth time I’ve had the honor of leading this annual prayer service for the Rivalry Game.  But the tradition has gone on much longer than my short time here.  And it all goes back to Paul Brown.  Whenever I tell other priests that I am the rector of St. Timothy’s in Massillon, I always add, “Where the football comes from.”  And that’s because of Paul Brown.  And because of this team.

When Paul Brown started coaching the Tigers in 1932, he was a member of St. Timothy’s Church.  That’s why this prayer service has been held at St. Tim’s since . . . well since at least the 1950’s.  Plus, of course, the high school was right down Oak Street at the time, so it was pretty convenient.

Paul Brown left Massillon to become the coach of Ohio State.  From there he went on to become the first coach of the Cleveland Browns—which some people say are named after him.  After falling out with management, he moved to Cincinatti and started the Bengals, whose colors are orange and black (which is not a coincidence), because Paul Brown knew that orange and black is everything.  When he died in 1991, Coach Brown’s funeral was held right here at St. Timothy’s, and he is buried in Rose Hill cemetery up on Wales Road.

Paul Brown and the Tigers and St. Timothy’s all go together.  And so far this season, you have played every game in Paul Brown stadium, and now you are here, sitting in St. Timothy’s.  Paul Brown left Massillon to go do even more great things.  And after 9 games in Paul Brown stadium, you all are leaving Massillon, to play in one of the most anticipated high school games in Ohio football.  

But enough of all that.  The thing I really want to remind you of is the scripture reading we heard from Hebrews:  You are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.  You really are.

All those people who keep coming out to cheer you on, they are your cloud of witnesses.  In the good years and in the not so good years, the people of Massillon stand behind this team.  They support you as athletes, they support you as students, and they support you as people who will go on to support the ones who come behind you.  Massillon has always had a strong and faithful football program, because Massillon has always had strong and faithful people.  You are not the first to play the game here, and you won’t be the last.

Which brings us to today.  Everyone in town feels like this is their game, like this is their day to beat McKinley.  And—in a way—sure, it is.  But for each of you sitting in this room today, there’s something more.  Because this is literally your game and your day, in a way that no one else will ever know.

Whether you are throwing a ball, or blocking a tackle, or carrying water to the players, or calling the plays from the sideline, this game is your game.  You are the ones who will play this game, in front of—and on behalf of—that great cloud of witnesses who are supporting you, and who will always support you.

Massillon is a unique place, and I am proud and honored to host this prayer service with you each year.  Whether or not we share the same faith tradition, we are all made in the image of God.  The God who creates, redeems, and strengthens us this day, and all the days to come.  May God bless you all, and may God keep you safe this day, and every day.

Amen.  And go Tigers!

The Burial of Wanda Hann

Wanda Hann
10/24/2025
Isaiah 25:6-9
Revelation 21:2-7
John 6:37-40

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

Those who knew her well know that Wanda’s life was characterized by a love for her faith, her family, and God’s creation.  In a sense, this is the pinnacle of a life well lived.  Because it shows a love for the things that God loves.  Faith, family, and creation.

For much of her life, Wanda was a regular attendee of services here at St. Timothy’s, and she served on the Altar Guild, among many other things.  When she was able, she was committed to being here in person.  Her faith was always an important part of who she was and how she lived.

As many have noted, Wanda found great joy in spending time with her extended family, especially during holiday celebrations.  One of God’s deepest blessings is to spend time with family, whether that family is related to us by blood, or is a family of choice.  Families, and companionship with the people we love are a gift from God, and Wanda knew that and lived it out in her own life.

And then there is creation.  Wanda loved the birds that came to her feeders.  And I really get that.  In the time when we had birdfeeders, I could sit there for hours watching them.  (But never as long as our cats watched them!)  But there’s something in that about birds relying on people.  And also, there’s something that stirs in our hearts to watch birds eat what we provide.  In a sense, having a bird feeder is joining God in the care of creation.

