Jesus’s command to love one another invites us into unexpected friendships, including the friendship between God and creation.

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The Sixth Sunday of Easter, year B
Texts: Acts 10:44-48, John 15:9-17

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

Jesus does something pretty unexpected in the gospel reading today. 

Here in his last hours with his followers, he says to them: “I do not call you servants any longer…but I have called you friends.”  Something has shifted in their relationship, and Jesus names it. “We care about each other. We’re close. I’ve trusted you with everything. We are friends.” 

But, it seems like an odd kind of friendship.  Not only because we know that these “friends” won’t really act like friends in the chapters to come, but also because of the way Jesus describes friendship: “you are my friends if you do what I command you” – which doesn’t sound like friendship.  Following commands, that sounds like what servants do! So which is it – friends or servants? Both? Somewhere in between? What’s going on?

I often feel, when I’m studying or preaching from the gospel of John, that you really need a PhD in Greek and in ancient philosophy to understand what the heck is going on.  In this case, it’s really important to understand what friendship meant to Jesus. And, I don’t have a PhD, but from what I understand, the simple version is this: people in the ancient world took friendship very seriously.  

Friendships came with serious expectations. 

It was sometimes even ritualized with a ceremony involving solemn vows and an exchange of symbolic gifts – basically a wedding, but to celebrate a friendship. Because, just like marriage, friendship meant a serious commitment: to help and give and speak and act in each other’s best interest for the rest of their lives. 

And what’s more, friends were expected to be patient and kind. They did not envy or boast. You see where I’m going with this? They weren’t arrogant or rude or irritable or resentful. Friendship bore all things, believed all things, hoped all things, endured all things and never ended. 

Friendship was love.

Literally the Greek word for friendship is “philia,” which just means love.

I imagine that the people of the ancient world would be mystified at our modern dilution of the idea of friendship. You can become “friends” on Facebook by clicking a button? That’s it?  What do you mean you’re “just friends?”  What is “just” about committing yourself so deeply to one another, that you would even die for each other?

Because that’s how Jesus describes it: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

Jesus isn’t so much imparting new spiritual wisdom here as much as he is quoting the common wisdom of his day. Aristotle wrote something very similar – almost word for word- about laying down one’s life for one’s friends almost three hundred years earlier.  For centuries, ancient philosophers had described the ideal, the truest friendship as love, self-sacrificial to the very point of death.

And that’s exactly what Jesus is preparing his friends for. He is about to lay down his life for them. For love. For friendship.

And he wants them to love in the same way. That’s the really unexpected part. 

Because, you know, the interesting thing about the word for “friend” in Greek is that it has both an active and a passive meaning. A friend is simultaneously the one who loves and the one who is loved, the lover and the beloved. There is an equality and a mutuality built into the very word. 

That’s what Jesus means when he says “I do not call you servants any longer.” Jesus is showing how friendship, how love, breaks down hierarchy. It started two chapters earlier when Jesus washed their feet, flipping the expected hierarchy of master and servant. And here, he destroys it completely. No servants. No masters.  Just friends. 

And not only in this inner circle, but on a cosmic scale as well. 

No longer is it going to be God up here and creation down here, with God the subject doing the loving and creation the object being loved. The truth revealed in Jesus, God-with-us, is that it’s both God and creation, both loving and being loved, both subjects and objects of the passion and pleasure and pain of love. Jesus reveals God’s desire for mutual love – deep and abiding and unexpected friendship.

And this unexpected friendship between God and creation keeps creating more unexpected friendships, keeps sowing love in places where love seemed impossible. 

We see it in Acts, with Peter and Cornelius. 

Friendship between them should have been impossible – a wealthy Roman military leader and a poor Jewish fisherman. Come on. How could they love each other?  How could they be vulnerable enough to allow themselves to be loved?  But the Holy Spirit was poured out upon them all. The love of God was bigger than every hierarchy and cultural barrier that separated them. Cornelius invited Peter. And Peter stayed with Cornelius and welcomed him, the very first Gentile to be baptized. They loved each other. And became friends.  An unexpected friendship that changed the course of Peter’s life. And changed the course of the church. 

