Sermons

In order to hear what’s going on in the Gospel of Luke, I need to set the context this morning.  Last week, we watched as Luke told us the story of the women at the tomb on Easter morning.  They were there to care for Jesus’ body but when they got there, the stone was rolled away and the tomb was empty.  Nothing was the way that they expected it to be.  At first glance, the women had to be thinking, “Someone has stolen Jesus’ body.”  When you’re in a novel situation, the tendency is to make sense of the unknown by making it fit in categories that we already know.

Let’s begin here.  I think the point of Jesus whole ministry was to invite us to live a loving life.  He says that we should love God, love our neighbors, and love ourselves.  He says that we should recognize the needs of others and respond.  He points us not toward the “mansions” but toward the margins, toward the overlooked and the ignored, and tells us that they are our neighbors.  He insists that we should love our enemies and that if we make our lives about revenge—“an eye for an eye”—sooner or later everyone will be blind.  There is one question and only one question that matters in the end.  That question is, “What’s the next loving thing to do?”

So, a few weeks ago, Tracy was teaching an adult education class.  After church, she said, “Wow, people were really excited and surprised about the notion that Palm Sunday was political theater.” (Jesus confronts the powers that be through collective action and satire.)  Jesus and the crowd are ridiculing the way that the Romans wield power. During the Passover festival, when the city swells to three times its normal population, the Roman guard show up in force on warhorses, waving spears, and doing everything they can to intimidate people.  Along the way, the guard would yell praises to Caesar.  The crowd either joined in or they would run the risk of being prodded with the pointy end of a spear.

One of the things that makes the Bible powerful to me is it’s willingness to speak in the most honest ways about how broken human beings can be.  One of the first things that people (Adam and Eve) choose to do is the one thing—the only thing—that they’ve been told not to do. They eat the fruit and…boom…paradise is lost.

Part of being a pastor is spending a lot of time with people around health care issues.  I have been to a lot of doctor’s offices and chemo floors and a full spectrum of waiting rooms.  I remember holding Lori Jones’s prematurely born twins, each in the palm of a hand, and being overwhelmed with how tiny they were.  (Now they are young adults.) I remember accompanying Barb Mortimer to chemo and hearing the man sitting next to us as he called his wife and told her that the good news was that he was only going to lose part of his leg.  I remember sitting on several occasions in hospital rooms and hearing that there were no choices left, that it was time to live as fully as possible in the time that remained or, simply, that it was time to turn off the machines and wait for the end.

I’m terrible at “selling” religion.  Think about it.  I’ve told you for years that God’s going to love you, whether you come to church or not.  What kind of a marketing strategy is that right?  I’m not going to shame you or guilt you or try to scare you into becoming a member of “my team.” If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to be here.  When I say that, I’m defying centuries of messaging from organized religion which mostly boils down to, “You better be here…or else!” (It’s the institutional version of “mothering” decades ago when the message was, “You just wait until your father gets home!”  Dad would get home and have no idea why the children looked so terrified!)

Last week, we stood together and looked at this “mountaintop moment” for Jesus.  He heard his calling and responded.  He left what he loved behind and headed to the River Jordan to see John.  He did his “trademark” thing—he went last, waiting until everyone else was baptized to be baptized himself.  He put himself in John’s hands and was baptized in that chilly water, which, interestingly, for Luke is not the culminating moment.  Instead, it is only post-baptism, when Jesus prays, that the fireworks start. Jesus prays, the Spirit descends on him like a dove, and a voice speaks:  “You are my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

One of the biggest challenges in life is dealing with uncertainty.    The old adage is that the only certainties in life are death and taxes.  There’s truth in those words. There is only so much that we can know ahead of time.

There are a lot of pastors who spend no time at all on Jesus’ infancy and childhood and growth into adulthood.  You can make a case for this.  After all, two of the four Gospels never mention Jesus’ birth at all.  (I have yet to meet a pastor who just skipped over Advent and Christmas.) I’m afraid you all have been cursed for thirty years with someone who is on the other end of the spectrum.  It is really central to me that Jesus was born like us and grew up like us and got lost as a child and was a little sassy about it, like us, and eventually became an adult.  We often quote scripture saying that, “God so loved the world.” I believe that Jesus so loved the world, too.  In fact, I believe that he fell in love with life just like us—a day at a time, a person at a time, a sunset at a time.  I think it’s only when we learn to so love this life that the world ends up being worth fighting for, maybe even dying for.

A couple of weeks ago, Tracy and I led a women’s retreat for the church up in Racine, Wisconsin.  Thirty of our women made a real sacrifice and put their lives on hold for a day to gather there.  In the very first moment, I announced our two goals.  First, we wanted everyone to get to know each other better.  In part, the retreat was about creating and renewing connections, connections that will be crucial in the transition days ahead for our church family.

So far during Epiphany, we have tracked Matthew’s account of Jesus’ earliest days (wise men, the flight to Egypt, the return to Israel and settling in Nazareth) and Luke’s account (the family following the cultural and religious customs and the surprising things that occurred with unexpected people.) The accounts are fundamentally different.  However, they each serve as prologues for the Gospel’s to come.  Knowing that their audiences are aware of things that happened in Jesus’ ministry, both Matthew and Luke say to their audiences, “Look…those things were already happening.”

Thirty years ago, when I started here, the church was stuck with me.  If you needed a pastor, I was your only option.  So, when Kitty Kuhlman died a few weeks after I started, I led her memorial service.  I’m sure some long term members were shaking their heads and thinking to themselves, “Well, this ought to be interesting…”. Maybe some of those same people, after the service, thought to themselves, “You know…that was okay.”  You have to start somewhere, right?