When the situation in the world looks bleak, Reign of Christ Sunday is our reminder that God’s power of love, embodied in Christ on the cross, always wins, and that we are meant to be part of making God’s peaceful reign a reality.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Reign of Christ, Last Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 34 C
Texts: Jeremiah 34:1-6, Colossians 1:11-20, Luke 23:33-43

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

Things look bleak. It seems like evil is everywhere. Each day brings devastating news of destruction and violence. Everything is falling apart. Who is to blame for what’s happening? It’s the incompetent, immoral, irresponsible leader of the nation – at least, that’s Jeremiah’s conclusion.

In the passage we heard this morning, the Hebrew prophet is grieving the fate of his homeland Judah, which has fallen to the Babylonians. The Judean monarchy was just not strong enough to resist the foreign empire with its different culture, different values, and different gods. Babylon has conquered. And now the precious city of Jerusalem has been sacked! The sacred walls of the temple have brought to rubble! Many of the Judean people have been taken away into exile, while those who are left split into conflicting factions. And it’s all the fault of a couple crummy kings.

The prophet explains that kings are supposed to rule like shepherds, protecting the sheep from danger. But Judah’s most recent kings have been misguided leaders. They have let the flock scatter. The only chance now is that there might come a king righteous enough and powerful enough to pull the nation back together. There might, someday, be a good shepherd.

Hundreds of years after Jeremiah’s time, someone finally came along who seemed to fit the bill. Jesus came from humble beginnings, but he was descended from the right lineage, the line of David, just as the prophet had foretold. Jesus spoke with wisdom beyond his years. With merely a word, he could heal deformities and illness, cast out demons, and calm storms. He fed thousands with next to nothing and even raised to life a man four days dead.

Could this be, at last, the promised Prince of Peace, the chosen one, the Messiah? Could this finally be the good shepherd? Many people thought so. Jesus drew crowds and changed lives. Yet, his growing popularity made the authorities increasingly nervous. He challenged established religious and social norms, and claimed divine power. But, curiously, he didn’t amass any armies or incite insurrections. He led no coups, took up no weapons. How would he protect the people if he didn’t fight?

Eventually, the opposition against him got organized. They arrested Jesus. They hauled him before the authorities and put him on trial. Frustrated, they demanded of Jesus: “Are you a king or not?!” But even then Jesus didn’t fight, and they convicted him to death, a criminal’s death. Surrounded by angry mobs, he ended up on a cross outside Jerusalem, the same city whose destruction Jeremiah had mourned generations earlier.

In this moment, it seems like history is repeating itself. Things look bleak. It looks like evil has won. Another so-called “king” looks like another failed leader. One criminal hanging next to Jesus expresses this sentiment: “Some Messiah you are! You can’t save us now. You can’t even save yourself.” Instead of calling down righteous judgment on his foes, Jesus speaks forgiveness, even as he loses his life. Instead maintaining his authority, Jesus humbly gives everything away. What kind of king does that? Everyone can see that this is not the king they’d expected after all…

Well, not everyone. Not the criminal hanging on the other side of Jesus. He sees the situation differently.  He sees Jesus as a king. Even though it looks like Jesus has been defeated, he says, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” When this criminal looks at Jesus, he sees one who rules with mercy, not domination. One whose victory comes through sacrificial love, not retribution. That’s a different kind of power, and somehow, at the darkest moment, the most unexpected person recognizes it. Whatever Jesus’ reign will look like, he wants in. These are the final moments of this criminal’s earthly life. This man is dying, and yet the power he sees in Jesus gives him immense hope. He puts his complete trust in Jesus, even on the cross, and so he says, “Remember me.” And in return, Jesus speaks acceptance and promise. He tells the criminal, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

This encapsulates the kind of power that the Triune God wields: a power that offers forgiveness for even the gravest of sins; a power that finds lost ones and carries them to Paradise; a power that brings abundant life out of certain death. This is, indeed, the promised messiah, the prince of peace, the savior of the world.

