Mount Olive Lutheran Church

  • Home
  • About
    • Welcome Video
    • Becoming a Member
    • Frequently Asked Questions
    • Staff & Vestry
    • History
    • Our Building
      • Windows
      • Icons
  • Worship
    • Worship Online
    • Liturgy Schedule
    • Holy Communion
    • Life Passages
    • Sermons
    • Servant Schedule
  • Music
    • Choirs
    • Music & Fine Arts Series
      • Bach Tage
    • Organ
    • Early Music Minnesota
  • Community
    • Neighborhood Ministry
      • Neighborhood Partners
    • Global Ministry
      • Global Partners
    • Congregational Life
    • Capital Appeal
    • Climate Justice
    • Stewardship
    • Foundation
  • Learning
    • Adult Learning
    • Children & Youth
    • Confirmation
    • Louise Schroedel Memorial Library
  • Resources
    • Respiratory Viruses
    • Stay Connected
    • Olive Branch Newsletter
    • Calendar
    • Servant Schedule
    • CDs & Books
    • Event Registration
  • Contact

Don’t Look Up

May 29, 2025 By Vicar at Mount Olive

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.

Filed Under: sermon

God’s Not Done

May 4, 2025 By Vicar at Mount Olive

No matter what you think may disqualifies you from the risen life of Christ, God’s not done with you.

Vicar Natalie Wussler
The Third Sunday of Easter, year C
Text: Act 9:1-20; Psalm 30; Revelation 5:11-14; John 21:1-19

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

This Easter season, we’re reminded that resurrection isn’t just something  Jesus did 2000 years ago and it’s not something that only happens after we die, it’s something we’re called into, today. Resurrection is a daily invitation into a life marked by a love that heals, a justice that restores, a courage that takes risks for our neighbors, and a mercy that transforms us. This is the life that Christ has made possible for us through dying and rising. And yet, we doubt–we doubt if we’re ready or if we’re good enough. We doubt our worth and we doubt if God can really use us. And we worry that our doubts, our fears, and our past mistakes keep us from living out this risen life. And sometimes we’re filled with so much anxiety that we exclude ourselves before giving God’s love and ourselves a chance. And we’re in good company.

Sometimes, we’re like Peter, ashamed and confused. We meet Peter today after he’s denied Jesus but knows he’s risen, and has no clue what to do next. Peter is so caught up in shame that he covers his body when he sees Jesus, like Adam and Eve do in the garden when they meet God, because he feels so exposed and embarrassed by his mistakes. We’ve been there–scared to live as who God has called us to be, ashamed because we didn’t live up to our potential, embarrassed by our mistakes, and anxious about what it all means for our future. 

We’re like Saul, later Paul, who’s confronted by his past of dehumanizing and hurting people. If you’ve ever been woken up to the long error of your ways or pain that you’ve caused people,  you know Saul’s regret. You know his fear that the path he’s walked for so long has led to death and pain. You might know how shocking it is to realize you’ve been going the wrong way, and how scary it is to pick up the pieces and start walking toward a new life.

And we’re like Ananias, called to lay his hands on Saul and heal him, but terrified to do it. He knows Saul’s reputation, he knows Saul was coming to Damascus to kill people like him, and he believes even being in the same room as Saul could mean death for him and his community. He’s feeling the real anxiety that comes when we’re asked to love our enemies, and he resists God’s call. He doubts whether God could actually transform someone from breathing threats of murder to proclaiming the good news of the risen Christ. He’s counted Saul out. And we’ve also had moments of doubt. We’ve been scared about doing what we’re called to and worried that our acts of love are too risky. We’ve counted someone out because of who we believe they are, and we’ve failed to love our enemies.

But even with all their flaws, their messy pasts, their mistakes, and their fears, God still called on Peter, Saul, and Ananias. God still sent them on paths to be leaders of the early church, and to proclaim God’s love and to serve people everywhere. God was not done with them.

And here’s the good news: God’s not done with you–

For all the ways you feel ashamed and for all your past mistakes, God’s not done with you.

For all the things you regret, for all the ways you’ve taken the wrong steps, God’s not done with you

For all the ways you fear or resist taking the next step on this path toward risen life and all the ways you’ve doubted, God’s not done with you.

And God will never be done with you. When you bring God your shame, your fear, and your doubt, God will meet you exactly where you are, ready to offer grace and mercy where you need it, and remind you of the risen life that you’re called into, and nothing will ever change that.

