Grace Upon Grace

On Saturday, August 29, I was blessed to preach at the funeral service for Rosie Parker. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. Rest eternal grant Rosie, O Lord; and let light perpetual shine upon her.

Cameron and Christopher; Vivian, Christian, and Benjamin; family and friends in Christ; grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

1. Do not let your hearts be troubled, Jesus tells us. Today, this seems like a tough ask. We are here this morning because death has stolen in. After a sudden and surprising illness, our Rosie has been taken from our presence. She leaves a large gap in our lives, and we could spend a long time speaking of how she impacted each of us. Thank you, Leroy, for giving voice to what she meant to you, for sharing that gift with us today. Jesus tells us that we need not be troubled because in his Father’s house there are many dwelling places, mansions of glory. We cling to that promise but with hearts that break. For so many of us, we learn so much about what it means to be with our heavenly Father through the loving presence of our mothers. There is no doubt that Rosie showed us so much of the Father’s love, especially to you, Cameron, blessed to be her son, and to her beloved grandchildren. Today, we give thanks that Rosie is alive in the glory of God. But how do we continue to make a home in this world without her?
2. To be sure, things will be different for us now. Rosie’s life is more than a trajectory from Mississippi to Chicago. It is more than educational and professional accomplishments. It’s even more than a keen eye for fashion and her presence in a room. Oh, her life is all those things, but it is so much more. Her faith led her to a life of service, ministry, and care. She made time for others, because people matter, and because it is what Christians are called to do. And she was always present for her family. Caring for her siblings and enjoying her time with them. Showing forth again and again the gift of warmth and hospitality. Welcoming a son-in-law when her son fell in love. And then becoming a grandmother for the ages, a daily presence in your lives. When she found out Cameron and Chris were going to be parents, she told them that they’d better not expect her to be a babysitter whenever they wanted one. In part, of course, she meant that she didn’t want them to just assume she was available. But more than that, I think, is a simple truth. She didn’t want to babysit her grandchildren; she wanted to grandmother them. To feed them and fill them with her love and wit and wisdom. Rosie was blessed with the daily presence of her grandchildren, and they were blessed with her. How, then, do we move forward from this moment without her? Seventy-six years are not enough.
3. Do not let your hearts be troubled, Jesus tells us. And then he tells us why. It is not because our grief and loss in this world are not real. No, it’s because of what Jesus is about to do. He speaks these words to his disciples in that upper room on the night before his own death. Jesus knows what is about to happen, the suffering, sorrow, and death that he is about to endure. But he also knows that it is exactly for this that he has come into the world. Yes, he goes into death, but he does so to prepare a way home for us. Thomas, who is always brave enough to give voice to the doubts we all have, wonders where Jesus is going and how we can follow. Where, now, is the way? Jesus points not to a roadmap but to the cross. The cross, on which he has now become the way, and the truth, and the life for all people. And with Jesus as our way, nothing – not heaven or earth, powers or princes, not sickness or death itself – can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Rosie’s absence feels so strong, and our lives will be different in many ways. But death is not the end, and we are not so far from her, after all. In just a bit, we will gather around the Lord’s table for a meal that seems so simple yet opens us up to the great feast of heaven. In this Lord’s Supper, we join Rosie and the whole host of heaven in their song of unending praise. In this meal and song, we find our faith and hope restored.
4. Cameron and Chris, your families have suffered such grief this summer. Just a few weeks ago, we gathered here to give thanks for your father, Dean. And now, so soon, we are here again. I quipped a few weeks ago about how I’d somehow never heard of Pastor Lueking but quickly learned he was a big deal. You know what? There was a time I’d never heard of Rosie Parker, but she was a big deal, too. The loss we feel is large, but it is less than the blessing we’ve received. Death is not the end. It has been vanquished by Jesus Christ forever. This is not the end of Rosie’s story. I’m grateful for the moments I was blessed by her warmth and grace, from the first time I met her on Good Times to the moments of laughter, tears, and prayer we shared in her hospital room during our last few visits. I am thankful for a life of faith lived for others. For a life of hope lived in Christ. And I’m thankful that, in the great resurrection from the dead, we will see her again. Her baptismal pilgrimage has reached its destination. She rests now in the grace of God that is always more than enough. Today, we cry and we mourn. How could we not? But we need not let our hearts be troubled. Christ is alive and death is defeated. Christ is alive, and in him Rosie lives. Christ is alive, alleluia! Amen.