Faith, family, and creation.  These were the loves of Wanda’s life.  And they are all gifts from God in each of our lives.  And through faith, family, and creation, you could say that God was always on Wanda’s mind.  Because those are the places where we find God.  Wanda kept God on her mind and—even more importantly—God kept Wanda in mind.

As we just heard Jesus say in the gospel reading from John, “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”  And, “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.”

Wanda was given to Jesus in her baptism, and Jesus does not lose what is his.  God will raise up Wanda along with her beloved Lawrence on the last day.  And God will raise you up on the last day.  Because—like Wanda—you have been given to Jesus, and Jesus does not lose what is his.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 19

Pentecost 19, 2025
Genesis 32:22-31
Psalm 121
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5
Luke 18:1-8

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

Well, here we are once more back to looking at a morally ambiguous parable for our gospel text.  Special shoutout to the Lectionary Committee.  There are many reasons this text is troubling.  And a few reasons why this text often does more harm than good in the lives of Christians.  But my main goal this morning will be to get us to consider a different way of interpreting the parable we just heard from Jesus.

So first, beware the road of knee-jerk interpretation.  The typical way to read this parable is to see God as the judge, and see ourselves as the widow: and therefore, the obvious takeaway is that a life of persistent prayer wears God down into relenting and helping us.  That is, if we—like the widow in the story— pray without ceasing, then God will finally relent and grant us whatever it is we’ve been praying so hard for.

Two problems jump out with that interpretation.  First, and most obvious, it suggests that God’s response to us—and even God’s care for us—is dependent on our efforts at convincing God to notice us.  I’m sure you have already experienced some devastating loss or tragedy in your life.  You have probably prayed to God that something would or would not happen.  Something like praying against the death of someone who means the world to you.  Or praying that the loss of a close friendship or marriage would not come to pass.  Or praying that the financial hardship you’ve been going through might finally come to an end.  To be human is to suffer, it seems, and a good amount of our prayers to God really come down to asking God to make things turn out okay.  We pray that we would find that the patient had recovered, the workplace didn’t close, the relationship didn’t end. 

And then, despite our fervent prayers, things often don’t turn out how we’d hoped.  We might tell our friends, “My prayers were not answered.”  And we are faced with the horrible dilemma: has God abandoned me?  Or was it that I didn’t pray hard enough?  Or, to today’s point, should I have been more like the persistent widow in this parable?

Here’s the thing:  If we approach prayer in such a way that we imagine God sitting on a judge’s bench waiting to be convinced by our pleading to take some action . . . well, what kind of loving God is that?  That is how the ancient Greek and Roman gods act; it is not how the God who brought the people out of Egypt acts.  AND, it implies that when our prayers are not answered, it really was our fault.  We should’ve prayed more.  We should've prayed harder.  We should've enlisted more friends to help us pray.  As though God’s love for us were just some huge bolder we need to push by brute force to get moving.  But I want to tell you this: when tragedy strikes, when things go wrong, it is not helpful to think that it is all up to you to pray harder.  This is commonly called “blaming the victim.”  In very plain terms: A God who truly loves you does not play hard to get.

The second problem with this parable takes us back to our constant refrain over the summer with these parables in Luke: When you read the parables, do not assume that God is the one in authority, or the one in power.  We tend to reflexively assume that God is the judge in today’s parable, right?  That’s why we think badgering God will get us what we want and need in our lives.  You just have to convince God to help you, like the widow did with the judge.  But I need to remind you how this judge is described in today’s Gospel: “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people.”  That’s not God.  Or not our God.  And here’s another way you can tell the judge is not God . . .

Over and over in the Hebrew scriptures, God insists that the people pay special regard to the widows and orphans.  Widows and orphans were powerless in that society—as they mostly are in our society—and, if those who had some means to help them did not care for them, the widows and orphans had nothing.  God does not hold out against the pleas of a widow; on the contrary, God has a special regard for them.  This judge in the parable is trying to ignore the widow, and is trying to deny her justice.  The judge is not God.

