Dared To Go Too Far--June 10, 2025

 

Dared To Go Too Far--June 10, 2025

[Jesus said:] "Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father." (John 14:12)

Jesus challenges us--he dares us--to go too far. Farther, at least, than he did in the span of his years and miles in Galilee and Judea two millennia ago.

That is an essential part of how Jesus leads--he takes us by the hand and gives us a push beyond.  And part of what it means to be disciples of Jesus, who move beyond passive observation to active participation, is to let Jesus lead us further than we ever thought possible before--even when, yes, that leads us beyond our comfort zones.

Now, to be sure, Jesus is more than a leader--certainly. He is more than a good example of managerial skill or adept administration. And there more, vastly more, to the Christian faith than simply seeing Jesus as a model for good leadership.

But, he is at least that. Jesus is indeed the Savior of the World, the Incarnate Word, the Messiah and Lord of Lords, the very presence of God-with-Us, and the Resurrection and the Life. Yes. Amen to all of those. But in addition, he is also a good--and challenging--leader. And at least part of letting him lead us to the edge of discipleship, as we are trying to do in this new focus of our "Life on the Edge" year together, is to pay attention to the way Jesus leads. Disciples, after all, go where their rabbi goes--and they learn to do what the rabbi does, even if it is uncomfortable.  Even if it feels like "too far" at the moment.

In particular, Jesus is the kind of leader who brings the best out of us, rather than using us a props for him to show himself off. Good leaders propel the people with whom they work to go farther, grow deeper, and to love bigger. Good leaders bring the best out of their people, rather than nurturing the worst in us.

It is a rather sad thing that this kind of trait needs to be highlighted, but it does. A good leader does not kindle the worst in us in order to channel our rottenness, fear, greed, bitterness, envy, and anger for their own ends, but rather challenges us to be more, to be better, to be authentic. That kind of good role model and example may well be in short supply in the public sphere, but Jesus shows us how it's done. Jesus challenges us in a way that both encourages us for how far we have come and also stretches us to move further, almost like a physical therapist for the soul. He brings the best out of us--he pulls on us and pushes us to gain mobility when we have seized up and clenched our hearts in tight, even enabling us to move like him further than we thought was possible. He told his followers as much on his last night with them.

This verse from John's Gospel, which many of us heard in worship on Sunday, is one of those ones that can make supposedly humble Lutherans nervous. Jesus does, after all, talk about his followers (us!) doing "greater things" even than he did, and our sense of piety doesn't like that. We have all learned the "right" Sunday School answer that whatever Jesus did was the greatest, and that we cannot ever hope to live up to Jesus and the big shoes (or sandals) he has left for us to all fill as the church. We have all learned that if Jesus did the saving at the cross, then there is no way any of us could do anything "greater" than the salvation of the world, and so we don't like this idea that we, mere measly disciples, could ever dream of doing something greater than Jesus did. That smacks of the sin of pride to our pious and polite ears.

Except, here's the thing... Jesus said it.

He did. It's right there on the page. As John tells the story, Jesus says that his followers will not only learn to do the kinds of things that Jesus himself did, but "greater works than these." And amazingly (and perhaps this is another lesson for us if we are trying to learn from Jesus' way of life), Jesus doesn't feel threatened or insecure in the slightest at the idea of his followers doing "greater things." Jesus is simply concerned to bring the best out of us, and he is free from the ego that needs to one-up everyone around him.  Jesus is not so insecure that he would need to obsess that only his accomplishment are "great," but in fact calls his disciples to outdo him--to go bigger, to love bolder, and to embody the Reign of God in ways that go beyond what his first-century years in Judea could accomplish.  He literally says that we will do the same kinds of things he did, and then "greater works than these."

Like Jedi Master Yoda says about students to an age-weathered Luke in the Star Wars movie The Last Jedi, "We are what they grow beyond. That is the true burden of all masters." And while we may never "grow beyond" Jesus, he does insist that his followers will "do greater things" than he had done because the Spirit Jesus sends gives us the capacity for it.  Whatever we see Jesus doing in the Gospels, he dares us to go beyond it--even if others thing it is "too far."

Now, what exactly would count as a "greater thing" is an open question. We might point to the global reach of Christ-followers to share the Good News all across the world, rather than the relatively limited geographic reach of the historical Jesus' movement. We might note how the church crossed boundaries, and keeps crossing boundaries, beyond the mostly Jewish circles of Judea and Galilee, so that within a very short time Samaritans and Gentiles, men and women, rich and poor, and everybody and anybody came to be included. We could say that the relief work, the disease prevention, and the digging of wells for impoverished villages around the world, all done by followers of Jesus seeking to carry out his mission to save and heal and bless, all go further than the wildest dreams of Peter, James, John, and the rest. The immense breadth, depth, and diversity of the body of Christ today is a sign that indeed, we are going farther than Jesus and his band of twelve Jewish men ever did... and to hear Jesus tell it in this verse, that is exactly as Jesus intended it. Jesus keeps challenging us to go "too far" in the eyes of others--further than the old boundaries, further than the old limits, further than the old possibilities, and definitely further than our old comfort ones.

