Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace

John 18:33-37

Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king, then?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

One of mine this week was to get some long overdue tires replaced on my car before the snow and ice and cold of winter arrives in force. Every day I decide whether I have the time or the discipline or both to get to the gym in the morning before work. I had a seminary professor who packed the same exact thing for lunch every single day of the week so that he had one less thing to think about and decide upon on a daily basis.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

We’ve been stewing about some big ones as a country and as a congregation, lately, too. Obviously, the election was all about deciding who would be President – among other things. And at Cross of Grace, we’ve asked each other to make a decision about how we will support our Building and Outreach Fund. (I know some of you are still thinking about that. Remember, those commitments are set to begin in December. Hint. Hint. Hint.)

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

Part of being alive is to have decisions to make and the nature of a decision is that there’s usually some kind of pressure to get it made. And if there’s not, time is likely to make your decisions for you. I could have waited a bit longer to get my new tires, but the season’s first snow and a road trip to Columbus helped me make that call – before an accident or a blowout made it for me.

And far too often – barring some kind of emergency – the only way to be sure you’ve made the right decision is to make it and then to wait and see.

And I can’t read this morning’s Gospel without wondering about Pilate’s decision. Talk about a dilemma! In the moments leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion, Pilate had a job to do – and a decision to make – and it’s been the source of many questions and much curiosity for generations that always come to fore when this reading shows up on Christ the King Sunday.

Pontius Pilate was getting pressure from the people on one side and orders from King Herod on the other. And his time and little chat with Jesus didn’t make the decision any easier.

“Are you the king of the Jews?” Pilate asks Jesus. “Why do you want to know?” Jesus asks Pilate.

“What have you done?” Pilate wonders. “It’s nothing you’d understand,” Jesus explains, “I’m not from this world.”

“You are a king, though, right?” Pilate insists. “Whatever you say,” Jesus seems to tease him, “you’ll know the truth soon enough.” “Do what you’ve gotta do.”

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

Sometimes the only way to know if you’ve made the right one is to make it… and to wait… and to see what comes of it. And I get the impression that that’s what Pontius Pilate did. He chose – what the people wanted – and he handed Jesus over to be crucified. And, I wonder when hindsight kicked in for Pilate. I wonder when the moment came that he realized what he had been a part of. I wonder … when Pilate looked back on his decision to let Jesus take the fall … did he rationalize or repent or rejoice?

What’s the hardest decision you’ve had to make – or that you’ve made lately? Who to invite to the party? Or who to ask to the dance? To take the job or to quit one? To end a relationship or to begin a new one; to punish a child or to forgive a friend; to try something new or to hold onto something familiar; to confess a sin; to let go of a grudge?

What’s the hardest decision on your plate right now? …

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

We all have them and if we don’t right now, we will soon enough. Some that will impact our life and some that will do nothing more than change our plans for the weekend. But no matter how big or small the decision, I think we could all use a little help – which is something of what Christ the King Sunday is about for me.

It’s the last Sunday of the Church year. It’s our last chance for some holy perspective before we begin another season of Advent and waiting and getting ready for Christmas. It’s an invitation to take a last look back before we start looking forward again.

Christ the King Sunday – with this strange foray into the crucifixion of Jesus, just before we prepare for his birth, yet again – is about perspective. It’s about hindsight. It’s about clarity and purpose. And it’s about decisions. Whether it’s about new tires, exercise, elections, or financial commitments; whether it’s about what you’ll have for lunch or where you hang your hopes for the future, Christ the King and the promises of Jesus, are about deciding.

See, we often look at Pilate as the one who had the decision to make. To crucify Jesus or to set him free. To make King Herod happy … to appease the people … to save his own behind. We can look at Pontius Pilate and be angry with him or feel sorry for him or wonder what would have happened had he decided differently.

But really, Christ the King Sunday and the story of Jesus’ crucifixion aren’t just about Pilate, the governor of Judea; or King Herod the ruler for Rome; or the Jews, the chief priests, and the crowds in Jerusalem. Christ the King Sunday is about you and me. The decision Pilate had to make is as much mine as it is yours – and ours together.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

It’s not about getting into heaven, as too many pretend. It’s not about making our time here easier than it might be otherwise, that would be easy, if it were possible. The decision we’re called to make today – and every day – isn’t about saving Jesus from the crucifixion, it’s too late for that. And it’s not about coming up with the right answers or earning our salvation – that’s already been decided, too, thanks be to God.

The decisions we’re called to consider on Christ the King Sunday – and every day – are about the difference Jesus makes in our life and about the difference he – and we – can make in the world.

Because today’s reminder is that Jesus was a different kind of king – one not from or of the broken world where we live. Jesus was a king who decided for love instead of judgment. He was a different kind of king who decided for peace instead of war. He was a different kind of king who decided for hope instead of despair; rags instead of riches; generosity instead of greed; humility instead of pride; thorns instead of jewels. And he was a king who opted to hang on a cross rather than to sit on a throne.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

Large or small, they’re ours to make. Deadlines or not, their time will come. Right or wrong, we’ll live with the results.

No matter how many or how difficult or how varied the decisions may be that life puts before us, the cross of Christ the King blesses us with a perspective that makes them endurable, that gives them meaning, and that makes our choices different, we pray, by the influence of God’s grace.

Life with Jesus as our King means to put everything else into perspective. Christ the King reminds us that God chose grace. Christ the King reminds us that God chose forgiveness. Christ the King reminds us that God chose death and resurrection and new life and good news.

And Christ the King reminds us that God has chosen each of us – you and me – and that our decisions get to be made with a holy kind of faith and boldness and freedom because of it. In a world that too often decides otherwise, we get to choose grace. We get to choose justice. We get to choose generosity and forgiveness and hope and love and Truth – because God has chosen them all for us first – for good – and forever – in the name of Jesus Christ, our King.

Amen

Mark 13:1-8

As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left upon another, all will be thrown down.”

When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him, privately, “Tell us, when will this be and what will be the sign that all of these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he,’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

Hooray for a Gospel text about the impermanence and seeming unimportance of temples, stones, synagogues, and buildings on Commitment Sunday for the Building and Outreach Fund. All of this, will indeed, be thrown down and turned to dust someday.

But I hope you agree with Jesus, of course.

As focused and as fierce as we’ve been about building this place and paying off our mortgage and all that has gone into that, over the course of our congregation’s short life together, we’ve always tried to be faithful about the truth that the Church is not a building; that our identity and purpose isn’t always, ever, or only about having an address, or about merely what happens inside these walls. We were very much “the Church” before we called any of this home and we are very much “the Church” when we’re not gathered here. We are very much “the Church” even when – especially when – we’re doing our thing, living our lives out there in the world, for the sake of the world.

And horray for a text that taps in to so much of the fear, angst and anxiety that so many are feeling about life in the world these days – wars and rumors of wars; nation rising up against nation; earthquakes, famine, natural disasters and more that make you think maybe the beginning of the end might actually be right around the corner.

Because of all that, our call is to bring the Kingdom – to see and to celebrate what God has already begun, in Jesus – and work to make God’s will and God’s way come to life among us and through us and for the sake of the world … here on earth as it is in heaven; to make the Kingdom of this world look and be more like God’s Kingdom, on the other side of heaven.

Which is why our Building and Outreach Fund matters, as we wonder about and make commitments to support it this morning and in the days to come. Yes, some portion of it all is about the bricks, the mortar, the “stones” that will, one day, all be thrown down and turned to dust, as Jesus promises. But the rest of it is about bringing the kingdom, doing the work, sharing the life and grace and mercy of God wherever and however we are able.

Last week, one of my favorite preachers invited us to do a few things in response to the state of things following our country’s recent election, regardless of how we may be feeling about all of that. Pastor Cogan suggested that, if things didn’t go our way, we should share our fear, our anxiety, and our sadness about that with those who did get what they wanted. And he suggested that, if we are the latter – if things went as we hoped they would – we should listen to the concerns and needs of our struggling neighbors who are feeling scared, unseen, and worried about the days to come.