And now may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.

This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on August 16, the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is Le Christ et la Cananéenne by Jean Germain Drouais (1784, public domain).

Friends in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

1. The new school year is almost upon us; for some of you it has already arrived. For our family, this means we are launching another child into high school. Standing recently in the large entryway at Oak Park and River Forest High School, waiting for a parent meeting to begin, I marveled as I always do at the sheer size of the place. Of course, for the students it becomes small enough, soon enough. They quickly find their way, off to new adventures and all kinds of growth. But I was left thinking, how is he ready for high school? Wasn’t it just yesterday that he was learning to walk, to talk, to tie his shoes? Young people, it seems, are more ready for what’s next than we are, but the time comes whether we’re ready or not. These milestones come and they cross over into something new. What’s left is to hope and pray. That our young folks do well and stay safe. That they find their space and their people. That they give and receive kindness. And to the young people who are here today, we are cheering you on.
2. The Canaanite woman finds herself in a new place today. Or, at least, she finds Jesus has entered her space. She wants the same things all parents want. That her daughter would do well and be safe, that she would receive kindness. But the child is suffering, afflicted with a demon. Perhaps this Jesus, this Son of David, can help. But she is rebuked. The disciples want to dismiss her. And Jesus? He is silent at first. When he speaks, he is insulting, calling her and her child dogs. The scene elicits all sorts of questions. Why is there evil and suffering in the world? Why does it so often land upon children? Why wouldn’t Jesus willingly help them? Why does he call them names? This scene is troubling, not tidy, leaving me with one more question: Why didn’t I have Pastor Troy to preach on this one?
3. Some interpreters would soften Jesus’ words here. Perhaps, they suggest, he is testing the woman. Or maybe he is just teasing her, and dog is somehow an affectionate nickname. Perhaps. You and I weren’t there, after all. But the plain meaning of the text seems clear. Jesus doesn’t want anything to do with her. He sees a desperate woman advocating for her child and calls her a dog? Diminishes her humanity and denies her dignity? This, by the way, is one reason to take the gospels at face value. If anyone were making this stuff up, why would they put this in? Of course, Jesus is not doing anything that doesn’t come naturally to humans. One can’t avoid hearing the sorts of things people say these days, saying horrible things about other people because of differing ethnicity or orientation or identity. Because if we can other someone, if we can call them names and lower their standing, then we need not care about them any longer. Does this have any place in the gospel?
4. I recently finished this year’s summer book for Grace’s Religion in Literature group, Birds Without Wings. It tells the fictional story of a village in the Ottoman Empire in the early twentieth century, a village in which Christians and Muslims, Turks, Greeks, and Armenians, all coexist. Life is not idyllic, but they get along. For the most part, it doesn’t occur to them to hate each other just because they have different faiths, or because their ancestors came from different places. But the sweep of history catches them up in the rise of nationalism – Greece for the Greeks, Turkey for the Turks, and all that – and they find their lives, and their village, torn apart. The author describes nationalism as a devilish false idol, “that specious patriotism of the morally stunted.” The problem, of course, is not loving one’s country. The problem is believing that this is a good reason to hate other people.
5. Nevertheless, she persisted. The woman, whose name is lost to history, does what loving mothers do. Tenaciously, she hangs in there with Jesus. The scholar Eunyung Lim calls this the “When Jesus goes low, the woman goes high” moment upon which the narrative turns. Call me a dog if you must but let me eat the crumbs from the table. And something breaks open in Jesus. What he has long been looking for – faith – he finds in someone surprising. Just last week, we heard of Peter, who has had the benefit of being in Jesus’ presence day and night. But when push comes to shove, his faith gives out and he starts to sink. Peter, whose gender, religion, and ethnicity all make him an insider, is bemoaned as one of little faith. But this woman? Her faith is mighty. The words from her mouth are holy. Healing begins to flow. For the daughter, yes, but also between Jesus and the woman. And with it, hope for the healing of this whole world. Here, in real time, Jesus is reminded that his mission is for all people. It is, of course, a mission for which he is willing to die. He takes our hatreds, our violence, upon himself that we might be forgiven and free. That we would discover, surprising as it is, that there is room enough at the table for all. Even for me. And even for them, whoever “them” is.”
6. There are no distinctions around the Lord’s table any longer. Jesus overcame his own prejudices in life, and he has overcome ours in his death. Alive, Jesus is the host at this table today. While the crumbs of grace and mercy would be more than enough for us, Jesus instead sets of a feast of life. Fed with his own body and blood, we go forth in the name of a love that no longer knows border or boundary. Where the world rejects, we welcome. We are children of God, whatever age we are, and God wants us to do well and be safe. To find our place and people here. To give and receive kindness, as we have first received form Christ. Whatever befalls us in this life, we will never again be turned away by the God of grace whose promises, Paul proclaims, are absolutely irrevocable. Amen.