And that’s exactly what Jesus wanted for Peter, when he called him his friend. And wants for all of us. 

He wants our joy to be complete – the joy of unexpected friendship.

I hope you have experienced this joy already. I hope you’ve had a  friendship that seemed to come out of nowhere–that overcame the barriers of our world that seeks to sort and divide. A friend who, as another ancient philosopher put it, doubled your joy and divided your grief.  

We believe that God’s friendship with creation, God’s love poured out for us and our love poured out in return, can create friendships – true friendships which otherwise would seem not just unexpected but impossible. Between those on opposite ends of the hierarchy. On opposite sides of borders. On opposite sides of front lines. 

And in our world, we are desperate for more unexpected friendships.

We need unexpected friendship – we need the mutual love of the Holy Spirit to break down the hierarchies that surround us – that never seem to change and keep us part.  To break down every way that we let gender, sexuality, race, class, ethnicity, ability, religion, and politics keep us from loving each other. 

We need unexpected friendship – we need the love of God who became vulnerable, who invites us into mutual vulnerability. The love that risks being known and being hurt, that trust others with what is most tender in ourselves.  

We need unexpected friendship – we need the love of Jesus–who laid down his life.  The love that teaches us to lay down our own wants and desires and comforts out of care for each other. That trades happiness for joy.

That’s why Jesus commands us to love one another.

Not because we are servants to be commanded. After all, if friendship has broken down hierarchy, then commands aren’t really commands, are they?  And in case, love can’t be commanded. Love must be given freely or it isn’t love. 

Rather it is the will of God, the hope God has for humanity, that we love one another. And it becomes a self-fulfilling statement. When Jesus says, “You are my friends if you do what I command,” what he is saying is this: “If do what I’ve said, if you love one another, then you will be loved and loving – active and passive – beloved lovers – in a word, friends.”

Unexpected friends, let us love one another.   And our joy will be complete. 

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

The story of Thomas invites us to believe, not in death, but in life through Jesus and to hold space for the unbelievable bigness of God’s love .

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The Second Sunday of Easter, year B
Text: John 20:19-31

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The church has been a bit hard on Thomas.

The gospel writer says he already had a nickname – he was called “the Twin” – but we never call him that, do we? We call him “Doubting Thomas.” And, every year, when we hear this story on the second Sunday of Easter, I always feel a lot of sympathy for him. For one thing, it’s really not fair that he is the only one who gets the nickname “Doubting.”

Because every one of those disciples in that locked room were doubters.

They had all already heard from an eyewitness that Jesus had risen. Mary Magdalene had told them all, earlier that day, that she had seen the risen Christ. And there they still were, huddled in fear, with the doors locked, doubting. And it wasn’t until all of them saw the wounded hands and side of Jesus that they believed. Thomas wasn’t the only doubter. He was just the last doubter, at least among the inner circle, and only by chance.

And maybe doubt isn’t such a bad thing anyway.

The story that God would become human, that God would die, and that God would rise again from the dead–that story was and still is, a little bit unbelievable. I received some feedback from an earlier sermon that encouraged me to be careful about describing the love of God as unbelievable or incredible, inviting me to ponder if I really want to say that God’s love is not able to be believed – that we can’t believe it.

But I think I do. Maybe I don’t want to go all the way to say it can’t be believed, but it is difficult to believe–and we shouldn’t forget that. Because if we believe it too easily, I think we tame the wildness of God, we shrink the hugeness of God’s love. If we stop demanding to witness, to see and touch God’s goodness, if we stop being on the look out for Jesus’ scars, if we take all of it as a given, as obvious–then we are liable to forget how earth-shattering this story really is.

How ridiculous it is. How mind-boggling. How unbelievable.