In other words, some of what I heard from Pastor Cogan last week was an invitation to listen to each other and get to work.

And I’ve done that. I’ve received texts and e-mails. I’ve had sit-downs over lunch, spontaneous conversations in the library, seen tears in my office, felt the anger expressed – in passing – in the hallway and at the drug store, because there just aren’t enough of the right words sometimes.

Now, I haven’t and I won’t have all the answers for all of that at every turn. But I will risk playing both sides against the middle – or something like that, this morning – in order to find a middle-ground of grace and hope no matter where we find ourselves with regard to all of it.

See, as I wondered about today – searching for some hope in light of all of our collective mixed emotions (happy/sad, relieved/anxious, victorious/lost, hopeful/despairing) – I came away grateful for this place, for our ministry, and for the work we do that responds with action in real time to the things that can and should concern all of us these days. In an otherwise divided, fractured country, the mission and ministry of this place calls us to some common ground and some holy work.

For instance, if it was “the economy, stupid” that informed your vote last Tuesday … if the price of groceries and gas was enough to make you vote a certain way, I’m so glad we have a food pantry that is meeting that need for so many of our neighbors. (Don’t forget, our Mission Sunday this month is to provide Thanksgiving dinners for people in our community. $50 bucks will help provide a meal with all the fixins for someone who might not otherwise be able to celebrate.) That is the Lord’s work, regardless of your politics.

Or if abortion care, abortion access, and the health of women and babies was an issue that inspired your vote – one way or the other – whether you got what you wanted, or not – I hope you noticed that we gave $5,000 to the Milk Bank with our Outreach Grants this year. This is money, and they are an organization, that supports the health and wellness of women and infants, in crisis, in powerful ways – no matter the politics that lead to their distress or need – and that will hopefully help to mitigate more of that distress or need, come what may.

If you’re concerned about the status of immigration in our country, please know that we gave $10,000 to Exodus Refugee Immigration this past year, thanks to our Outreach grants, too. (And some of us helped at their headquarters on “God’s Work. Our Hands.” Sunday, in September.) Exodus protects the human rights and dignity of refugees fleeing persecution and war, and helps them get settled safely in central Indiana. This is faithful, Biblically-mandated, Christ-centered work. And our generosity helps make it happen.

If you are concerned about the quality of public education and the equity with which it is offered in our state or in our nation – and some of my favorite teachers have told me that we should be – I hope you’re encouraged to know we also gave $10,000 to Brightlane Learning’s “School on Wheels” this year. They offer tutoring, academic support, and advocacy to kids and families – grades K through 12 – who are struggling with homelessness and housing insecurity, while trying to get a quality education.

If you feel like the status and place of women in our culture has taken a hit again in recent days, I hope you’re encouraged by our $10,000 grant to Talitha Koum’s recovery house for women. That money and that ministry over in Greenfield helps women, specifically, recover from addiction and trauma, and get back on their feet to become healthy and whole again, for their own good, and for the good of our world.

So, again, if our call is to bring the Kingdom of God to bear in and upon the kingdoms of this world, we are doing that in real time, for real people, in real, practical, tangible ways, that really matter.

And there are beautiful, faithful, inspiring, intangible ways to facilitate and accomplish that through our life together, too.

Witnessing the love between two people – in marriage, as we did this morning already at our first service – is a glimpse and a gift of that, for sure. It speaks to commitment and love and hope in ways that can’t be measured, but practiced, nonetheless. Making our confession, receiving our forgiveness; sharing the sacraments in bread, wine, and water and all the good news they portend; passing the peace; loving our neighbor; forgiving our enemy. None of these things can be quantified like so much grant money, but they can be witnessed, felt, received; and they are our life blood, purpose, and inspiration for all the rest.

All of this is to say, I see a lot of platitudes and clichés about how we’re supposed to get along – as friends, as family members, as neighbors, and as people in the Church in the days ahead – in spite of the differences that threaten to divide us. That is so much easier said, than done – which is something else I hear and feel when I listen to my neighbor, and to many of you.

But it’s been said that the local church is the hope of the world – and I believe it. It is a tall order. It is a daunting task. It can feel like an impossible, exhausting expectation, for sure. But it is nonetheless why we do what we do – if not to redeem the lot of it, then to point to the hope of the only one who can, who does, and who will, one day – Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Amen

Mark 12:38-44

As he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.

Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

Psalm 146

Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord, O my soul!
I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
   I will sing praises to my God all my life long.

Do not put your trust in princes,
   in mortals, in whom there is no help.
When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
   on that very day their plans perish.

Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob,
   whose hope is in the Lord their God,
who made heaven and earth,
   the sea, and all that is in them;
who keeps faith for ever;
   who executes justice for the oppressed;
   who gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets the prisoners free;
the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
   the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the strangers;
   he upholds the orphan and the widow,
   but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.

The Lord will reign for ever,
   your God, O Zion, for all generations.
Praise the Lord!

I guess we should talk about the elephant in the room… After months and months of ads, hateful rhetoric, campaign appeals, we have selected a new president. And from what I have heard from people in this community, from my family, from my social media feed, folks all over the spectrum as to how they feel about it. Some people are happy and defiant, others sad and even scared. Some are relieved while others are full of worry. Some are angry, surprised, indifferent, or any combination of it all. And my guess is that you find yourself harboring those feelings this morning too.

What word, what message, do we all need to hear? and can it be the same one? Is there something that can calm the anxious and scared hearts while also speaking to those who are elated? Can anything speak to those who feel like they have won, those who have lost, and those somewhere in between?

Some of you may know this, but Pastor Mark and I don’t select the readings for Sunday mornings. They are selected for us by the lectionary, this 3 year cycle of readings. Sometimes the readings are not what we want nor what we would have picked. Other times, they line up and speak to the moment with divine timing and inspiration. Today is one of those days. Because if there was any psalm we needed this morning, one that we needed to lift up as a reminder and as a prayer today and in the weeks, months, and years to come, it’s this one.

It’s the psalm we all needed to hear regardless of who won the election. It is the psalm for all of us, however you find yourself this morning. Usually, Psalms have some sort of context shared with us, a subtitle of sorts telling us who wrote it, when, and in response to what. However, this psalms has none of that and allows us to hear it in our own time and context, like after a major election. Psalm 146 is the beginning of what is known as the “Final Hallel”. It’s the last five Psalms in the whole book, each one opening and closing with the words “hallelujah” — “praise the LORD,”. The Psalmist promises to praise the Lord as long as they live.

Many of you did not awake today or the last few days saying hallelujah. Some of you did. Regardless of where you fall on that spectrum, it is what follows that everyone ought to hear this morning. The psalmist contrasts the praiseworthy God with a warning: “do not put your trust in princes, in mere people, in whom there is no help”. Princes, presidents, those in authority, the wealthy with power and status, cannot give you, not just help, but the Hebrew word is Teshua, which means salvation.

In other words, do not put your trust in people, no matter how much influence and power they hold, because at the end of the day, they are still just a person, a sinful child of God thrown out of Eden like the rest of us. They cannot save you. And for us Christians, particularly Lutheran Christians, this should come as no surprise, because that’s not the role of a president or of any government. According to Luther, God works in two distinct ways in the world. One way is through Government or secular authority, or as Luther called it, the left hand of God. Think of elected positions, courts, laws, schools, etc.

These institutions are created by God to help protect each other, create peace, and prevent evil. That is what good government is supposed to do, so that everyone can thrive out in the world. The other way God works is through the right hand, and that is the spiritual kingdom or the kingdom of God. Think of churches, community of believers, the body of Christ, and that kingdom lives out the gospel, sharing the good news of God’s grace through word and deed.

The government’s job, says Luther, is not to be your salvation, it can’t be, because it can never make you believe in the Gospel. Matters of the heart belong to the right hand. The left hand is to protect people, to prevent chaos, to curb greed and anger and violence, making a society equal and equitable. Will it ever fully accomplish that? No, because it is made up of imperfect people who can’t help but create imperfect systems.