Jesus reminds us here, too, that he doesn't simply call us to duplicate what he did in Palestine two thousand years ago. We aren't still fighting the battle of letting Samaritans "in" to our religious club, or addressing the question of helping people on the Sabbath day, like Jesus often found himself dealing with. We are called to new challenges, wider reaches, and bigger signs of love and grace. And we do it, not to toot our own horns or to accomplish our own agendas, but because Jesus himself is spurring us on to do it, by the Spirit.

And if that weren't enough of a challenge for us today, Jesus also challenges us by his example as a leader, to be secure enough and grounded enough in the love of God that we can also bring the best out of people. Jesus challenges us to be the kind of leaders ourselves who draw out the best traits, who kindle the greatest virtues, and who model the noblest character for others, so that they can grow as the Spirit nurtures, beyond even what we imagined or dreamed. Jesus is so secure in who he is that he isn't threatened by the idea of his followers doing more than he did in their ministry and mission, and he isn't so needy for his own approval as to stunt the spiritual growth of his disciples so that they will never come to maturity. Jesus wants us to grow. He wants us to go farther. And he definitely wants to kindle what is good in us rather than feeding what is worst and most vile in us.

That's the kind of leadership each of us is called to as well. We don't want fellow disciples to resort to crude name-calling or bitter insults... and so we won't resort to that ourselves, either, because we want to bring out the best in others, rather than the worst. And since we don't want our fellow disciples just selfishly looking out for their own interests, we also will not look out for our interests alone. We don't want other disciples to live ruled by fear and intimidation, so we won't use those tactics to get our way, either. That's all part of what it looks like to cultivate the best in others, rather than to feed the worst impulses in our hearts.

So that's what we are dared to try today, as we follow Jesus. We are called, each in our own way, to be leaders, and in particular leaders who encourage others to go beyond and grow beyond us. We are called to let others learn from us and at the same time grow further than we could see. We are called, in other words, to let others go "too far" in Jesus' name, and to discover that "too far" is often just another word for "greater works than these."

Lord Jesus, we ask you in all humility to enable us to do more, to live more faithfully, and to share your word more fully.

In Every Language--Devotion for June 9, 2025

In Every Language--Devotion for June 9, 2025

"When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each." [Acts 2:1-6]

There is no official language of heaven.

Hmmmm. Just let that thought sink in for a moment. As the New Testament describes it, there is no single official language of God, but rather, when God works with human beings, God is willing to speak to us in a whole host of languages--whatever it takes to get through to us. We can't ignore that part of the Pentecost miracle story, because presumably God could have done it differently. You have to figure that any time you get a scene of unmistakable divine intervention in a story--like an unexpected wind, hovering flames, and supernatural language skills--that God chose to do things this way rather than some other way. And it sure does seem telling that on the Day of Pentecost, the gathered crowds from all over the world could hear "in the native language of each," rather than God making them all learn the language of Simon Peter and the disciples.

You see that, right? The crowds ask, "How is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?" rather than asking, "How is it that each of us has learned to understand Aramaic that this Simon Peter guy is speaking in?" The direction of the miracle is significant--it is God's choice to let every one there continue hearing and understanding in their own language, rather than supernaturally giving them all a crash course in a single "official" language.

That's actually a big deal that sets the New Testament faith apart pretty significantly. In Judaism, for example, one of the deciding factors for which books were understood to be "Scripture" was whether they had first been written in Hebrew or not. The books that were originally written in Hebrew had a stamp of authenticity, even though translations into Greek, Aramaic, or other languages eventually happened, too. Or in Islam, the Qur'an is required to be in Arabic, or it is considered a not-quite-as-authoritative translation. Even in medieval Christianity, we let ourselves get duped into believing that only Latin was acceptable, and therefore that only those who had been trained and educated in Latin (priests, bishops, and monks--curiously all men, too!) were able to "correctly" read the Bible.

But from its Spirit-led beginning, the Christian community has been different: there is no "official" language, but rather God keeps choosing to meet people where they are and to give them full participation in the Christian faith regardless of whatever their native language was. That's a big deal. It means that God chose not to enforce uniformity, even though that surely could have made things easier for the early church. If there had been a language requirement, there would have been less potential for confusion when things got lost in moving from one language to another... and we wouldn't have Christian groups fighting over whose translation is the "right one"... and we would all know all the songs in the hymnal without skipping over the ones with words we can't pronounce. Yes, all of those things could have happened if the Spirit had tweaked the miracle just a bit to give all the hearers the ability to understand one "official" language, rather than giving the speakers the ability to speak in many "un-official" languages. But that is not how the Spirit chose to do things.

And I am convinced that is important. We have a way of wanting to use language as a litmus test for acceptability so that we can be gatekeepers. "You want access to the good things we have? Then you must learn the official language. You want to share in our way of life? Then learn to talk like me." If that's not conventional wisdom, I'll eat my hat. We do it with actual literal languages sometimes, and we do it with the code languages of church life, too--the way we church folk slide into jargon without explaining the strange words and phrases we use, from "narthex" and "liturgy" and "intinction" and "Advent," to "being washed in the blood," worshiping a "Lamb who was slain," or striving for "stars in my crown." And we don't even realize sometimes how much we use that language to keep people out, to control who "really" belongs, or to puff ourselves up with mastery of the "in-group" language while expecting new faces to learn it all by osmosis somehow.

