God meets us in the wilderness places, providing what we need and equipping us for the journey.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 18 A
Texts: Genesis 32:22-31; Matthew 14:13-21

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

Jesus just wants a little time away.

He’s just received some devastating news about the death of his relative John the Baptist, a man whom Jesus admired greatly. It isn’t necessarily unexpected news: John’s popularity and outspokenness had long irritated the local ruler, Herod, who’d had John imprisoned.

Still, even if John’s death had been a long time coming, this had to have been tough news for Jesus and his disciples – not only because they’d lost an influential teacher of the Gospel, but also because John’s execution served as a reminder. It’s dangerous to be on the wrong side of those in power. It can cost you your life. That’s a lesson Jesus certainly won’t be able to forget.

Although he just wants a little time away to process this news, crowds of people end up following him way out into the wilderness, to “a deserted place,” as the text says. The crowds are hungry to hear Jesus’ healing words, to feel his healing touch. And then, as the day wears on, they’re just plain hungry.

All these people have walked a long way, and now everyone realizes there is no good plan for supper.

No one packed picnics. There are no food trucks. They can’t drop by the nearest falafel joint. Thousands of tired and hungry people gathered way out in the middle of nowhere. How will the mood shift when they realize they’re in for a long night without a meal?

The disciples get nervous and tell Jesus it’s time to send the people away. Let them travel back to their villages and buy their own dinner there. But Jesus feels differently. Sometimes the wilderness is exactly where you’re meant to be. “They don’t need to leave,” he says, “We’ll just feed them here.” “Here? We have nothing here,” the disciples respond, holding up a few loaves of bread and prepared fish. Too meager a meal for even a few, let alone a crowd. That may be so… but not in the hands of Jesus.

Have the disciples already forgotten all those parables that Jesus told about the abundance of life in God?

The kingdom of God is like a tiny seed, Jesus had said, that grows into an untamable shrub. It is like a pinch of yeast that transforms flour into rising dough. It is like a fishing net that is unable to contain the weight of its copious catch. Life in God expands and overflows. In God’s realm, there is enough for everyone!

When Jesus had told the disciples those stories and asked them, “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” they’d said, “Yes, sure, we understand.” So why don’t they know that in the kingdom of God, a few loaves and fishes can become a meal for thousands, with leftovers besides? Why do they see scarcity where God can create plenty?

Perhaps it’s the gnawing hunger in their own bellies. Perhaps it’s the growing anxiety in their own hearts. It can be easy to trust in God’s provision when it’s a story about someone else, when it’s just a metaphor about a farmer or a fisherman. It’s harder to trust in God’s abundance when you’re tired and hungry. It’s harder to trust when you’re far from home and night is falling. It’s harder to trust when you’re coping with news of death and violence and your own future feels uncertain.

Despite the disciples’ fear and doubt, God-in-Christ is right there with them, present with them and providing for them.

Providing for everyone, actually. Jesus makes a way where there seemed to be no way. Somehow, out in that deserted place, with so few provisions, there is healing and food to go around. The text says “all were filled.” Everyone gets what they need.

It’s an encouraging reminder that God can provide even when there seems to be so little, even when the wilderness surrounding you seems so barren.

Actually, today we heard two stories of God’s unexpected provision in the wilderness, because this is also Jacob’s situation in the Genesis reading.

Jacob, too, has traveled a long way and finds himself out in the wilderness as night draws near. He has sent his household caravan ahead of him, so he is empty-handed, without supplies. Jacob is journeying to meet his brother, Esau, the same brother he deceived and stole from, the same brother he’s been avoiding for years. Jacob must have been nervous, wondering how that reunion would go. Facing an uncertain future, Jacob is left alone in the dark, alone with his fear and doubt.

Except, of course, he isn’t really alone; God is there with him in the wilderness.

And, again, God provides. Certainly not in the way Jacob expects, though. God shows up like a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes when God meets you in the wilderness, you will be healed and fed, and sometimes, you will be wrestled to the ground and irreversibly changed – but both can be gifts.

Jacob leaves that mysterious encounter with a limp. But he also leaves with a blessing and a new name. Like the crowds who followed Jesus into the wilderness, Jacob gets what he needs. His future is still uncertain, to be sure; he still has to face the consequences of his past and the realities of his future. But he can be confident that God goes with him into the unknown. He can know that, even in the darkest wilderness, God is present and God provides.

I know for many of you, these last few months have felt like a journey into a barren wilderness.

Perhaps you have faced nights when all you are left with is your exhaustion and longing. The news is so scary, the future is so uncertain, and you’re so unprepared. So much has been taken away that it’s hard not to focus on what’s missing, not to be aware of what you don’t have.

Out in that deserted place, the disciples looked at their situation and told Jesus: “We have nothing here.” But of course, they didn’t have nothing. They had five loaves of bread, two fish, and one savior whose love for them could conquer anything– scarcity, fear, even death.

You have that, too.

No matter what has been taken away from you, no matter what you’ve lost, no matter what you’re hungering for, no matter how uncertain a future you face, your savior is present with you, right now, right where you are. There is no wilderness place, literal or spiritual, that is so remote that God won’t meet you there.

And however little it feels like you have to contribute, it is enough for God to work with.

Like Jesus did with the disciples, putting that food in their hands that they might share it with others, God can work miraculous generosity through your hands, your actions. Like God did with Jacob, transforming him and guiding him that he might become an ancestor of the faithful, God can use your life, your story to tell of God’s goodness and mercy.