And we’ll mess up. That’s a guarantee. We’ll still fear, we’ll still doubt, we’ll still make mistakes, we might even still hurt people. But our hope is that God is always resurrecting us. Resurrection means that nothing–not death, not failure, not your past regrets, or your fears for the future–has the final word. God’s grace and love do. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about trusting that God’s Holy Spirit is always transforming your heart and mind and sending you to be a part of love’s never-ending work in the world. It’s about trusting that God is still resurrecting us to new life–like Peter was transformed from embarrassed and ashamed to the rock of the early church, or how Saul went from being a persecutor of Christians to spreading Christ’s message throughout the ancient world, or how Ananias went from believing Saul would kill him to calling him brother and praying for him. And even now, this same resurrection lives in you–helping you grow, heal, and become who you’re called to be, one step at a time.  God is always guiding you by the Holy Spirit into new life.

God isn’t waiting for you to be good enough, or faithful enough, or to have the right answers. God is calling on you, now, exactly as you are to tend God’s flock, feed God’s sheep, and follow in Jesus footsteps, to lay hands of healing on the people who need it, to feed hungry people, to love the person who is struggling with their mental health, to come close to the person who’s mourning, to uplift our siblings on the margins. To trust that God will meet you in the moments that feel heavy and hard to bear and encourage you on your journey, whether it’s through a friend who speaks words of healing and hope to you, or through the warm embrace of a community that fills your cup, or through that peace that shows up when it makes no sense, or through that still, small voice that assures you that you’re loved beyond all reason. God is asking you to trust that God knows what God is doing by calling you specifically.

So, beloved, go out knowing that nothing can ever separate you from the God that loves you. Go out trusting that God has called you to be hands of healing, no matter what you’re ashamed of, or scared of, or have doubts about. Serve trusting that God will be with you, resurrecting you to new life everyday, calling you into love’s way, and preparing you for the moment you’re in, exactly as you are. God’s not done with you. God’s just getting started.

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

Filed Under: sermon

When the Hour Comes…

April 13, 2025 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Even on the way to the cross, Jesus remains a vessel for God’s love and healing. Paul speaks of the mind of Christ–the ability to continue in humble service, even in the hardest moments, and says we can have this same mind. No matter how we suffer in this life, God can still work through us to heal.

Vicar Natalie Wussler
Sunday of the Passion
Texts: Luke 19:28-40; Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 22:14-23:56

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

This is an awful week for Jesus. Our readings bear witness to Jesus’ last week, from the triumphal entry to the deep despair in the garden, where Jesus is filled with so much anxiety that he sweats blood, and then onto his gruesome death, abandoned, denied, and betrayed by his closest friends and mocked by basically everyone else, save for a few faithful women.

And even though we might not know Jesus’ exact pain, our own lives give us some perspective. Many of us have been betrayed or abandoned by friends. We know what it feels like to be absolutely alone. We know the crushing weight of overwhelming anxiety and know what it feels like to be grieved to the depths of our soul by the heartache we might witness. And, when those times come, it’s easy to want to close ourselves off to the world, wallow in our worst moments, or become bitter–we might even believe our pain makes us as useless as broken pots, like the Psalmist says, but Jesus offers another way.

In Jesus’ deepest depression and anxiety, on the path to the cross, and even on the cross, Jesus remains a vessel for God’s love and mercy. Jesus puts aside any self-preservation, and walks in the way of love. He remains humble and doesn’t elevate his pain over the hurting going on around him, and even in the midst of his most painful hour, he remains committed to love until his last breath.

And this way of love healed. Like when Jesus heals the ear of an enslaved man in the party trying to arrest him, rather than letting the way of violence and force do him any favors. Even though Jesus was grieved to his very soul, he couldn’t stand by and watch someone else suffer when he knew he could do something about it. Or when Jesus assures the thief hanging next to him that he will come into paradise with him that very day, Jesus heals this man’s heart by promising hope even from the cross, the place thought to have no hope. Jesus’ pain and despair was real, and gutting. But it didn’t blind him to the ways people around him were hurting and needing healing.

And that’s the mind of Christ Paul tells us about. The humble mind that allowed Jesus to relinquish the impulse toward lifting himself over anyone else and ignoring the anguish other people were experiencing around him. The mind of Christ led Jesus to the cross to heal the whole world, but before that, on the way to the cross and on the cross, this mind of Christ moved him to heal whatever he could around him.