Like one where a widow can give her very last two cents, while good Jews walk right by to give their large tithes that cost them nothing. I don’t think that by lifting up this example Jesus is simply saying give like the widow. He is also condemning the social conditions, the systems that pray on the weak and vulnerable, while the wealthy give from their surplus, seemingly unconcerned about their neighbors giving not just till it hurts, but until there is nothing left to give.

When the left hand fails our neighbors, when it ceases to protect the most vulnerable, that’s when Christians can’t help but get involved, but never for our own benefit. The left hand of God, secular authority, is never meant to benefit us. As followers of Christ, we operate under the same rules, but with a different posture. We don’t extract revenge, we seek forgiveness. We don’t seek to be first, but rather last. We don’t hold a grudge, but offer grace. Which is why you participate, obey, and serve in government, never for your own sake, but only for the sake of your neighbor. We cannot tolerate any injustice toward our neighbor, says Luther, and that is in accordance with the gospel.

Good government then should look a whole lot like the work prescribed to God by the psalmist. It should execute justice for the oppressed, give food to the hungry, set the wrongfully imprisoned free, care for the sick,

lift up the lowly, protect the stranger and the immigrant, and thwart the way of the wicked. If it doesn’t do that, all of it, then we, empowered and informed by the right hand, challenge, speak out, and advocate until the left hand does.

In Jesus, these two hands meet. He honored the governing authorities, gave to Caesar what was Caesar's, and yet at the same time challenged the Roman occupation for its oppressive ways.

And how these two hands of Jesus were at work in the world was through sacrifice, leaving both of them scarred, showing all of us that the way we live in both kingdoms, the left and the right is by putting your neighbor before yourself. (your black neighbor, your queer neighbor, your muslim neighbor, your immigrant neighbor, your poor neighbor, your republican neighbor, your democrat neighbor).

For forty days, we prayed together. Did the prayers work? I guess it’s hard to say because we did not pray for a candidate or for a party to win. We prayed for peace and unity. For our leadership and for justice. We prayed for love of neighbor. The question of whether we will have all of that does not come down to who was elected, but how we will act regardless of who we elected. Because we are God’s scarred hands at work in the world and if we want those prayers to come true, it’s up to us.

If you are thrilled with our president elect, know, listen, and hear your neighbors who feel scared, unseen, and worried about what another four years will bring under that administration. Then do all you can to make sure your government protects them, brings peace, and prevents evil.

If you are sad, anxious, fearful about what is to come, your trust is not in some person, but in the Lord your God who promises justice. Tell your siblings in Christ when you are suffering, where there is injustice, and let them go to work on your behalf, because that’s how we are supposed to work in this world.

To everyone, regardless of how you voted, your help does not come from princes or presidents.

For your help and your hope come from the one true God, whose kingdom shall come and who’s will shall be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

Hallelujah.

John 8:31-36

Then Jesus said to the Jews who had believed in him, ‘If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.’ They answered him, ‘We are descendants of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean by saying, “You will be made free”?’

Jesus answered them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin. The slave does not have a permanent place in the household; the son has a place there for ever. So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.

A little over 20 years ago, Rolling Stone magazine published its first list of the 500 greatest albums of all time. They did so because people were talking about the death of the album, probably in large part thanks to Napster and young teens downloading songs from limewire on the family computer and burning cd’s with random songs. Rolling Stone has updated that list a few times since the original release, most recently just last December, 2023. According to them, Blue by Joahnie Mitchel came in at three, followed by the Beach Boy’s Pet Sounds at number 2, and taking the top spot at number 1 was Marvin Gaye’s “What's Going On”.

I am not here to argue about what albums should have been on there or which one’s they got wrong, though I feel I should mention not one Indigo Girls album made the list making one of your pastor’s very sad. The list is quite arbitrary, mainly because it was simply ranked choice voting by a variety of artists, producers, and critics. I think many would argue that like beauty, good music lies in the ear of the listener. And while I agree, there are some things I think great music does to or for a person. Now I am just a pastor who played the Tuba for five years, so take this with a grain of salt, but for me Great music proclaims a truth that we experience in our lives. Through storytelling, the melody, or the art of its composition, It can tell us something that we need to know, a truth we might not have otherwise understood.

On this Reformation Sunday we focus on music and the good it does in our lives and faith, because this year we celebrate the 500th anniversary of the first Lutheran Hymnal. In 1524, Luther took four hymns he had written and four from his friend Paul Speratus to make what was called Acht-lie-der-buch, or in english the “Eight Songs Book”. It was nothing crazy to produce a hymnal, but Luther and the reformation as a whole changed the way the church engaged with music forever.

Luther wanted songs to be written with simple words, words that everyone would know, not just the highly educated. And he wanted the music to be familiar, something people might already know. So he often borrowed popular folk tunes of the day and set lyrics to them that people would understand, making it easy to sing along with.

This was revolutionary, because at the time the catholic mass was done entirely in Latin, most church goers didn’t know the music, and therefore no one but the priests sang in worship. Luther’s approach to music changed all of that. He wanted everyone to sing since that’s how people would not only understand the gospel message, but because the music was catchy and familiar, the good news of Jesus Christ would always be on one’s lips, praising God morning, noon, and night.

He wrote on multiple occasions that next to the Word of God itself, music is the greatest treasure in this world. When done right, it helps one’s heart, quiets and cheers the soul because it teaches the gospel and praises God.

That’s why Luther loved music. You see Luther suffered from terrible anxiety throughout much of his life. In his early years of being a monk, he would fall into these dark episodes of despair. He felt like God didn’t love him, like God couldn’t love him. He wasn’t good enough, he didn’t keep all the commandments like he should, and didn’t do all the things the Bible says Christians should do. He writes about this feeling in one of those hymns from that first hymn book 500 years ago, saying “life had become a living hell, so firmly sin possessed me. My own good works availed me naught, no merit they attaining; my will against God's judgment fought, no hope for me remaining.”

My guess is at one time or another, or maybe even right now, you’ve felt hopeless because you aren’t good enough: not smart enough, not fit enough, not successful enough in the eyes of the world, and certainly not good enough in the eyes of God.

You try so hard to get it right, to pray more, get less angry, be more generous, or even care about all the suffering in this world. And you may for a time, but you can never quite rid yourself of whatever it is that makes you feel like God could not and should not love you.

But then Luther read again what we heard this morning from Romans 3: “No one is justified by what they do. We are justified, we are made right with God only by God’s grace as a gift, through the work of Jesus Christ”.

Later in that same hymn, Luther shares this good news from Jesus’ perspective, “Your ransom, I myself will be; for you I strive and wrestle. For I am yours, your friend divine, and evermore you shall be mine.”

In other words, Luther remembered that it’s not what he says or does or how much money he pays the church or how many prayers he lifts up, none of that takes away his sin or puts him in the right relationship with God.

Only Jesus does that by his work on the cross, taking our sin in exchange for his grace. Only a God who loves me more than I can fathom would do such a thing. And that's something worth singing about. Now there are plenty of songs that proclaim that truth, from ancient hymns to albums on that top 500 list. Yet, recently I heard or more like we heard a new song that shares the heart of the gospel, +Mark and I, I mean.

In August, we went to an Avett Brothers concert together at Gainbridge Fieldhouse. A few weeks before the show, I reached out to a stranger selling her tickets on Facebook only to then check the family calendar and realize we were booked. On the day of the concert, the woman reached back out and said I could have the tickets, no cost, completely free. We canceled our plans, but couldn’t find a sitter so short notice, so Katelyn graciously agreed to stay behind with Clive if I could get someone to go. And I know of no one who likes concerts more than Pastor Mark Havel.

So we went and about halfway through, Scott and Seth, took the stage with nothing but an acoustic guitar and their voices. And they sang a new song. Each verse juxtaposes the many ways we go through life, whether we speak up or are silent, if we are willing or we are done. If we’re courageous or cowards. All the verses go through a series of these conditions, but each one ends with proclaiming the truth “we are loved”.