That niggle of doubt keeps it in perspective. Keeps the extraordinary bigness of God’s love from becoming small and mundane.

So I think it is alright that Thomas doubted – that all of them doubted. And it’s good that we have this yearly reminder to believe the unbelievable.

But, of course, it’s also good to remember that believing has a shadow side.

In the tradition I grew up in, we rarely talked about Christians and non-Christians, we talked about believers and non-believers. But as I’ve grown older, it sometimes seems like a strange distinction to me. Because everyone believes in something. We’re all believers. Some believe in Christ, and others believe in different faiths, or they believe in humanity, or in a higher power or a greater purpose or the idea that life has meaning – or they believe equally that life has no meaning. But everyone believes in something.

And so that’s the other reason I don’t think it’s fair to call him “Doubting Thomas.” Because Thomas was a believer.

Before he met the risen Christ, he believed in death.

He believed, with good evidence, that death was final. He believed in death so much, that the idea of the resurrection, of life, was for him, unbelievable.

And it can be so easy to believe in death.

So easy to believe in the things that suck the life right out of us. To believe in lies and conspiracies and our own superiority, to embrace paranoia and pessimism and despair. To believe that nothing will ever change, or if it does, it will change for the worse. And to be mired in those beliefs so deeply that we can’t even see that they are killing us.

So I’m not sure that Thomas’ problem was doubting. I think he and the other disciples believed – but they didn’t believe in life.

And that’s what Jesus comes to change.

He shows them his hands and his sides, shows them his living, breathing body, and tells them to believe – believe in life! Believe that life is possible, even after death. Believe that wounds can turn into scars. He tells them to believe!

Jesus doesn’t want us to believe so that we get the right answers on some cosmic test. We don’t need to fret about believing the right things or believing them hard enough. Nor do we need to despair about the impossibility of believing the unbelievable. No, the gospel writer tells us: “These things are written that you may continue to believe…and that through believing you may have life in Jesus’ name!”

Believe in life – so that you can have life!

Life that is full and abundant, completely trusting the giver and sustainer of all life. That’s why believing is important. Not because having the right list of beliefs in your head is your ticket to heaven.

It’s important because believing how we get to trusting.

If I don’t believe that the chair will support me, I will not trust it with my weight. Belief and trust are bound up with one another, so bound together that in Greek they are the same word. And whereas we are tempted to separate them, because for us belief is individual and cognitive, while trust is relational and emotional, in this passage we are invited to both.

Because what Jesus really wants from Thomas – from all them – from us – is relationship. Jesus wants us to believe so that we can get to trust. So that we will lean in with all our weight and trust that we will be supported. But since it is so difficult to trust if you don’t believe, Jesus helps with that too – showing  us the evidence we needed to see to believe — to believe in life. To believe that life and hope and healing are possible. And to believe that love and joy and peace and all the other fruits of the Spirit cannot be permanently trampled by fear and despair and hatred. That life is not destroyed by death.

And when we believe in life through Jesus, when we trust Jesus with our lives, we experience life – we become fully and abundantly alive.

And that has a name – it’s called faith.

So, perhaps we should start calling him Faithful Thomas. Faith isn’t the opposite of doubt. The opposite of doubt is certainty. Certainty runs from doubt, tries to kill it, and never looks back. Faith reaches down to lift doubt up too.

There is room for doubt in faith. There is room for unbelievable in believing. There is room for needing to put your fingers in Jesus’ wounded hands so that our unshakeable belief in death may be overcome by belief in life, may be overcome by the enormity of God’s love, until we cry out with Thomas in awe and in trust: “My Lord and My God! We believe.”

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

Jesus kneels at our feet, inviting us to be part of the fierce and incredible love of God. All we have to do is receive it and pass it on. 

Vicar Lauren Mildahl 
Maundy Thursday, year B 
Texts: Exodus 12:1-14; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17, 31b-35 

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Jesus knew that his hour had come…”

He knew this was the Last Supper. His last hours with his disciples. And, though also he knew that God had “given all things into his hands,” Jesus still had so much to give. So much he wanted to pass on.

