Jesus’ shocking command to “hate father and mother, spouse and children, siblings, yes, and even life itself,” stops us in our tracks. Christ’s words lead us to step back and reconsider our allegiances.

Vicar Erik Nelson
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 23 C
Texts: Deuteronomy 30:15-20; Psalm 1; Philemon; Luke 14:25-33

Grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

What in the world is Jesus doing here? “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, spouse and children, siblings, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” What?

What is Jesus doing here? This is a question that surely every generation of Christians have asked when they got to this part of the Bible.

This seems to fly directly in the face of the Fourth Commandment. Remember from Confirmation, “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” How do you square that with “hate your family”?

Remember, Jesus is the same God who taught us that commandment originally. I think he’s making this bombastic statement to stop us in our tracks and make us say, “What in the world is Jesus doing here?”

I think with this statement, by saying that we need to hate our parents and families and our very lives, He’s not really talking about our families. He’s not really talking about our lives. He’s speaking against idolatry. He’s speaking against all of the ways, big and small, that we hold onto our identities and relationships not as gifts from God but instead as dividing lines and the basis for structures that separate us.

In our time, and in his, I think these words especially speak against the sin of nationalism, which is a form of idolatry, which Pastor Crippen has spoken against in the last few weeks. 

When Jesus says, “hate your family,” he is saying something radical about society that we might not really pick up on. American society values the family but overall we are quite an individualist culture. Family is important to us, yes, but it doesn’t really define every aspect of our lives, as it would for the biblical audience.

When Jesus’ listeners heard him say this, they would have thought about much more than just their nuclear family. In that society, which was much more communal, more collective, your family was the key to your whole identity. Your family was all wrapped up in your nationality, your religion, your eternal legacy … your relationship to your family, and therefore to your nation, your religion, your everything, was an existential thing. And so for Jesus to say this was even more radical in his context than it is in ours.

Earlier in this Gospel of Luke, the Evangelist includes an extensive genealogy of Jesus, showing how even he was tied up in his culture’s idea that family = nation = identity = purpose. It was so important to the authors of the Gospels to show Jesus’ connection to legendary King David that two different gospels offer two different genealogies that converge on David. We have numerous Scriptures that describe a king who will restore the throne of David.

Our reading this week starts out by telling us that large crowds were following Jesus. Maybe some were following because they knew he offered free food and healing. Maybe some were following out of genuine love for this humble rabbi.

But I’d bet that there was a substantial portion of the crowd who were following him because they hoped he would be the one who would restore the throne of David, cast out the Romans, and usher in a new kingdom. There are some today who follow Jesus because they hope he will build a kingdom that casts out their enemies.

But that is not the Christ who we know in the gospels. The Christ of the Scriptures is the one who tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. The Christ of the Scriptures is gentle and kind but ferocious in standing up for people who are being cast away. The Christ of the Scriptures is one who could use Godly power at any time, and yet took up his cross for our sake. 

The Christ we know in Scripture is a king, the Son of David, but he’s not a king who ruled like David, taking what he wanted, conquering neighbors, or casting out undesirables. He’s a king whose reign sees tyrants pulled down and the lowly lifted up.

When Jesus tells us here to take up our cross and follow him, he’s reminding us of where our allegiance really should lie. We should love our given families, of course, but our first allegiance is to God and to the chosen family that God has given us, the kingdom that Christ has brought us into. The reign of Christ is a family of outsiders who have been brought inside.

In our other reading, the letter to Philemon, we see an example of what that looks like lived out. Paul, the author of the letter, is a Roman citizen. In his day, that was the ultimate insider designation. With that title came special privileges and rights and gave him a high position in the Roman hierarchy. And he’s writing to Philemon about Onesimus, a person who the text describes as a slave. In Paul’s context, slaves were considered to be property, not even people. And yet, because of the way that the reign of Christ reshapes our relationships, Paul describes Onesimus as a “beloved brother.” (v. 16) He even refers to Onesimus as his “own heart.” (v. 12)

The relationship between Paul, Onesimus, and Philemon is totally changed by the reign of Christ. Paul tells Philemon and Onesimus that they are no longer slaver and enslaved. They’re brothers. Paul’s place in the Roman hierarchy fades away in his encounter with Christ. His high achievements are worthless compared to his place in the family of God. His allegiance is not to any political or religious structure, but to Christ, first and foremost.