So, when you’re out there in the wilderness feeling like you have nothing left, feeling like you have no idea what comes next, trust in God’s abundance. Know that even in the wilderness, it is enough for you, enough for everyone, enough forever.

Amen.

God’s vision for our world is like an abundant garden in which there is plenty for all. We become part of that vision by reflecting God’s generous love in our own lives.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 15, year A
Texts: Romans 8:1-11; Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

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

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus tells this story about four different kinds of soil. There’s the soil of the road that’s been packed down and is too hard for seeds to take root in. There’s rocky soil that only allows for feeble, shallow growth. There’s thorny soil that’s too crowded with competing weeds. And then there’s good soil, in which the seeds can take root and be nourished and grow.
And hearing this story, naturally we want our hearts to be all good soil, all of the time, right? We want our spirits to be fertile ground in which God’s word can flourish, filling our lives with the bountiful fruits of the spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness.

But, maybe if you’re like me, you’ve noticed that some days lately, the soil of your heart does feel a little packed down, trampled by the constant bad news day after day, wearied by the isolation of quarantine. Maybe, some days, the soil of your heart feels a little looser, and a seed or two starts sprouting, but they don’t get very far because the rocks of grief and anger and dread limit how deep the roots of those little shoots can go. Or maybe some of your heart soil has been invaded by the prickly weeds of distraction that start crowding in and pulling your heart away from the truth of God’s voice.

Have you had any of those experiences? Have you wanted to be like the Psalmist who says to God: “I incline my heart to perform your statues forever, to the end”? (Psalm 119:112, NRSV) But then you realize that forever is a tall order. Eventually, your heart wanders in other directions, and looks less and less like that good soil of obedience to God’s word.

There’s a temptation to judge yourself, to imagine that if you just tried harder, you’d be all good soil all of the time. You just need to tend to your plot a little better. Maybe you can add a little fertilizer of extra prayer, or do some serious weeding of confession, or if things are looking really ugly, maybe you need to rent one of those giant tillers to dig everything up and just start over. It’s easy to think it’s your fault if the soil of your heart isn’t all healthy and fertile.

But the truth is: that kind of self-condemnation has no place in the Christian life. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. That’s what Paul writes in Romans. The Spirit of God dwells in you, giving you life! You’ve been set free by God’s grace! So Jesus isn’t telling this story about the seeds and the soil because he wants to highlight your failure, because he wants to condemn you for finding some rocks or thorns in the plot of your heart.

Listen to what Jesus says: God who is love has sown these seeds. The great gardener is doing this work in you. This isn’t an exacting farmer, carefully choosing the best soil, the most deserving soil, in which to plant these precious seeds. This sower is extravagantly, ridiculously generous. There are plenty of seeds, so many that they can just be thrown anywhere and everywhere. It’s like that joke about Oprah giving away prizes to everyone in her audience: “You get a car, and you get a car, and you get a car!” That’s how this farmer treats all kinds of soil: “You get seeds, and you get seeds and you get seeds!” You don’t have to earn the gift of God’s word. God’s word is given for you, and for you, and for you.

If that sounds like an inept, maybe even wasteful, farmer, that’s because this farmer isn’t concerned with efficiency. This farmer is willing to plant the seed of God’s word in any and all kinds of soil. No matter what the soil of your spirit looks at this particular moment, there is always the possibility of growth. And it doesn’t take much! The tiniest seed with the tiniest roots can grow into a plant that bears fruit. And then, it multiples exponentially, thirty-, sixty-, hundred-fold increase! It’s not just the farmer that’s extravagant, so is the growth! The yield is lavish! Plants that grow into more plants that grow into more plants – and all these yield fruit that creates more seeds.

According to Jesus, that’s what life is like when God is in charge: a wild and overflowing garden. There’s no miserly calculation of who deserves the resources of God’s grace. It isn’t about harsh condemnation of those who are undeserving or inadequate. In telling this story, Jesus describes a God who is recklessly generous, and whose dream for our life together is one in which there is not judgment but generosity, not competition but compassion. There is plenty and richness for all: all people, all creatures, all creation.

In this time we face of economic and social crisis, when so many people are out of work, when food lines are long and health care bills are high, and we are given the message again and again that other people getting enough will mean less for us, when we are told that there isn’t enough health care, or stimulus money, or jobs to go around… in this context, we need to remember that God’s vision for our world is radically different than that zero-sum outlook. God’s vision is the abundant overflowing garden. God’s vision is seeds for all kinds of soil, over and over again. God’s vision is a bountiful harvest.

You are a part of that vision. Whatever state your spirit is on a given day. Whether you’re feeling dry, or rocky, or weedy, or covered in compost and full of nutrients, you are a part of that vision. God, the tender gardener, isn’t waiting to condemn you but to transform you, to bring about radical new growth in you. We say at Mount Olive that we are “always in the presence of God,” so don’t doubt that this magnanimous God is, right now, cultivating that transformation in you, even on the days when it doesn’t feel that way. And boy there are days lately when it doesn’t feel that way. Yet, we are – always – in the presence of God.

We also say at Mount Olive that we are “always being the presence of God.” That’s your part in this vision, too. God’s word has come to you as gift. God’s word has grown in you as blessing. What will you do with that yield? How will your life reflect God’s boundless grace? Don’t be afraid to go out and sow love with the same reckless abandon that you’ve seen in God. There are plenty of seeds, more than enough. And in sowing more, we make more. Or, rather, God makes more, and for that, we rejoice!

Amen.

