There's a cliché that "bad things happen for a reason," and another, "God makes everything work out for good." Of the two, the first is kind of false unless the reason is, "sometimes things suck and people are evil." The second is more true, but also needs the caveat that the bad things aren't what God designs or wants — as far as I know, and I hold that to be very little on average. 

Ten years after the martyrdom of the Emanuel 9, I had the opportunity to be a guest preacher at Sanctuary South Shore in Plymouth, MA, and participate in the sermon series ONE, which this week was about how we find unity in tragedy and attempted division, and come to a deeper understanding of God, ourselves, and each other by giving up on our differences in ways that divide us, and digging into our differences in ways that bring us closer in our common humanity. 

Sanctuary's a young congregation, around fifteen years old, and the newest thriving mission plant in the New England Synod. What they do well is a lot, but in terms of worship, they do a great job at reflecting the depth of liturgical worship-done-well in a supremely casual way.  It was wonderful to be there!

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Today’s gospel is one in which we find some stunning decisions. Some lead to great increase and new responsibility; others lead to a no good very bad terrible day. 

The Gospel isn’t concerned with what we produce, but that we use what we’re given somehow. The talents given are grace-filled opportunities to do what we can with what we have. How will you respond?

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Psalm 46 speaks of the desolations God brings to the earth, and it’s our habit to think of floods and disasters. What God desolates is the implements of war — the bow, the spear, the chariots — the M-16, the Tomahawk Missile, the tank. 

The ongoing work of reforming our hearts is the never ending process of tearing our wars apart. 

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Jesus calls us to see God’s kingdom, not as a place of easy living, but of living together in good times and in bad. 

What does this vision inspire in you?

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Note: I read the Gospel and begin the sermon from one of the pews, rather than from the pulpit. I move to the pulpit after a couple minutes. It may be impossible to know this from the audio context.

What does it mean to apologize; to forgive; to reconcile?

How do we judge the value of these things, and how do we recognize sincerity?

God offers us grace without any price, but grace always comes at the cost of settling for new opportunities for renewed relationship rather than an evening of the scales.

How do we find what God proclaims to us through the death and resurrection of Jesus for our sake, the joy of forgiveness without any expectation that we'll return the favor?

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Immediately preceding this reading, Peter confessed Jesus to be Messiah, and Jesus told him "good job!" Well, essentially. 

This week we see a different side of Peter and a different message from Jesus, who tells Peter in no uncertain terms that love requires sacrifice. God is providing the lamb. Anyone trying to distract him from this is at odds with God's will.

What do we do with this?

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This sermon takes place the week after a challenging congregational meeting. I don't mean "challenging", as in code for "look, the roof is fire and the floor is fire and everything is fire!". I mean it in the sense that we had a couple of important decisions to make, and a member spoke from the depths of their heart and then left the meeting when the vote went another way. 

It was **challenging**. But challenging is healthy, and we need to do the hard things sometimes.

During the week between these Sundays, I was in a person's house with whom I'd had a "challenging" conflict in September 2021. In this case, I mean "challenging" as code for "look, the roof is fire and the floor is fire and everything is fire!". The exceedingly short version is during this visit they disclosed to me that I hurt them deeply, that they felt ignored and marginalized after. More, I followed up ineffective attempts at reconciliation by accepting the terrible advice to "let it lie so it will settle". this made them feel like I didn't even find them important enough to worry about, and deepened their hurt and anger. 

As people of God, we're called not to hold grudges. In that vein, I don't believe this person is holding a grudge. I believe they're still wounded, and I believe I left it open and seeping by not pushing harder to help them dictate what healing looks like.

All that to say this: 

So I wrote a sermon, and all this is its context. 

Grace & Peace,

pew

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The Holy Gospel according to Matthew, the ninth chapter.  

Glory to you, O Lord!

35Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness. 36When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 37Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; 38therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

10:1Then Jesus summoned his twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to cure every disease and every sickness. 2These are the names of the twelve apostles: first, Simon, also known as Peter, and his brother Andrew; James son of Zebedee, and his brother John; 3Philip and Bartholomew; Thomas and Matthew the tax collector; James son of Alphaeus, and Thaddaeus; 4Simon the Cananaean, and Judas Iscariot, the one who betrayed him.

5These twelve Jesus sent out with the following instructions: “Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, 6but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. 7As you go, proclaim the good news, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ 8Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment. 9Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, 10no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff; for laborers deserve their food. 11Whatever town or village you enter, find out who in it is worthy, and stay there until you leave. 

12As you enter the house, greet it. 13If the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, let your peace return to you. 14If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town. 15Truly I tell you, it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town. 

16“See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.

The Gospel of the Lord.  Praise to you, O Christ!

It feels like we’re interrupting something in all three scriptures today. 

