Faithfulness, not faith, will be how you change the world in Christ.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 27 C
Texts: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; Luke 17:5-10 (with ref. to Matthew 8:23-27)

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

The storm terrified even these experienced sailors.

This couldn’t be the first storm they’d seen on the Sea of Galilee. These were home waters, but winds rose so high they feared they’d be swamped and all would drown. Meanwhile their beloved Teacher is sound asleep on a nice cushion, oblivious to the chaos and their terror. They wake him up, charging that he doesn’t even care if they perish.

And Jesus says, “Why are you afraid, ‘Littlefaiths’? and calms the storm. (Matthew 8:23-27, with some detail from Mark 4)

Normally translated “you of little faith,” it’s just one word, like a nickname: “Littlefaiths.” Maybe it’s a nickname he’s used before. It could be insulting. Except for Jesus’ words today.

He says the size of your faith isn’t relevant.

Maybe you are good old “Littlefaith,” afraid most days, doubting yourself, wondering if God cares about your life, this world. But today Jesus says “Littlefaith” is just enough.

With just a little faith you could move a mountain, Jesus says, as Matthew tells this story. Here, in Luke, Jesus says with just a little faith you could uproot a mulberry tree and fling it into the sea. When Jesus calls you “Littlefaith,” it’s a term of endearment, a nickname of hope: because if you had even a little faith, you could do amazing things.

Thing is, we’re in a world where a massive storm threatens to overwhelm everything, and it sometimes feels we’re in this mess alone, God isn’t doing anything. “Don’t you care that we’re perishing?” many of us have cried out to God in these days. Healing this world’s pain feels far more serious than tossing trees into the ocean.

Habakkuk agrees.

Habakkuk cries out just like the disciples did in the boat, wondering how long he has to call for help while God doesn’t listen. Destruction and violence are everywhere, he says, the law is slack, and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous. And Habakkuk is frightened. Tired of asking God for help that never comes.

Once again it’s stunning that words written thousands of years ago seem to have been written and saved up for just this time, our world, this pain and oppression and violence and injustice we know. So we tiredly wait alongside a prophet most of us hardly remember is in the Bible, wondering what God will say.

And God’s answer sounds a lot like our Gospel reading.

There is a vision for the healing, God says to Habakkuk. If it seems to be delayed, wait for it, because it’s surely coming. And then God says this: the righteous will live by their faithfulness.

Now, Martin Luther loved this verse, and understood it to say the righteous will live by faith. He tied that into his deep insight that we are saved, made whole with God through faith alone, by God’s grace alone.

But the word is better translated faithfulness. That is, it’s not whether you have enough faith. It’s whether you’re being faithful. Which is exactly Jesus’ point today. It doesn’t matter what the master does or doesn’t do. All that matters is that you are faithful in your serving.

So for you and me, Littlefaiths all, it’s not about asking to have our faith increased, as the disciples did today. God’s answer is that we find just enough faith to be faithful. To do our calling in this world. Even if the storm is still raging. The mountain standing. The tree rooted.

See, that’s the challenging part. There’s no promise the storm will calm right away.

God tells the prophet that God’s healing is coming, but he might have to wait. The mountain of evil and oppression and injustice that we hope to remove from our world is a mountain. It will take time. The roots of racism, sexism, prejudice, self-centeredness grow deep into the heart of our world, and our hearts. That tree will not easily be uprooted and thrown out.

And worst, Jesus seems to treat slavery as normative here. Nothing in the parable says “end slavery now.” Words like these became powerful ways for white slaveholders to keep their feet on the backs and necks of the people they abused and oppressed.

But that’s not the end of the story.

The Way of Christ, the way of faithfulness, has changed the world profoundly.

Slaves certainly heard this parable when Jesus said it. He attracted people at the margins and loved them in God’s name. The early church drew heavily from people who were slaves, impoverished, oppressed. They found hope in a God who cared for them enough to become one of them, who called them beloved even if others saw them as dirt.

And those followers of the Way, with their faithfulness, eventually broke slavery around the world in most places where they lived. It took centuries. Far too long, many would say, and they’d be right. But the tree was uprooted nonetheless.