And, this same mind of Christ is here for you, right now. You don’t have to wait to be ready or good enough to receive it. Paul says “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ.” Present tense, a promise of possibility for today, that through the loving guidance of the Holy Spirit who dwells within you, your heart and mind can be transformed to be like Christ. And that you can have an extra measure of love, an expanded capacity for mercy, an eye to see what needs healing, and the resolve to go do something about it.

It helps us stay humble enough to see the pain of our siblings, even while we are hurting. It’s how in the middle of a hard moment, you still have the will to show up in kindness or mercy to someone else who needs healing. It’s how you can care for the wellbeing of someone else or help someone realize their belovedness when your world feels like it’s falling apart. Of course we mourn, of course we cry out in pain to God when we feel devastated. But this mind of Christ keeps you open to the pain of others even when your hour of pain comes, and helps you extend your hand when you don’t think you can lift another finger.

And this mind of Christ is something we do together, not just by ourselves. Just one verse earlier, Paul says “Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.” With the mind of Christ within us and among us, we weep together, mourn together, bear each other’s burdens together, and we find a way forward on Christ’s path of love and healing together. And our community grows our capacities to love and serve because we know we’re not doing it alone. And when each of us are empowered by the Holy Spirit to live in humble service to each other and all people, this path of love and this way of healing readies us as a community to be Christ, even when our hour comes.

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

Filed Under: sermon Tagged With: sermon

A Crowded Table

April 2, 2025 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Midweek Lent, 2025 + Love Does No Wrong to a Neighbor +
Week 4: Faith without loving action is dead

Vicar Natalie Wussler
Texts: James 2:1-17; Psalm 113:2-8; Luke 16:19-31

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

Nothing says “partiality” quite like a school lunchroom.
The cool kids at one table, nerds at another, various cliques siloed off, and the sidelined many anxiously trying to find their place. Maybe you, like me, felt hopelessly alone sometimes because you didn’t fit in, and had bullies reminding you of it. Maybe you spent your school years frantically figuring out which group would finally accept you. Or maybe you’ve been part of a friend group and you’ve felt suffocated by the expectations of who you should be, and worried that if you go against the grain, you could end up on the outside–perhaps again. Maybe you’ve felt partialities creep up in your professional life or even in your family. And whatever your experience with partialities, it’s easy to see why James condemns them so passionately. 

Partialities hurt.
They dictate who we should and shouldn’t care about and love. And it’s because of partialities that kids bully each other, that discrimination thrives, that oppression keeps people stranded on the margins, that wars erupt between nations, that hatred exists between people who don’t look the same or speak the same language or worship the same god, that the rich man either doesn’t notice Lazarus or decides Lazarus is not worth his time. This way of life alienates us from God’s beloved children, our siblings, and keeps us sitting in our prescribed places.

But Psalm 113 gives us another way.
The Psalmist tells us that in God’s reign the poor sit next to rulers, making space for each other, valuing each other. Sharing meals and sharing life. God knocks down the divisions between us and welcomes us to see each other as God sees us. In God’s reign, all people can sit together at a crowded table that has enough room for every person, where everyone is served, everyone is loved. Where we pull out chairs for each other and extend the table so everyone has a good seat. It’s a community where you and I are radically, unconditionally welcomed, where we can experience true belonging. 

I’ve seen it, like in the youth group Jake and I led, where the homecoming queen and the president of the anime club became friends. In the world of school lunch tables, these students would basically be on different planets. But because God was present, they laid down the ways they’d been divided and made space for each other and built a home where everyone belonged. We see God breaking down barriers when people of all different races, genders, sexualities, and life experiences stand together advocating for a kinder world that values all people, even with the threat of backlash. And God is doing it here and in so many communities like this one, where all people who walk through our doors are treated with dignity, respect, and love.

And because we belong to God, and have a seat at this wide and crowded table, we also belong to each other and all people and they belong to us–and that’s the hard part, isn’t it? It’s the pulling out chairs and expanding for all people that gets in our way. God calls us to extend this unconditional, radical welcome to all people, and we don’t always want to do this because there are people out there that need a welcome to the table that are perpetuating evil. There are people out there that are inconvenient for us to invite. And there are people that we worry would affect our reputation if we extend a welcome to them. But we’re on the hook. If we trust in the Triune God to make space for us and all people, we have no option but to live this reality out. We cannot stay on the sidelines. 