When you commit to the Gospel, you commit to take up the cross and follow the way of Jesus. That way can be uncomfortable and costly, and yet, it is the way of life.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 14 A
Text: Romans 7:15-25a; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

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

Let’s set the scene for this Gospel text. Jesus had recently sent his disciples out as missionaries to bring the Gospel to new communities. Some places had been receptive to their message, but some places had just run them out of town. John the Baptist, who was in prison, heard rumors about the stir that Jesus and his disciples were causing. John sent concerned messages to Jesus, who responded by saying: “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” (Matthew 11:6). It seems clear that some people were indeed taking offense at Jesus and his teachings.

That’s where our Gospel reading today picks up today. Jesus is frustrated! He’s frustrated that some people refused to listen to John the Baptist, refused to listen to Jesus, and refused to listen to his disciples.

Instead of receiving the message, people were criticizing the messengers, saying: John the Baptist was too strict; Jesus is too wild! If Jesus had known the story of Goldilocks and the three bears, he might have compared these people to Goldilocks grumbling that ‘this porridge is too hot; this porridge is too cold!’ Instead of really hearing the Gospel teaching just as it is, they were waiting until it felt just right. They were waiting for it to be comfortable on their terms.

The lectionary actually cuts out Jesus’ harshest words of condemnation. The Gospel writer says, “Jesus began to reproach the cities in which his deeds of power had been done, because they did not repent.” Jesus names some of those cities by name: “Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida!” (Matthew 11:20-21). Jesus concludes: It would have been better if they’d just brought the Good News to someone else.

No wonder some people were offended! This is not a warm-and-fuzzy Jesus. This is a turning-over-tables Jesus. Can you imagine being called out like that? Can you imagine Jesus saying: “Woe to you, Minneapolis! Woe to you, St. Paul! Other people took the Gospel seriously and repented. Why didn’t you?”

You can see why the lectionary left those lines out. It’s uncomfortable to listen to the Jesus we find confusing or offensive! Sometimes we just want to skip ahead to the Jesus we find relatable or reassuring. Sometimes we, too, want the Gospel message to feel just right. We don’t want to sit in the discomfort of realizing that, even though we don’t live in Chorazin or Bethsaida, a word of conviction might come for us. We might be reminded that we have not been listening to God. That the same God who offers us reassurance, also calls us to repentance. The same God who offers us comfort, calls us to transformation. Sometimes change is uncomfortable, so we’re tempted to just avoid it.

It’s important to realize, though, that Jesus isn’t just angry when he cries woe on certain cities. He’s sad. We don’t use the word “woe” very often, but the Greek word here is used throughout the New Testament. It’s a cry of frustration and dismay. It expresses sorrow that the inevitable consequences of an action will not be good. My seminary professor liked to translate this word as ‘alas!’ “Alas for you, Chorazin! Alas for you, Bethsaida!”

Jesus isn’t cursing these cities; he’s grieving. Jesus is distraught that they didn’t accept his teachings, that they didn’t change their hearts when they heard the message of the Gospel. He wants them to listen. He wants them to hear. He wants them to change. Jesus is bringing good news, even if it’s hard news. Discipleship might be challenging but it’s worth it. Jesus wants good for these communities who are rejecting him.

But Jesus doesn’t give up on even the most recalcitrant of people. That’s just not Jesus’ way.

He knows that his message can be hard to hear, That it can sound backwards. Jesus is teaching the way of sacrificial love that will lead him to death on a cross. That way will looks like weakness to those who have been considered powerful; like foolishness to those who have been considered wise. Jesus’ teachings resonated instead with those on the margins, those who suffered, those who were poor in wealth or poor in spirit; those who truly were truly hungry and thirsty for righteousness.

So Jesus offers the invitation again: “Come to me, you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.” The strong and powerful, the intelligent and successful, they might have missed it. But if you’re tired and weighed down, this good news is for you. If you’re lost and afraid, this good news is for you. If you’re struggling and hurting, this good news is for you. If you’ve been labeled an outsider, this good news is for you. If you feel like you’ve failed, this good news is for you.

And what good news it is! Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you, and I will give you rest.” Taking on the yoke of Christ, following the teachings of Jesus, brings rest for the soul. Who among us is not longing for that right now? Those who come to Christ are be received not with condemnation, but with gentleness.

No wonder Jesus is grieved that so many have rejected such a gift! Alas, alas, for them! This promise of Jesus, this gift of soul rest, is for those who follow Jesus’ teaching, who take up his cross. You can’t wait for the Gospel message to feel just right. You can’t think, “I’m strong enough to do this on my own, without God.”

But you can come just as you are, with all the mistakes, shortcomings, and burdens you bring with you, and you can put those things down at the feet of Christ. You can put down the despair that has been weighing on you.

Then you can pick up the yoke of Jesus’ teachings. You can love your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. And that sounds hard! That is hard.

But you don’t carry that weight alone – no one carries a yoke alone. You are yoked to Christ, who bears it with you, You are yoked to one another, the community of believers, You are yoked to the great cloud of faithful witnesses who have come before you. You are never alone, you are never left behind, not even when you stumble.

As the apostle Paul says in Romans, even when you can’t live up to being the person you strive to be, when you end up doing the things you don’t want to do, and you can’t do the good you do want to do – even then, Christ is your rescue! Even then, you stand in God’s grace. Even then, you are filled with God’s holy spirit. God’s mercies are made new again and again, forever.

It turns out that the yoke that seemed so burdensome is light. It turns out that the love of neighbor that seemed so demanding is rewarding. It turns out that the journey of discipleship that seemed arduous is filled with joy. It turns out that the cross that brought death is the way to life.

