Our readings for Reformation Sunday invite us to reconsider what Christian freedom is. When a Christian understands that they are freed from sin, lies, and other burdens, they become free to love and serve their neighbors with open hands.

Vicar Erik Nelson
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 23 C
Texts: Amos 6:1,4-7a; Psalm 146; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31

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

“You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”

As people in the United States, we hear a lot about freedom. It’s one of those loaded words that carries a lot of meaning, depending on your own experiences in this country. And as our country’s 250th anniversary approaches, I think we’ll hear more and more of that word being thrown around.

So I think this is as good a time as any to get ahead of the curve and start thinking about freedom, and how it relates to our Christian identities. In the months I’ve been here, we’ve talked about how our allegiance is first to God’s family. What does freedom mean in that context?

I’ll take a risk and say that Christian freedom, what Jesus calls us to, couldn’t be further from what our culture tells us freedom is.

American freedom, as it’s been defined for most of my life, has been primarily used to describe freedom from things. Freedom from taxation, freedom from being told what to do, freedom from obligation, generally.

But the Christian message of freedom is bad news for that American idea of freedom.

Christian freedom is simultaneously the freedom that Christ describes here, a freedom from lies and sin, (pause) and also a freedom to serve our neighbors. Because we have been freed by Christ and welcomed permanently into his family, we are freed to love and serve God and our neighbors … to live a life of freedom, and obligation.

American freedom is often just self-centeredness … Christian freedom leads us to serve our neighbors.

This calling to service with open hands starts with rightly understanding today’s scripture readings, and our place in them.

As I read these passages, I see how God is the actor in all of them.

In Jeremiah, God is the one who writes the law on our hearts. In the Psalm, God is our refuge; God is the one who melts the earth and breaks the bow and shatters the spear. In Romans, God is the one who justifies, taking away any of our arrogant boasting or self-righteousness. And in John, God in Christ is the one who sets us free, welcoming us into the household of faith forever.

Because God has acted in this way, setting us free, we are freed from our obligations to ourselves, to our self-interest, to our own stubborn independence … and we gain obligations to the family of God.

Martin Luther spoke rightly about freedom when he said, “A Christian is a perfectly free lord of all, subject to none. A Christian is a perfectly dutiful servant of all, subject to all.”

This paradoxical statement tells us the truth that because Christ has set us free, we are no longer subject to the burdens that others place on us. People tell us that you have to look or act or love a certain way in order to be welcomed into the family of God, and in this gospel reading, we are reminded that we have already been freed from other’s expectations and welcomed into the family of God forever. We have been welcomed into this family not because of our own earning or righteousness, but because of the love of God.

Because we have received everything from God — life, love, a home, a family, wholeness — we go forth to share that with the world.

Luther, knowing he was freed in Christ, was able to make his stand when he went before the rulers of the church and empire, and say, “here I stand, I can do no other. God help me.”

Luther was able to know that he had received the abundance of God’s grace, and had no fear of what the rulers could do to him. He knew what it meant to be freed from the limitations others put on God’s love. And because we’ve been freed, we live lives surrendered to Christ, committed to service.

Lutherans at our best have understood this, creating things like Lutheran World Relief, Global Refuge, and Lutheran Social Services. Serving with open hands, knowing we’ve been freed, going out to free others.

But when we forget that God is the one who frees us first, through God’s own action, we lose sight of the abundance that God gives to all. At our worst, Lutherans have waged war against Catholics. Lutherans have thrown Anabaptists into rivers. Lutherans have put Native Americans and Sami people into boarding schools.

I think these examples are times when Lutherans have lost sight of the abundance that comes with our freedom. They gave into a mindset of scarcity, that says that my freedom, my identity, my security is threatened by your presence, your difference.

When we give into this scarcity mindset, we cling too tightly to the things that should make us free, and in the process, let go of our Christian freedom.

At our best, we live in abundance, knowing our place in the family is not dependent on our own work … God has given us a permanent home … we can live without fear and so we go out to serve with joy.

When we lose sight of that, when we think God is so small that God needs us to fight … when we see others as enemies to be conquered rather than as neighbors to love and serve, we destroy others and lose ourselves in the process.

But thankfully, we aren’t defined by our worst days. And also, we aren’t defined by our best days. We are defined by Jesus’ words for us here in John 8.

“You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

“If the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.”

Because the Son has made us free, we refute Luther’s writings against the Jews. We apologize to Sami and Native communities, and seek to make reparations. We work for reconciliation with Catholics and Anabaptists.

Because our first, primary, only identity is beloved children of God.

The Son has made us free, and we are free indeed. We are freed from the baggage of the past, good and bad, and we are freed to enter into new life with our neighbors

As we commemorate Reformation Day this week, let’s also consider the ways that it can be Reconciliation Day, to come together with our Christian siblings.

or Repentance Day, as we refute the harms done in our name.

or Revival Day, as we pray for the Holy Spirit to come down and renew us.