And the chorus goes, “Every stitch and seam, every wish and dream, even in tragedy, there lies divinity. Even as hope seems lost, it may be found again. I have felt alone, but I have never been.” Their voices filled the fieldhouse and in that moment, I believed them. It was as if they were telling me again for the first time, the heart of the gospel, that no matter what you do in this life, it does not earn you grace. You are loved, and nothing in this life can take that away from you.

As the song came to a close, I turned to Mark and said “don’t even think about it, I'm using that in a sermon first!”

On this reformation Sunday, I invite you to sing, not just today but everyday. To lift your voice, your instrument, and praise God through the gift of music. Find a song, whether it’s 500 years old or brand new, whether it’s on the top 500 albums or not, find a song that proclaims the truth of the gospel, that no matter what, we are loved.

And then sing that song every day over and over again, thanking God for the gift of grace and music. Amen.

John 11:32-44

 When Mary came to Jesus and saw him she said to him, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and the other Jews with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said to them, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not the one who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

 Then Jesus came to the tomb. It was a cave with a stone lying against it. Jesus said to them, “Take away the stone.” But Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone.

 And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I know that you always hear me, but I’ve said this for the sake of those standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Death and dying have been hanging heavy on my mind lately – and I know that’s true for many of you, too. We had Steve Ellenberger’s celebration of life last Saturday. I had another funeral last Sunday afternoon, for the father of a college friend, down in Southport. We’re getting ready to do the same for Dick Bowen this weekend. On Monday night, our Stephen Ministers did some “continuing education” about what it means to pre-plan your funeral – a session we scheduled months ago. And Wednesday, a group of us wrapped up a seven-week conversation about what it means to die well – to approach, and even embrace, the gravity of getting old … and the nearness and certainty of our own demise.

All of these things, each in their own way, were pointing me toward what we’re up to on this high, holy, festival we call “All Saints Sunday” in the Church. We’ve already read our names and tolled our bells toward that end. We’ve been reminded about the power of baptism and we will receive the power and blessing of Holy Communion, in light of it all, too – as we should.

But the catch to all of this, of course… the thing that sometimes gets lost in the mix, or glossed over, or denied by the rose-colored glasses of Sunday morning worship; by the bright lights and the white paraments; by the pretty flowers and the rousing music of it all… is that in order to be the kind of saint we’re commemorating and celebrating… in order to become the kind of saints we’re remembering and honoring this morning… a person first has to be dead.

And Jesus reminds us this morning, with the help of Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus, that death and mortality are sad, scary, messy, and mystifying parts of life in this world. But part of life, nonetheless.

Even Jesus weeps in this bit of John’s Gospel as he makes his way to his friend’s tomb, and when we find him there this morning, he’s still “greatly disturbed,” even though, presumably, he knew what he was going to try to do for Lazarus. And Martha and her sister Mary are so distraught over their brother’s dying, that they have the nerve to blame Jesus for not coming to the rescue sooner.

But Jesus does come. And he’s not afraid of what awaits him there: the mourning of the sisters; the sadness of the crowds; his own deep grief; the improbability of the task before him; the grave clothes; the large stone; the stench of a four-day-old corpse in the Judean heat.

So, I feel like I’m being invited, again this morning – in the light of recent events and on this All Saints Sunday – to get up close and personal with death and mortality – mine, yours, ours – in another new, holy kind of way.

And I think we honor those who’ve gone before us – whose deaths we commemorate, whose lives we celebrate, and whose love we remember – when we open ourselves to connecting the dots between their living and dying and our own more deliberately.

That seven-week class that just ended – the one about the grace and gravity of getting old – was based on a book by Parker Palmer, called On the Brink of Everything. (Some in our group thought that the title was the best thing about the book, so take my recommendation with a grain of salt!)

But, “On the Brink of Everything?” I am captivated and encouraged and inspired by that hopeful perspective about dying and by what it means to inch closer and closer to death and to whatever waits for us on the other side of this life – and to do it deliberately, intentionally, and with your heart and mind and life wide open to God’s possibilities.

And what Jesus does this morning, in a way I thought about differently this time because of it, is he shows us how thin the veil is between this life and the next when he’s part of the mix – and I don’t just mean the “veil” of that stinky cloth that was wrapped around Lazarus head when we stepped out of his tomb.

No, what speaks now to me about all of this is what it means to live with one foot firmly and faithfully planted in life as we know it, on this side of Heaven, and another foot poised and ready to land safely, securely, and fearlessly on the other side of Heaven, whenever that time comes.

And Jesus’ little stunt with Lazarus gives me hope to remember that there are saints on both sides of it all. And it challenges me to remember that I’m called to be one of them – here and now, whenever and wherever and however I can muster it – just as surely as I hope to join saints like Steve Ellenberger and Dick Bowen and all the rest, on the other side of God’s eternity, too.

For some reason, I’ve found myself recounting for a couple of people lately, something my dad’s heart surgeon told me, my brother, and my mom, while my dad was still in the ICU following his second open-heart surgery, more than 20 years ago. After recounting all of the ways my dad was going to have to continue changing or maintaining his lifestyle as a heart patient – eating this, not eating that, exercising, monitoring his stress, and so on – the doctor said, “BUT, it’s also important to remember that the point of living is not NOT to die.”

“The point of living is not NOT to die.”

And that’s great, practical advice when it comes to having a steak or a drink or a cigar every once in a blue moon. But it’s also great, practical, solid spiritual advice, too, if you ask me. “The point of living is not NOT to die.”

I believe when we live our lives pretending or denying or keeping our distance from death – as we are so often inclined to do – it is that much harder to face, or digest, or journey through it in healthy, faithful ways when death comes – for us, for someone we love, or when it shows up in the world around us.

And I believe keeping our distance from death keeps us from living as fully and as faithfully as we should, could, would, or want to be living, if we truly considered what it means to be “on the brink of everything” – on the verge of God’s heavenly, holy ground, more often.

So, I wonder, what if we saw ourselves and others – more readily – as saints already, on this side of heaven, not just the next?

What if we saw all that we experience in this life – the beautiful and the bland, the joy and the sadness, the hopeful and the despairing – as holy stepping stones on a pathway to the brink of God’s great eternity?

What if we lived more acutely aware and accepting of the notion that a sacred, holy communion of saints surrounds us – right where we live, as we make our way through life in this world?

What if we stopped pretending that death was this untouchable thing to be avoided at all costs – that we could or should live forever and always, even though we know that’s not possible and was never the plan?

What if we lived like God’s Kingdom was closer, nearby, within and around – not only in the communion of saints who’ve gone on to glory – but close, nearby, within and around those of us who are called to be saints here and now, just the same?

I think it would impact how we give, how we serve, how we forgive, how we live, and how we die, too.

Because Jesus shows up – if we’re paying attention, and reminds us – like he proved to Lazarus, and like he reminded Martha – that if we believe … if we keep our eyes open … if we invite the presence of God’s grace to live among us – we will see the glory of God in this life, in ways that fill us with hope – now, and for whatever’s yet to come.

Amen

Mark 10:35-45

James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came to Jesus and said to him, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” Jesus said to them, “What is it you want me to do for you?” They said to him, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”

Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink and to be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?” They answered him, “We are able.” He said to them, “You will drink the cup that I drink and be baptized with the baptism with which I have been baptized. But to sit at my right hand or my left is not mine to decide. It is for those for whom it has been prepared.”

When the ten heard this, they began to be angry with James and John. So Jesus called them and said to them, “You know that among the Gentiles those whom they regard as their rulers lord it over them; and their great ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among you. For whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant. And whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve; and to give his life a ransom for many.”

Their nerve is laughable. To ask Jesus, so boldly … with so little shame … to get the best seats in the Kingdom? I’m as embarrassed for these jokers, James and John, as the other 10 disciples were angry at them for it.

But you might say it’s as endearing as it is surprising to know they would be so bold. Endearing – maybe – because they’re doing that “faith like a child” thing Jesus mentions in some other Gospel stories we’ve heard, lately. You know, “whoever doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a little child, will never enter it.” James and John sound to me like those little kids in school who ask to be first in line; who beg to get the best snack; who shoot their hand in the air and bounce around in their seat, hoping the teacher will call on them to do – or to get – whatever the next best things might be.