But when the Spirit was poured out at Pentecost, God made a decisive break with all of that kind of thinking. The early church was, from the moment of its inception, multilingual. Yes, that means we have additional work to do--we have to translate our Scriptures into whatever language is being spoken in whatever place we go to... and we have to learn hymns and songs from all over the world instead of only from my country and style... and we have to learn to accept the fact that God's vision includes people of different languages, backgrounds, cultures, and languages. And apparently God thinks that is worth it.

We forget, too, we American Christians, that this policy of God's is what allows us to be welcome as we are, too. We sometimes assume that, as inhabitants of a superpower/empire in the 21st century, that the dominant language of our culture is God's language. There are more than a few Christians, too, who will swear up and down to you that the old 1611 King James Bible is the Bible God reads. But the Christian faith didn't start with us--and it will not end with us. The Gospel wasn't first spoken in English--nor is it the most widely-spoken language for Christians even today! But the fact that we can think and read and pray and sing to God in English, the fact that I can write about God in English, is only possible because God made the choice not to require us all to learn Hebrew... or Greek... or Latin... or some angelic dialect of heaven. Keeping that in mind--that I as an English speaker am a relative newcomer, and that my language was once the "new" tongue someone had to translate the Gospel into--maybe, that will keep me appropriately humble in the ways I deal with other people around me today. We are often harshest toward those we see as newcomers when we have forgotten that we were newcomers and late arrivals to the party ourselves. And that hypocrisy does not look good on us; the body of Christ was never meant to be draped in it, and yet so often it is our go-to outfit choice.

It is worth remembering that God's chosen policy on the multiplicity of our languages and ways of speaking of God is to meet us where we are and to find a way to get through to us with the words we already speak, rather than making us all learn an "official" language of heaven. That is simply how love works: it goes to whatever lengths it needs to in order to get through to the beloved. And, dear one, you, and I, and this whole world of billions and our many tongues, are beloved.

So... what is the language of God? Yours. And hers. And his. And theirs. That is by God's choice.

Lord Jesus, send your Spirit among us again to reach out to people whose words are different from ours, and to go to whatever lengths are necessary to learn to listen to one another, as well as to speak each other's languages.

Asking A Better Question--June 6, 2025

Asking A Better Question--June 6, 2025

Suddenly there was an earthquake, so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone's chains were unfastened. When the jailer woke up and saw the prison doors wide open, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself, since he supposed the prisoners had escaped. But Paul shouted in a loud voice, 'Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.' The jailer called for lights, and rushing in, he fell down trembling before Paul and Silas. Then he brought them outside and said, 'Sirs, what must I do to be saved?' They answered, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and your household. They spoke the word of the Lord to him and to all who were in his house. At the same hour of the night he took them and washed their wounds; then he and his entire family were baptized without delay." [Acts 16:26-33]

This is how the world is changed.

Look, it's simple common sense: if circumstances present with you with an open door and unlocked handcuffs, you make a break for it... right?

And if the guy who was responsible for overseeing your torture and wrongful imprisonment is about to kill himself when he thinks the Romans will do worse than that to him for allowing a jail break, well, again, common sense just says, let him do it to himself--that's not only saving your own skin, but a bonus side order of revenge thrown in there, too. And all you would have to do is hold your tongue when the jailer walks in.

It's common sense, it's conventional wisdom--really, it's just the plain natural inclination of all of us who are bent in on ourselves, either to run, or to stay silent, or to get even.

And while we're talking common sense here, if you and I found ourselves in the predicament of being wrongfully detained like Paul and Silas were here in Acts 16 in this passage that many of us heard in worship back on Sunday, and we had some impulse to pray, I suspect our prayer would have been something like, "Dear God, get me out of here! And punish the people who did this to us!" We would have had our own necks as our number one concern, and a good ol'-fashioned divine smiting for the people who had persecuted us as a close second, I'd wager. Right? It's all just so obvious.

In this life, you gotta look out for Number One, especially when your own life is on the line... right?  "Me and My Group First" is the logic of the loudest voices of conventional wisdom in our time, too, after all.

Well, friends, this is what makes Jesus' way revolutionary. This is what makes the new creation begun in the resurrection actually new. This is what makes the Reign of God both scandalous and beautiful, both seemingly absurd and sublime. Jesus' movement turns the world upside down in the process of making a new creation: his way of life leads us to question what everybody else calls "common sense" about looking out for ourselves first... and instead, points us to a new question: "What could God be up to for good in this situation?" Instead of running away from difficult situations, and instead of looking for revenge, the followers of Jesus ask, "How could the Reign of God be made present in this moment? How could God reveal a glimpse of the new creation right here and now?"

That's different from asking, "Why did God make this [fill in the blank with something bad] happen?" And it's different from asking, "What's the one 'right' answer for what God wants me to do in this moment?" Because, in all honesty, sometimes we don't get answers like that. And sometimes, we don't get to see what ripple effects our words and actions will have. But the truly revolutionary power lies in the change of orientation in our questions--from "How can I get what is in my best interest?" to "How could God be at work in this situation, since God is already making all things new?" When we dare to ask that question, we break the pattern of fight-or-flight, the cycle of returning evil for evil, the damned (and I mean that literally) vicious circle of me-fearing-you-which-leads-you-to-fear-me. The new question, "How could new creation be taking shape here in this situation?" forces us to pause and breathe before we break into the old tactics of running away, staying silent, or seeking revenge.