You are invited to that life, you who are weary and weighed-down. You are invited that rest, the kind of soul-rest that revives you for the rest of the journey. You are invited to follow the way of Christ. It will change you and it will cost you, and it will also save you over and over again.

Amen.

Christ calls us to build relationships of mutuality, in which we both offer and receive care.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 13 A
Text: Matthew 10:40-42

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

It feels complicated to be community with one another right now.

COVID-19 forces tough decisions about who you can visit with, how close you can get, and how long you can stay. You have to calculate risk for every social interaction, no matter how minor. To ask: How do I stay safe and keep others safe? How can I love my neighbors while staying physically distant?

Increased awareness of police violence is causing people to re-consider what community safety might look like, to ask new questions about how we can take care of one another, especially those who are most vulnerable? How can we support movements toward systemic change and also support those who are affected by the resulting unrest? How can we raise our voices for justice and also open our ears for learning?

These are complicated and challenging questions, but they’re ones we can’t avoid. We need to wade into the public conversation about how to create community that is just and safe for everyone. We need to be part of this conversation because, as Jesus’ words remind us, caring for one another is part of the deal when you commit to a Gospel-centered life.

Offering hospitality and welcome to another is like offering hospitality to God! That’s what Jesus teaches his disciples. The acts of hospitality don’t have to be fancy. They can be as simple as offering a cup of cold water to a weary desert wanderer.

Cold water isn’t as scarce in our world as it was in Jesus’ world, when the arid climate of the Middle East could only be survived through access to rare natural springs, deep wells, or carefully guarded cisterns. But it’s worth asking: what resources do need to be shared in order for us to live out Christ’s vision of hospitality right now? To what do people need access in order to survive in our world? Sufficient pay? Safe housing? Affordable healthcare? Adequate education?

And what are the small acts, the cups of cold water, that each of us can offer to help move our society in that direction? A cup of cold water could look like donated diapers or laundry detergent. Welcome could look like wearing a mask or staying home. Hospitality could look like showing up for a neighborhood meeting. We offer what we can to whom we can whenever we can.

To be clear, though, Jesus doesn’t only call his followers to offer hospitality; he calls them to receive hospitality as well. He doesn’t just say, “When you welcome others, you welcome me.” He says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.” He says this to his disciples as he sends them out into the community to proclaim the message of the Gospel. Whoever welcomes you welcomes me and therefore welcomes God.

Scripture is adamant that those who love God are called to love neighbor: to give generously, to resist escalating violence, to protect the most vulnerable. But here, in this teaching, Jesus emphasizes that sometimes Christ-followers will themselves be the ones in need of welcome. Sometimes they will be the ones thirsty and exhausted, reaching out for a mercifully offered cup of cold water.

Earlier, Jesus told the disciples that when they go out into the world to proclaim the good news, they should intentionally go empty-handed. Don’t take any extra supplies, he said. No money, no extra clothes (Matthew 10:7-10). The disciples would be dependent on the generosity and hospitality of others. That will make them vulnerable. Jesus even uses the term “little ones” to describe the position this will put them in (Matthew 10:42). It will make them like children, in need of care from others.

That’s the thing about real hospitality: it requires vulnerability. Both sides have to take a risk. It’s risky to offer hospitality: to welcome others to your home, your table, your heart. It’s also risky to receive hospitality: to entrust your wellbeing, even your life, to others.

And Jesus harbors no illusions. He warns the disciples: Sometimes you will not be welcomed and cared for. Sometimes you’ll be rejected and mistreated, as Jesus himself was. That’s the inherent risk of vulnerability: you might get hurt. The message of the Gospel can be countercultural, even subversive. Walking the way of Jesus isn’t always going to make you popular. Actually, Jesus pretty much guarantees that it will cause tension in even the most intimate of relationships. Jesus uses uncomfortable language about dividing families and households (Matthew 10:35-37). To bear the Gospel is to bear the cross.

But the vulnerability also creates the opportunity for deeper relationships.

The relationship created by authentic hospitality is not transactional. It can’t be. When you invite someone into your home for a meal, you don’t expect them to pay you for it. They can pay it forward, but they can’t pay it back. It’s offered freely, out of joy. It’s received freely, with gratitude. Otherwise it isn’t hospitality.

This is why the work of actively dismantling systems of oppression is part of the Christian vocation.

When we say that there cannot be peace without justice, we are saying that equity is the foundation for authentic community. Creating a community in which everyone can flourish will require sacrifice and risk. Relationships of mutual vulnerability are foundational: Every person able to receive hospitality, and every person able to offer hospitality. Enough cold water to go around.

Womanist theologian Emilie Townes puts it this way: “With compassionate welcome, Jesus calls us to put our love in jeopardy so that its blessings are made manifest in our lives and in the lives of others.” This can add a new set of questions to your considerations of how to be community in these unusual times: How are you practicing the vulnerability of both offering and receiving hospitality? How are you putting your love in jeopardy, taking risks in order to build relationships of mutuality?

They aren’t easy questions and they won’t yield easy answers. But here’s the good news: the risk is worth it.

The way of vulnerable love is the way of life! We know that because we see that in Jesus Christ, who shows us the face of God. Jesus Christ, who was willing to give up everything for the sake of love, even his life. And somehow, miraculously and mysteriously, through that sacrificial death comes new life. Not easy life; not painless life. But real, lasting life.