In Exodus, Moses and the Israelites were camping out at the base of Mt. Sinai. They left Egypt ate manna, and though Moses went up to the Lord on Mt. Sinai, they won’t receive the 10 Commandments for a little while yet. 

Paul begins this passage with the phrase “Since we are justified by faith…”. This being Paul, we arrive at the beginning of Chapter Five knowing that Paul spent the entire first four chapters of this letter setting up all that follows “Since”. But what does it mean to be justified? What is this faith? Where does it come from?

Jesus went around cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news, curing illnesses and casting out demons — but who is this they, anyway? What’s the deal with laborers and harvests? What in the world is Jesus doing sending his disciples out alone with next to nothing like sheep among wolves? 

Honestly, it’s been a whole world of interruptions lately. 

We’re in the middle of graduations and new beginnings for those graduates and their families. We’re are in the middle of breakups and heartache. We’re in the middle between active addiction and recovery. We’re in the middle the latest test or screening and receiving the results. And sometimes, it just feels like we’re in the middle of the water, treading for all we’re worth.

My own family’s in the middle this week. On Wednesday morning I’ll fly to South Carolina to pick up my aunt and dri

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I'm experimenting with some different things, and one of them is moving to manuscript preaching after not using them in about fifteen years, except rarely. This sermon focuses on the idea that our own stories and the stories of those around us make a real difference, well beyond what we'd typically consider. 

December 2020. Now that’s a month to tell stories about.

I was concluding an interim at The Lutheran Church of Our Redeemer in Foxboro — I have a feeling y’all might be familiar with that town for some reason or another. I was working full time as a hospice chaplain in Fall River, and preparing to begin my call as pastor here at St. John. On Christmas Eve I led four services, two in Foxboro and two at St. John, then drove all night to see Lauren and Willoughby in South Carolina so I could spend Christmas with the rest of my family. 

It was a hard moment, because I began my time in Foxboro as a supply preacher in November 2019. Their pastor began medical leave in an effort to recover from an illness he’d been fighting for over two long years; an illness that the congregation had walked through with him, and as irascible as that man was, those people loved him even when they didn’t all always like him. After about two weeks, the medical leave became a medical retirement, and in the summer of 2020, he died.

That funeral was something to tell stories about.

It wasn’t just a funeral for an old pastor, though in my experience those are some of the most powerful services I’ve ever attended — and St. John does not disappoint in that regard — this was a funeral for a pastor who was teaching confirmation, preaching, visiting the sick, and tending his flock even in failing health until only a very short six months before.

But those months? We’ll be telling stories about those months for the rest of our lives, because just after Ash Wednesday 2020, the world ended for all of us.

I know, it sounds dramatic. Honestly, if I told Past Eric that week that the world had just ended, I’d’ve laughed it off by saying something like, “It’s only going to be two weeks, a month tops. How long do you think this could really last?”. How long could the end of the world really last? A lot longer than you’d think, apparently.

It wasn’t hard to leave Foxboro, but it was hard to leave those people in that pandemic foxhole who welcomed my family in a moment when we were still reeling and grieving and adjusting to life after a move from South Carolina to have our Great Adventure. It was hard to leave those people in that pandemic foxhole who I nurtured and came to love when they were still reeling and grieving and adjusting after their most recent loss in their great adventure.

But I remember reading the paperwork for this congregation around July or August 2020. I remember the interviews by ZOOM, and the unparalleled awkwardness of preaching for the call committee from a side room in our house over zoom. I remember realizing that I was once again following Larry Wolff, and nearly fell out of my chair laughing at the fact that I’d been doing that in one way or another my entire career.

And I remember telling Lauren that there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that St. John is a place we’ll tell some amazing stories about.

I met this congregation in earnest for the first time on Christmas Eve, 2020. For the first time since Ash Wednesday — March, y’all! — the congregation gathered for worship in person. We stood in the parking lot, and I described the order of worship this way, “all we’re going to do is pray, read the Christmas Gospel, maybe I’ll say something, then we’ll pray, and we’re going to sing Silent Night by candlelight at Noon and seven”. That’s what we did. I believe most of us cried in that parking lot that Christmas Eve.

Now that’s one heck of a story.

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Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr wrote in his “Letter from the Birmingham Jail” that his opinion had become that the white moderate was the biggest obstacle to the cause of justice for black and brown people. He defines them, not by their ideology, but by their actions that frustrate the advancement of civil rights and prolong the suffering of black and brown people because the white moderate is more devoted to “order” than justice; prefers a negative peace which is lack of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of  justice; approves of the cause, but not direct action; sets a timetable according to a myth that liberation must wait for a “more convenient season”.

In a season of temptation to leave well enough alone, the Church is called to stand at the front of the cause of justice to be, in King’s words, the headlights rather than the tail lights on this ride to justice. 

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