It’s no wonder that people failed to recognize it in Jesus, failed to see a king in the crucified – the reign of Christ is unlike any other. It’s still difficult to put our hope in the cross. It’s tempting to trust in the kind of power that rules with might, rather than the kind of power that empties itself in compassion. It’s especially hard to put our hope in the cross when we reach those moments in history when things look bleak, and the news is devastating, and national leaders are a disappointment.

Reign of Christ Sunday, the liturgical festival we celebrate today, serves as a reminder that – no matter how the situation looks – the power of sacrificial love has already won. Our ultimate ruler and judge, stands above and beyond the ups and downs of history. This festival was added to the Christian calendar almost a century ago, in the wake of World War I, as authoritarianism was gaining momentum around the world. Its message is no less critical to the present moment.

On this Sunday, we come to the story of Jesus on the cross and we encounter the power of God in Christ. It may look like weakness by human standards, but this power actually makes us strong. As Paul writes in Colossians, through Christ we are able to endure whatever the world brings. Christ holds the whole creation together and reconciles us all to God. That is a word of hope for every moment of human history.

Generations after this liturgical festival was instituted, it calls us to remember Christ, whose kingdom has come and is yet coming. When we pray together in worship, “Your kingdom come,” we invoke God’s desire for our world, a vision of peace, justice, and love that stands against earthly systems of violence, oppression, and greed. And we are meant to be a part of making God’s reign real: to be instruments of that peace, advocates for that justice, embodiment of that love – not just individually, but in our families, our communities, our congregation. Together, we live the sacrificial way of the cross, knowing that it is, always, the way of life, and trusting fully that God-in-Christ, our good shepherd, goes before us and goes with us on the way.

Amen.

The church, full of beloved saints, is the living body of Christ, called to God’s mission in the world.

Vicar Bristol Reading
All Saints Day
Texts: Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

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

The closest I have ever been to the body of Christ was at the place where that body died, Calvary, the site of Jesus’ crucifixion.

In Jesus’ day, Calvary was a rocky hill just outside the city gates of Jerusalem, where criminals were put to death. Today, it’s buried underneath an enormous, ornate church in the Old City. When you visit Calvary, you wait inside that church for hours alongside hundreds other religious pilgrims from all over the world. One by one, you kneel beneath the lavish gold altar that has been constructed over the spot. You have to get down on your hands and knees and actually crawl underneath it, and then you reach your hand into a hole in the floor under the altar, and at the bottom of the hole, you can touch stone, the ground that was beneath the cross of Christ.

You have traveled for days and waited for hours, but your chance to touch this particular stone lasts for only a few seconds. And, if you’re like me, you spend those few seconds trying to imagine that this very stone that you are touching with your body was once touched by the body of Jesus. You try to feel some kind of physical closeness to Christ, to reach underneath everything that humans have piled on over the years. And you think, “Maybe Jesus was here, right here. Maybe his feet, his hands, his blood touched this stone. Maybe this is the closest I’ll ever be to the real body of Christ.” And then your turn is over and you move on so another pilgrim can reach the very ground touched by God.

While I was away visiting the place where Jesus died, back home in Chicago my seminary advisor died.

Gordon was my wise teacher and trusted friend, an encourager and confidant in my journey as a ministerial leader. His death was unexpected, and it was jarring to receive this news on the other side of the world. The last time we’d spoken, neither of us had known he was sick, so we hadn’t said goodbye. For months after, it felt surreal that he was really gone, and I struggled to say out loud that he had died. But this morning, almost exactly ten months since his passing, I am ready to hear it out loud. I added Gordon’s name to the Book of Saints, so he will be lifted up in prayer, alongside all the precious ones we remember today.

There are countless stories about who these saints were and the impact they had on your lives. There are countless memories – of joy and sorrow – that fill this room as their names are read. We speak their names because there is power in naming. There is power in remembering. We remember the saints who have gone before us because their faithfulness inspires us to live faithfully. The way they embodied Christ to us, moves us to embody Christ in the world now.