And we can’t know for sure, but I imagine Jesus might have been both endeared and exasperated by it, too, like any good teacher. “What is it you want me to do for you?” he asks them back. And when they request the best seats in the kingdom – when they tell him they want to be front and center on the other side of God’s heaven – Jesus tells them they don’t understand what it is they’re talking about; that they really have no idea what they’re asking for.

Because, when Jesus says they will “drink the cup” that he drinks, he’s not talking only about the cup of wine they’ll share at the next wedding in Cana, or at the table of the Last Supper, even. The cup he’s really talking about is the one he prays about in the Garden of Gethsemane just before his arrest and crucifixion. (“Father, if it be your will, let this cup pass from me.”) It was a cup full of suffering and struggle Jesus wasn’t sure even he could drink, in all its fullness.

And the baptism he’s talking about isn’t just that holy moment in the river with John the Baptist, when he came up from the water, when the dove descended, and when the voice from heaven declared him to be God’s beloved Son. All of that was and would be part of it. But James and John didn’t know, they couldn’t imagine – or they had forgotten about – the temptation in the wilderness that followed the beauty of that moment in the river and, of course, the promised suffering and death that were to come along with that baptism, too.

Just like James and John, none of this is what we always want to hear. None of this is how the world operates. All of this is summed up in the promise we’ve heard so many times before – and in the way Jesus wraps it all up for the disciples this morning: “whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant. And whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. …the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve; and to give his life a ransom for many.”

A front row seat in God’s kingdom means becoming a servant. Glory is achieved by becoming a slave. It means heading to the end of the line. It means giving more than you take; it means sharing more than you ask for yourself; it means not being served, but serving. And it’s not about making a reservation on the other side of heaven. It’s all about sharing and experiencing the Kingdom of God on earth, as it is in heaven, first.

I’ve been fascinated and captivated and heartbroken to follow the story of Hersh Goldberg-Polin over the course of the last year. He was one of the Israeli-Americans captured and held hostage by Hamas over in Israel, a year ago, October 7th. He was at that Nova musical festival when the attack started and he took cover, with a group of others, packed into one of the cement bomb shelters that are surprisingly common-place in Israel; they sit like park benches or bus stops along the side of the road.

Anyway, Hersh’s parents have been some of the more outspoken advocates for their son and the other hostages in Gaza. Maybe you’ve seen them. I think his mom, aptly named Rachel, is the one who started the trend of wearing a piece of tape on her shirt to mark the number of days since the attack and to count the number of days that her son and others were being held captive. (Rachel, in the Biblical narrative, remember, is the matriarch who wept for her children taken captive by the Babylonians.)

Dmitry Solovyov / NBC News

Well, this Rachel’s 23-year-old son Hersh is a hero by all accounts because, just before his capture on October 7, 2023, he was trapped in one of those bomb shelters with a handful of others and, as the attackers lobbed as many as 11 grenades into the shelter’s open door, one after another, Hersh risked his life over and over and over by grabbing and throwing the grenades back until one exploded and blew his arm off below the elbow. He was ultimately captured and hauled away to Gaza.

And it was heart-wrenching over the course of the last year to see his parents interviewed and marching, giving speeches and making appeals to governments and politicians, each day marked by the climbing numbers scrawled onto the masking tape that they wore so faithfully in his honor. Hersh was found dead on day 330 – about a month shy of one full year in captivity.

We want to be first, but we think that means being the fastest. We want to know peace and comfort, but we think that means having more power and money and stuff. We want to walk more closely with Jesus but we’re not always willing to follow where he leads. We want to be successful, but we use all the wrong measuring sticks to determine what that means.

What Jesus shows us, and what people like Hersh Goldberg-Polin lived, is what it looks like to serve rather than to be served; to choose others over and above ourselves; to give instead of take; to become a suffering servant like we heard about from the prophet Isaiah a minute ago.

What Jesus shows us, and what Hersh-Goldberg-Polin lived in ways I can’t fathom, is that to sit at the right hand of God isn’t just a position to which we will be promoted someday. To sit at the right hand of God is a position to which each and every one of us is called to experience, somehow, right where we live, on this side of heaven, not just the next. This is where we are called to drink the cup. Here is where we’re invited to live out the calling of our baptism.

And as hard as that is sometimes. As much courage and faith and generosity and sacrifice as that may invite us to, we are blessed with this God – in Jesus – who never calls us to something God hasn’t already done, first, for our sake: to give generously … to sacrifice … to suffer … to die, even.

(I’m in no way suggesting that God ordained or orchestrated the suffering and death of Hersh Goldberg-Polin or any of those captured or killed in the October 7th attacks in Israel, or since. I am saying that Hersh responded like a saint … like a selfless servant … in that bomb shelter, likely inspired by the Jewish faith he shared with the likes of James and John and Jesus.)

And that’s Jesus’ invitation to James and John – and to each of us, just the same – as we live in the strange pull of God’s Kingdom … on this side of heaven and the next. And there are a million ways we can practice drinking this cup and answering the call of our baptism that don’t look anything like the struggle and suffering of a hostage in the war-torn middle east, thanks be to God!

I think it means giving away our money. I think it means helping refugees. I think it means building homes in Haiti, helping the SonRise Bible Study, serving as a Stephen Minister, working in the food pantry, spending time with the Agape ministry’s sex workers downtown.

I think it means cleaning the bathrooms at church, mowing the lawn at church, doing yard work around the church. I think it means working in the nursery and teaching Sunday School at church, too.

I think it means saying “I’m sorry,” and proving it. I think it means saying “I forgive you,” and meaning it.

I think it means sitting with the lonely kid in the cafeteria or picking the last kid, first, on the playground some of the time, too.

Because we are called to be servants. We are called not to ask “what can I get?”, but “what can I give?”, instead, and “how much?” and, “who needs it most?” … like Jesus did when he climbed onto a cross and out of a tomb and into our hearts, minds, and lives so that we would share the grace of God in as many ways as we can manage – and so that, through sharing it – humbly, selflessly, generously, bravely, even, without hope for recognition or reward – we will experience God’s kind of glory most fully ourselves – and for the benefit and blessing of somebody else, in Jesus’ name.

Amen

Mark 10:2-16

Some Pharisees came, and to test him they asked, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?” He answered them, “What did Moses command you?” They said, “Moses allowed a man to write a certificate of dismissal and to divorce her.” But Jesus said to them, “Because of your hardness of heart he wrote this commandment for you. But from the beginning of creation, ‘God made them male and female.’ ‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’ So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate.”

Then in the house the disciples asked him again about this matter. He said to them, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.”

People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” And he took them up in his arms, laid hands on them, and blessed them.

First off, like last week, there are several sermons to be preached from this batch of verses from Mark’s Gospel. Also like last week, we don’t have time for all of them on one Sunday morning. So my little prelude and disclaimer about what’s to come is that these verses seem to speak to a traditional version of marriage – the one between a man and a woman – that I don’t believe precludes or dismisses or needs to deny the notion that other versions of faithful marriage exist, as we know, in our day and age.

And notice I said “traditional” view of marriage, not “Biblical” view of marriage, because Jesus doesn’t say boo here about the plural marriage, or the concubines, or the surrogate slave birth mothers that are described without apology throughout Holy Scripture.

And, preaching from the assigned lectionary means I have to play with the cards I’m dealt sometimes. So my hope is we can see that, whatever your experience with marriage may be – if any – there’s a lesson and inspiration here for us all. Now, for some Ted Lasso.

There isn’t enough Ted Lasso in the world, in my opinion. If you haven’t seen the show, I couldn’t recommend it more highly. It’s a series about an American football coach who (accidentally I think?) signs up to be the coach of a European soccer team. Rebecca, the woman in this clip, is the owner of that soccer team who, if I remember correctly, acquired the team as part of her divorce settlement. In the short scene I’ll show you, she’s about to confess all the terrible things she has done to make the team fail – all and only as revenge against her ex-husband, from whom she has endured a very bitter divorce.