When our primary allegiance is to Christ and his kingdom, our family includes all of Christ’s family. Christ’s allegiances become our allegiances.

And so, our allegiance is to our unhoused neighbors, who we ignore on the street corners. To children who die to gun violence, because of the inaction of our communities and legislators. To families ripped apart by government raids, which our country voted for in massive, historic numbers. To people dying in Gaza, who live at the other end of American weapons.

Our love for Christ should look like our love for these people who Christ loves, which is all people, but particularly the people on the margins and the outside.

And while we might start feeling self-righteous or holier-than-thou because of our advocacy or our good works or who we voted for or not, we need to be reminded that our place in the family is not because of any of our own deserving. In fact, I’d bet most of us can think of times when our own self-interest or our own allegiances separated us from others or put other people down or left other people out. I know I can think of plenty of times that my own need to be right has triumphed over the need for me to be kind.

And yet, God doesn’t leave us in our separation. God has chosen each and every one of us, before and beyond anything we do or don’t do. God’s infinite grace has been poured out on each of us, and has brought us together into one family.

And like any family, there are going to be ones we disagree with. I’m sure we all have people we feel like we just can’t understand why they believe what they believe or do what they do.

But also as family, I don’t think we can just shake the dust off our feet and walk away. I fear we have a call to listen to them, seek to understand them, maybe let ourselves be changed by them, and tell them our truths, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

It’s easy for us, who are in this room together, who are about to share the Lord’s Supper, to say that we are in relationship and in communion … it’s harder to acknowledge that we are in relationship and we have a responsibility to the people outside this room who make us ashamed to say that we’re Christians.

And even as I say all these things, we know that we won’t be able to do everything right … We’ll mess up and say the wrong things … We’ll hurt each other’s feelings and get into messes but at the end of the day … We come back to grace and faith.

In the readings this week, Christ tells us to count the cost and take up our cross. But in reality there’s no way we can count the cost. None of us knows what’s coming. We can’t know what will be asked of us.

All we know is that God is faithful. God has not left us alone. God has given us each other for companionship and solidarity. God has given us the Word to show us the Way.  And God has given us this meal we’re about to receive to build us into one body, broken for the world.

May it be so.

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

The grind and anxiety of modern life can make us as “What was it all for?” But our risen life in Christ leads us to contentment that leads to true joy.

Vicar Natalie Wussler
The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 18 C
Text: Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-23; Psalm 49:1-12; Colossians 3:1-11; Luke 12:13-21

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

What was it all for?

Our readings today beg us to ask this question–a teacher at the end of their life, tired and regretting all their time working, spending time doing things they thought would make them safe and happy, calling it vexation and vanity, meaningless and painfully temporary.

And a rich man, so focused on himself that when he has an abundant harvest, he stores up for himself and plans on a life of luxury with no mention of anyone else to share it with. But his life ends that night and his plans go to waste.

And Jesus tells this parable in response to a man that wants Jesus to settle inheritance arguments with his brother, instead of restoring his relationship with his brother and loving him…

Where is the joy in that? Where is the hope?

What was it all for?

These are not the Scriptures we want to hear on a Sunday morning, they don’t immediately proclaim the good news that uplifts us and heals us. Instead, they confront us with our own anxieties in the grind of modern life, the endless pursuit of more, and the lie that if we work harder or have more, we’ll finally be safe and happy. 

But what was it all for?

Ecclesiastes calls it chasing the wind, Jesus calls it foolishness. And we know it all too well. We see how this endless pursuit of stuff, of success, of money digs its way into hearts and minds, and goes far beyond responsible planning for the future and turns into greed and self-centeredness. We’re horrified when we see our leaders make decisions out of greed that ends up hurting millions of people. Or when we realize just how much of our society rewards and perpetuates greed and grind culture.

But what hurts the most is when we, as children of God, fall into the same traps, when we catch ourselves believing the lie that more stuff, more money, or more influence will make us happy, or will provide us the safety and security that we crave. When we try to live a life of generosity, but we still stumble into greed. When we let fear and self preservation guide our decisions and priorities. This way of life is exhausting, and makes us feel empty and anxious, like we’re walking around with the cares of the world like a suit of armor, weighing us down.

And this way of life is so deeply woven into our world, it can feel impossible to break free.

But hear this.