We call these departed siblings in faith “saints,” not because their lives were flawless but because their lives were beloved.

They were – and are – loved by you, and they were and are infinitely loved by God. Sometimes we fall into the trap of thinking that one has to earn the designation of “saint,” by living a perfect life of selfless service. But in our tradition we name all the faithful as saints, knowing that we are all imperfect and we are all forgiven. Certainly we should do our very best to embody God’s compassion in our actions. Jesus tells us more than once that we are all called to care for any who are in need and to love even our enemies. But –   it is not human actions that make saints. It is God’s action: God’s boundless love, God’s unlimited mercy, that’s what makes saints of us all. Each life, marked by both weeping and laughter, is seen and valued by God. Every person, simultaneously saint and sinner, is held in God’s grace forever. No life is too broken, too painful, too sinful for God to be fully present. Everyone, no matter their circumstances, can be transformed by the Spirit for the sake of the Gospel.

Jesus’s words in Luke are a reminder of this; Jesus says that those who suffer are the inheritors of the riches of God’s kingdom.

Those who are poor, hungry, and excluded are called “blessed” in God’s reign. Blessing, then, doesn’t always entail feeling good or avoiding struggle. Blessing doesn’t equate to worldly success. If you measure the value of a life by what the world considers successful, you will miss the ways God’s spirit is at work in all people, no matter how successful they look according to the world’s standards. When we name and remember the saints who have gone before, we don’t remember their worldly success, we remember their faithfulness to God. Likewise, when we name and celebrate the saints who are newly baptized, we don’t claim for them the gift of wealth or comfort, but the gift of God’s Spirit and the call to God’s mission. The true blessing that is given to all the saints is the gracious love of God, abundant in this life and the next. An inheritance that is sure. A treasure that is eternal. It cannot be undone or taken away, not by hunger, not by poverty, not by suffering, not by death – thanks be to God!

And because that inheritance is sure and that treasure is eternal, you are freed.

You are freed by love of God, and freed to love your neighbor. You are sent out to proclaim the Gospel, the good news, with your words and with your deeds. And the good news is this: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again. Resurrection is the good news! God makes life possible where life seemed impossible. Christ’s death on the cross at Calvary was not the final word.

So the place where Jesus died was not the closest I’ve ever been to the body of Christ, because Christ’s body is not there on that rock of Calvary, because Christ’s body is not dead.

God’s resurrecting power is stronger than death, and has redeemed all of creation. And Paul tells us that the very same power that raised Christ from the dead is still at work in the world… in you. You are the living body of Christ. You, the saints of God, the ones marked with the seal of the Holy Spirit, the ones sent into the world to serve, you are Christ’s body. The body of Christ is here, right here, alive in the faithful saints of God: saints that have passed into eternal life, saints that are living out the mission of the Gospel right now, and saints that are being baptized into new life every day. The church, full of beloved saints, is the body of Christ that is being made new again and again. That is the power of resurrection, and that is the power of God in you.

Amen.

God’s abundant healing is available to all people, in all places, and can be experienced through worship.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 28 C
Texts: Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7; Luke 17:11-19

This Gospel story about the ten lepers reveals so much about who God is in Christ – a powerful, compassionate, healing God.

The divine power in Jesus is so evident to the lepers, that they recognize it the minute they see him coming. Even from afar, they can tell that this is someone who can do miraculous things. They call out to Jesus, asking for mercy, and calling him “Master.” This term of respect acknowledges Jesus’ authority in a particular way: In Luke’s Gospel, the title “Master” is used by Jesus’ closest disciples. These ten sick people are strangers to Jesus, but they can see him for who he truly is. They know Jesus acts with the power of God.

And what does this one with divine authority do? He heals. He heals not just one of these people, not a few of them, but all ten – at once, with barely more than a word. It’s almost as though healing just overflows from who Jesus is, and it is generous enough to reach all ten of these people. There is no scarcity here. In the presence of Christ, there is healing in abundance.

And there is acceptance and mercy for people who have been marginalized.