Which brings up another thing about this parable.  It is easy to misunderstand the word “justice” when it shows up in the scriptures, because we have a completely different understanding of, and approach to, justice.  We have ended up with the Roman method of justice, which is—essentially—retribution justice.  We make them pay—like in those Misny billboards—but often without regard to helping the victims.  The ancient Jewish understanding of justice is restorative justice, which is more like making sure the victim gets a just compensation.  So, in our time, if I steal from you, the emphasis is on making sure I am punished for stealing.  In the Jewish culture of that time, if I stole from you, the focus would be on making sure you were compensated.  Very different goals.

Jewish justice sought restoration, justice for the oppressed.  A judge would be, by definition, on the side of the widow.  So, with that understanding of justice, the judge in our parable is a pretty lousy judge when you think about it.  A judge with no regard for the widows and orphans should not be a judge in the first place.  The whole point in having a judge was to set things right for those who have no voice.  This judge is dis-ordered, and not worthy of being a judge.  So again, this judge is not God.

There is a great little gem, which is hidden from us in our English translation of this parable, and which I just find so amusing.  The judge says, “I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out.”  The part of that statement that gets translated as the very mild “so that she will not wear me out” is actually something more literally like “so she will stop beating me black and blue,” or “stop giving me a black eye.”  Poor old meanie judge, afraid of a defenseless widow, right?  Again, this judge is not our God.

So now you’re saying, “Okay, okay, we get it.  The unjust judge is not God.  So now what?”  I’m glad you asked that.  I’m going to tell you what I think this parable means, and—I admit—it will be very far afield from what you hear other people say about this parable.  But hear me out.

What if God is the widow in this parable?  What if the one who keeps coming back, pleading for attention is Jesus, seeking to set things right, and to get a fair hearing for a restoration of how things should be?  We like to think of God as all-powerful, all Zeus-like, throwing thunderbolts and taking names.  (But I remind you, our God chose to come to us as a defenseless baby in feeding trough behind a sold-out hotel.)  God is not above appearing in whatever form it takes to get us to pay attention.  To notice that things are not right in the world.  Seeing God as a defenseless widow is radical, yes, but we worship a radical God.

And as for the judge . . . well, what if deep down you and I are the unjust judge?  Maybe it is our own hearts that have no fear of God, and no respect for anyone.  When we truly examine ourselves, we might just find what the judge says describes us as well, and our innermost attitude about God and our neighbor.  We are naturally people who—like the unjust judge—have no fear of God and no respect for anyone.  We, by nature, consider ourselves above others.  We reflexively tell God that we can do it on our own.  We want to be in control of our lives— in a very uncontrollable world—and prefer to think that we are going to get along just fine.

And then along comes this widow, this Jesus, pleading for restoration.  Pleading for our attention so that he can change our hearts.  And, yes, we obviously can go about our business, having no fear of God and no respect for anyone, and get by just fine.  But, eventually, tragedy strikes.  Things happen.  We are, in a sense, beaten black and blue, and given a black eye.  And along comes this widow, this God in disguise, trying to get our attention.  This widow keeps coming back, day after day, and our black eyes mark us as people who need redemption.  People who need another way.  A better way.

And, eventually, you and I say, “Enough!  I give up!”  And that is exactly when it all turns around.  Because in those moments, we are no longer the ones who have no fear of God and no respect for anyone.  Instead, we find ourselves promising to respect the dignity of every human being, with God’s help.  With.  God’s.  Help.

So, yes.  Left to our own devices, we are apt to have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, just like the unjust judge,  But with God’s help, we can turn this around. 