So you look at a deeply rooted tree and say “how could anyone make that come out of the ground and fly into the ocean?” But notice: Jesus never says you can’t use tools. He never says how much time it will take or how much patience it will need. He just says with a little faith you can do amazing things with your faithfulness.

God’s way of healing the world needs God’s people. That’s how God works.

And if you have just a little trust, enough faith to say, “I’ll try to be faithful as Christ today, work at those roots, dig at the problems however I can,” you will see things change. Even if very slowly.

But you know that already. Over hundreds of years, so many mountains have been moved, so many trees uprooted for the life of the world.

Now we’re facing our own. And when you focus on faithfulness as your way you will find hope. And you, beloved Littlefaith, will be a hope that others can cling to.

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

The Triune God loves you and welcomes you and invites you into the feast of love that is in God’s life. Come and see.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Feast of St. Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist
Texts: Matthew 9:9-13 (and referencing Matthew 11:2-6)

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

Jesus just said, “Follow me.”

He didn’t ask Matthew to confess his dirty tax collecting secrets. He didn’t ask Matthew to promise never to cheat again. He didn’t give a talk on honesty.

He just said “follow me.” No preconditions. No lecture. No criticism. Just welcome.

That’s what made the leaders angry. Jesus didn’t just eat with tax collectors and that group lumped together as “sinners.” He welcomed them, spent time with them. Treated them as God’s beloved. No preconditions. No lectures. No criticism.

And when the leaders challenge Jesus, he can’t hide his irritation. He brusquely dismisses them, basically saying “go do your homework before wasting my time talking about what God wants.” See, he quotes Hosea 6 to these biblical scholars (who should have known it), and says “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’” And he turns away from them and goes back to the party.

But it wasn’t just Jesus’ opponents who were unsettled by his open welcome and love.

John the Baptist was pretty concerned. In prison, nearing execution, John sent some of his own disciples to ask Jesus if he really was the One from God, or whether they should look for another. John’s whole job was to point out God’s Christ, and at the end he’s worried he messed that up.

Because John preached with heat and anger. He talked about axes ready to chop down fruitless trees, and fires ready to burn those branches. He preached repentance first, and never seemed to get to God’s welcome. He assumed the religious leaders who came for baptism were hypocrites because he couldn’t imagine they’d be repentant. So he called them a family of venomous snakes.

But Jesus offered love and welcome. He healed people. Proclaimed a reign of God that was here now and that was for all. Invited people to follow, commanded people to love, even their enemies. Welcomed all kinds of people, even ones others thought sinful. Ate with them. Often broke God’s law. How could Jesus be the One? John fretted.

Jesus’ reply? Tell John what you see here – blind people now see, deaf people can hear, lame people walk again, and the poor find Good News from God. Don’t be offended at me, John, Jesus said. If I’m doing these things, who do you think I am?

Know this, though: your life depends on Jesus being who he says and how he acts.

You can only be certain of God’s love for you if it’s given to you freely. Your only chance is to stand with Matthew and realize the Son of God is looking you in the eyes, loving you, and saying “follow me.” No preconditions, no lectures, no criticism.

Maybe you never feel you’re good enough. A lot of us are in that boat. But God loves you fully and sees you as more than good enough. Even if you can recount your failures and your sins and assume God does. God sees you and loves you, period. Not in spite of you.

Others of us feel as if they’re different from everyone else and no one can understand them. Well, God does and God loves you, period. Some of us need lots of affirmation to feel as if they’re good, and God affirms you every moment of the day with love. Others fear the challenges of the world, whether they’ll be able to withstand them, and God promises to walk with you through fire and flood always, you’re never alone.

Whatever it is that makes you feel you can’t be loved by God, God doesn’t even see that. God looks at you and says, “I love you so much. You are my child and I am well pleased with you.”

Most of us have been sold a bill of goods about this.

We’ve been taught by Christians who feared that Jesus could just sit down with sinners and eat with them, laugh with them, love them. Even well-meaning Christians fear that open welcome with no preconditions, lectures, or criticisms just leads to people keeping on doing bad. No one learns, they say, if you don’t first tell them to straighten up.

Don’t believe that for a minute. Look, it’s a normal human fear. We especially bring it out when we think of others. We offer Jesus’ welcome, but with preconditions, lectures, criticisms.