And what better time to do it than at Passover? When he and his disciples were themselves participating in a tradition that had been passed on through generation after generation – that is still observed faithfully by our Jewish siblings. The specific rituals of Passover, the foods that are eaten, the words that are spoken, even the way it’s eaten – loins girded, staff in hand, sandals on feet, all of these rituals were given by God as remembrances. And as long as they are passed down, the people remember.  They remember the fierceness of the love that God showed God’s people, doing whatever it took to rescue them from slavery in Egypt. 

And Jesus wanted his followers to remember. 

And so, at this very supper, already laden with memories passed down, he passed the bread and the cup and said: “Do this in remembrance of me.”  Remember the fierceness of my love for you.  Remember that I did what it took to rescue you from sin and death.  Remember this love. And pass it on.   

Ten years ago, at a Starbucks in Florida, someone, I don’t know who, started a pay-it-forward chain.

The idea is pretty simple – as you pay for your item, you tell the barista that you’d also like to pay for the next person in line.  A small, thoughtful gesture to put a little kindness in the world. And sometimes, the next person decides to do the same thing, passing it on, adding a link in the chain. And that day in 2014, not only did the next person decide to pass it on, but so did the next. And the next and the next and the next and the next and next  – and this went on, incredibly, for 10 hours. 457 people passed it on! 

They did it without knowing. Without knowing how much the person behind them was ordering. Without knowing whether the next person in line deserved it. Without knowing whether the next person would also pass it on.  But 457 people accepted a random act of love from a stranger and chose to pass love on to another stranger. And it’s kind of beautiful.

Now, I should say that there are a lot of people who don’t like pay-it-forward chains, including many baristas and food service workers because it does make their job more difficult and confusing and the generosity is often only directed at other customers and not at the employees who are actually doing a lot of the work to keep the chain going and who are often underpaid in first place.  So the point of this message is not to encourage you to start more pay-it-forward chains at coffee shops. 

The point is to invite you to ponder – what do you do with the fierce and incredible love of God when it is given to you? 

Do you accept it?  And do you pass it on?

As Simon Peter could tell you, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Jesus had barely begun to show them how deeply he loved his own who were in the world, loving them to “the very end” and had barely begun passing on this love by tenderly washing their feet – and the chain nearly ended right there and then. 

“Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Peter asked. He didn’t get it, couldn’t understand, and he tried to stop it. 

“You will never wash my feet!” he said.  You could also translate that “never” idiomatically as “not in a million years!”  He really didn’t want to accept the love that Jesus was offering.  Why? Well, maybe because he thought it was all wrong–Jesus was the most important person in the room, he shouldn’t be kneeling at anyone’s feet–Peter should be kneeling at Jesus’ feet!  Or maybe Peter thought the whole thing was just unnecessary and a waste of time–Peter could clean his own feet well enough, thank you. Or maybe he said it because Peter didn’t want to take off his sandals, didn’t want Jesus to come close enough to see how dirty his feet were, didn’t want him to have to bear the stench.  

You know, funnily enough, the 458th customer at that Florida Starbucks that day was also named Peter.¹  He had driven there because he had heard about the pay-it-forward chain. He had come there specifically to end it. To be fair to him, he did leave a very big tip for the baristas, $100!  But still, he came there on purpose and when asked to pass it on, he refused.  In an interview after the fact he gave lots of reasons: “it was unfair” and “it’s just a marketing ploy” and “they should have given money to people that needed it, like the homeless” and “I just don’t want to be forced into doing something.” 

We always have our reasons, don’t we? 

There are always reasons to break the chain, to refuse to accept love or to pass it on.  Especially when we are afraid that love will never win, never in a million years. 

But at the Last Supper, love does win. 