Jesus is like the widow in this parable, always pleading with our unjust hearts.  Reminding us that we don’t need to be beaten black and blue to find justice.  Jesus will never stop pleading with us to change our ways.  And every time we find ourselves having no fear of God or respect for our neighbors, Jesus will come back, pleading with us to choose the better way.  To choose justice for the oppressed, and love for the victims.  May Jesus continue to turn our hearts away from hatred and toward love.  Day after day.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 17

Pentecost 17, 2025
Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4
Psalm 37:1-10
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10

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

“The apostles said to the Lord, Increase our faith!’”
That’s the start of this very strange and disjointed gospel text we just heard.  But I have preached on that gospel text here at St. Tim’s in 2016, and in 2019, and in 2022.  I’ve pretty much said what I have to say about it so far.  Three times in fact.  (And if you really want to hear my thoughts on that text, I can send one of those sermons to you.)  So today, I mostly want to talk about the other three texts we heard.  And specifically I want to talk about faith and trusting in God, since those come up in all four readings today.  Faith, and trust in God.  And hopefully, with the apostles, we will all say,  “Increase our faith!”

So first, how about that reading from Habakkuk?  Did it make you feel a little on edge?  Uncomfortable?  Maybe even angry?  The writer asks God: Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble? Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise. So the law becomes slack
and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous--therefore judgment comes forth perverted.

We could call the writer’s language righteous anger, couldn’t we?  Justice never prevails, and judgement becomes perverted.  And I’m angry about it!  But notice what we heard right before that section.  “How long shall I cry for help and you will not listen?  Or cry to you ‘Violence!’ and you will not save?”  Cry “violence,” to the God who in love created everything that exists?  Do you hear yourself talking?  When faced with injustice and strife and contention, Habakkuk calls for violence, and God does not comply.  Habakkuk wants bloody revenge in the midst of strife, and God holds back.  His complaint is that God refuses to spill blood just because Habakkuk is angry.

And Psalm 37 seems almost like a response to this:  
Do not fret yourself because of evildoers; do not be jealous of those who do wrong.  For they shall soon wither like the grass, and like the green grass fade away. Put your trust in the Lord and do good. 

Put your trust in the Lord and do good.
But God, I want you to smite my enemies.  And the answer is, do not fret yourself because of evildoers.  That’s hard to hear, isn't it?  In our deeply divided times, when we all claim that we are correct, and we alone are in the right.  We are certain that we know what is best.  And if God would just wipe out those who are wrong, everything would be right.  Trust me.  Yet we hear, “Put your trust in the Lord and do good.”

We want God on our side because we’re sure we are right.  God is righteous, like us.  God is bloodthirsty, like us.  God knows who is good and who is bad, like us . . . and Santa Claus.

I don’t have to tell you that temperatures are running high across our nation and the world right now.  As the bishop said at our Clergy Day last week, “Y’all, it is hard to human right now.”  And in the midst of all of this, we tend to see two understandable reactions:  cowardice, and rage.  Some people cower and give up, hoping the worst happens to anyone but them.  And some people never stop screaming about the injustice they see, and call for violent rage in response.  But helpfully, two of our readings today address these understandable responses of cowardice and rage.

In Paul’s second letter to Timothy, he writes, “For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.”  And in Psalm 37 we heard, “Leave rage alone; do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil.”  We are not called to violence and rage, but neither are we called to cowardice and fear.  Cowardice and fear and violence and rage may be our way, but they are not God’s ways.  So, if our response to the injustice happening all around us is not cowardice and fear, or violence and rage, what is the proper response?  What does God call us to do?

We find our answer sprinkled throughout today’s readings.  We could call it the middle ground between cowardice and rage: and it is steadfastness.  From Habakkuk, “I will stand at my watchpost, and station myself on the rampart.”  From the psalm, “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.”  And from Paul, “Guard the good treasure entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.”

In essence, remain steadfast.  We remain steadfast in faith and trust in God.  Standing steadfast is strength.  Standing steadfast is honorable.  Trusting and waiting for God is faith.  We were not given a spirit of cowardice, AND leave rage alone.  Have faith and trust in God.