Or we could just remember it as Reformation Day, as this church of the Reformation is always reforming. Let’s reform our church to follow the Holy Spirit’s leading into freedom and service, wherever She goes.

Because what matters most is not our Lutheran identity, as much as I might love being Lutheran, or our favorite hymns or the Small Catechism, but instead the fact that Christ has made us free.

We have the freedom that comes from a permanent place in God’s family, a place that no one and nothing can take away.

Thanks be to God.

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

Jesus tells a powerful parable that leads us to reconsider our relationships to one another. Jesus’ image of the chasm speaks into our lives, as a terrifying symbol of all our divisions and separation. God’s Word reminds us that God desires to close the chasm, bringing reconciliation to the whole creation.

Vicar Erik Nelson
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 23 C
Texts: Amos 6:1,4-7a; Psalm 146; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31

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

This story used to terrify me. When I was little, I had awful dreams about the fires of hell and eternal torment. When I heard this story, I would get caught up on this horrible vision of hell that I missed what Jesus was trying to say. We’ve let Dante’s inferno overshadow Jesus’s whole point here.

The point of the story is not flames or eternal torture or the topography of the afterlife. The point is the chasm. The separation.

Christian tradition has talked about hell as separation from God, but as we see from this story, it’s more than that. Hell is also separation from each other.

In a way, the rich man was already living in hell. His wealth made him feel insulated from the suffering of the world. He heard the message of the prophets that call us to care for the poor and scriptures that reject the love of money. He heard those lessons, but let his heart become hardened because of the gilded cage in which he lived. He saw Lazarus every time he walked through his gate. He encountered Lazarus enough to even know his name, and yet his love of riches kept him from seeing Lazarus as a fellow child of Abraham, another bearer of the Image of God.

Even before he had died, the rich man separated himself. He chose the chasm.

When we look at the headlines today, we see countless examples of people choosing the chasm … choosing the void. We see school and church shootings. We see rising political violence, in our own city and far beyond. We see families divided, father against son, brother against sister.

As I look at the world, my heart hurts to see us choosing the chasm. I see all the ways, big and small, we choose our own way over the way of God.

All the readings this week, together, tell us about the way of God. In this passage, we see Lazarus named, but not the rich man. In our Psalm, we hear that God “keeps promises forever,” “car[ing] for the stranger, sustain[ing] the orphan and widow, … frustrat[ing] the way of the wicked.” Throughout the Bible, God names the poor and lifts up the lowly. To this day, God sides with the outcast and the forgotten.

There are times that like the rich man, our hearts become hardened, and we choose the wrong side of the chasm. Rather than following God into a world of justice and mercy, we choose our petty kingdoms and gilded cages.

As we hear the parable this week, we hear the voice of God offering us the opportunity to follow God’s way. Hear God say that it’s not too late. Jesus’ hyperbolic parable isn’t intended to terrify us into compliance, but it’s an invitation to God’s way. To reject the chasm.

I’m convinced that more than anything, God wants to close the chasm. The reading says “a great chasm has been fixed,” but it doesn’t say by who. Contrary to what you’ve heard, this story doesn’t say that eternal separation is God’s desire. I believe with all my heart that God wants to close the chasm. God wants to end all division and separation. The will of Christ is that all would be reconciled in him. 

There are parts of this text that still terrify me. I no longer think of hell as the place where God torments us forever. But what scares me is the idea of the rich man staying on that side of the divide. Even when he sees Lazarus finally receiving comfort and rest, the rich man’s only thought is “what can I get out of Lazarus?” He asks Abraham to send Lazarus as his servant to the rich man’s household. He still doesn’t get it.

And many people who read this story are still not going to get it. I think of people whose faith becomes entirely about who’s in and who’s out. That’s how we usually interpret this story, right?

I think when we see how vast and wide God’s love is, a love that encompasses the whole universe, an embrace that welcomes in the people we most hate … I am scared that that might feel like hell. When we see others receive what we think we deserve … when we realize the worthlessness of our little empires … that might feel like hell.

I’m afraid that that is the torment on the other side of the chasm. That’s the offense of the gospel — that it’s not the know-it-alls who go to heaven or the people who always do the right thing or have the nicest clothes. The ones who do get there, the ones who rest in God’s embrace, are there because they’re the ones who God loves. Not because of anything they did or any of their own deserving, but because of God’s scandalous love.

And that’s true for me, and you, and it’s true for the people we like, and the people we love, and it’s especially true for the people we most hate.

That’s a hard word for a world that loves the chasm.

God’s will is that the chasm be closed. And God invites us to join in the healing work. And we don’t do it alone. We do it together.

We do it, following Christ, who in his dying on the cross, stretched out his arms to show us how wide his embrace is, wide enough and deep enough and high enough to embrace the whole world.

In his rising from the dead, Jesus shows us that even death cannot separate us from God’s love.

And in his ascension and promise to come again, Jesus reminds us that our divisions, our chasms that we choose now, are not forever. He will return and make all things right, closing the chasm, once and for all.

Thanks be to God.

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

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.