Leprosy was, and still is, a disfiguring and stigmatized disease. Any illness was significant and dangerous in the ancient world, but a chronic, infectious illness like leprosy, would have been especially disruptive to the rhythms of work and family life. Lepers could end up isolated and shunned by others. But Jesus is willing to go to them and heal them.

And to really underscore that this is a display of radical compassion on Jesus’ part, Luke adds one more twist in the story. All ten lepers are healed and sent on their way, healthy, presumably able to be reintegrated into their community. But one leper has a particularly transformative experience and returns to praise Jesus. That leper, the text says, was a Samaritan.

This is a moment in the story at which the audience can gasp in surprise. Samaritans are classic outsider characters in Gospel stories. This man wasn’t just an outsider because of his illness, he’s twice an outsider because of his identity as a Samaritan. Even Jesus goes out of his way to mention that this guy is different. He asks, “Was none found to return and praise God except this foreigner?”

Now Samaritans weren’t from some distant region; Samaria was next to Galilee, where Jesus was from. But Samaritans had a different ethnic background, practiced different religious rituals, and acknowledged a different temple. This had caused centuries of conflict with Israelite Jews. So when we hear that, of all the healed lepers, it is this political, ethnic, and religious outsider who comes back to fall at the feet of Christ, it’s a surprise!

And it’s a reminder of how often Jesus crosses traditional boundaries to show compassion and mercy to all people, even people with whom he shouldn’t be interacting, even people who have long been considered foreign enemies. Luke wants us to hear that Christ’s healing is so abundant that it extends to everyone, even Samaritans.

Jesus says to the Samaritan: “Your faith has made you well.” In the narrative of Luke, Jesus says this phrase to people who are treated by society as outsiders, but who are healed and loved by God. He says it to a woman who was labeled “sinful” for her lifestyle, and scandalous for anointing Jesus’ feet with her hair. He says it to a woman who has been bleeding for more than a decade and can do little more than reach to touch the hem of Jesus’ cloak. He says it to a blind beggar who waits at the city gates, dependent solely on the assistance of passing strangers. And he says it to a Samaritan leper: “Your faith has made you well.”

Jesus doesn’t this to the disciples, or the temple priests, or the theological experts, or the patrons of the synagogue… But to the people who are sick or poor, people who are often invisible. But they’re not invisible to Jesus. Jesus sees them, and loves them, and makes them well, because the healing power of God is abundant towards all people.

This doesn’t just mean physical healing of illness or injury. There can be a soul-deep, transformative healing.

When the Samaritan leper came back to fall at the feet of Jesus, he had already been cleansed of his illness. And yet Jesus tells him his faith has made him well. His act of gratitude and praise before Christ brings an even-deeper degree of wholeness and wellness than the physical healing he has already experienced. Who can know what more needed healing in him? The burdens that other people bear are not always easy to see. But he knew, and Jesus knew. And something about being in a posture of worship made him more than clean… it made him well.

Perhaps you have experienced something like that: Being made well by a close encounter with God. Worshiping before the living God doesn’t necessarily take away bodily pain and illness, but entering into a sacred space, into loving community, into song and silence and prayer – that can be a balm for a weary and wounded soul. Some people describe worship as entering a “thin place.” This is an idea from Celtic Christian tradition that describes a time or space where the boundary between the physical and the spiritual is especially thin, a time or place where you can experience the holy, where you can draw close to God.

Of course, thin places aren’t always churches – and too many times, churches have been places of harm rather than safety. Churches have, unfortunately, come in between people and God’s abundant healing. But God’s presence extends far beyond the walls of any one church, just as God’s healing and compassion extend far beyond any one particular group of people.

No one is an outsider to the healing love of the Triune God, and no one can ever be outside that love.