That is what makes this amazing story from Acts so radical. This is the hinge on which a miracle of grace turns. When Paul and Silas are presented with the chance to simply save their own skin, they don't. Not because they are stupid, not because they are unaware, and not because they are gluttons for punishment. They stay in their cells, turning "common sense" upside down, because of the chance they will have to witness to a better way. Their staying in their cell is not an admission that they are guilty of anything, or even a matter of giving up hope of going free. It is an act that allows them to show love to the jailer--real, genuine, world-transforming, self-giving love. From this momentary pause, Paul and Silas catch the jailer's attention, save his life, show him in concrete action an example of the love they have known in Jesus, and then to top it all off, they have the chance to share their faith with this jailer and his family. And what do you know--by the end of the night, he and his whole family want to be followers of Jesus and Paul baptizes the very man who had overseen his torture.

Common sense would have told them to run when they had the chance, and to let the jailer suffer. Common sense would have said, "Look, it's fine to be polite to everybody, but these people who beat you and locked you up, they are bad guys, and your life has to be more important than the bad guys!" Conventional wisdom would have said, "Look, it's him or you--you have to save yourself!" Every natural instinct in Paul and Silas would have said, "You have suffered enough--these terrible, closed-minded people in this city assumed you were a troublemaker and detained you because they were afraid of what you might do and they didn't like your religion, and you suffered already for their prejudice when they locked you up! Just leave them to their own devices now!"

But, no... the revolution carries on. No--love finds a new way. No--the new creation overrules the old one's tired logic of "kill or be killed." No--mercy keeps on moving Paul and Silas, and so they are no longer satisfied to simply ask, "What's in it for me?" Instead, their question became, "How could the new creation be visible in this moment, and how could we live like it is real, regardless of our supposed self-interest?" And because of that pause to ask a new question, look at the wondrous things that happen! An enemy becomes not merely a friend but a brother. And from there, the followers of Jesus start a community in that city--the city of Philippi--the first toeholds of the gospel on the continent of Europe. And from there... well, you and me. Our story and our faith, our belonging among the people of Jesus, probably was made possible because of what happened there in Philippi... because two people praying together in jail dared to ask, "How could God's Reign happen here in this situation, even in the face of deep hatred, real wounds, and long-ingrained prejudice?"

Of course it was dangerous. Of course it was risky. Yes, it meant the possibility that Paul and Silas were allowing someone who might have wanted to do them harm to get close to them. The Gospel has always looked like a gamble to the self-centered perspective called "common sense."

But, look--look, and see--what happens when people dare to let the living Jesus turn the old common sense questions upside down. This is how the world is changed--this is the only power that is really new that can change anything: the power of self-giving, cycle-breaking love.

How will you so change the world where you are today?

Lord Jesus, before we run... or stay silent... or look for revenge, show us how your Reign of love, your movement of mercy, could be present in this day, in this hour, in this moment.

In That Deepest Darkness--June 5, 2025

In That Deepest Darkness--June 5, 2025

"When they had brought [Paul and Silas] before the magistrates, they said, 'These men are disturbing our city; they are Jews and are advocating customs that are not lawful for us as Romans to adopt or observe." The crowd joined in attacking them, and the magistrates had them stripped of their clothing and ordered them to be beaten with rods. After they had given them a severe flogging, they threw them into prison and ordered the jailer to keep them securely. Following these instructions, he put them in the innermost cell and fastened their feet in the stocks. About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and signing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them...." [Acts 16:20-25]

Sometimes, Thelonious Monk and Ella Fitzgerald are my conversation partners in Bible study. They have a lot to teach me, and I have a great deal to learn.

Many of us heard the story of Paul and Silas in prison and the Philippian jailer's eventual coming to faith this past Sunday in worship.  And even though the ending is a happy one, which I have heard many times, something catches my attention earlier on in the story first.  Before the "happily ever after" moment, there are these words from Acts, about Paul and Silas in prison and how, after being beaten by the police and thrown into the maximum-security section of the prison, they find themselves singing hymns to God "about midnight." And all of a sudden, all I can hear is Ella Fitzgerald's voice and Oscar Peterson on the piano, crooning the old jazz standard-and-lament, "Round Midnight." (If you don't have that recording in your collection, do a quick search for it and given it a listen--go ahead, I'll wait.)

"It begins to tell, 'round midnight," Fitzgerald sings to Monk's composition, "I do pretty well till after sundown... Suppertime I'm feelin' sad, but it really gets bad... 'round midnight." Midnight is that low-point, that deepest darkness of the night, the loneliest hour and the time when hope ebbs almost to the point of vanishing. It is telling, I believe, how much of the Bible's story takes place in those times of weary midnights, and how much of the lives of the wisest and most faithful saints was spent in what John of the Cross called "the dark night of the soul." When we are just plain worn down--worn down by life, worn down by adversity, worn down by dealing with so much swirling hatred and anger and hostility, and worn down by the absence of friends, the absence of support, the absence of help--that's when you know it's 'round midnight in your heart.  We might not want to admit it, but often we find ourselves--yes, even we lifelong Christians--in that deepest darkness that feels like permanent midnight.