[Video Clip]

Again, if you haven’t seen it, do. Next time there’s a deal on Apple TV, subscribe just long enough to binge Ted Lasso and then cancel your subscription. You won’t regret it.

But, all of this is to say, I think Jesus is at least as sympathetic, gracious, and forgiving as Ted Lasso when it comes to whatever leads to divorce between married people, and toward whatever might come as a result of it. Divorce is hard, plain and simple – even when it goes well. And God knows it.

So this morning – as usual – we're allowed to see more in this Gospel than just a conversation about men and women; or marriage and divorce; and certainly more than fear, condemnation, or apocalyptic judgment about any of that. Like we find – more often than not – when we're willing to open our hearts and minds to all that Jesus is up to, he has more to say today about love and grace and mercy than we might notice at first glance … and more than too many people have offered up on his behalf and in his name over the years, where things like divorce are concerned.

Right away we know the Pharisees are up to something. Right away we're told they're interested in testing or tricking Jesus. Because they knew questions about the Law, like the legality of divorce, were tricky ones to answer. They knew Jesus' answer – whether he defended the practice of divorce or denounced it – would get him into trouble with one side or the other. They knew that if Jesus spoke about what was legally right or wrong; about what was legally acceptable or not; about what was legally good or bad – according to the black and white letter of the Law according to Moses – Jesus was between a rock and hard place.

He asks about Moses. He lets them know he sees where they're coming from. And he either sympathizes with them or chastises them when he explains how the Law of Moses addressed their hardness of heart. The Law of Moses spoke to their stubbornness. Like so much else, when it came to divorce, the Law of Moses addressed the hard reality that people – children of God, like you and me – just can't seem to get it right enough of the time. The Law of Moses addressed the sad truth that the brokenness of marriage would come because of the brokenness of those who would be married in the first place.

And, Jesus knew better then to be pulled into their little game of tug-of-war. Jesus knew better then to fall for their transparent little tricks. And, Jesus knew he could use their lame little "Q and A" to share grace instead of judgment; to offer hope instead of fear; and to teach about God's promises rather throw stones about God's condemnation.

Last week, I mentioned that we are allowed and encouraged to read the Bible LITERATELY, rather than LITERALLY, and I’m grateful for that. (It’s why we don’t lop off our hands or pluck out our eyes if they cause us to sin, remember.) Well, I’m going to add to that this morning something I’ve been convicted about and convinced of over the years. I think we’re also called to read the Bible, not just LITERATELY, but LOVINGLY, too … searching for and finding, without apology, the kind of grace we know, believe in, and hope for in Jesus.

And that’s what I find when Mark’s Gospel includes this moment with Jesus and the kids, just after what sound like harsh, hard-to-swallow words about marriage, divorce, and adultery.

See, when he’s confronted by the Pharisees, Jesus steers the conversation away from the issue of divorce and moves it toward the promise of marriage. Jesus moves the conversation away from who God may or may not punish when they get it wrong, to what God hopes and dreams for us in the first place. Jesus moves the conversation away from what breaks the Law of Moses to what breaks the heart of God.

And, what breaks the heart of God – like any loving parent – is whatever breaks the hearts of God's children.

Which is why that moment with the children is so instructive, and loving, and full of hope, when we consider it just after this difficult conversation about divorce and adultery and the Law and all the rest.

“Let the little children come to me,” he says. “Do not stop them; for it is to such as these – these naïve, squirrelly, sinful little rug rats – that the kingdom of God belongs.”

“And he took them up in his arms, laid hands on them, and blessed them.”

This is a sign of hope and show of love and invitation to grace for all of God’s children – that there is room for us all in the lap of God’s mercy, no matter what.

“It is to such as these – divorced, adulterous, selfish, vindictive, vengeful so-and-sos – that the kingdom of God belongs.”

“It is to such as these – abused, traumatized, afraid, ashamed, exhausted, alone, uncertain souls – that the kingdom of God belongs.”

“It is to such as these – regretful, remorseful, broken-hearted ones – that the kingdom of God belongs.”

And he took them up in his arms even though the disciples tried to chase them away. He laid hands on them, with love, even though his followers thought they weren’t worthy. And he blessed them, even though some believed he shouldn’t or wouldn’t or couldn’t.

Divorce is hard. God knows it. So did Jesus.

God intends for us to live together and to love together and to choose grace and joy and forgiveness for each another. God intends for lovers to find each other and to learn to share a love that lasts. God hopes for relationships that strengthen and uplift and inspire and fulfill – and God's heart breaks when we can't seem to make that happen at every turn, even as much as we wish we could.

So, just like Jesus does, the grace of God gathers broken, hurting children – like you and me – up into waiting, loving, merciful arms. Just like Jesus, the grace of God lays hands on heavy hearts. And just like Jesus, the grace of God blesses lives with forgiveness, hope, joy, and second chances.

I like to wonder about what immediate effect Jesus’ teaching and preaching – and the loving and blessing of all those kids – had on those who witnessed all of this that day. Maybe one of those Pharisees went home and put the pieces of his own broken marriage back together. Maybe a mother who was there went home and hugged her kids differently at the end of the day. Maybe a disciple or two apologized to those kids or to someone they’d shamed with their misunderstanding and misinterpretation of Scripture.

Maybe each of us will hear something of love – not judgment – in this gift we call the Gospel; and maybe tomorrow, your world and my world and God’s world will be different when we do.

Amen

Mark 9:38-50

John said to Jesus, “Teacher, we saw someone baptizing in your name and we tried to stop him because he wasn’t following us.” Jesus said, “Do not stop him, for whoever does a deed of power in my name will not soon after be able speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us, is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.

“If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believes in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea. If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off. It would be better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and be thrown into hell with the unquenchable fire. Or if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off. It would be better for you to enter life lame than to have two feet and be thrown into hell. And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out. It would be better for you to enter the Kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell, where their worm never dies and their fire is never quenched.

“For all will be salted with fire. And salt is good. But if salt has lost its flavor how can you season it? Have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another.”

This Gospel text has a handful of sermons in it to be honest, but we don’t have time for all of that. So, I’m gonna keep it short and sweet and pick on the stuff in the middle. It’s the stuff that actually gets a lot of attention, but that I’m not sure I’ve ever preached about all that much, except to dismiss the shock-value and fear-factor of it all.

The shock and fear, I mean, of all that stuff about cutting off hands, lopping off feet, and tearing out eyes. This is an excellent example of why we talk about reading the Bible LITERATELY around here instead of reading the Bible LITERALLY, as too many pretend is possible.

I hope we know Jesus well enough to trust that he would never seriously suggest we go about amputating body parts. He’s just using hyperbole, familiar to the people of his day and age, to get their attention. I’m fairly certain, even his most faithful, wannabe followers, didn’t go looking for an axe or a handsaw after this conversation with Jesus that day.

Like Gandhi said once, referring to another bit of Scripture, “an eye for an eye would make the whole world blind,” we’d all be limping around unable to see or to tie our shoes if we obeyed Jesus’ instructions, today, to remove our hands, our feet, and our eyes, like he does.

So he must be up to something else. And I wonder if Jesus is inviting us to a spiritual kind of surgery, instead; something of a Marie Kondo kind of purge. Some of you remember Marie Kondo, right? She’s that Japanese queen of organizing who had her 15 minutes of fame during the pandemic, I think. She’s written books and hosted a Netflix series, teaching a method and a mentality for organizing your home based on whether the things and the stuff you own bring you joy – or are useful, or necessary, or not. She encourages the purging of anything that doesn’t meet those criteria.

Channeling Jesus, Marie Kondo might say, “if those books on the shelf – that you’ll never read again – are just collecting dust, bury them in the backyard.” “If you have old clothes you haven’t worn for more than a year, set them on fire.” “All those craft supplies, baseball cards, that pile of old records – toss them into the sea.”