When you practice loving others with vulnerable, sacrificial love, you are following in the way of Christ. You are taking up the cross. You are bearing the Gospel. You are fulfilling the vocation sealed by the Holy Spirit at your baptism – a baptism that baptized you into Christ’s suffering and death and also into Christ’s resurrection and life. In Christ you are freed by the love of God, for the love of neighbor.

There is enough cold water to go around. We live from a spirit of abundance and thanksgiving, not of scarcity and fear. We proclaim, as our ancestor Abraham did, that God will provide (Genesis 22:14). We rejoice, as the Psalmist did, that God has dealt bountifully with us (Psalm 13:6).

And if God has given us such bounty, it is our work to actively, intentionally, courageously share that bounty with others. It is our work to tear down barriers that prevent anyone from living into the flourishing God intends for them. It is our work to build the relationships of mutual trust that are needed for a just community. So take the risk to be Christ’s love in the world, and trust that others will also be Christ’s love to you.

Amen.

Trinity reveals to us the God who is relationship. We are created in the image of relationship, baptized in the name of relationship, and sent out to invite others into relationship.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Holy Trinity, year A
Texts: Genesis 1:1-2:4a; Matthew 28:16-20

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

It’s been a week since we celebrated Pentecost, with its wind and fire and tongues. This week has felt incredibly long, but the flame of the Holy Spirit is still igniting in our hearts, still spurring us to let Spirit speak through us. Across the world, in all languages, voices are being raised to cry out for justice, to name the human siblings whose lives have been ended by the violence of systemic racism.

It’s been a week since we celebrated Pentecost, and really, it’s been a week. Although the fires burning in our local communities have been extinguished, the anger at repeated instances of police violence still burns. People are still in the streets, demanding real, lasting change.

But anger isn’t the only force that’s still burning this week. There is a tremendous amount of compassion, generosity, and courage that is blazing through our communities. It is, as they say, spreading like wildfire.

People are protecting their neighborhoods, donating supplies and money, and calling their elected officials. People are helping to house and feed those who have been displaced by unrest. Along Lake Street, there have been hundreds of people out with brooms and dustpans helping clean. In the Longfellow and Powderhorn neighborhoods, street art is covering buildings and sidewalks, and food distribution sites are popping up on corners – even in our own parking lot at Mount Olive.

Down on Chicago Avenue, at the site where George Floyd was killed, there are people handing out free chips, popsicles, and hotdogs. They’re making sure that those who come there to witness, to grieve, to pray are sustained for the long haul. It’s not just the food that sustains, but the community, the being together. Even in the midst of a pandemic, when we can’t get as close as we’d like, we’re still getting as close as we can.

It’s been a week since we celebrated Pentecost, since we told the story of the wild and holy spirit of God coming into the world like a noisy wind, kindling divine power within each person like a flame, and bursting into beautiful expression like a diversity of tongues. And because– even in this time when a week feels like a year and a moment all at once – our liturgical rhythm still accompanies us, this week has brought us to Trinity Sunday. Today, we proclaim that the one holy God is three – Father, Son, and Spirit.

When we declare that God is Trinity, we declare that God is relational. Like parent and child, like a body and breath. More than declaring that God is relational, we declare that God is relationship. God is communal and connected, interdependent and interactive. God is a dynamic dance.

And, as the Genesis creation story makes clear, every person that lives is created in the image of that God, created in the image of that relationship. To be human is to be made in relationship. And that is, as God says, very good.

That’s why we call George Floyd our brother, because he was human, created in God’s image. That’s why we lament the breaking of relationship that results from systemic racism. To deny another’s dignity and rights, to fail to see the divine image in another human being, is sin. God grieves such sin, and so do we. In this season, the grief of that sin feels so great that it is almost overwhelming.

But don’t let that grief stop you from living into the relationship for which you were created. Don’t turn your eyes away from seeing the realities of racism in our society. Don’t turn your ears away from hearing the cries for justice. Don’t turn your back on your human siblings who need you to show up for them, in whatever way you can.

If you’re feeling doubtful – doubtful that you can make a difference, doubtful that you know the right words or actions to take, doubtful that anything will ever really change – if you’re feeling doubtful, then scripture has a word for you today.

Our Gospel reading is from the end of the book of Matthew, when the risen Jesus appears to the disciples. They recently watched Jesus, their teacher, friend, and savior, be crucified. They’ve witnessed and experienced violence. They’re beleaguered, terrified, grieving, and exhausted. And the text tells us that when they saw the risen Christ, they fell down in worship, “but some doubted.”

It’s not hard to imagine why they might have been feeling doubtful – doubtful of the reality of the resurrection, doubtful of their own commitment to Jesus, doubtful of their ability to carry on the ministry in his absence.

But no matter why they’re feeling doubtful, Jesus still calls them into mission. “Go out into the world,” he says, “and invite others into the relationship that is God. Teach people about the life-giving way you have learned from me. Walk with people as fellow disciples. And when you mark their transformation with the practice of baptism, seal them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; seal them in relationship.” This is what Jesus tells the disciples.

Despite their fear, despite their grief, despite their exhaustion, despite their doubt, they’re called into mission. They’re sent out to bear the good news that has changed their lives.

And despite their doubt, or maybe even because of their doubt, Jesus still gives them a promise: “I am with you always.” Jesus keeps that promise, always – to those disciples, and to you.

You are the inheritors of this mission and this promise. Take seriously your calling to be the bear the good news of Christ into the world, even when you’re worn down and scared and filled with doubt. And take seriously the real presence of the Triune God that is with you, always. God is present in the world, even during a week like this. God is here.