Well, I’m going to take my stand with Jesus. My only hope of God’s love is that God loves me for who God sees I am, no matter what I’ve done or what I haven’t done. So I’m going to the party. I’m going to eat with Jesus here today and rejoice that he welcomes everyone, even ones others label as “sinners.” I’m going to trust God’s love can never be taken from me, and I’m going to try to offer God’s love as freely to others. Because frankly, the other way is death. And I’ll take Jesus’ way of life every time. Christ who died and rose from the dead to show me and all of you God’s love. Christ who loves me and doesn’t see sinner. Just beloved child of God.

Here’s my challenge to you: try trusting that joy for just two hours.

For two hours just keep repeating “I am God’s beloved, I am in God’s welcome” without asking “what about how I live and act? What about sin?” Just take Jesus at his word and actions without the fear and the judgment and the other stuff. Then if you can do that, see if you can learn to hold it for longer and longer.

It’s not that Jesus doesn’t call you to love, to be Christ. To love enemies and persecutors, to care for those who are hungry and sick and thirsty and naked and imprisoned and strangers. Jesus just has no interest in lecturing you into that, or making that a precondition to God loving you.

What the Triune God trusts is that if you start trusting you’re a beloved child of God, feeling God’s welcome, eating with God at your side, embraced by God who sees you as precious, when you actually trust that, the rest will come, the loving as Christ.

Jesus says to you, “follow me.” “Come to me.” “Let’s have dinner together.”

If you need any love from God, rejoice! You’re invited to the party. God doesn’t see “sinner” when looking at you, and God isn’t holding the divine nose over your stink when God embraces you.

The Triune God simply loves you. As you are. Sees only beloved and good. And says, come to me. Be with me. Follow me.

So, what if you ignored all the Christians and their piety and just listened to Christ for once? Might it change your life? Transform you into God’s powerful love in this frightened, broken, hate-filled world? God thinks so. And what do you have to lose? Only your fear and anxiety.

Get up and follow. And see for yourself.

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

God’s only way is to draw you into the cross, to become that sacrificial, self-giving, non-violent, peacemaking, world changing love. And things will be healed.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Feast of the Holy Cross
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-24; John 3:13-17; Numbers 21:4b-9

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

Easter really did a number on us.

Because of Easter we’ve created a serious misunderstanding of the cross.

We know the women and men who followed Jesus were stunned, dismayed, almost broken by the cross. But then he rose from the dead and it seems clear they thought it was back to business as usual. As if the cross was just an unpleasantness best put in the rear-view mirror.

Because before the Ascension they asked: “now will you restore Israel?” It’s as if they admit they made a mistake not expecting the cross, but now that he’s alive, “back to plan A, right? Destroy Rome, make us number one?”

We’re the same, though. We’ve made the cross into a logo to put all over our things and we think of it as a past event. For centuries the Church taught that in the cross of Christ we are forgiven and given life after we die, and that’s the end of it. As if Good Friday is a one-off thing, that if you believe in it you’ve got your ticket to salvation. Many think that’s exactly what Jesus is saying today in John 3.

Paul begs to differ. For Paul, the cross is still real and active. Good Friday is every day for those joined to Christ.

Paul’s words today make no sense in the way we usually think of the cross.

Paul believes it’s the current stumbling block and scandal of the cross that’s the threat. The current foolishness of the cross that drives people away. Not what Jesus did long ago, but what God is still doing today and what we’re called to do today.

For Paul the cross is still the main thing. The only thing. The point of it all. The cross is God’s love, period. The cross is the love you are asked to love, period. It’s risky, self-giving, vulnerable, sacrificial. It makes no sense to people who want to protect themselves at all costs, it’s foolish. It’s offensive, a scandal, to people who want to believe God dominates with power, and so should they.

For you, then, is the cross a symbol of a past event, a logo you carry and wear? Or is it your reminder, your job description, your mystery, your calling? The current and only word on God’s love? Whether you wear it, bow to it in worship, make its shape on your body or not, the only thing that matters is if the cross is still real to you. Still active. Still the only thing worth knowing about the Triune God, and the only way God works even now.

That is, is the cross is your idol, or your marching orders?