We see this throughout these four readings today.  Have faith, and trust in God.  In Habakkuk, “Look at the proud! Their spirit is not right in them, but the righteous live by their faith.”  The righteous live by faith.  From the psalm, “Put your trust in the Lord and do good.”  And also, “Commit your way to the Lord and put your trust in him.”  And we heard Paul write to Timothy, “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”  And here we see how faith is passed down and passed on.  Timothy’s grandmother, Timothy’s mother, and now Timothy himself.  Timothy receives faith, through these faithful women.

Faith and trust in God are not just things to get us through the times we are living in.  They are also gifts we pass on to others and pass down to those who will come after us.  Cowardice and rage, violence and fear, none of these are from God.  They might be our natural reactions when we see the world spinning out of control.  But in all of today’s readings we can see God calling us to a different way.  Calling us to have faith, and to trust in God.  Faith and trust.  That is the only way forward, and it is the only way through.

We think cowardice is safety.  We think rage is strength.  But we are wrong.  Because we were not given a spirit of cowardice, and we are told to leave rage alone.  And faith is middle way. Faith shows us a path between cowardice and rage.  The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!”  May we boldly join with the apostles in their insistent plea.  
Lord, increase our faith!

Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 16

Pentecost 16, 2025
Amos 6:1a,4-7
Psalm 146
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31

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

The theme running through all four readings today has to do with money and riches.  Money and riches are not evil in and of themselves; however, they distort our relationship with God and with one another.  In the first reading, I was personally particularly concerned when I heard the singling out of those who “improvise on instruments of music,” because, I do that all the time!  But the thing to notice in that list is the word “but.”  A whole list of things the well off might have, like ivory beds and wine in bowls, and the finest oils, BUT are not grieved.  The curse is against not about having, but rather in ignoring what happens to other people.  

And the Psalm picks this up as well, where we are called to put our trust in God rather than in riches.  And then Paul’s letter to Timothy gives us the familiar line, “The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil,” which is important to sort out:  Money isn’t the root of evil, rather, the LOVE of money is the root of many kinds of evil.  And then on to the gospel . . .

We have to guard against going with our immediate gut feeling, hearing this parable.  Because, our initial reading is probably something like this:  If you don’t help poor people, you will end up burning in hell. There are a whole bunch of signs that that’s not what Jesus is saying here.  We’ll go through this parable in a second, but I want to tell you from the start, the thing to focus on here is the great chasm.  The separation is the thing.  There is indeed a great chasm that has been fixed, because the rich man has fixed it himself.  But let’s start with Hades.

First thing to say, today’s gospel is not a proof for the existence of heaven or hell, because it is a parable.  It is a metaphor, an allegory, a story told for the purpose of telling us something else.  Whatever you get out of this gospel reading today, I implore you not to think that it somehow proves the existence of heaven or hell.  Because it doesn’t; it is a parable.  

Secondly, Hades is from Greek mythology, not the Jewish faith.  The unnamed rich man goes to Hades, which no one listening to Jesus considered to be a real place.  It’s like saying Dorothy and her companions went to the Emerald City.  Not a real place.  For Jesus to say the rich ruler is in Hades tells us that Jesus is not telling a true story about heaven and hell, or trying to describe what happens after death.  Point being: If someone asks you how you know whether heaven and hell exist, do not cite this parable as your proof text, because it is a made-up story, intended to make a completely different point.

So, is this parable a warning to us?  Seems like it, doesn’t it?  But it’s a warning that sounds more like karma than Christianity.  Especially so, given Abraham’s tone.  He blithely says, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.”  Sounds like karma, right?  Your actions during your lifetime determine what happens after you die?  But I want to point out the passive nature of both men.  Abraham says, “You received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things.”

Neither man has earned anything, which is significant.  The rich man did not earn his riches.  He just has them.  And, just as important, Lazarus did not earn his poverty.  As far as wealth, they have both lived their lives as life handed it to them.  And this is further cemented for Lazarus in the Greek.  The word used is ballw, which means to throw.  Lazarus is passively dumped at the gate of the rich man.  He is thrown there.  He lacks even the agency to determine where he will beg.  “You received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things.”