Because whatever the reason was that Simon Peter didn’t want to have his feet washed, Jesus isn’t having it. “Peter, unless I wash you, you have no share with me,” he says.  His response seems harsh – almost like Jesus is threatening to leave Peter out of the will, to take away his share.

And that seems to be how Peter takes it, because immediately, he goes full Peter:  “Oh then, of course Lord, if that’s the way it is, don’t stop at just my feet, wash my hands, wash my head – wash all of me!”  It sounds to me like desperation. Like Peter was so afraid that he was out, so afraid that he could lose it, that he started begging: “Whatever it takes to clean me, Jesus, please do it. Just don’t leave me with no share!” 

But Jesus wasn’t cutting Peter out, he was inviting Peter in. 

That word “share” in Greek, also means a “part.” Jesus was saying:  “Peter, unless I wash you, you won’t be part of what I’m doing. I want you to be a part of it.  And don’t worry, Peter, you are clean. It’s not about the water–it’s about the relationship.  Let me wash those beautiful feet so I can pass my love to you.  All you have to do is receive it. And pass it on.”

And finally, Peter accepts. Jesus washed his feet, and washed the next, and washed each and every one of them. Even though he did know.  He knew exactly what was about to happen. He knew that they didn’t deserve it. And he knew that one of them would never pass it on.  Even though he knew, he washed them all, even Judas, because he wanted them to be part of it. To be part of his love. 

Jesus wants us all to be part of this love.

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done for you.”  These words are for you. Your invitation today, and every day, to get your feet wet!  Maybe literally in just a few minutes, but more importantly, figuratively, as you dip your toe in or take a running leap, feet first, to be part of the chain of love and kindness and service that our Lord and Teacher started for us. 

The first step is to remember and receive the fierce love of God that kneels at your feet and gently tends to the parts of you you’d rather keep hidden.  

All you have to do is receive it. And pass it on. 

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

^{1. “Meet the man who stopped the 11-hour Starbucks pay-it-forward: ‘I had to put an end to it,'” ABC News, Aug 22, 2104.  https://wjla.com/news/nation-world/meet-the-man-who-ended-the-10-hour-starbucks-pay-it-forward-i-had-to-put-an-end-to-it–106360}

 

 In the care given to Jesus’ body after death, we glimpse how God comes close to us in the every death. 

Vicar Lauren Mildahl 
Sunday of the Passion, year B 
Texts: Mark 11:1-11; Mark 14:1-15:47

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

By now the palm branches should be feeling strange in your hands.

Were we just celebrating?  It seems like a long time ago – like a dream. How did we get here? How did we get from Jesus, vital and assured, riding into Jerusalem to the sound of cheers and singing, all the way to the dull thud of the stone being rolled in place, enclosing the corpse of God? 

I can’t stop thinking about that.  Because of the beautiful and tender conversations we’ve been having in Adult Forum for the last few weeks, I can’t stop thinking about the corpse of Jesus – and about how preciously it was cared for. I keep thinking about the unnamed woman with alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and how she did what she could, she broke it and poured it out to anoint Jesus’ body for its burial.  

And I keep thinking about  “Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council who was himself waiting expectantly for the reign of God,” and how he “went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.”

He asked for the body of God.

God’s body, which was completely–and unfathomably–helpless. God’s body which, as we heard in Mark’s brutal account, had been beaten and bound and spat upon and mocked and flogged and struck and derided and nailed to a cross until it was just limp flesh, without breath or warmth or life. Just a broken body.

But Joseph went to Pilate “boldly” and asked for it —perhaps out of that stubbornly hopeful expectation that it still wasn’t too late for the reign of God. Or perhaps because he just couldn’t bear to see that broken body hanging there. He had to care for it. To tend it. To wrap it in linen and lay it to rest in a safe place.  To respond to the love of God–shown at its most extreme—with his own love in return. 

And imaging those moments of tenderness and care for the remains of a loved one revealed a new depth of this story for me.