And now may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.

This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on August 9, the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost. You can view the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The photograph, taken by me, shows Anders skipping a rock after we finally made it to Lake Michigan.

Friends in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

1. In an attempt to wring a bit more summer out of summer, we made our way to the Indiana Dunes yesterday to spend a little time on the Lake Michigan shore. I have heard tell in these modern times of parking lots close to the beach, allowing one to enjoy a brief walk from car to water. Another in our party, who shall remain nameless, had a different idea. So it was that we reached the beach halfway through a five-mile walk through the woods, beset by gnats and afflicted with hills. When our son asked his mother, I mean this unnamed person, why we were doing this, he was simply told, “This is what makes memories memorable.” It did, I confess, make reaching the beach feel like an accomplishment. We stood for a bit as the waves rather lazily lapped the shore. It was calm, peaceful, beautiful. Which great lakes and seas and oceans often are. At least when the wind is calm and the storm clouds are kept at bay. At least, especially, when one’s toes are planted in the sand and not on the deck of a boat.
2. One imagines the disciples, many of them used to fishing these waters, all of them recently fed and filled by Jesus’ miraculous feeding of the 5,000, getting into the boat that night with high hopes. A calm journey through known waters. After all, the Sea of Galilee is no great lake; it’s barely a good one in terms of size. At 64 square miles, it pales in comparison to the 22,000 square miles of Lake Michigan. Heck, it’s smaller than Lake Winnebago near which I grew up in northeast Wisconsin. If you’ve ever had the privilege of standing on Galilee’s shore, you know that it’s easy enough to see clear across. All of this was, I’m sure, of small comfort to the disciples when the storm rolled in, battering their little craft and threatening them with ruin. A sea need not be big to be treacherous. There is a reason that the Book of Genesis tells of God commencing creation not so much out of nothingness as out of the chaos of the watery deep. God’s creative order, following the creation of light, begins with the emergence of heaven and earth separated from the chaos of water. If one were to map it, the oceans that were left would be labelled, “Here be dragons.” Water, so necessary for life, so beautiful and calm, also holds the power of chaos and destruction.
3. It is easy enough to imagine ourselves in the boat with the disciples. Not because we have spent many rough nights on stormy seas, although perhaps you have. No, it’s easy to imagine because we have all felt the sudden forces of chaos and destruction appear out of nowhere in the night. A phone call in the night. Hard news unlooked for. Surprise diagnoses. Calamity and catastrophe. We live under these storm clouds constantly, and these days it feels less like if, and more like when, the storm will break upon us. We lift up our eyes; from where will our help come?
4. In the darkness, a figure emerges. As if natural disaster isn’t bad enough, it seems supernatural disaster is at hand. “A ghost!” they cry out. Instead, in the storm, a voice both commanding and calm: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” What unfolds is a well-known scene. Peter is an impulsive mix of courage and doubt. Doubting his friend, Jesus, he asks for proof. He steps out of the boat and walks toward Jesus on the water. Doubting the proof of his of feet on the waves, he begins to sink. Peter, ready to give up his own ghost, gives up all pretense, too. He cries out, “Lord, save me!” And save him the Lord does.