We’ve already been freed. “You have been raised with Christ.” That’s past tense. As in already done, decided, finished. Christ has already freed you from that way of life and already took off the armor and clothed you in love. A different kind of life is accessible for you. Christ sealed this promise in your baptism and took away the things that lead you to sin, death, and greed, and gave you a new self, a new heart, and a new mind, one that helps you live into this simple truth: Life is a gift and love is the point.

Life is a gift, and love is the point. 

And when we live knowing this truth, everything changes. We realize that we were brought into existence by the love that created the universe. And we’ve been given this one life to live abundantly. And that abundance has nothing to do with anything that this world could give us. And now our life’s purpose is to live in God’s love that already abides within us, to be God’s reconciling and healing love embodied, to serve and to share with others, and to become fully aware of how interconnected we truly are.

Our hearts, our priorities, and our actions begin to change. And when we truly grasp that life is a gift and love is the point, the things that we once chased lose their grips on us. Success no longer looks like personal gain, it looks like lifting someone up. Security no longer comes from our things or our bank account, it comes from God’s ever-lasting presence in our lives. We start to make decisions not out of scarcity and fear, but out of compassion and trust in the Holy Spirit. 

We no longer see other people as obstacles or competitors, but as fellow image-bearers sharing in God’s reign with us. And the posture of our lives shifts from self-preserving to self-giving, from grasping to generosity. And God transforms our toil and work into opportunities for service and our possessions into gifts we use to bless others. Beloved, God’s spirit is always making you new and leading you into deeper trust and a renewed sense of purpose for this one life.

There will be days when this transformed life feels hard. Somedays you’ll stumble and fall back into old patterns. The love and the service you do, feels like too big a sacrifice. But Christ is with you and helps you set your mind on things above and reorients your thoughts, desires, and energy to God’s vision for your life. 

This transformation is not an overnight thing–it’s a daily process of renewal and growth. Ask anyone who’s picked up a new sport and they’ll tell you it’s hard at first. You make mistakes. You feel weak. But God is with you, molding you into the person you’ve been called to be, helping you wake up everyday and choose love, reminding you that you have everything you would ever need for this life in Christ, because you’re drawing from the overflowing well of God’s goodness. And over time, the things you thought were impossible for you become possible, and then they become instinct, because love becomes who you are.

And our love isn’t just dust in the wind and it doesn’t fade after we die. We pass our love along, from person to person, it’s nurtured by generations of spirit-led people and, like a mustard seed, blooms into an abundant garden that changes cultures and minds, and leads us into a more loving future.

And that, friends, is a good way to live a life.

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

Jesus helps us slow down and take a pause even when the world feels chaotic around us.

Vicar Natalie Summerville
The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 16 C
Text: Genesis 18:1-10a; Psalm 15; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-42

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

All Martha is trying to do is be a good host.

She’s taking care of the people dear to her who showed up at her door. Traveling groups like Jesus and his disciples depended on people like Martha opening their homes and providing food and shelter along their journey. Martha’s hospitality is a lifeline; it’s vital; it’s a good and beautiful act of service; and in this moment, it’s her ministry.

And then Jesus says “Martha, martha, you are worried and distracted by many things.”

After hearing the Good Samaritan last week and Abraham’s story in the first lesson today both featuring men being uplifted for their service, Jesus’ words for Martha are confusing and potentially hurtful. Throughout the Gospels, Jesus makes it abundantly clear–service is a primary way to love God and our neighbors. And especially if we hear Jesus scolding Martha in this text–as we’ve been taught to do over the years by preachers and theologians, majority of them men–then we might feel shame.

Because we can all be like Martha: doing many things–many good things–and becoming overwhelmed by them. Our service to God and to our neighbors alone can make us worry or become distracted–now more than ever. Everyday we read countless headlines about the evil and tragedy in our world, the ways our neighbors are being hurt. And everyday, there’s more and more work to do. We want to work for justice. We want to serve our neighbors, as many as possible. 

The need feels greater than ever before, and that makes us want to serve more people in better ways, to pour out more of ourselves than we ever have–to call our legislators more often, to give more hours to organizations working for justice, to go to more protests. We don’t have time to sit at Jesus’ feet when people are hungry and scared, when we’re worried our neighbors’ human rights are being violated all over the world. We don’t have time to sit at Jesus’ feet when our own day-to-day lives take up so much time and energy or when we’re in the midst of the pain and suffering we all experience in our lives.