We say so often that the story of the cross is the story of Christ coming close, meeting us in our very deaths.  But our deaths–those are still abstract for us – we don’t know what experiencing death is like yet.  But the story of the cross is also the story of Christ meeting us in the deaths we have experienced, the deaths of those we love.  When we tend their bodies, when we anoint them with costly ointments, when we attempt to memorize their faces, when we sing them to their rest.  When we wash and arrange and bury their bodies – Jesus is there.

Every dead body is also Jesus’ dead body. 

Christ is there in the body that has died in peace, surrounded by loved ones, and Christ is there in the ones that have died alone in fear or pain. And Christ is there in every single body strung up or blown apart by violence and cruelty and hatred.  And Christ is there in the bodies of those taken too soon. Every dead body is also Jesus’ dead body. And every single body is a site of sacred love come close. 

God came to us in a body and God still comes to us in bodies.

We bear the life of Christ to one another and we hold the death of Christ in one another as well.  In the care and kindness we show one another in life and death and in the memories and wisdom that are passed down from our loved ones. One of those souls whose beloved memory we keep in our congregation is Susan Cherwien, whose words in so many hymns and writings still soothe and challenge us. And her words about death have been echoing in my mind as well.  She once remarked that the soul does not inhabit the body, the body inhabits the soul.

And in Christ, we are not souls inhabiting separate bodies, but bodies inhabiting one soul – the very soul of God. 

The soul that holds us all in astounding love – that comes near and meets us where we are – that loves through life and death.

In a few minutes we will celebrate the Eucharist.  We’ll see the bread and cup, Christ’s body and blood for us, wrapped tenderly with linen.  We will hear Christ’s words, spoken once more, “Take; this is my body” – the body that lived and died.  The body that cared for others and was also tenderly cared for.  That came close and still comes close to us in every death and holds for us the promise of the resurrection and restoration of all creation. The body that showed us the love of God at its most extreme. 

Today, like the unnamed woman, we respond to love with love.  And we join Joseph of Arimathea, as we come boldly and ask for the body of Christ and we wait expectantly for the reign of God. 

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

Midweek Lent, 2024 ☩ Love One Another ☩ Week 4: Encourage One Another

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
Texts: I Thessalonians 5:4-14, John 16:12-15, 32-33

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

For the last three weeks, we’ve been diving into some of the tougher aspects of the command to Love One Another. 

We’ve talked about agreeing with one another, confessing our sins to one another, and not judging one another. We’ve been dealing with brokenness in our relationships – broken by conflict, and isolation, and superiority. 

But this week, we finally get a fun one: “Encourage one another!” 

This is the kind of instruction that a smiling, optimistic, positive person like me can really get into. I even like all the different ways that you can encourage. You can give compliments, reminding people of their unique gifts: “You’re amazing! You’re so strong!” You can offer optimism, sharing your faith in the restoration that God promises: “Everything will turn out all right! It gets better!” Or you can really lean into the confidence we have as God’s beloved children: “You’ve got this.” “You can do it!”

These are nice things to say and really nice things to hear.  Who wouldn’t want to spend their time offering encouragement and being encouraged? It almost seems silly that we would need to be commanded to do it. And even Paul admits that the Thessalonians are already on it:  “Encourage one another,” he writes, “as indeed you are doing!” 

So what am I going to preach about?

Well, unfortunately, there is a darker underbelly here.  

Because just like you don’t need to be told to agree unless there is conflict, and you don’t need to be told to confess unless there is violation, and you don’t need to be told not to judge unless you are judging, you don’t need to be told to encourage one another unless there is discouragement. 

Because even in a community of faith–even as we are experiencing the love of God, the grace of Jesus Christ and the communion of the Holy Spirit–we sometimes feel discouraged. Dis-courage-ment. 

Sometimes we are robbed of our courage. 

Often by fear–fear of losing the people or the things we love. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear that there won’t be enough, fear of guilt or fear of judgment–we are anxious and afraid and dis-couraged. 