“Faith without works is dead” says James. Us Lutherans might cringe at this verse. But this isn’t a works-based theology of salvation that goes against our understanding of grace. But it is a call to us to let God’s love flow from us to all people because of our faith in the God that widens tables. Our faith cannot be stagnant, James says. It should move us toward seeing the work that needs to be done, and then doing it–like sitting with the person who’s alone, or having difficult conversations that lovingly confront our siblings who do evil, or doing the hard work of forgiving, or welcoming a stranger, actively loving the widow, the orphan, the poor, and the outcasts, or advocating for the basic human rights of the marginalized even in the face of major resistance. God’s love doesn’t just stay with us, it’s desperate to be shared with the whole world. 

And it’s hard work.

Because as we start to widen God’s welcome, we see all these prejudices have become great chasms that are too wide to cross by ourselves, as Abraham tells the rich man. They’ve been formed and reinforced by years of neglect, like in the case of the rich man’s relationship with Lazarus. They’re influenced by fear and hatred that festers between people and strengthens the partialities that keep us apart. We can’t bridge these gaps by ourselves. Because when we do, we can become overwhelmed by the depths of division or get caught up in our own biases or fear backlash and resistance. And we grow tired and weary by ourselves, and we can lose hope in this chasm-crossing mission.

But God can do it.
God already crossed the chasm between Godself and us through life, death, and resurrection of Christ and broke down any barriers between us so much so that God’s Spirit dwells within us, and commissions us to continue building a world where chasms and prejudice turn into bridges and beloved communities. It’s hard and heavy work, but we can rely on the Holy Spirit, to expand our ability to love those we’d rather not, to give us patience, grace and mercy that sustains us when we feel like giving up. The Holy Spirit leads us to communities like this one, full of people committed to crossing chasms and breaking down barriers, where we become the Spirit’s nourishing to each other. We hear each other out on days it feels too difficult, on days when we lose hope that the barriers will ever be broken. And we encourage each other to keep going. We embrace each other with unconditional and radical belonging. We share stories of how our lives change after we were told we genuinely belong and are beloved. We help each other recognize we’re in this together. We remind each other why we do what we do. And, together, you and I are sent out, by the power of the Holy full of faith, to break down partialities and cross chasms, to invite all God’s children to the crowded table.

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

Filed Under: sermon

When it’s all too much

March 16, 2025 By Vicar at Mount Olive

Jesus mourns over the corruption and power-grabbing in Jerusalem. We join him in the same kind of mourning over our country, but we don’t have language or resources to move forward with this kind of grief. Jesus’ actions during Holy Week and Paul’s reminder that we are citizens in heaven help us navigate a way forward.

Vicar Natalie Wussler
The Second Sunday in Lent, year C
Texts: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17—4:1; Luke 13:31-35

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

Jesus is deeply grieved. Our gospel text meets Jesus near Jerusalem and the Pharisees tell Jesus that Herod desires to kill him. And these words send him into a moment of deep mourning as he looks over the city called “the promised land” and “the land of milk and honey.” He sees Jerusalem for what it is meant to be–a beacon of hope and a city of peace, and yet, Jesus laments how far Jerusalem is from being a light of God’s love in the ancient near-east.

He laments that the faith of his people has been co-opted by the power-hungry few, which serves only to make the rich richer and more powerful, and leaves the vulnerable falling into deeper oppression and marginalization. Jesus is not speaking here about all the Jewish people who live in Jerusalem, rather, the way the religious elites have colluded with the power of empire since Rome conquered the Holy City about 100 years prior. 

More and more people are bowing to Rome as the empire intimidates people into compliance. And Jesus sorrowfully recalls that throughout Jerusalem’s history, prophets have been killed by the ruling class for preaching the way of God and calling out the structures of oppression. He wishes he could gather up all the people of Jerusalem as a mother hen does to her flock and protect them from all the impending violence and injustice. Jesus mourns. He cries out. Because it’s all too much.

And for many of us who were raised on American exceptionalism, we’re experiencing a similar moment of deep grief. Many of us were raised believing that this country would serve us if we served it, that the American dream was a reality for all people who worked hard. We’re grieving the country we thought we lived in and the idea of a land that represents liberty and justice for all. We lament that the Christian faith has been perverted to empower evil. We mourn the historical injustices we were never taught about and at the same time we mourn the brighter future we believed was just on the horizon. We fear for our rights and civil liberties and for the safety of our friends, families, and neighbors. And like Jesus, we wish we could gather up all our beloved ones and all those who are experiencing oppression under wings of protection. We wish we could be sheltered from the storm. And yet, each day brings new heartache. And we live with this unspoken, intense grief.  And it’s all too much.