5. I recently read Dead Wake, Erik Larson’s moving account of the sinking of the Lusitania, the maritime disaster that helped propel the U.S. into the First World War. The Lusitania was captained by William Thomas Turner. Captain Turner is a fascinating figure for many reasons, including for the notable fact that he was able to swim. It seems counterintuitive to a landlubber like me, but it turns out most sailors of that time did not know how to swim. This was not because they had such great faith in their vessels, or that nature would spare them. It was because they “still held the belief that there was no point in knowing how to swim, since it would only prolong your suffering.” Once you were in the water, they thought, it was better to just give up and give in. Who, after all, could possibly come to your rescue in time?
6. I wonder, though I do not know, if such similar wisdom was passed from fathers to sons as they mended their nets on Galilee’s shore and prayed for good weather and safe passage. Peter sure seems to know that he is beyond saving unless Jesus actually turned out to be who he said he was. As Peter goes under the waters, his words are a primal confession of faith: “Lord, save me!” Jesus, after all, has just now revealed himself again. What our translation renders as, “Take heart, it is I,” it actually, “Take heart, I AM.” Jesus is the I AM, the voice that spoke to Moses from the burning bush, the very Word by which land emerged from the waters of chaos. This scene is not about how Peter should have tried harder or believed more firmly. And it’s not about those things for us, either. We need not be so solipsistic. This is about Jesus. On his own, Peter wouldn’t have a hope in the world. But in Jesus, hope has entered the world. And hope reaches out it’s hand and pulls Peter in. This is what Paul means in his letter to the church in Rome, “if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord, you will be saved.” He does not mean developing ironclad intellectual arguments for our faith. He means simply looking to Jesus, whoever you are, as the One – the only One – who can save. We’re all the same in that regard. Jews or Greeks, as Paul puts it, whoever you are. It’s not that we’re all in the same boat. It’s that we’re all out of the same boat, so varied and unique, yes, but absolutely identical in our need. We were drowning, and then then Word came near. I AM is here. He holds out his hand to you again today.
7. Jesus, it turns out, goes all the way under the waters for us. The storm of sin, the doom of death, the enmity of the evil one all conspire to do him in. But just there, in the baptismal flood, we are joined to his death and resurrection. Wereceive the promise of the far shore and life in this world. The Word is forever near you, on your lips and in your heart. In the raging storms, Christ is with you. In the quiet spaces we cultivate, Jesus speaks. The world’s uncertainties are not going away. As in the days of Elijah, so today. There are winds, and earthquakes, and fires – both real and, sometimes worse, metaphorical. There is silence so stony we wonder if a word will ever come. But we need not give in. As you come forward in just a bit, to receive just a bit of bread and wine, you can trust that as your hand closes around Christ, his hand closes around yours. He’s got you, and he’s not letting go. Friends, your feet aren’t beautiful because they stay dry upon the waves; they are beautiful because they bring good news to a drowning world. Hold on tight. Do not be afraid. Go and tell. To a world in need of saving, give ‘em Jesus, the great I AM. Amen.