It is especially hard to remember this when you’re separated from your sacred space and normal liturgical practices, when you can’t worship together in person or receive the sacraments, those signs of God’s gracious presence.

Some of the volunteers who came to help distribute food from Mount Olive’s parking lot on Thursday told me that this was the closest they’d been to the church in months. I know others are grieving that they aren’t able to safely come even that close to the sanctuary and neighborhood they love so much.

But the Lutheran tradition emphasizes that church is not a place but an event; it is something that happens. Martin Luther understood church more as a verb than a noun. Church happens because God is active in the world, in you.

And often, when and where and how God acts is a surprise! Church shows up in ways you least expect. You can see signs of it, but you can’t summon it or own it or control it. You can’t pin church down for a photo opp. The church isn’t a building, even when that building is full of people and certainly not when that building is empty.

There will be a time when you can gather again in the beautiful nave to worship together. And in the meantime, God is still acting so church is still happening. Where do you see signs of it? Where do you see evidence of the grace of Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit? In your homes? On the streets? In shared food and colorful art? Keep watching for it and participating in it.

The God who is relationship is up to something in the world, and in you, always. The God who is relationship connects, heals, uplifts, transforms because that’s what healthy, loving relationship does. You were created in the image of that relationship, you were baptized in the name of that relationship, and you are sent out to invite others into that relationship. And that is, as God says, very good.

Amen.

The disciples’ joy at Jesus’ ascension comes from a foundation of trust in who Christ is and who they are in Christ. The light of Christ is not extinguished; it’s changed. Now, the disciples are tasked with carrying it out into the world.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Ascension of Our Lord
Texts: Acts 1:1-11; Luke 24:44-53

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

When Jesus ascends into heaven, right before their very eyes, the disciples are overjoyed!

I have to admit, this reaction surprises me. Joy? Confusion and fear seem to be more their style. Even if we consider only the weeks since Palm Sunday, when the disciples arrived in Jerusalem with Jesus, they have rarely reacted to events with joy. What they have done is misunderstand Jesus’ teachings, get into arguments about who’s the greatest, fall asleep while praying, and deny even knowing Jesus. Not to mention doubting the resurrection, locking themselves away in fear, and failing to recognize the risen Christ. The disciples aren’t especially known for their celebratory responses.

Even at the start of the last conversation before the ascension, the disciples “startled and terrified” when Jesus shows up. They think he’s a ghost! (Luke 24:37) How do they get from startled and terrified at the beginning of the conversation, to overjoyed by the end, especially considering this is their last conversation with Jesus? What does he tell them that causes such a change of heart?

Before his ascension, Jesus shares four things with the disciples: a teaching, a mission, a promise, and a blessing.

Jesus begins, as he did on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:27), with teaching. He teaches the disciples about the law and the prophets. He “opens their minds to understand the scripture.” (Luke 24:44) Jesus wants them to be able to understand his life, death, and resurrection within the wider narrative of God’s relationship with people of faith. And he wants them to understand their own role within that narrative as well.

So he gives them a mission. “You are witnesses,” he tells them. They are being sent out in the world to tell the story of God’s love in Christ. The early church will come back to this mission again and again. Although the word “witness” is only used a handful of times in the Gospels, in the book of Acts, which describes the life of the early church, it’s used more than a dozen times. The leaders of the early church reminded themselves of this vocational calling many times. We are witnesses. We are the ones who tell the story of God’s grace. We are the ones who testify to the power of the Gospel.

To be a witness was not an easy task, and in truth, many of the early Christians suffered because of their witness. Many were killed because of it. The same word that means ‘witness’ becomes synonymous for one who is killed because of their faith: a martyr. To be a witness requires commitment, courage, even self-sacrifice.
So Jesus gives them a promise: the Holy Spirit will empower you for this work. Although this is Jesus’ farewell to his disciples, the on-going presence of God will stay with them. Divine power will be poured out on them, Jesus says, it will clothe them. They will be surrounded, enfolded, covered by the mysterious and transformative power of God’s spirit.

And if those three gifts weren’t enough– the scriptural teaching, the call to be witnesses, the promise of the Holy Spirit– Jesus leaves them with a final blessing. The text says that while he is still speaking this blessing over them, that Jesus is drawn away into heaven (Luke 24:51). The very final words they heard him speak are ones of blessing and sending. There’s no more conversation; Jesus is gone, right before their very eyes.

And the disciples are overjoyed!

They leave eager to worship, committed to one another and to the Gospel. Perhaps Jesus’ parting gifts– teaching, calling, promise, and blessing– perhaps these helped the disciples bear the pain of this separation. It seems likely they still had questions, doubts, fears. They were still shocked and grieving. Likely they got into more arguments, made more mistakes, continued to be the same people who were masterful at missing the point. And yet, these disciples step into the next chapter of their lives with confidence and joy because they trust who Christ is and who Christ has called them to be.

They trust who Christ is. When Jesus told them that he would not leave them orphaned, they believed him. When Jesus told them that his body was given for them, they took him seriously. When Jesus told them that the gift of the Holy Spirit would be poured out on them, they knew it would be so.

And they trust who they are in Christ. Their identities are rooted in the truth and freedom of the Gospel. Jesus has made them witnesses, and they know that being called and sent by Christ changes everything. Their role is to go out and proclaim forgiveness in Chris’s name. Who wouldn’t be joyful at the task of inviting others into the life-giving, heart-opening, grace-filled way of Christ!

It’s not as powerful as having Jesus speak it to you, but I want you to know that this is your vocation as well.