If we weren’t celebrating Holy Cross today, we’d have heard the story of the golden calf as our first reading. Israel wanted less of a relationship with God and more of something controllable. Less of a God who scared them and gave out commandments and more of a beautiful gold thing they could hold and pray to, but didn’t ask a lot of them.

And Moses’ bronze serpent that Jesus also mentions? Six or seven hundred years later King Hezekiah of Judah, reforming after a number of evil kings, had to destroy it. Israel had kept it all those years. But instead of seeing it as a reminder of God’s grace, they came to worship it as an idol.

Yet Jesus still links himself to that story. Maybe he’s giving another chance to focus on the God who comes to heal and save, so that no one will perish, instead of on a symbol or a statue.

If we make the cross our idol instead of seeing a constant reminder of the love of God that is broken for the world, the love of God that draws all people and all things into God’s heart, the love of God that you and I are called to bear and live and be in the world, we’re just playing the same old game. We’d be better off tearing down our crosses and destroying them.

Find the foolishness and you’ll see. Trip on the stumbling block and you’ll see.

Please do trust that at the cross God’s love is for you and brings you healing and salvation in this world and after you die. That’s absolutely your promise and the promise for all God’s children.

But if that’s the end of it, you’re no better off than before you heard that promise. You’re like those who paint the cross on shields and armor and warplanes, who wear it visibly while doling out violence and oppression and hatred. Who use Christ’s cross as their own personal talisman which, they believe, makes them strong and leads them to disdain the weak.

But you can hold the cross as sign of your salvation and also focus on the cross as your guide, your calling, your only job. Then you’ll see. You’ll see how foolish it feels to let go of things you cling to for the sake of loving others. You’ll see how quickly you’re scandalized that God loses in order to win, and asks you to do the same. How easy it is to trip over your fears, your anxieties, your need for security, your prejudices, and not love as God loves.

But when you find that foolishness, that scandal, rejoice. It means you’re on the right path. You’re finally hearing the cross, seeing the cross, embracing the cross. The cross that shows God forgives all your stumbling and rejection, and then constantly carries you forward to more foolishness and scandal.

But what’s the good of all this? How does this help this world?

Will it stop the bloody proliferation of guns and violence in this country? The hatred spilling from our leaders for the weak and vulnerable? The terror of so many on the margins here that their lives are in danger? All the pain and suffering we see? Not immediately. But all the pain and suffering we’re experiencing comes from a world in love with violence and power and domination. That seeks self-interest above all things. A country increasingly devoted to might makes right. That’s how we got into this mess.

And God says the only way out is to draw you into the cross. Draw me into the cross. Draw God’s children, one by one, into the cross. So that we become that vulnerable, self-giving, non-violent, peacemaking, world changing love. And things will be healed, eventually.

Starting with those closest to you. Begin with what’s foolish about this love, scandalous about this love when you’re asked to love those closest to you, or at work, or next door. You’ll see how hard that love will be. But you’ll also be amazed at the healing it brings when you just do it.

There’s nothing wrong with Easter, by the way.

Easter is the promise that when you risk the cross, live the cross, embrace the cross as the shape of your love and life, nothing can stop that love. Not even pain and death. Easter says the path of cross-shaped love always ends in life, even if most of the time it feels like losing. Christ’s resurrection is the gift of life in the Spirit that empowers you to go back to Good Friday every day and learn what you can learn there from God. See what you can see. Find the path to that hill that is your path.

And don’t be afraid. Look to the shape of God’s love and be drawn into it for your life and the life of the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May it be so.

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

Jesus’ admonition to humble ourselves is not only advice for gracious living. It encapsulates the entire gospel.

The Rev. Beth Gaede, guest preacher
The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 22 C
Text: Luke 14:1, 7-14

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

Pride has long been thought of as the worst of the seven deadly sins. It’s the root of all evil, the basis for Adam and Eve’s rebellion against God in the Garden of Eden. “Pride goeth before a fall,” we read in the book of Proverbs. C. S. Lewis calls pride “the complete anti-God state of mind.”

To overcome this deep sin, pastors and theologians have taught, we must become completely self-giving, taking no thought for our own interests but seeking only the good of the other. We must always strive to practice pride’s opposite, the virtue of humility.