And now may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.

This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church on July 26, the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image, by Klaus Höpfner, is used with permission.

Friends in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

1. How do we tell a story that is already so well known? That question was on my mind this past week as my family and I settled into our seats to watch the new film version of The Odyssey. I’d read plenty about the movie and its production online; the internet is suddenly filled with “experts” on Homer and his poetry. More to the point, I’d read the work in full, albeit thirty years ago. The broad contours of the story were imbedded in my memory, through my own reading and because so much of the poem is baked into our common cultural knowledge. Sure, I didn’t remember a lot of the details, but I knew the story and its ending. I’m mindful of the old joke: Odysseus stands on the shore, recruiting men for his journey. “Who will join me on this Odyssey?” “Well, we don’t know. What’s an Odyssey?” “It’s an epic journey named for the only survivor; who’s with me?” Could the director tell the tale in a way that was compelling? Or would it fall flat like so much old news?
2. At first glance, we might ask similar questions of today’s parables. We know them so well, after all. And there’s not much to them. These are not well-developed stories with character and conflict; more a rapid-fire procession of images. The Kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, sure. And yeast and a pearl and treasure and a net. Is there something new to hear here? The good news is that, from the mouth of Jesus, the good news is always good, and it’s always news. The parables themselves, familiar as they are, remind us that God’s work is often hidden but always surprising. Jesus invites us to listen anew: The Kingdom is like a tiny mustard seed that holds within it room for all of the birds of the air to nest. The Kingdom is like yeast, kneaded lovingly by a woman into the flour until it is leavened for growth. The Kingdom is like a treasure buried in a field, so valuable that it makes the whole field priceless. The Kingdom is like a pearl of such worth that a man would give up everything in order to obtain it. The Kingdom is like a net dragged in the sea, collecting everything in its wake. The Kingdom, Jesus wants to make clear, is full of surprises. The Kingdom might not look like much, but in its smallness, its ordinariness, its seeming worthlessness, the Kingdom is already present and active, transforming this world through the word and work of Jesus Christ, buried pervasively and close to the surface of everyday life.
3. This Kingdom, you see, is not like the one you and I would build, grand and easy. But it is the Kingdom we need, we who live in the constant pressure of daily life, in the fear of expanding war, in the shadow of nuclear proliferation and climate distress. It is not a Kingdom that grows out of our best efforts and success, but in the very soil of sin, suffering, and death. The Kingdom, Jesus proclaims today, is buried deep in the needs of this world. Jesus, God’s own priceless treasure, becomes the insignificant seed, tossed away and left for dead. But like bread given for the world, Jesus rises, and casts behind him the net that will drag all creation into the presence of the creator God.
4. The Kingdom is, in fact, most clearly revealed in the most hidden of manners. Who would have imagined that the death of a Jewish rabbi would be the way in which God most clearly reveals the breadth and depth of the Kingdom of God – a Kingdom that neither places demands upon us nor waits for our sin and suffering to pass. No, in the suffering and death of Jesus, God has entered all the way in, all the way down, into our sin and suffering and death – both to redeem us from sin, suffering, and death and to gift us with the promise that God is with us in the midst of all we endure. To proclaim to us the grace to know that God is with us; nothing can therefore stand against us.
5. This grace is now the very air we breathe, the sea in which we swim. I read this week of a Moravian bakery in Winston-Salem, North Carolina that’s been in business since 1807. It is said that at the Winkler Bakery, you could put raw dough in the rafters, and it would soon start to rise. After more than 200 years, yeast has so permeated the very structure and space that it begins its work on the dough automatically. This is a parable for our ears, that this world is so shot through with the grace of Jesus, crucified and raised, that we cannot help but rise along with him.
6. Within this grace is the call to work. The mustard seed must be planted. The dough won’t knead itself. We are invited to join this work, but we answer the call in the joyful knowledge that success is not up to us and the work may be difficult, at times, but never burdensome. Another parable perhaps? The Kingdom of heaven is like an Easter egg hunt for a toddler, in which the child delightfully finds that which is hidden in plain sight, not really hidden at all. Our task is not to imagine that the work depends on us; it is to be busy pointing out all the God is already doing and joyfully joining in. This morning, earlier than I care to think about, Erika and I brought Greta to Grace. By 6:00 a.m., three vans were loaded with 19 youth and six chaperones, including Pastor Troy, who are right now on their way to Jonesville, VA, to serve the people there through Appalachia Service Project, of ASP. It is such a blessing to serve a mission-minded church and to know that our young people have opportunities to witness and work for the sake of the Kingdom by serving their neighbors. Who knows what hidden treasures will be unearthed in their lives, how they will be transformed for faithful discipleship for years to come? We do not know at the start of the week what the Spirit has in store for them, but we know the Spirit is up to something. The Kingdom, after all, is always bursting forth in the most surprising ways.
7. Jesus invites us to hope today. Hope that declares that there is nothing in life, and nothing in death, that can separate us from the love of God that is for us in Jesus Christ our Lord. Nothing. We move forward with the joy of knowing and serving a God who is always at work, no matter how small or hidden it may seem to us. We trust the future, whatever may come, because the future belongs to God. Thinking again of The Odyssey, there is a point in the poem, after having endured so much for so long, at which Odysseus faces a new challenge upon arriving at home. He says to himself, “Take courage, my heart; you have been through worse than this.” It’s no wonder he inspired the Stoics who came later. Our hope in Christ is of a different nature, for it lives outside ourselves and depends not upon our successes or failures. Our future is not a fate to accept but a promise to receive. Take courage, friends, for God has seen you through thus far, and God will never let you go. So come once more and receive Jesus and his promise. He’s hiding, but he’s not doing a very good job of it. He tells us right where to find him. In simple bread, simple wine, he gives himself to you again today. The treasure is unearthed, and you will rise, and that good news is always brand new. Amen.

And now may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.