And notice the lack of the word “therefore” in what Abraham says.  He doesn’t say BECAUSE you received your good things and Lazarus received evil things, this is where you both ended up.  He doesn’t say as a result of receiving your good and bad things this is how things are.  He just says, “now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.”  Like Abraham is just observing the way things were, and the way things are now.

So the point Jesus is making in this parable is not that your actions in this life determine what happens to you after you die.  I’m not saying they don’t; I’m just saying that’s not what Jesus is saying here.  Because Hades is not a real place, and neither guy does anything in this parable.  One guy is rich by no effort of his own, and one guy is poor, through no fault of his own.  And now one is suffering and one is being comforted.  And Abraham just seems to sort of shrug it off, right?  Like, “what are ya’ gonna do?”

So to sum up so far, where these men end up is not the result of their actions.  Everything up to this point is just to get us to this point.  And the point is the great chasm.  Their lives on earth, rich and poor, are just there to set the scene for the point Jesus is making.  And it’s all about the chasm.

And now you’re asking, okay, so what is the chasm?  Thanks for asking.  The chasm in this parable is not one of distance.  It’s not a separation of space.  No, the chasm here is in disregarding the value and dignity of other human beings.  You notice, in the set up, Lazarus is thrown at the rich man’s gate, and—as far as we can tell—the rich man doesn’t even notice him.  Doesn’t ever acknowledge him.  The rich man just lives his rich life, and Lazarus lives his poor life.  Now the rich man is the only one who could do something about the situation, and he doesn’t.  Lazarus can do nothing except wish for the scraps; he cannot do anything except sit where he is thrown.  The rich man could make a difference—with even just his scraps—but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t see Lazarus.  There’s the chasm.  The great divide is between those who can see other people and those who cannot.

The rich man views Lazarus as a means to his own ends.  And even that happens only after he dies!  Notice, when he finally does see Lazarus—after they’re both dead—he wants to use him for his own purposes.  He says, “send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.”  He says, “Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father's house” so he can warn my brothers.  The rich man finally has one ounce of compassion, but it’s for his own family.  Lazarus is not a person to the rich man, and that’s the chasm.  Not a separation of distance, but a separation of understanding, which not even death can overcome.  Hades is a mythical place, the place where Lazarus only exists to serve the rich man’s needs.  It’s not a real place.  It is a fiction in the mind of the rich man.

The chasm is something that cannot be overcome by sending Lazarus around like an errand boy, which is how the rich man views the world.  The rich man is unable to change—even in death, living in his imaginary Hades.  He wants to keep on using actual human beings as pawns to his own ends. 

He would probably think nothing of putting asylum seekers on an airplane under false pretenses, and flying them to another country in order to serve his own agenda.  Because they’re not really people, you see; they’re just props.  Poor people are just a thing to be used to get what he wants out of them.  Lazarus only matters when the rich man can use him to get something for himself.  Otherwise, Lazarus is just a desperate man, dumped at the border of his extreme wealth, available to be used as needed for his own purposes.

And that is the great chasm that separates the rich man from Lazarus.  It is not what he did in his earthly life; it is about his continuing inability to see other people as God sees them.  As beloved children of God, made in the image of God.  In our own Baptismal Covenant, we promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, not to use them to dip their finger in water to cool our tongues.  Not to go warn our brothers about how tragic our indifference has made things.

There is the vague “a rich man,” and there is Lazarus.  Jesus tells this parable about some rich man who goes to his imaginary Hades, and about Lazarus who suffers through life and goes to be with Abraham.  But you know what’s really interesting about Lazarus?  Jesus knows his name.  Lazarus has a name, and Jesus knows it.  He is not a nameless poor guy who died.  He is Lazarus.  Jesus knows the name of the one who suffers.  Jesus knows the one who needs help.  Jesus does not know the name of the rich guy who ignores other people and has everything he needs.  But Jesus knows Lazarus, the one in need.