Or sometimes it’s doubt that discourages. Doubt in ourselves and our ability to bear the weight of living. Doubt in each other – will you all really be there for me? Or doubt in God. Doubt in God’s promises or God’s love or even uncertainty about whether God is there at all.  And when we doubt in this whole project of faith and hope and love and life, it seems a lot safer to look out for ourselves, to retreat from each other. Doubt robs us of the courage to believe that God will use the hands of those around us to catch us when we fall. 

And sometimes it’s despair that discourages.  On days when it’s hard enough just getting out of bed, how can we stand boldly in faith and face it all?  When everything seems so hopeless–we keep hurting each other and burning the Earth and we know we’re doing it but nothing ever changes–what’s the point of courage? It’s all lost anyway.

That’s the dark underbelly: Fear and Doubt and Despair. 

That’s why we need our courage back and why we need each other to be en-couraged.  

And we need real encouragement. En-courage-ment isn’t just plucky pick-me-ups or stock sayings about silver linings–maybe that can buck us up when our hearts are a bit faint, but what about when our hearts aren’t even in our chests anymore, but have fallen all the way to the ground?

Compliments and optimism and “You’ve got this”–those things don’t really work then.  Not when fear and doubt and despair shatter our illusion of control. Because no matter how many times I tell you that “you’ve got this,” the truth is, you don’t. And you never did.  No matter how many times you tell me “you can do it,” the truth is, I can’t. I never could.  We were never in control.  And no matter how many times we are told we are children of the light, we still fall asleep. 

But we have a God who never sleeps. And that’s where the real courage comes from. 

I remember two things about the summer camp I went to in high school. 1) I hated doing the high ropes course. 2) I loved rappelling. Which seems weird. Both of those activities involved heights, involved wearing a harness and a helmet, and all of your friends standing around on the ground staring at you, shouting, “You can do it! You’ve got this!”

In both activities you are up high, strapped in, and completely safe.  But I remember clinging to the high ropes course, shaking and trying to will my feet to move for what felt like hours, absolutely petrified, and then the next day, leaning over a cliff to rappel down the side of a mountain in seconds, with no trouble at all. 

Because the crucial difference is that with rappelling, you can feel the rope holding you the whole time.  From the very first moment you lean back over the cliff, you feel the rope tighten and support you. With high ropes – you only feel the rope when you fall off. The rope is the back up, to jerk you to a stop when you fail.  And most of the time you are supposed to pretend it’s not there, and just trust in your own strength and balance – and I hated that. 

Either way the rope was there. But only one of them gave me courage. 

And it wasn’t the one that held me so loosely that I was supposed to forget about it as I figured out how to get through the course under my own power.  It was the rope I could feel the whole time, trusting it with my weight as I descended.  That gave me courage.  

God is our rope – but much better than a rope. God will not let us fall.  And the best, real encouragement that I can give you, that we can give to each other, is not “You’ve got this!” but a resounding “You don’t got this! God’s got this.”  That was the encouragement that Jesus offered his followers, in their last conversation before he died: “In the world you will have distress and trouble, but take courage: I have overcome the world.” I’ve got this.   And it’s the same encouragement Paul offered the Thessalonians: “whether you are awake or asleep you live with him.” It doesn’t matter what you do – whether you’ve got it together or you’re falling apart – you live with Jesus. Who’s got this. Who’s got us. 

So, we need to offer one another better encouragement than just retelling each other the myth that we can do it on our own, that we can be in control. 

The myth that we’ve got this.  Because we’ll just need to be jerked back up again when we fall.  Instead let’s encourage one another, let’s hoist one another up in the Spirit, reminding each other that to lean back and feel the rope, to let the God that will not let us go take all the weight, until we feel lighter than air. 

Until we relax into the peace of Jesus, who has overcome – overcome all the fear, all the doubt, and all the despair that the world can throw at us. 

Dear siblings, this is your encouragement: You don’t got this. God’s got this. 

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