Except. Except maybe that’s not the complete story. Back in 1960, a theologian named Valerie Saiving challenged this understanding of sin. Too much selflessness, too much self-giving, can be dangerous, she said. Far from producing an ideal, virtuous person, this view of sin is a temptation to be less than God created us to be—a temptation, she said, to which women are especially vulnerable.

I suspect that if Saiving were writing today, she would also explore the danger of selflessness for people of color, queers, people who are poor or disabled in some way, and other folks who have historically had less power in their societies.[1]

So which is it? Is pride a force for destruction? Or is selflessness, humility, an equal or even greater danger for some people?

The parable we hear in today’s gospel reading is different from most. Usually a parable begins, “The kingdom of God is like …” or “God is like.…” Today, Jesus tells a parable about how we ought to live.

The setting is ordinary: a meal, a common scene for Luke. The storyline is also ordinary: guests are deciding where to sit at the table. In Jesus’ culture, guests of honor were seated close to the host, and those who were not so important sat farther away. The arrangements were all about status. Of course, we practice versions of this today. Picture the carefully planned seating chart for a wedding or other big celebration.

In the parable, though, Jesus challenges the people of higher status. Sit at the foot of the table, he tells them. Don’t commit the sin of pride. Practice a little humility.

Now this is the point in a sermon when I often stop to ask, sometimes literally and sometimes only for my own reflection, So what does this passage, this story, this teaching mean for us—for you, my listeners? What is the good news?

On Monday, I thought I knew what I was going to say today. The point of the parable, I was going to tell you, depends on what message you need to hear. It speaks to each of us where we are, whether one of the proud who needs to be humbled or one of the hungry and selfless who needs to be raised up. By God’s grace, having nothing, whatever the reason, means having everything.

And then. And then Wednesday happened. Mount Olive is seven blocks from George Floyd Square, the scene of a public murder, walking distance from some of our homes and from places where many of us shop, eat, and travel. Mount Olive is less than a block from Lake Street, from the businesses and homes still recovering from riots and fires four years ago.

And now, four miles from our corner, another tragedy occurs. The Annunciation School community gathers for mass during the first week of classes, and two children are killed, twenty others are wounded, and the shooter dies by their own hand.

It seems everyone I’ve talked with about Annunciation these past few days has had a story to tell. Some of you heard the shots or wondered where the police cars and emergency vehicles were racing to. One of you texted me, “The eight-year-old that was killed lives a block from me. An eighth grader on the same block was shot in the arm. A daughter of a neighbor’s friend was shot in the head.”

What does a parable about the seating arrangements at a dinner have to say to us at a time like this? Jesus tells this parable as he travels toward Jerusalem, toward his death. As Luke’s gospel is structured, the parable falls about halfway between Jesus’ birth and his crucifixion.

Luke’s stories around Jesus’ birth ring with promise. When Mary learns that she will give birth to the Son of God, she proclaims that in the reign of God, the powerful, the proud, are brought low, and the hungry, the selfless, are filled with good things. Her son, the newborn savior, will bring God’s healing to all people, even the lowliest shepherd.

Luke’s account of Jesus’ crucifixion assures us that his suffering and death are for all people—Jew and Gentile, men and women, even his evil executioners.

Jesus’ birth; his preaching, teaching, and healing; his suffering and death are the fulfillment of God’s love for humanity.

The parable we hear today isn’t just a lesson about good etiquette or even a teaching about how to love our neighbor. It’s an illustration of the way God’s healing changes us, changes the whole world. And in a week like this one, that’s a truth we need to cling to and a promise we can claim.

God is at work now reconciling relationships among individuals and restoring all creation to God’s own self. Because of that healing, we can sing, even in times of deep grief, “I come with joy, a child of God, forgiven, loved, and free.”

Our daily lives won’t change in an instant. Living into God’s grace and learning to live as God’s beloved children takes time. Whether the word we need to hear is “Sit down lower” or “Come up higher,” we’re a journey. But it’s a journey we take together—as a community, with God—even in difficult, frightening times. In the end, God’s love makes us one.

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

[1] Valerie Saiving, “The Human Situation: A Feminine View,” in Womanspirit Rising [Harper & Row, 1979]