You have been claimed as God’s own in baptism, and sealed with the cross of Christ forever.  Like Lazarus, you have been thrown into the place where you are, whatever that means for you.  You can do nothing to earn salvation, other than rely on the one who can save you.  The one who will send angels to carry you into the arms of Abraham.  The one who knows your name.

And that same Jesus comes to meet us today in this meal of bread and wine.  And I know that Jesus will meet us here, because Jesus has promised to be here—every time we gather together—to give us strength for the journey, and healing for our souls, and to remove the chasm that separates us from one another.  You are invited to this meal, because Jesus knows your name.  You and I will be carried into the arms of angels, because Jesus knows our names.  Though there is suffering in this world, we need not be afraid.  Because Jesus knows our names.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 15

Pentecost 15, 2025
Amos 8:4-7
Psalm 79:1-9
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 16:1-13

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

I want to start by recapping a short story . . .

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Cinderella whose stepsisters teased her all the time.  One night, her fairy godmother sent her to a ball until midnight.  In her rush to leave, she left one of her glass slippers behind.  The next day, one of the king’s servants took the shoe to the local Goodwill store.  And Cinderella grew old and sad.

That is how we expect life to be.  And that’s why a story like that would not be memorable.  We wouldn’t tell this story to our kids, would we?  We want fairy tales to tell us how life could be, or how life should be, or even how life might one day be.  There’s a certain method to fairy tales.  They’re supposed to encourage honest hard work, and to discourage dishonest lazy cheaters.  Good stories are the place where innocent prisoners are set free, the poor become rich, and the dishonest get what is coming to them for breaking the rules.  

We want our stories to fit an idealized worldview.  A place where good is rewarded, and evil is punished.  Fairy tales get passed down to us because they work like this.  Bad children are eaten by wolves.  Good children are saved by lumberjacks who happen by.  A good story ends this way, with lazy animals starving and hard-working ones surviving, with cheaters getting cheated.  The cruel proud king marches through the city naked, and the ugly duckling grows into the most beautiful swan.  We’re so used to fairy tale endings, we think every kind of story should end that way.  Which leads us to the parables of Jesus . . .

Many of Jesus’ parables end exactly how we want them to end.  The lost son comes home, and the greedy man dies with his barns filled with grain.  The fruitless tree is cut down and burned, and the widow who searches long enough finds the coin she had lost.  On the surface, we don’t find these parables jarring precisely because they fit our fairy tale blueprint.  We can get by imagining that Jesus is telling fairy tales, reinforcing the beliefs we already have.  Good people get rewarded, and bad people get punished.  And then we can all tell our children to be sure they act like the good people, lest they get punished.

And Luke usually plays right into this way of thinking . . . usually.  Back at the very beginning of Luke’s Gospel we get the Magnificat—Mary’s song, where she sings that God has thrown down the rich and lifted the poor.  Luke’s gospel more than any other fits our thinking about justice.  God, like Don Quixote, will fight for the right, without question or pause, and be willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause.  

But then we get today’s reading from this same gospel of Luke.  Let me sum up for you:
A guy is so bad at his job that he is about to get fired.  Rather than humble himself digging ditches, he goes to the outstanding contracts owed to his boss and reduces them by some percentage, so these people will be grateful and take him in when he is out of work and homeless.  The guy’s boss says, hey, good thinking!  And THAT certainly surprises us!  But surely Jesus will set everybody straight by having the guy get hit by a bus or something, right?  I mean, Jesus is not going to condone this kind of cheating behavior, is he?  

Well . . . it’s hard to say WHAT Jesus is thinking here.  We get three different statements, and all of them are unsettling . . . 
First: Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into their eternal homes.  WHAT?
Second: If you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you true riches?  HUH?
Third:  You cannot serve God and wealth.  Okay, THAT one we get.

And the temptation is to ignore the first two and go with the third one—the one that makes sense to us: You cannot serve God and wealth.  But what do we do with the first two?  Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into their eternal homes?  And isn’t Jesus implying that this guy has done the right thing with the money owed to his boss?  What is going on here? 