So what if Jesus did mean that we remove things from our lives that get in the way of our best intentions and our most faithful efforts – and of God’s most loving desire for us in this world?

Again, not body parts, of course, but other things maybe we could or should – and wish we would, more often – do without. … a vice perhaps, like drink, or drug, or food, or porn. Never mind our hands or feet, let’s nip the excess of some of that kind of stuff in the bud.

Or false Gods, perhaps – let’s get rid of those. …the money we think we can’t do without, and that consumes our time and energy and pretends to bring so much more value and security to our lives than is possible.

Or how about our pride and our ego, maybe – what if we left that behind for a change. …whatever it is that convinces us to forget what we heard from Jesus just last week: that the first among us must be last of all and servant of all; that the last will be first and the first will be last; or that we – and our needs or our agenda or our opinion – are not – always or ever – the only way to experience the world around us.

What if we could amputate the fear that keeps us from so much in this world? Fear of asking for help when we need it. Fear of admitting our faults and failures. Fear of saying what needs to be said. Fear of being who God created us to be. And fear of dying before any of the above can happen.

And what about those people that suck more life and goodness from you than anybody should – cut them loose, too; tie a great millstone around their neck and toss those knuckleheads into the sea! I’m kidding, of course. Just delete them from your social media feed, and maybe your social circle, too.

Because, see, the thing about getting rid of that stuff – of purging our lives of things like greed and pride, of ego and idols, of fear and the like – is that it makes room for the opposite. It makes room for the stuff of life and faith, of grace and peace, for us, for others, and for the world.

And I hear loud and clear from Jesus today that none of us, as his followers, should ever be the reason another person stumbles and falls on their way to following him. So let’s find ways to show the love of God separate from the fear that some might use by taking Jesus so literally all of the time. Let’s encourage others to this life of faith, not by force or with fear, but by fascination in how it matters for us.

What do people see in your daily life that looks like love and grace and mercy?

How and where do you experience a peace that’s worth sharing?

What does grace – with no strings attached – look like at your house? In your neighborhood? Your school? Where you work? At this altar?

Because it’s all of this – the grace, mercy, love, and peace we know – that are the salt of our lives and that season the world around us in ways that grow the Kingdom, as God desires.

Amen

Mark 9:30-37

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. And Jesus didn’t want anyone to know about it, for he had been teaching the disciples, saying, “The Son of Man must be betrayed into human hands and be killed, and three days after they have killed him, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and they were afraid to ask him.

Then they came to Capernaum. When he had entered the house he said to them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” They were silent because on the way, they had argued about who was greatest. He sat down, called the twelve and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first among you must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a child and put it in the midst of them; and taking it in his arms he said, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes, not me but the one who sent me.”

I have Haiti on the brain these days. Yes, some of it has to do with the terrible, horrible, dangerously racist things being said about the Haitians of Springfield, Ohio. But a lot of it also has to do with the work I do – and that Cross of Grace supports so generously – building houses in Fondwa, Haiti, through Project Rouj.

The work of Project Rouj continues, I need you to know, virtually unhindered by the political instability and gang violence that has done so much damage to the people of Haiti, and brought so much destruction to the city of Port-au-Prince.

Part of the reason Project Rouj is able to continue building houses, as we have for the last six years, is because Fondwa, where we do our work, is a couple hours’ drive from Port-au-Prince – up in the mountains of rural Haiti, and far enough away from the unrest in the capital city. Another reason Project Rouj is able to continue building houses, in spite of the fact that we haven’t been able to travel to the country since 2020, is that it’s our Haitian friends who do the work. Our organization just provides the funds and resources – not the people or the brain-power – for the work we do.

By the end of this year, we will have built 100 homes, since 2018. With anywhere from 4 to 6 to 8 to 10 to 12 people living in a house, we have literally given safe shelter and a bit of generational wealth and stability to hundreds – if not a thousand, or more – Haitian people. (If you want to keep Haitians out of Springfield, Ohio, help us build houses in Fondwa, Haiti. That’s where they’d rather be, anyway.)

And, the money we share – by way of our Building and Outreach Fund – isn’t just about bricks and mortar for buildings, or our own sense of pride and accomplishment, as the white, Christian do-gooders in the world. The money we share is about providing the stable jobs, steady careers, financial security, and very real dignity and joy that lives and grows behind the scenes of every beautiful, red-roofed house that our friends build for their neighbors and live in, themselves.

Now, I’m making no bones about the fact that all of that was basically just a commercial for Project Rouj, to inform or remind you about – and thank you for – and celebrate – the shared investment we make in this meaningful, life-changing, Gospel-centered work.

But because I have Haiti on the brain, Jesus’ stunt with the child in this morning’s Gospel struck a chord and got me thinking differently about this story. I wondered if that child was anything like the kids I know in Haiti, particularly the ones in and around Fondwa, and at the orphanage where we spend a lot of our time when we’re there.

There’s one child for example … a young girl with significant intellectual deficits that will likely never be named or get diagnosed – let alone treated or mitigated in any way – due to the lack of public education, social services, healthcare, and all the rest. (There are no Individual Learning Plans, special classrooms, or teacher’s aides at the school down the hill.) Her family lives between where we stay when we’re there and alongside one of the paths we take to the orphanage. Because of her disabilities – and because of the danger she might be to herself and to others – her parents often tie her to a post or a tree, with a rope around her ankle, in the front yard, to keep her safe while they work.

“Whoever wants to be first among you must be last of all and servant of all.”

There’s another little girl who we’ve watched grow up in the orphanage over the years … she also has some physical and intellectual challenges. She didn’t walk or learn to use the bathroom until she was much older than the average kid. She still doesn’t speak well, as far as I know. After 5 or 6 years of visits, Lindsey Stamper, an Educator and Occupational Therapist, you might remember, joined our team on a trip to Fondwa, and realized that little Nerlie also had a cleft pallet. This explained why, whenever she ate soup or oatmeal or drank anything, equal amounts of it all seemed to stream from her nose as well as whatever made it into her stomach. It’s amazing she never drowned, as a result!

“Whoever welcomes a child such as this in my name, welcomes me…”

And then there’s the orphanage, in general. It can seem like Lord of the Flies down there at times, with kids taking care of kids, and with whatever adults are there to help being far outnumbered by the children. And, in spite of the good care they receive, it’s impossible to keep everything at bay – the ringworm, for example, lice, and respiratory viruses that spread like respiratory viruses do in cramped, hot, humid quarters.

“…and whoever welcomes me welcomes, not me, but the one who sent me.”

See, the reason I wonder about the child Jesus used as an object lesson in this morning’s Gospel – and if that child might have been anything like some of these kids in Haiti – is because I have reason to believe that life among the poor people in Fondwa is a lot more like life was for Jesus and among the peasants in Galilee, than anything we’re used to or familiar with at Cross of Grace, here in New Palestine.

I mean, in Haiti, when the kids aren’t in school – if they can even afford to go to school – they’re just around. They’re doing chores or running or playing or roaming around, up and down the mountainside, in gaggles, with their friends of all ages. They’re parented – without hesitation – by whoever the nearest adult may be. They seem to stay with aunts, uncles, grandparents, or neighbors as life’s circumstances dictate. The people who love them – or their neighbors – are always within earshot, but they’re not hovered over, or micro-managed, or fretted about, the way so many of us have been convinced to parent, it seems, these days.

It’s why it doesn’t surprise me that there happened to be a child around when Jesus needed one that day in Galilee. And when he puts that child in front of the twelve … and when he gathers that child into his lap … I don’t imagine this child was dressed in his or her Sunday best. I wonder if that girl had just freed herself from the rope around her ankle, from that tree up the hill. I wonder if it was a wordless Nerlie with a dirty cloth diaper and oatmeal running from her nose. I wonder if it was a listless little boy with sores on his legs, watery eyes, and a nasty, raspy, cough that sounded like marbles in a blender.

Because these kids and their stories break your heart wide open in surprising, beautiful, humbling, life-giving ways. And I wonder – I believe – that’s exactly how Jesus means for us to receive and to share HIM, and the good news of God’s grace he came to embody.