And in that midnight hour, sometimes it is all you can do just to keep singing your blues and pouring out your lament. Sometimes just continuing to exist, just continuing to live for a little bit longer despite the suffocating night around you, sometimes that's the most victory you can muster. Just keeping on keeping on.... round midnight.

That's where Paul and Silas are at this moment. It is literally about midnight, as our narrator Luke tells us, but deeper than that, it is as dark a night of the soul as you'll find. This is a scene we may not want to think much about, especially not about how these two evangelists came to this predicament. There are old gospel anthems and Sunday School songs about the next scene in the story, when an earthquake comes and breaks open the prison doors and busts their chains wide open (although, we should note, Paul and Silas do not escape, but use the moment to show compassion to the jailer who had been responsible for their torture). But what brought them to this moment was that some respectable business owner in Philippi was upset that Paul and Silas were a threat to their profits, and they start accusing the two of them of disturbing the peace. The angry accusers cast them as dangerous lawbreakers who are only causing trouble, and on top of that, they single them out for being the "wrong" ethnicity, too. You can hear the code-words in their accusation: "These two are Jews!" (In other words, they aren't like us--they are "foreigners who don't have a legal right be here in our town;" they are not "our kind of people," they say, to the judge and the chief of police, winking in confidence that the authorities will get their meaning.) The accusers don't want their kind around, and they want to make an example out of them. So the police, along with the angry crowd that has formed by this point, all humiliate Paul and Silas by stripping them naked and now beating and flogging them, all with the clear permission of the local government authorities, too. Those whose job is to protect the innocent and ensure justice--the ones you might have hoped would keep you safe from an angry mob--they are the ones condoning the abuse and making it happen, because to them Paul and Silas don't really matter. They are "other." They are just some faceless foreigners who can be made to disappear in the darkness of a prison cell and forgotten about. They are... expendable.

So yeah, it gets pretty bad 'round midnight.

But this is what gets me about this part of the story. Paul and Silas, despite their weariness and the violence they have suffered--at the hands of "law and order" no less!--they bring it all to God. And they keep on keeping on. That is the seed of their victory, their rescue, their vindication. They bear what they have been subjected to by bringing it to God--they pray, they sing, and they sit in silence, too. I have to think their songs have the cadence and ache of the blues, too. I don't think there's reason to assume that the "hymns" they sing are all peppy up-tempo praise choruses--I think they just bring what they are carrying to God in words and melody, and they cry out for help there. And yet, that is exactly what is needed in that moment. They survive by honest lament, by calling out to God for help, by singing their faithful blues at midnight and bringing into God's face all that they have suffered and endured.

All too often we just want to skip past the pain of this story, the terror of the injustice, and the utter fear that must have been all around Paul and Silas in that place at midnight. We want to jump ahead to, "And it all worked out because, you know, earthquake." We want to skip the parts that make us squirm, that make us think, that make us look at ourselves with terrifying honesty. We (at least we Respectable Religious folk who have been given a lot of privilege in life) want to forget, I think, that our movement began with scenes like these--with the followers of a rabbi who was killed by the state then getting singled out for their ethnicity, too, and being brutalized by the authorities in town after town all across the empire. I don't think we want to remember the parts of the story that happen 'round midnight like that--before the earthquake comes--because if we remember them honestly, we'll be compelled to make connections to our own moment that we would rather not face. And I think we are afraid of the solidarity we will need to commit to if we face all that--a solidarity with those who suffer, with those who are dismissed as "troublesome foreigners," and with those who sit in cells waiting for justice that never comes from within the system.

But being followers of Jesus calls for just that kind of honest courage, so let us face it. For a lot of us church folk, we have simply chosen to ignore or willfully forget that Paul and Silas (and Jesus himself) have much in common with those in our time who are rounded up and made to disappear into the darkness of distant cells, under the pretense that they were "dangerous and subversive foreigners," which is exactly what they accuse Paul and Silas of being. I have ignored it, I know. And we have also chosen not to think about how many people there in Philippi saw Paul and Silas getting beaten by the civil authorities and just stood there, letting it happen, convinced that "they must have done something to deserve this." We choose not to think about it, because we do not want to consider that so many times, we are more like the watching crowd in Philippi, condoning violence as long as it is done in the name of "law and order" for people like us, than we are like Paul and Silas, the actual disciples of Jesus in this scene.

And once we modern religious folk face up to how much we are like the angry agitators rather than the apostles, well, we find ourselves in our own spiritual hour of midnight. And yes, I get it that we are all already each carrying a whole other list of ways we feel like we are worn down at midnight with a host of other worries and troubles. We can be both like the angry crowd and like Paul and Silas at the same time. The question, it seems to me, is, What do we do about it?

What do we do at that hour of deep lonely darkness that comes to our souls 'round midnight? Paul and Silas have a word for us, it seems. They have the same response that the enslaved Hebrews had during their midnight in Egypt... the same response the three young men had in the fiery furnace... the same response Daniel had in the lions' den... and the same response even Jesus had while he suffocated to death on a state-sanctioned cross. They carried their weariness to God--they prayed, and they sang, and they prayed and the sang. And even before help came, the truth-telling kept them going. Even before their shackles were broken open, the act of bearing their weary souls to God enabled them to keep on keeping on. Even before the prison doors swung open, they were sustained by lifting up lament to God, calling on God to be present with them in that dark place in the moment between days.