There is nowhere that is so far that you can’t experience it. Even if you end up in Babylon, like the ancient Israelites to whom Jeremiah was writing. The prophet encourages the Israelite people to make a life in Babylon, a place that is far from their homeland. They are not there by choice but in exile; they are the foreigners. Still, Jeremiah says they should be as present as they can in that place. They won’t be able to go to their familiar places of worship, but God’s spirit is still with them right where they are. They can still worship, and they can still pray.
Jeremiah even tells them to pray for their new neighbors, to seek the welfare of their former enemies. Jeremiah understood that God’s love could extend even to people like the Babylonians, and God’s healing could be found even in a place like Babylon. God’s compassion is just that abundant: it is for everyone and in every place.

So if you are feeling far from home, lost and confused, remember that Holy Spirit is present with you right where you are. If you are feeling like you have been made an outsider, remember that Christ will cross boundaries to come close to you. If you are feeling like your soul is weary and needing rest, remember that you can always come into the healing love of God and be made well.

Amen.

Faith is trusting God’s power at work in your heart and life, which is always sufficient.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 27 C
Texts: 2 Timothy 1:1-14, Luke 17:5-10

You have enough faith. If you’re worried that you don’t believe the things you’re supposed to believe, or you have too much doubt, or you’ve done too much wrong, or you’ve done too little right – I can tell you that, right now, just as you are, you have enough faith.

When the disciples ask Jesus to “increase their faith,” Jesus declines. Not because they don’t qualify somehow, or because he’s withholding more faith from them – but because the faith they have already is sufficient. Even if it’s tiny! Jesus picks one of the smallest things he can think of to drive this point home: if your faith is as tiny as a mustard seed, that’s enough.

Mustard seeds are famously small, but I don’t think that’s the only reason that Jesus picks a seed for this metaphor of faith. Seeds grow. They transform on a scale that’s miraculous. From something so tiny can come giant trees, sprawling shrubs, stretching vines. Seeds provide – they bring fruit and food. And seeds are alive. They contain a living thing. And that living thing can produce other living things, seeds that make plants that make more seeds that make more plants…

So if faith is like that, then even the tiniest kernel of faith can live and provide and grow. Despite Jesus’ seed metaphor, I imagine that you have still felt like your faith is fragile or inadequate at times.

Timothy, a leader in the early church, seems to have faced a crisis of faith like that, one that was emotionally difficult. In Paul’s letter to Timothy, we hear that Timothy has shed tears; he has felt ashamed and afraid. His faith has grown as dim as an ember. But Paul believes that Timothy’s faith can still be re-kindled.

He reminds Timothy that his faith, tiny ember that it is, is not his own: Timothy has inherited this faith from his ancestors. Paul writes: “Your faith lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I’m sure, lives in you.” In other words, the tiny seed of faith is alive and growing. It was alive before Timothy, and now, it lives in him. Timothy doesn’t carry the burden of faith alone. Wise, courageous women (in this case) carried it before him, and now this treasure of the faith has been entrusted to him. Someday Timothy will pass it on to those who come after him, and those who come after them, and those who come after them…

Could Timothy ever have imagined that all of us would be sitting here today, recipients of the faith that was passed down from his grandmother? That tiny ember, that had almost gone out, still lives. Look, it is here, living even now, in this room, in us.

When we gather together in worship, we bring into this space the legacy of those Loises and Eunices who brought us up in the faith. They may not be literal, biological mothers and grandmothers – but you know who those people are in your life, those mothers and fathers and siblings of faith who nurtured you on your spiritual journey, who shared with you the precious good news of the Gospel, who reminded you when you were most afraid and ashamed: that you are loved; you are enough.

Now you are entrusted with the treasure. You are part of family tree of the faithful. You are called to tell others that they are loved, that they are enough. And the faith will keep living and growing, beyond our lifetimes.

We will see this in action this morning, when we baptize Abigail. This is part of the Lutheran tradition of baptizing young children. We don’t question whether or not little ones have “enough” faith, or believe the “right” things in order to be baptized – because this is God’s free gift, without qualification. One does not have to do anything to receive it. Babies can’t even walk themselves to the font! They get carried, by their mothers and grandmothers in faith. When we are baptized at any age, we are always carried, in a sense, to that moment by our mothers and grandmothers in faith. And no matter what happens in the lives of the baptized, the gift of God’s grace will always be there for them. Nothing can ever take it away.