And the gifts that Jesus gave the disciples are also yours: the teaching of scripture, that speaks the Word of God to you; the mission to witness to the redemptive love of God for the world; the promise that God’s powerful spirit is poured out on you; and the everlasting blessing of the holy and Triune God. These are also for you.

The Ascension story isn’t about Jesus absence it’s about Christ’s presence – in you!

It’s a story we tell our children every week in Godly Play. Every Godly Play classroom has a Christ candle that gets lit as children gather, a reminder that the light of Christ is with us. When it’s time to leave and put the candle out, we say, “Watch carefully, the light is going to change.” The light was all in one place, but it can be in many places at once. Like the smoke rising from the wick, God’s presence fills the room in a different way. We tell the children the Christ light still shines in each of you, and you will carry it out into the world. That’s what the story of Ascension is about, and that’s why it’s a story of joy.

After Jesus ascended to heaven, just in case the disciples missed that point (like I said, they did have a track record) some mysterious robed messengers show up to remind them (Acts 1:9-10). “Why do you stand looking up to heaven?” they ask the disciples. In other words: What are you looking at? The light isn’t up there. The light has changed. You’re carrying it. You know who you are. You’re witnesses. So you’d better get going out into the world and shine that light.

Amen.

As we learn to be community in new ways during physical distancing, we can look to the example of the early church who cultivated community amidst the uncertainty following Jesus’ death by trusting God’s guidance through the Holy Spirit.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Fourth Sunday of Easter, year A
Texts: Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; John 10:1-10

Beloved in Christ, may the love of God be with you this day and all days. Amen.

Have you seen any chalk messages around your neighborhood?

You might have spotted some out your window or on an evening walk on your block. It’s become a trend during the pandemic. Sidewalks are covered in rainbow-colored chalk messages that say things like: “We’re all in this together” or “Don’t be afraid” or “This too shall pass.” My favorite one I saw recently said, “I can’t wait to hug you.”

The chalk trend is a sweet way to cheer one another up in difficult times, but it’s also deeper than that. It’s a philosophy of community. The messages remind us that although we are physically distancing, we are not socially distancing. We are coming together by staying apart. We are taking care of, and being cared for, by strangers we’ll never even meet.

Even once the stay-at-home orders are lifted, this practice of physical distance is going to be with us for a long time, as we continue to cope with the coronavirus. We will need these reminders that the distance is actually a form of community. We’ll need these reminders on our sidewalks, in our conversations, in our prayers. This is what love of neighbor looks like right now. This is a new way to be community together.

This Easter season we’ve been reading in the book of Acts how the early church discerned what it meant to be community together in a new way.

Things were changing for them, and they were facing a lot of uncertainty as they struggled to understand Jesus’ death and resurrection. How would they know how to move forward in the absence of their teacher and leader?

What we read in Acts is that they learned to listen to the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Even though Jesus was not physically with them any longer, the Holy Spirit moved among them and within them. That Spirit was a gift of Christ’s ongoing presence, poured out on the disciples.

But the apostle Peter says it goes further than that. Peter told the crowds that came to hear him: the promise of the Holy Spirit is for you, and for your children, and for those who are far away. The Holy Spirit is a gift for everyone to whom God calls! (Acts 2:39) The Spirit is not constrained by time or place. It’s not exclusive or limited; it’s abundant and generous. The disciples navigated the uncertainty after Jesus’ death because they trusted that abundant Spirit, which Jesus had promised would continue to guide them.

Through this faithful group of Christ-followers, God drew more and more people in, and they cultivated community together.

In Acts, we hear how radical the vision of togetherness was for these believers. They worshipped together daily and shared meals. They supported one another socially, spiritually, and economically. They accounted for every person’s needs. They shared everything.

Loving one another in this way sounds unrealistic in the midst of a pandemic, when you can’t be together and have all things in common. You can’t share meals and worship. You can’t even share handshakes and hugs. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be Christ-centered community.

You can care for the needs of others. You can support one another socially, spiritually, and economically. You can praise God with glad and generous hearts, study God’s word, and pray in your home, as Acts tells us the early church did. You are doing all of those things, and God is still working through you every single day. The Spirit is still speaking to you as you navigate how to be community in the midst of these circumstances.

When Jesus talked about how the community of believers should depend on God for guidance, he often used the image of a flock of sheep being led by a shepherd.

We heard this in our Gospel reading from John today. The shepherd leads the sheep by voice, calling to them and guiding them. The sheep can’t see all that well, but they can listen. They recognize and follow the voice of their shepherd. And they know to run away from other voices that might try to persuade them down a different path.

Following the voice of the shepherd can’t keep the sheep from all harm. They can’t huddle in the safety of the sheepfold forever. At some point, they need to go out and find pasture where they can eat, and they trust the shepherd to lead them there, to the green pastures and the still waters. (Psalm 23:2)

When you imagine yourself as one of God’s flock, navigating the dangers of the world, you might experience God as the shepherd who calls to you and leads you to the good fields. You might experience God as the gate that welcomes you back in to a place of safety. You might experience God as the gatekeeper who protects you while you rest, keeping out anything that would harm you. Jesus uses all of these different images to help people understand the ways that God cares for them.

And if all those metaphors confuse you, and you’re asking how God can be a shepherd, a gate, and a gatekeeper, know that you’re not alone. After all, the disciples themselves admitted that they weren’t sure what Jesus was talking about. So he gave them the bottom line.

Jesus says what matters is this: God wants life for you.