It would seem that is our place to start, too. Our prayer may well demand confession from us as well as lament; we may have to own the ways we are more like the crowd than the Christians in this story. But we can also bring our worn places, our threadbare spirits, and the places we are just running on empty. We bring them to God, we name them, we speak them out loud, and we find strength in naming them all. That's what Paul and Silas do. They take what they have lived through, and they lay it before God with empty and open hands. And that keeps them going long enough until help breaks through and transformation can begin.

I don't have easy answers for how we solve the many things that make us weary and worn. I don't have some trite religious "fix" for how we'll deal with the anger or the despair brewing inside each of us all the time, or the fear that seems as infectious as any virus. And I sure as heaven can't pretend that if we will only pray harder or do more religious-looking things, all the bad stuff will vanish. That ain't how it works, and it never was. But it does seem to me that a starting point is that we take all that we are carrying on this dark midnight of the soul and bear it up to God, both the laments of what feels so wrong and unjust, and the confessions of the ways you and I have each been a part of making things the way they are. We will lift up to God both the ways we are the violent crowd and the weary, abused apostles, and we will trust that in the darkness, God hears.

God is there--or rather, God is here with us, and with all who are sitting in dark cells longing for hope 'round midnight.

Lord God, we lift up to you all that we are carrying, both our failures and our hurts. Tend to them all, and meet us in these times we feel lost in the dead of night. Be our hope, and bring us into your new day. We pray it in the name of your executed Son, Jesus.

The Bible's Non-Ending--June 4, 2025

The Bible's Non-Ending--June 4, 2025

"The Spirit and the bride say, 'Come.'

And let everyone who hears say, 'Come.'

And let everyone who is thirsty come.

Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift." (Revelation 22:17)

The Bible closes, not with a thunderous "The End" of finality, but with an invitation.  There is no rolling of end credits against a black screen like at the movies; neither does Porky Pig come out, a la the old Looney Tunes cartoons, saying, "That's all, folks!"  I suppose you could say it's not really much of an ending at all--rather, the final scene here in the last book of the Bible feels more like the beginning of something.  These open-ended words, which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday, sound like the start of a new story, the beginning of a new adventure, the welcome of a new gathering.  

It's rather like the way C. S. Lewis famously ends his Chronicles of Narnia.  After more than seven hundred fifty pages of stories, on the last page of the last of his seven books in the series, the final paragraph of The Last Battle goes like this:  

"And for us this is the end of all the stories, and so we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has ever read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before."

Lewis, of course, was telling his own version of the Scriptures' own great Story, and there at the end of his tale of Aslan the Lion he sees a new beginning, just like the book of Revelation.  And that new beginning involves God's own invitation to "all who are thirsty"--a group defined, not by their accomplishments or achievements or winning record, but by their need.  The offer is made to "the thirsty"--the ones who are lacking water and need it to quench their thirst--rather than to "the winners" or "the successful" or "the best-behaved boys and girls in the class." The gift is offered freely to "anyone who wishes," not "just those who have earned a spot on the varsity team or made the honor roll."  In other words, the Bible ends, not with an award ceremony for the top gold-star winners, but with an open-ended invitation to needy people simply on the basis of their need, which means we do not need to spend our days constantly worrying if we are good enough to make the cut or get inside the pearly gates, but instead joyfully confident that we have been invited into the next adventure by none other than the living God.  Julian of Norwich was right when she said, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be made well."  That's how the story ends for us--with a beginning into which we are all welcomed: "anyone who wishes."

If we are in on the open secret now and we know that's how God's invitation will go at the last, who might we invite... today?

Lord Jesus, we are thirsty souls daring to trust your invitation to come to you for what we most deeply need.  Give us the vision and faith to bring along as many friends, neighbors, strangers, and enemies, as we can, to receive your good gifts and share in your unending life.

Christ Beyond Our Categories--June 3, 2025

Christ Beyond Our Categories--June 3, 2025

“It is I, Jesus, who sent my angel to you with this testimony for the churches. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star.” (Revelation 22:16)

Did you ever take a panoramic photo with your smartphone?  These impressive cameras that we all carry around now in our pockets have a feature in which you can start taking a photo with your camera aimed to the left, and then as you slowly turn straight ahead and then to your right, you can take in a whole wide vista that gets put together in one composite image.  That feature by itself is cool if you are going to use it for taking a photo of a large vista like the Grand Canyon or a range of mountains, or a widely spread group picture. But there's also a funny trick you can do with the same feature: you can use it to show up twice in the same photo.  If you have someone standing on the left side of your photo, and then when you, the photographer, pivot toward the center, that person can leave their position, run behind you, and take a place on the right side of the photo, just in time for your camera to get there and catch them standing in place on the opposite side of the scene.  It makes for a photo in which the same person can be on both sides at the "same time" in the same photo, because of how the camera moves and turns through time to take the whole scene in.  And if you've never tried doing that, it really is a fun little feat to pull off.