Because God’s spirit is always at work in us, through our whole lives. Paul reminds Timothy of this also when he writes about the Holy Spirit that is “living in us.” The Spirit is always within us, guiding us and working through us. You don’t have to rely on your own strength; you can rely on the life-giving power of God that is already within you. You don’t have to worry about whether or not you have enough faith; you just have to trust the one who is at work in you. Faith is trusting that God’s work in you is sufficient.

However, trusting that God’s spirit is moving in our hearts and lives doesn’t mean that faithful living requires nothing of us. Paul describes discipleship as a “holy calling:” In response to God’s gift of grace, we are called to live Gospel-centered lives. That’s not always easy. Living out the radical compassion of the Gospel requires commitment, discipline, and sacrifice.

In the Luke passage we heard this morning, Jesus reminds the apostles of this: The Gospel life requires a willingness to serve without reward or repayment, to serve because it is the way God has told us we are to live. Jesus compares it to household slaves dutifully serving at the table of their master. They serve the meal first, before eating themselves.

It’s uncomfortable for us to hear that metaphor today. We know that a master-slave interaction is an unequal and coercive power dynamic, not a model relationship. It is troubling and confusing to hear this imagery used by Jesus. Yet we can still wrestle with the implications of his message.

The end of his short parable contains a surprising twist for the audience: Jesus puts his listeners in the role of the servants, not the master. The authority role is reserved for God. This metaphor is not about humans having power over other humans, but about faithful obedience to God. And God is not the same kind of master that humans would be. When Jesus speaks of the “kingdom of God,” we understand that he is describing God’s reign of complete mercy and justice. That is in contrast to earthly kingdoms over which humans reign. Similarly, when Jesus speaks of being “slaves” to God, that is in contrast to human systems of slavery. God is always liberating. Obedience to the way of the Gospel is never oppressive, even if it is difficult. It is always life-giving.

We don’t serve God and one another because we think it will gain us reward. We serve because it is the way of life that Christ showed us – Christ, who himself became a servant out of love for the world [Philippians 2:7]. We don’t have to wonder whether a master like that would invite us to sit down at the table and share a meal. The table of the Triune God is open to all, always, and the meal is ready. That’s what we celebrate each time we share communion.

So instead of hearing this parable as a reminder that we are worthless slaves, it can be a reminder that we are devoted servants in God’s kingdom, living out our commitment to the Gospel as a “holy calling.” If ever we feel that we are inadequate for the tasks of discipleship, we can remember that it doesn’t depend on our own power, but on God’s power working through us. And God will never give up on that work in us, no matter how dim our faith feels from time to time, because in God’s sight we are always enough. We continue living as faithful people because God has always been faithful to us – just as God was faithful to the generations who came before us and will be faithful to the generations who will come after us.

The scandalous cross can only be understood relationally because its central message is about God’s redeeming love for the world in Christ.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Feast of the Holy Cross
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-24; John 3:13-17

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

When I first started the process toward ordination, my pastor gave me some advice to help me prepare for the essays I’d have to write and the interviews I’d have to do with my candidacy committee. I remember him telling me, “You’ll need to be able to say something about what the theology of the cross means in your life.” I dutifully wrote that down and filed it away mentally as something I’d need to figure out along the way. I thought I’d just spend some time thinking that one through, and then, I’d come up with a reasonable answer. Then, I’d understand what the cross means.

My approach was a little bit like that of Nicodemus in John’s Gospel. Nicodemus was really drawn to Jesus’ astonishing teachings about the radical new life that’s possible in the kingdom of God. But he couldn’t quite figure out the logistical details. So he finally mustered up the courage to approach Jesus and asked him, “I can’t quite make sense of this. How does new life actually work?” The Gospel passage we heard this evening is part of Jesus’ response to Nicodemus.