Because I’ve surprised myself over the years by letting the little girl, who I’d only ever seen tied to a post and wailing, run at me in the woods and grab me around the arms and legs. I’ve used the very shirt I was wearing at the time to wipe snot and soup from the face of little Nerlie, too. And I never balk when the kids at the orphanage – and whatever might come along with them – swarm around, sit on my lap, climb on my back, or play with the hair on my arms, legs, and head. (They are fascinated by hairy white people!)

It’s why the welcome we extend matters. “Whoever welcomes one such as these, in my name, welcomes me. And whoever welcomes me, welcomes not me, but the one who sent me.” It can be impractical and awkward. It can be messy. It can be scary. It can be terribly risky and inconvenient, this gracious, Gospel-centered, Christ-like kind of welcome. But it is God’s command to us. It is Jesus' example for us. It is life-giving and life-changing in every direction, and you don’t have to fly to Haiti to accomplish it.

We can start if we stop arguing about who is the greatest, for a minute – the greatest candidate, the greatest party, the greatest nation, the greatest whatever.

And if we notice, instead, that none of them – and not enough of us – are competing to be last of all and servant of all.

So let’s wonder about who or what would be so impractical, so awkward, so messy, scary, risky … so terribly inconvenient for us to welcome. And if we’re not up to that task – of extending such a welcome or of letting such a thing or such a person climb up into your arms, so to speak – let’s say our prayers this morning, let’s sing a song today, let’s keep showing up here…

…so we’re reminded that all are welcome to this table. All are welcome to this water. All are loved by this God we know in Jesus – just like you and me – even, and especially when, we can’t return the favor.

Amen

Mark 8:27-38

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that I am?’ And they answered him, ‘John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.’ He asked them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Peter answered him, ‘You are the Messiah.’* And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Then Jesus began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly.

And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, ‘Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’

He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel,* will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life?

Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.’

Recently, I read an article about the potential joys and troubles of traveling with others. One of the stories was about a man named Stephen Garrido, who took a trip with his girlfriend of a year, a trip of a lifetime to Disneyland. He had high hopes for the journey. But apparently, even Disney isn’t always the happiest place on earth. Instead, it was a living nightmare Stephen said.

He learned his girlfriend was much too messy for a small hotel room and worse, extremely rude to staff at the hotel and restaurants. She found out that Stephen snored like a blender full of marbles. The trip ended with her cursing at him profusely and the two split two weeks later.

Getting an invitation or extending an invitation to travel with someone is a big deal. Mainly because I think traveling with someone is the best way to get to know them. The new experiences, stressors, and challenges reveal a new or different side of you and you see a new side revealed of someone else. So you are likely cautious when extending and accepting an invitation to travel.

Jesus and his disciples traveled together a lot, especially in this part of the gospel of Mark. Just in the last two chapters, Jesus had been in the desert, then to Bethsaida, Over to gennesaret, On to Tyre, then Decapolis, Down to Dalmanutha, and finally back to Bethsaida. I’d say from all of that, the disciples and Jesus likely learned a thing or two about another from all this travel. You’d think they knew each other pretty well at this point, but maybe not…

In today’s story, Jesus and the disciples are again traveling, this time from Bethsaida to Caesarea Philippi. And as they were walking, Jesus threw out a question, “who do people say that I am”. It doesn’t seem to have much context, but if we look back a few verses, Jesus was just berating the disciples for not knowing who he was: “do you still not understand? He said.

Are your hearts hardened, do you have eyes and ears and yet you don’t get it? Do you not remember all that I have done? Maybe he was concerned others were just as confused as his disciples.

They responded to the question with logical answers, but none were the answer Jesus had hoped for. “Who do you all say that I am” asking the disciples, thinking maybe after all the traveling and that stern talking to, they had figured it out. And Peter, acting as the spokesperson for all the disciples, says “you are the Messiah.”!

Ah there it is! The right answer. The disciples or at least Peters has it figured out, he knows who Jesus is. The Messiah, the Christ, the anointed one. This is the first time in the entire gospel, more than two thirds of the way through, that someone calls Jesus the Messiah, that someone seemingly understands who he is. And it’s that the best feeling, to be understood, for others to truly know who you are…

But immediately there was a problem. The messiah Peter had envisioned was not the same Messiah that Jesus would be. Peter had created this image, this idea, or ideal, of what the messiah would be and do, act and look like. And that wasn’t something only Peter had done… Many Jews expected and longed for a Messiah to return and restore Israel to all its glory. How that would happen or the kind of messiah the people hoped for, varied.

So when Jesus started revealing the kind of Messiah he would be and what would happen to him, well Peter just couldn’t take it. That’s not what he expected the messiah to be. To be fair, we don’t know exactly what Peter hoped for, but we do know it wasn’t a Messiah who would suffer, get rejected by the religious leaders, and then be killed. That much we know because Peter pulled Jesus to the side and let him know just how wrong he was.

But Peter’s expectations, whatever they were, were wrong or misguided or incomplete. And apparently not in a small way, since Jesus felt the need to call Peter satan, the tempter, and ordered him to turn around and get behind Jesus, because clearly Peter didn’t know what he was talking about.We do the same thing, no? We, too, create an ideal image of our Messiah, an idea of who Jesus should be and how he should act.

We want Jesus to be a judge who condemns all those we think are wrong and who models only what we think is right. We want Jesus to be our grant maker, who will give us the health and wealth we’ve wished for if we just lift up the right prayers.

We want Jesus to be a republican or a democrat, that way we can say “my preferred politician is more Christ like” when really we mean they are more like the Christ we have created for ourselves.

Yet, Jesus is rarely what we want him to be. And like Peter, we get disappointed, upset, and ultimately let down by this. The truth is our partner, our friends, siblings, parents, kids and coworkers, even our Messiah will never live up to or fulfill the image of who we want them to be.

If we hold them to some version we’ve made up for them, they will inevitably leave us angry, wishing they were more like this or that, and the relationship will suffer if not cease.

A deeper, more fruitful relationship can only occur when one sees the other person for who they really are and not who they wished them to be, Jesus included. Because Jesus isn’t always the messiah we want, but he is always the messiah we need. We need a messiah who meets us in our suffering. A messiah who knows what it’s like to face rejection and heartache and despair and share in that with us. A messiah who comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable. A messiah who willingly lays down his life in order to give you a new one, full of grace and forgiveness and love.

I find great comfort in knowing that Peter didn’t fully understand Jesus. This man who had traveled all over Judea, who had seen the miracles, who used the right words, but in many ways still got it wrong. What I find even more comforting is that he still got the invitation to follow Jesus.

We don’t have to have it all right, we don’t have to understand everything about God or Jesus or the faith we claim. We can have doubts and questions and even wrong ideas about all of it.

The good news is that the invitation still stands! Jesus extends the invitation to follow him, to travel with him regardless of what we have wrong, or if we feel our faith isn’t deep enough or strong enough or sincere enough. He doesn’t say you need to have this understanding, or you have to know this, or even believe these things about him.

In fact, it is because Peter, the disciples, and the crowd don’t have it all figured out that Jesus invites them in the first place. Unlike you and me, Jesus isn’t cautious about who he invites because Jesus knows that if you really want to get to know him, you have to travel with him.

I hope we model this well here at Cross of Grace, especially on days like today, when we welcome new Partners in Mission. Hopefully, we have been clear, you don’t have to have it all figured out, or believe in every single thing we do, or know all the answers. We don’t! Because becoming a Partner in Mission isn’t about any of that.

Being a Partner in Mission is about accepting the invitation to travel with us. Today you are saying I am willing to take this journey of faith alongside you. And in return we get to say, Thanks be to God. We’re so glad you’re here because we are in for the trip of a lifetime.

We will undoubtedly learn new things about one another, we won’t get it all figured out, but we’ll ask questions and support each other along the way. And we’ll help each other aside the idea of the messiah we want and together we’ll follow the messiah we need.

Amen