And not just the kind of life that’s sufficient or good enough. God wants the kind of life for you that’s abundant, like a cup running over, flooded with blessing. (Psalm 23:5) God wants this for you, and for the people you’re isolated with, and for the people you miss and want to hug, and for the people you’ve never even met. Even when it feels like you are walking through the valley of the shadow of death, you are not alone in this. The whole flock surrounds you and the good shepherd leads you.

Keep listening for the voice that speaks abundant life to you. Keep listening for the voice that calls you into courageous love for the world. Keep listening.

Amen.

We hear the Passion story anew amidst these unprecedented circumstances that have us celebrating Holy Week in our homes. The death we face – in this story and in our world – is real, but the God who loves us accompanies us into the suffering.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Sunday of the Passion, year A
Texts: Psalm 31:9-16; Matthew 26:14-27:66

Palm Sunday looks a little bit different this year. Even your palm leaves might look a little bit different this year. These are dark and scary times to be moving into the celebration Holy Week, a beloved and special time in our church year. It feels strange to be hearing the story of Jesus’ passion from our own homes, instead of in the sanctuary together.

But as is so often the case, the scriptures meet us right where we are. The realities of this moment seemed unimaginable just a few weeks ago, and yet these ancient texts from thousands of years ago can reach across time and space and speak God’s word to us today.

Perhaps the Psalmist’s words could be your own: “Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress. My strength fails me.” (Psalm 31:9-10, ESV) This Psalm is a lament: it cries out in need to God. But laments don’t end with grievance; they also includes expression of praise and trust in God. In the midst of pain and fear, you can declare, as the Psalmist does: “My times are in your hand, God.” (Psalm 31:15)

“My times are in your hand.” Jesus actually says something very similar at the opening of the Passion reading we heard today. As he arrives in Jerusalem, he says to his disciples: “My time is near.” (Matthew 26:18) Jesus accepts each day as it comes, continuing to trust that his time is in God’s hands. Jerusalem has been pulling him like a magnet, even though he knows what trouble awaits him there.

And we know what trouble awaits him there, too. The Passion story is so familiar that you might have to intentionally invite yourself to hear it in a new way. Perhaps the unprecedented circumstances we’re in might help you do that. The seemingly mundane aspects of this story might resonate with those of you who are sheltering at home for days on end right now.

The story opens with Jesus and his friends celebrating a holiday,  not in a temple or synagogue, but in a home. There are no elaborate rituals, only a shared meal made with everyday food and drink, made with what they had on hand. Bread and wine. These ordinary things become extraordinary in the hands of Christ, who transforms them into vessels of God’s grace. Bread is body, broken open that it might feed all. Wine is blood, the sign of a covenant with God, a promise sealed and kept forever. It is only Matthew’s Jesus who specifically mentions “forgiveness” being poured from the cup. A well of mercy that will never run dry. At the end of the celebratory meal, Jesus and the disciples sing hymns and pray together. (Matthew 26:30)

This Holy Week, as you gather around your tables to share a holiday at home, remember those parts of the story. Remember Jesus’ body and blood; remember Jesus’ promise and love. Notice the sacramental coming alive in your own hands. Sing the hymns you love, and pray the prayers you know. Trust that Christ is present right where you are, even in a Holy Week that looks unlike any other.

Of course, despite its ordinary moments, the Passion is an extraordinary story. It is full of the unexpected and inexplicable. It is full of sacred mystery.

In this Passion story we proclaim that Emmanuel, God who has come to be with humanity, will die for humanity. No failure, no sin, will change that. And this story is full of human failure: betrayal, abandonment, denial, torture, execution. None of these can undo God’s love in Christ. That love is poured out for all people, in all places, at all times. That cup of forgiveness always overflows.

In this Passion story we proclaim that we do not worship a God who conquers or punishes but a God whose victory is in sacrifice and mercy. This is a God in solidarity with those who suffer, because this is a God who suffers. In this story we see that God knows what it is to be human, like me, like you. God knows your pain, your sickness, your grief, your death. God goes with you into the dark.

So Holy Week might look different, but the truth of this precious story that we tell every year, that truth does not change. Your God does not change. Your God still comes to you, right where you are, and still speaks to you, right where you are. And the Word God speaks is one of love, even in the face of death.

That death isn’t theoretical. It’s real. This week, we encounter that death directly – in the story of Jesus’ journey to the cross. And in our own world, right now. Holy Week, even this Holy Week, has space to hold our grief in that. Even the Light of the World, dies. That’s where the Gospels story ends for today.

Except for one last detail. After Jesus’ death, his body is taken down from the cross and put in a rock-hewn tomb. Perhaps the officials who had ordered Jesus’ execution felt like justice had been served, a threat had been neutralized, the law had been upheld. Perhaps they felt like this marked the end of the story of Jesus, the supposed Messiah.

But something kept nagging at them. The Gospel writer tells us that they just couldn’t stop thinking about something Jesus had said when he was still alive: something about rebuilding a destroyed temple; something about the dead being raised to life; something that had sounded crazy at the time.

A heavy stone is rolled in front of the entrance to Jesus’ tomb, and soldiers are sent to seal it shut, just in case. A guard is put on 24-hour watch outside. But still, it just doesn’t feel secure enough. They’re just not sure death can hold Jesus.

And everyone is left to wonder: What if there’s a crack that’s just enough to let the light in? Or maybe to let the light out? What if Jesus was telling the truth all along? What if death is not the final word? What if, somehow, the story doesn’t end here? Friends, this Holy Week, may you live into these mysteries even in the midst of the mundane.

Amen.