Now, if Nicodemus was looking for a logical explanation, this isn’t it. He’s trying to wrap his head around something that he needs to wrap his heart around. The new life that is possible in the Kingdom of God isn’t about analytical answers. It’s about relationship. It’s about God’s love for the world. Jesus tells Nicodemus this. He says, “God so loved the whole world that God made a way for the whole world to have life forever.” And the one standing right in front of Nicodemus is that way.

That’s not the kind of truth you can rationally understand like you understand a math equation or a financial transaction. Love is a deeper kind of truth. If you were asked to explain why you love the people you love – your children, your spouse, your friends – it might not make sense to someone else. But anyone who has ever loved or been loved knows how deeply powerful and true love can be, even when it doesn’t “make sense.” If we experience that in our human relationships, can you imagine how much more transformational the love of God can be? The new life that Jesus speaks about is the reality of being in that love. That’s where the life is – in relationship with God!

Anyone who believes in God’s great love for the world will have that eternal life, Jesus tells Nicodemus. This doesn’t mean ‘believe’ in a cognitive sense, as in something you know in your mind. This means trust, as in something you know in your soul, something you’d stake your life on. Jesus is saying, “Anyone who puts their trust in God’s great love for the world, will find life.”

And it is truly a trust-worthy love. God would give up everything for the sake of that love. Indeed, when the incarnate God lived as a human being in Jesus, God did give up everything for the sake of that love. God died for the sake of that love, a painful, humiliating death on a cross. That symbol, the cross, is a reminder of just how trustworthy God’s love is. God’s love is wide enough to hold the whole created world, faithful enough to give up everything for its beloved, powerful enough to bring life out of death. What good news!

But for those like Nicodemus who interacted with the person of Jesus, it was also surprising news. We don’t get to hear Nicodemus’ reaction to Jesus telling him that “the Son of Man must be lifted up” on the cross, but we can imagine that this was a confusing thing to hear. Impressed by Jesus’ miracles and drawn by Jesus’ message, many people expected the Christ, the Messiah, to embody a different kind of power. Surely, the savior of the world would be strong and in control. Surely the savior of the world would win, not lose. Otherwise, how would the world be saved? Even Jesus’ closest friends and disciples expressed concern and doubt as the shadow of the cross loomed nearer. Surely the savior of the world won’t be arrested and executed like a common criminal. As Jesus was hanging on the cross, dying, some were still saying, “If he is indeed Christ, the Messiah, let him save himself” (Mark 15:31). Even those who stood later in the empty tomb, who encountered the risen Christ, even they struggled to understand how God’s power was at work in the world. The self-giving love of Christ on the cross looked so unlike their expectations. God’s kingdom is not like the kingdoms of this world (John 18:26).

Thousands of years later, people still look at Christ and expect a different kind of power. Too often, we expect life made easy, pain taken away, problems triumphantly solved. We can lose sight of where the real power is, where the real life is. It’s found in the relationship of love that God has for the world. It’s found in the way of the cross. That’s the scandal of the cross: it disrupts all our expectations and definitions. Power in surrender. Victory through sacrifice. Life from death. The scandalous cross keeps us from ever getting too comfortable with our own intellectual understanding of God’s way. It will always keep surprising and confounding us.

You have to be some kind of fool to be able to trust in such a mysterious, paradoxical kind of power. Or at least that’s how Paul puts it: “The message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” In other words, if you look at the cross from the outside, it looks like nonsense, but if you experience it from inside God’s love, you can see its salvation. You never totally “make sense” of God’s love in Christ; you trust it. You never really wrap your head around it, but you give your heart to it. You let it transform you, and you live out that sacrificial love in your own life.

To remind ourselves of this, we have hung that scandalous symbol in the central place of this holy space of worship. We bow to it in reverence. Because we are foolish enough to put our hope in it. Because we know that it is not a symbol of death but a symbol of life. Because we know that the most powerful force in the world is not dominance but self-emptying love. The kind of love Christ showed on that cross. That’s the kind of love could save the world. Indeed it already has, it still does, and it always will.

Amen.