Doesn’t Jesus get that?

Today, it’s important for us to know that Jesus recognizes Martha’s service as a beautiful thing, vital to the people on the receiving end of her hospitality. She’s tending to her flock. Jesus is not scolding her.
But Jesus can see the many tasks piling up on Martha, weighing on her heart and mind. Jesus sees his friend distracted, pulled in many directions, as the Greek word suggests, and worried about many things. 

She’s spiraling, her head is far away from her home, and it’s causing her to be stressed out and frustrated, and suddenly she’s upset with her sister. Jesus is trying to bring her back down to earth and give her some peace.

So with a tender voice, Jesus lovingly redirects Martha to pause, as a dear friend would. 
“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things.”

Pause. 
Slow down.
Breathe.
Come back down to earth. 
Come be here with me.

And we should hear Jesus’ words for ourselves. Because it’s not our ministry or our desire to do good that’s our problem. It’s when those many good things make us worried and distracted and lead to burnout, anxiety, weariness, when we’re pulled in too many directions and stretched too thin.

And we forget why we do what we do, and who we do it for.
We forget our belovedness.
We don’t see Christ, within us and all around us, and in each neighbor we meet.
We forget that we’re in this life in Christ together, and that we support each other.
And we feel alone, isolated from each other, and we think we have to do the work all by ourselves, in this moment.

That’s where Jesus steps in. Whether through a friend gently reminding you to breathe or take a break, or your body telling you it’s time to slow down, or in the words we hear in this place as we gather together, Jesus interrupts our anxiety, our worry, and our distractions to help us focus on the one thing–dwelling Christ’s presence and seeing Christ all around us, even as we’re living our lives and serving those around us. And as we pause, we let go.

Of the need to do it all.
Of running ourselves ragged.
When we pause, we acknowledge our need for God.

And we make room to take quiet moments listening for God’s voice within us and around us, to pray or read scripture, to be with our community of faith, to get outside and experience God’s love for us in nature, or to do whatever it is that connects us with God and refreshes our spirits. Even if it’s just one short moment dwelling in God’s love in the midst of our busy lives and ministries, God meets us and fills us. 

Our pause makes room for the source of love to remind us that we are beloved beyond anything that we do or any checklist we complete, and God transforms our hearts and our minds–our worry becomes trust. Our distraction becomes focus and listening to the Holy Spirit’s guidance. And our overwhelm becomes a peace that passes all understanding.

And we serve God and our neighbors differently–we realize that it’s God, and not us, who sustains all things–and it’s God that fills our cups so we can pour out into this weary and broken world. So we come to our own ministry and our own lives with our purpose reframed, with fresh eyes and our spirits restored. Because we know our task is to listen and be guided by the holy spirit everyday. 

And the Holy Spirit helps us discern what is today’s ministry, tomorrow’s ministry, and what ministry doesn’t belong to us.

She speaks to us through each other, through our bodies, through our worship. She’s always guiding us. Beloved, listen to the spirit’s nudges to go and serve. And then to pause, rest, listen, and recharge. 

And as we go in peace to love and serve as Christ, like we say every week here at Mount Olive, remember to actually go in peace; and let the God of the universe who holds everything together hold you. Take moments away from all the tasks and the worries, to practice peace, breathe, and let love herself fill you, so you can pour out. Because it is not only okay, but vital and beautiful to pause.

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

Love doesn’t care about the ways we feel divided from our neighbors. Love goes to the hardest places and holds out a hand, and gets involved.

Vicar Natalie Summerville
The Second Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 12 C
Text: Isaiah 65:1-9; Psalm 22:19-28; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Don’t let the pigs and the demons distract you. Yes the pigs and the demons are important parts of the story, but when we hyper-fixate on the spectacle of this story, we miss the very human parts. And we forget to ask:

Who is this man?
Where were the people that loved him?
How long had he been suffering? How long had he been alone?
Who put him in the tombs?

Because 
Someone chained him, someone saw him as more of a problem than a person. Someone washed their hands of him. And the whole community looked away from him.

If this was a story about Jesus and demons and pigs, then we’re off the hook. We can bask in the miracle and the awe-inspiring power of Jesus and sit back to consider who this Jesus guy actually is, like the disciples did when Jesus calmed the storm a few verses prior. And if it’s just a story of divine intervention, what does that require of us?