When you grieve the loss of a person, it’s painful, but there are so many resources that can help you get through it, like grief-specific therapists and support groups. But where’s the support when you’re grieving the nation you grew up in? Where’s the support when the country you’ve loved and served causes harm? Where do you turn for help navigating through the deep grief over our country? There’s no grief support groups for when your country is turning into something you don’t recognize. We don’t have the language to name this grief, so we don’t talk about it. And we feel isolated in our pain, and we suffer in silence. We need a way forward. We need a light in this long tunnel.

And Jesus lays a path for us. Jesus mourned over Jerusalem but it didn’t stop him. He responds to the Pharisees, basically saying “Herod means nothing to me. I’m busy doing what God wants me to do.” He moved on from Jerusalem that day, but he came back on Palm Sunday. He spent a week teaching–giving whatever wisdom he could to his followers and his closest friends. He entered the temple and called out those who co-opted religion for their own gain. He praised the widow’s gift and called on the women and men following him to recognize the humanity and value of the poor and marginalized. Jesus dwelt with his community, broke bread with them, and called them to carry on his ministry of love and justice after he left them. Jesus’ love for Jerusalem and grief over its sad state was a part of a path that led to a Roman cross where he willingly poured out love over all people. And then he rose from the dead, declaring that the powers of death and empire would not win in the long run.

But for today, empire seems to be winning. And while we do have the promise of God’s reign to come, today, we grieve, because it’s all too much. 

But Paul’s voice is a light in the darkness, reminding us that our citizenship is not on earth, but in heaven. No matter where we are and who rules in our nation, we belong to God and to each other before we belong to any country. We are bound up to one another and to all people not because of our allegiance to any nation or ideology, but because we are beloved children of God and coworkers with Christ, first and foremost. Our citizenship in heaven is an invitation to see the world through God’s eyes, to let our hearts be broken by what breaks God’s heart, to be in the world as Jesus would be in the world, and to venture toward a society that values and loves all people. It’s an invitation to be gathered up into Christ’s mothering body by the holy spirit, and to be a family of people who hold each other up, lament with one another to God, listen to each other, and seek God’s face together even on the hardest days. 

Christ is our protecting mother hen through the embrace of our community. In this body we nurture one another and are nurtured by each other, and God gives us what we need and to continue on the path Jesus laid for us. And so, as citizens of heaven we go out into the world and work toward justice, even in the face of resistance. And it starts with our grief.

When it’s all too much, we start with naming the pains that grieve our hearts. Our grief isn’t stagnant. And what starts as a lament, God transforms into courage. God takes our grief and molds it into a fire within our hearts that will not be quenched until all people are brought under shelter of God’s love. And together we take steps toward justice. And when we name our grief aloud in community, we resist suffering in silence. We realize we are not alone and we support each other through our grief transformed into collective action. We become Christ’s light of hope amidst the shadows. And, empowered by the Holy Spirit, we go forward doing the same things Jesus did–coming close to those who are vulnerable and suffering, calling out systems of oppression, advocating for a brighter and kinder future in this and every place.

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

Filed Under: sermon Tagged With: sermon

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • …
  • 38
  • Next Page »

MOUNT OLIVE LUTHERAN CHURCH
3045 Chicago Avenue
Minneapolis, MN 55407

Map and Directions >

612-827-5919
welcome@mountolivechurch.org


  • Olive Branch Newsletter
  • Servant Schedule
  • Sermons
  • Sitemap

facebook

mpls-area-synod-primary-reverseric-outline
elca_reversed_large_website_secondary
lwf_logo_horizNEG-ENG

Copyright © 2025 ·Mount Olive Church ·

  • Home
  • About
    • Welcome Video
    • Becoming a Member
    • Frequently Asked Questions
    • Staff & Vestry
    • History
    • Our Building
      • Windows
      • Icons
  • Worship
    • Worship Online
    • Liturgy Schedule
    • Holy Communion
    • Life Passages
    • Sermons
    • Servant Schedule
  • Music
    • Choirs
    • Music & Fine Arts Series
      • Bach Tage
    • Organ
    • Early Music Minnesota
  • Community
    • Neighborhood Ministry
      • Neighborhood Partners
    • Global Ministry
      • Global Partners
    • Congregational Life
    • Capital Appeal
    • Climate Justice
    • Stewardship
    • Foundation
  • Learning
    • Adult Learning
    • Children & Youth
    • Confirmation
    • Louise Schroedel Memorial Library
  • Resources
    • Respiratory Viruses
    • Stay Connected
    • Olive Branch Newsletter
    • Calendar
    • Servant Schedule
    • CDs & Books
    • Event Registration
  • Contact