Well, I mention this technological trick because of that end-product: an image in which the same person shows up twice, impossibly, on opposite sides of the same photo.  And in a sense, that's the claim that Jesus makes for himself here in this closing section of the book of Revelation, which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday.  Jesus identifies himself as both "the root" and "the descendant" of David, the legendary king of Israel's ancient memory.  And at first blush, I suspect we might want to tell Jesus that he can't be both: he must be one or the other.  Logically, you can't be the source (or root) of something and also the outcome (or descendant, or offspring) of that same thing, right?  Pick a lane, Jesus!  We hear this "root" and "descendant" of David talk, and immediately assume it can only be a binary choice: you can be one thing or the other, Jesus, but you can't be both.  Except that's exactly what Jesus claims for himself: that he cannot be fit into just one of our two categories--he is both at the same time. He is simultaneously the root of David, and David's descendant, even if that blows apart our black-and-white, one-or-the-other binary thinking. (It is worth remembering, of course, that Christianity does this non-binary both-and kind of thing quite a bit, actually, since we confess Jesus to be both fully divine and fully human, the Bible to be both divinely-inspired and written by individual human beings, and God's nature to be One and Three at the same time.  So maybe if we are having a hard time with Jesus blowing apart our categories in this one verse of Scripture, we need to reconsider a few other major elements of our faith.)

Okay now, once we have un-furrowed our brows and decided we are willing to consider that Jesus puts himself on opposite sides of the photograph, so to speak, as both the "root" and "descendant" of King David, we can ask the bigger question: So what?  Why does this matter?  What does it mean to say that Jesus is both the Source or Root of David and also the long-awaited Offspring of David who was anointed (the Hebrew word is "messiah") to be David's successor? Why, of all the things Jesus could say about himself in these closing verses, would Jesus identify himself like this?  And why would he deliberately pick two contrasting (even seemingly contradictory) descriptions?

Well, for starters, a good rule of thumb for theology is that if your picture of God is something you can completely explain, diagram, and dissect with your own mental powers, it's a pretty good sign you have switched out the real living God for an idol of your own fashioning.  The real and living God will have to be beyond our understanding and outside of our grasp.  But secondly, I think Jesus has it in mind to say that he is both the One we were hoping for (the promised and coming Messiah, or Christ, for Greek speakers), but also that he isn't just a lesser copy or updated edition of an earlier original.  Jesus isn't just David 2.0, and he doesn't have to fit the mold of David or fill out his sandals, either (which, not to be besmirch the dead, had blood on them, given David's violent track record and long list of colossal failings).  Jesus isn't just trying to measure up to some nostalgic view of "the good old days" under King David, because he is actually older than David.  If, as Christians have claimed for the past twenty centuries, Jesus is none other than God in the flesh, then Jesus not only predates David, he predates history itself--even the universe!  Jesus is both there at the beginning of all things, the Word by whom God spoke all the cosmos into existence, and he is at the end of all things, as the One who fulfills all the ancient promises made over the centuries.  He has a rightful claim to be "king" like David, but he is also free to utterly reinvent what it means to be a king, since his reign is one of foot-washing and sin-forgiving, and his throne turns out to be a cross.  And all of these things can be true at the same time, rather like having a figure appear at both the left and right sides of your panoramic photo.  It seems impossible, but there it is right before your eyes.

We need both things to be true, it turns out.  We need to know that our faith is not just aimed wistfully backward at some glorious past we cannot get back to any longer, but we also need to know that the One in whom we place our trust is more than just the latest flavor-of-the-week novelty.  We need to be assured that the One we stake our lives on is more than just the great-great grandson of a previous famous leader (that sounds like nepotism to me), but also that the One who leads us is pulling us toward the future, not merely backward to "how it used to be."  We need someone who can stand at both sides of the photograph at the same time.

That is to say, we need someone who can rightfully claim to be both the Root and Descendant of David.  We need Jesus.

What do you know? God has given us exactly what we need, even if it turns out that what we needed all along would never fit in any of our either/or binary categories.

Lord Jesus, you who are both the Beginning and the End at the same time, come and be for us what we need, even if we cannot comprehend your fullness.

Like a Family--June 2, 2025

Like a Family--June 2, 2025

“See, I am coming soon; my reward is with me, to repay according to everyone’s work. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.” (Revelation 22:12-13)

Let me ask a potentially awkward question: does the effort we put into our lives and our labor matter, in the end?  Does the work we do mean anything beyond a paycheck--like, does God care about the way we spend--or waste--our lives and our talents?

And if so--if our work and effort and striving do make some kind of difference--then where do we Christians get off saying that we are saved by grace apart from our works or accomplishments?

That's the rub, isn't it?  On the one hand, we Christians (especially we Lutheran ones) make a big deal out of the bold assertion that we have been put into a right relationship with God through Jesus by grace through faith, apart from works of the law.  That is literally the starting point for the Protestant Reformation, and Martin Luther was certain he hadn't invented that idea, but got it from the Scriptures.  So on the one hand, you have this strong, clear assertion that we cannot earn God's love, and that salvation is not something you can achieve, buy, or win like an award.  It is only a gift, and it is given apart from how many good deeds we have done, how many rules we have followed, or how frequently we attended church.