But if this story is about a man who has been abandoned by his community, if this story is about someone that’s been so forgotten that he, too, forgets himself, whose suffering was seen as “too much”, who’s been considered as good as dead, then we’re involved. If this is a story about a broken community, then we’re on the hook.

Because this world looks a lot like that Gerasene community, and the powers that be thrive on us not getting involved and looking away from each others’ suffering. Our world is built on systems and structures designed to oppress and punish and push away what we don’t want to see. It’s a world that leaves people on the margins and blames people for their wounds And the world is really good at keeping us separate–drawing lines between “us” and “them”, that hands us categories like “normal” and “abnormal”, “worthy” and “unworthy,” and it tells us to stay on our side in our silos and our echo chambers. It’s a world that wants us to forget our neighbor’s belovedness, that meets conflict with violence, and difference with fear.

But then Jesus shows up, in a foreign land and in a Gentile community–
He doesn’t add to this man’s oppression, he restores in
He doesn’t avoid, he meets him with love and curiosity

He asks the man his name, and he finds out that this man identifies as “Legion.” He’s had no one to remind him who he is. His identity is completely wrapped up in his pain

But Jesus sees him. Jesus reaches deep into this man’s soul, reminds him he still has one. When no one else would come close, Jesus, an outsider in this community, does. And when no one else would come close and he’s saying to this man, “I see you, your problems and your pain matter to me.” He gets involved. And he sees someone worth loving and worth saving, worth welcoming home. and the man experiences true healing and he’s freed from pain and fear—his chains are finally broken because love got involved. 

And in our own ways, we’ve all been this man–overwhelmed, believing the labels this world puts on us, feeling unworthy and broken, too hard to love. We’ve lived seasons in tombs, and forgotten who we are, but Jesus comes for us too.

Jesus sees through every label, every fear, and every lie we’ve believed about ourselves, calls us beloved, child, worthy, capable. And the send us out to be the same love that changes our lives everyday.

And this love doesn’t fit into the categories and silos, it doesn’t pay attention to labels. Love goes out of its way to go to the margins and to go into the places it’s told not to go into–just like what Paul is saying to us today: there is no Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female–for all are one in Christ Jesus. 

We don’t erase differences, In Christ, the old divisions and hierarchies don’t separate us anymore. In Christ, all are valuable, all are beloved. 

 In Christ, we belong to each other and we show up for each other. In Christ, if someone is hurting, we’re already involved, no matter who is suffering. In Christ, we have a love for each other that says, “No matter where you are, if you’re hurting, I’m here for you.” Because in Christ, we can’t decide whose pain and suffering matters. And when we act in this love, healing happens.

But this kind of love is costly. It asks us to show up and cross boundaries. To go to the margins and risk being rejected, like Jesus was. And everyday, we see more and more that the world resists this kind of love, because it threatens the way things are. This kind of love exposes the town’s apathy toward this man, and maybe that’s why they ask Jesus to leave. The world thrives on fear, on separation, on silence, but the Gospel calls us to something different. It asks us to get our hands dirty in the work of healing. 

Because the story doesn’t end with this man’s healing. Even after the man begs to stay with Jesus, Jesus sends him back into his town. Why? Because the real work is just beginning.

Because the community needs to face what it’s done.
Accountability needs to happen.
Reconciliation needs to happen. 

And this now-healed man is sent to tell his story, to speak truth and to witness to the power of the love that got involved. No matter how long it takes.

And we, too, are sent out.

We’re called into the same day-in, day-out work of healing and witness. The kind of love that gets involved that changes both people and communities.
The love that breaks cycles of violence and apathy.
The love that rebuilds what fear tore down.
The love that whispers to us and people throughout the world and throughout time: You are not alone.
The love that brings abundant life for all people
The love that gets involved, and now, more than ever, requires us to get involved too.

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

Don’t look up hoping you’ll find Jesus in the last place you saw him. Look around, out, and in to the Holy Spirit sending you out to be Jesus in the world

Vicar Natalie Wussler
Day of Ascension
Text: Act 1:1-11; Psalm 47; Ephesians 1:15-23; Luke 24:44-53

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” 

That’s what the angels ask the apostles as they look toward heaven, staring at the place they last saw Jesus before he disappeared into a cloud. And it’s a jarring question. Jesus just… left. Their beloved friend and teacher, the one who turned their lives upside-down, who healed and welcomed sinners, the one they just saw die and rise was gone… AGAIN! What else could they do but bend their necks and strain their eyes to catch a final look at their risen and ascending friend? 