Well, for starters, I will tell you what my professor said in seminary when we came to this passage from Luke.  I raised my hand in class and asked, “Um, is this the same Jesus we were just reading about in chapter 15?”  She smiled and said, in her British accent, “Well, George, the parables are morally ambiguous.”  That was meant to answer my question, but of course it didn’t.  So I said, “But this isn’t morally ambiguous; this is just plain wrong!”  She stared at me for a moment and said carefully, “The parables of Jesus are not fairy tales, George.”  

Not fairy tales.  So, okay, we shouldn’t expect the stories from Jesus to be simple little tales where everything turns out right and good and perfect.  But shouldn’t we at least expect them to make sense?  We don’t need a perfect little bow on top, but can’t we expect some, you know, ethics?

Well, let’s look at what might be going on in this story.  And, admittedly, the emphasis is on MIGHT.
Lots of commentators make the claim that the guy who’s about to be fired is only writing off the share of the debt that would’ve been his commission.  And that’s possible, but not certain; it’s kind of hopeful thinking, if you ask me.  I mean, it would make it easier for us to swallow, right?  

At the same time—and maybe more importantly—he is definitely taking a chance on hospitality instead of money.  What do I mean by that?  Well, even though it’s still a story about money, and self-interest, and possibly cheating, the guy who’s about to be fired is still putting his hope in people.  He’s still saying, “When it’s all said and done, my hope lies in my neighbor, rather than in my money.”

But, then, isn’t he trading money for hospitality?  Is he maybe, you know, buying friends?  Maybe, sure.  But, he’s turning them from debtors into peers.  He’s making them his equals in a way.  They’re no longer required to pay him back; a return favor is optional.  A financial debt is a contract, and must be repaid.  Hospitality is a choice they can make, one way or the other.  They don’t HAVE to pay him back or welcome him into their homes.  In a way, he has set them free.  In a way, the guy who is about to be fired has given what little he had coming to him in order to set the debtors free.  Maybe they’ll respond as he hopes; maybe they won’t.  Either way, he gave up all he had, and has lifted the poor, freed the oppressed, set the debtors free.  Hmmm . . . 

As I’ve said before, the way to look at parables is to look for Jesus in them.  Never assume that God or Jesus is the king, or the manager, or anyone in authority.  Look for Jesus in the one who sacrifices.  Look for Jesus in the one who gives up his life for another.  More importantly, don’t assume that you and I are somewhere in the parable.  The gospels are about Jesus.  The parables are about Jesus.  It really is all about Jesus, the one who saves us.  The one who writes off our debts and is commended for acting shrewdly.

And we, of course, expect certain things of a Savior.  We expect Jesus to be born in a palace.  We expect him to grow up to sit on a throne and rule the nations of earth.  We expect him to use his awesome Jedi powers to escape in the Garden of Gethsemane.  We expect him to take that wooden cross like a sword and smash his captors’ heads in.

We want Jesus to climb to the highest tower, and to bring the glass slipper to the least likely candidate.  We want him to slay the big bad wolf, and turn each ugly duckling into the most beautiful swan.

And instead, we get a conniving employee who cuts the master’s bills in half.  We get a Jesus who will stop at nothing to redeem those who don’t even know they owe a debt.  We get a Jesus who gives up everything in order to lift those who have debts they cannot pay.  

No debt is too small or too big for Jesus to take on.  All those fairy tales do in some way point to this same kind of Savior: one who will climb any mountain, take on any foe, even rewrite our debts owed to the manager.  But the parables also offer us a glimpse into the sacrifice of Jesus, his willingness to meet with debtors and forgive their debts.  And that same Jesus meets us faithfully at the Altar, in bread and wine.  You are welcome at this meal, because Jesus has made you acceptable.  Jesus has written off your debt, and has come to live with you in your house and in your life.  So, yes, it’s true:  The parables are not fairy tales, but they are good news.  Very.  Good.  News.
Amen