On the flip side, though, there is an alternative perspective, as many of us heard in worship this past Sunday, that says that in some sense, Jesus will indeed "repay according to everyone's work." And that sure sounds like the opposite of "we're saved by grace through faith apart from works."  Doesn't it?

So what gives here?  Do our actions and choices matter?  Are we supposed to look forward to some kind of divine repayment on the basis of what we have done with our lives?  And if that is in any way true, do we have to give up all of our "saved by grace through faith" talk... even though that also comes from the Bible?

Let me propose that maybe these two notions are not contradictory, but two sides of the same coin.  Maybe it is true that we have been brought into God's family as a gift of grace without our earning it... and at the same time, that our choices matter, and God cares about whether we use our time and energy well, or whether we waste them on pursuits that are worthless in the end.  But maybe the image of family is the right place to start, because families are both communities bound by unconditional love and organizations in which members have obligations and responsibilities to each other at the very same time.

Think of it this way. How do you get into a family in the first place?  You can't earn your way in; that's for sure.  Belonging is only and always a gift.  Whether we are talking about our birth or adoption, or marrying into someone else's extended family, we cannot achieve our way into a family.  It is something given to you, and whether it is a mother giving birth to you, parents making promises at an adoption hearing, or your spouse promising to be faithful to you in marriage, you cannot buy, earn, or achieve that belonging.  All you can do is receive such belonging with thanks.  No one tells a newborn baby, "You have to earn your place in this family by carrying your own weight around here," but rather, a baby's place in the family is given wholly as a gift of unconditional love.

At the same time, there is a certain way you live together in a family--again, whether you are talking about the raising of children from infancy or the partnership and creation of new routines in a marriage.  And in particular when you are raising children, you want to encourage things that fit with the values of the family--things like helping each other out, cleaning up your messes, taking responsibility for your actions, and helping whoever is feeling in the greatest need of support at the moment.  Parents try to give their children opportunities to grow in those kinds of things--with responsibilities and chores, with incentives for following through, and, sure, with consequences for not stepping up to fulfilling those obligations of mutual care.  You don't get kicked out of the family for not making your bed or not putting away your folded laundry, but you might end up with some kind of consequence if you don't do what is yours to do in the family.  

On the flip side, you don't earn your place in the family by performing chores well enough--babies can't do anything that contributes to the running of the household, after all.  Neither do young children lose eating privileges if they leave their shoes on the floor.  But you might well encourage your children to make responsible choices and offer them greater freedom, more opportunities, or other good things as positive reinforcements.  None of it is as crude as a business deal or a this-for-that transaction (those are definitely not how a family works, much less the Reign of God), but there is certainly a sense in which parents give encouragements to their children to promote the kind of growth and character development that they want to see in them.  Those encouragements aren't the same as payments for services rendered, and they are not a matter of turning love into some kind of reward.  But it is still possible to see how a family can simultaneously be a community of unconditional love and of positive reinforcements at the same time.  You can't lose your belonging in the family by failing to do chores, and you didn't earn your way into the family by doing them well enough.  But you do grow into the kind of mature person who can show love to others as well as receiving love.  

So in a family, your actions matter--not as a means of "getting in" or avoiding getting "kicked out" of the family, but as a way of contributing to the well-being of all in the family.   You might not lose your place in the household if you never help with the dishes, but it does send the message that you don't care about anybody else in the family if you can never be bothered to put your plate into the dishwasher.  You might not lose your belonging in the family if you never put your clean laundry away, but it does communicate ungratefulness to the ones in the family who wash and dry your clothes for you--and that isn't a sign of maturity.  And since the goal of being in a family is not to stay as babies forever but to grow to maturity in love, then it actually makes perfect sense to say that families involve both unconditional grace and responsibilities that might come with positive reinforcements.  Both can be true at the same time, and in fact, the reinforcements are ways that parents try to graciously help their children grow to maturity.

If we can see how that might work in a family, then maybe it's not that hard to imagine that God's Reign could work the same way.  We can still say, wholeheartedly, that our belonging in God's family is nothing but grace--a gift given with unconditional love that will not let us go.  And at the same time, we can say that God's intention is to bring us to maturity, and that will involve encouraging us to become the kind of people who use our time, our energy, and our resources wisely and with love.  It's not a deal or a transaction, and there is definitely no buying your way into heaven through your good deeds or earning your salvation based on your church attendance or frequency of prayers. But our actions in this life do matter to God, and the choices we make, even at an everyday level, shape us either toward maturity or away from it.

So maybe the right question to ask is not, "What kind of reward will it get me in heaven if I do this or that good thing?" but rather, "What kind of actions can I take today that reflect the character of the family I belong to--the family of God?" And we trust that God can use even small actions of love, of decency, of truthfulness, and of justice, for God's purposes in building up the whole family--much like your small action of helping set the table or take out the trash can help lighten the load of someone else in the family who is feeling stressed... and also help you to grow in maturity, too, by doing it.  

Today, what can you and I choose to do that will help us grow to maturity in Christ-like love?  What kinds of actions might we give our energy toward in this day that would make Jesus say, "Well done, good and faithful servant" to us in response?  

And what is keeping us from doing that kind of good in the world, even right now?

Lord Jesus, bring us to maturity in your love--by whatever ways you have in mind.