And it’s easy to understand why–because, if we’re honest, we look up, too. 

We look up, to find Jesus where we last saw him. We look up, searching for that same feeling, that same comfort, that same certainty, that same closeness we once did. We look up, wishing for our faith to feel easy and joyful again. We look up, hoping that maybe it’ll make the pain, the confusion, and the doubt go away. And maybe if we could find Jesus where we last saw him, life wouldn’t be so hard.

And even though we know that because of the ascension, Jesus fills everything and everyone and sends us out, even though we know that Pentacost is coming, even though we’ve heard stories of saints who stayed faithful to God despite all odds, and even though we’ve maybe even felt God’s presence in our own lives, we all still look up.

And if anyone knows about looking up, it’s me.

In the summer before my senior year, I felt broken. My junior year was full of heartache in my relationships and in my faith. I arrived at a Christian summer camp that I had worked at the summer before in serious need of Jesus. I was desperate for a faith that felt simple and easily joyful like it was the summer before. But instead my faith was easily breakable. I was easily breakable.

I kept looking up asking “where are you Jesus? Why do I feel so empty?” And one day I sat with the camp nurse and told her everything, and she just held me, cried with me, and prayed with me. She didn’t make the pain go away, but Jesus showed up in her arms as they held me, in the tears we cried together, and in prayers she prayed over me.

She showed me that Jesus was not up in the clouds, buried deep in my happy memories and my shallow hopes. No–Jesus is present, active, and responsive even in the hardest moments. And Jesus is never leaving.

And her love for me felt a lot like what the angels say to the apostles, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” which, to me, sounds a lot like: “Don’t look up. He’s not there anymore.”

And that’s an invitation to you and to me
To get your head of the clouds and back onto earth
To see and join into where Jesus is now

And just like the apostles, who could no longer rely on Jesus’ audible voice to answer their questions or give them comfort
Just like they had to figure out where Jesus was now and how to be Jesus in the world,
We can’t rely on where Jesus was to see where Jesus is now.
We need to be brave and curious to look for Jesus in new ways.

Because, on Ascension Day, Jesus wasn’t gone. Jesus didn’t ascend into heaven and go somewhere we could never find him. Jesus ascended to heaven so he could be more present than ever. Jesus is no longer confined to a person, place, time, or memory. Jesus fills the world and walks beside you and beside me every step of our journeys. The risen and ascended Christ is the one in whom we live and move and have our being, as Paul says later in Acts. That means wherever you are, you’re known, you’re loved, you’re held by the one who holds all things together. And no matter where you go, Jesus is there–in your tears and your joy, in your questioning and your confidence, and in the voice of someone who says, “I see you. You’re not alone in this.”

And at the ascension, you and I and people all over the world throughout history are sent out to be the fullness of Christ’s presence in the world right now.  It’s how someone offering you a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen can feel like the presence of Jesus–because it is. And it’s how you become Jesus for someone else when you do the same, because the ascended Christ fills you and reigns within your heart. It’s the same spirit, but through your hands, your feet, your voice. It’s how in every meal we share, in every hand we hold out to someone in need, in every table we widen, in every cry of the oppressed, in this community gathered to worship, in the bread and the cup given for us, in our tears, and in our doubts, in you, and in me, whenever we act in love, Jesus is still teaching and revealing new things, still healing, still calling, still sending. It’s how we become Jesus’ ministry of hope and healing, and then we become the ones gently whispering to those around us “don’t look up. Jesus isn’t there. Jesus is here.”

So beloved, on this Ascension Day, hear this:

Don’t look up…Instead,

Look out–to the world that Christ sends you into. Look out for the places where Christ is still healing and feeding and teaching.

Look in–for the Holy Spirit who lives in you and fills you.

Look around–to the community of believers who remind you, like the angels remind the apostles, that Jesus is still here.

And maybe that’s why the apostles left the Mount of Olives in joy, praising God that day–

Because they had confidence that Jesus isn’t just in some heavenly realm far away, Jesus isn’t just in our memories. Jesus is right here, reigning in our hearts, sending the holy spirit to fill us and sending friends to remind us to look out, in, and around, not up. Sending us to be the healing presence of the risen and ascended Christ.

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