In Jesus’ last long teaching among the disciples before his crucifixion and death in the gospel of John, he tells them he abides in them and invites them to abide in him. Jesus is compassionate here, not conditional or threatening. He’s less: You better abide in me or else. And more: Even after my death and resurrection, I will live in you—and you in me.
This week, I struggled with my sermon writing. To try to get myself unstuck, I made a list of what connects me to Jesus, a list of, basically, how I abide in Jesus. Things like being baptized and receiving Holy Communion, reading and studying the Bible, serving others and working for justice and peace, being in loving, open relationships with others and meeting people where they’re at. And then, I made a list of other ways I have heard people describe being connected to Jesus. Things like prayer and music, dance and art, nature and weekly worship. I looked at my lists but wasn’t satisfied. I wondered what makes abiding in Jesus different than simply doing these things I had listed. I was stumped. As a daughter so often does when she's in a jam, I called my father—to discuss John chapter 15. My dad and I discussed: If life with Jesus were a river, we might simply dip our toe in, maybe pray once in a while, come to church and receive Holy Communion here and there, or complete a one-off service project. We might wade in the river, periodically put our feet in, perhaps by participating regularly in worship and other church programs but getting out once the worship is over or the program completed. We might enter the river, allow the water to pull us downstream, water up to our necks. When we enter the river, we stay there. There is no getting in and getting out. All of life happens in the river. That is abiding in Jesus. Abiding in Jesus means that, whatever our spiritual practices are, they orient us, ground us, influence everything else that happens in our lives. There’s no getting out of the river; abiding means remaining. In this case, remaining in relationship with Jesus for the duration, not just the 60 minutes of worship on a Sunday morning but for the duration of our lives. At Grace Lutheran in downtown Phoenix, our community included lots of folks experiencing homelessness. During my time there, we were serving 300 to 350 plates of pancakes and sausage every Sunday, hosting a meal and Bible study every Wednesday, distributing clothing and hygiene products every Monday, opening our doors for a summer day shelter, Monday to Friday, and assisting people in a constant stream through the church office. One evening, the church office doorbell rang for probably the twentieth time that day. When I went to answer the door, a stranger in professional clothing was on the doorstep. “I hear you do good things here,” he said. “I’d like to help.” I of course beckoned him in, sat him down at the table in my office, and listened to his story. He was a criminal defense attorney in Phoenix, someone whose face is on billboards across the city. He told me he had made a lot of money doing ethically questionable things. He told me about his marriage struggles, his spiritual struggles, his struggles of conscience. And then, he asked what we needed money for. After years of making his living doing what he himself described as bad things, he wanted to do something good. He decided to give to a particular program and became that program’s silent angel, funding it in its entirety through at least my departure from Grace. When asked, he contributed towards the youth mission trips and received cards from my grateful church kids. From time to time, he would stop by and give me an update on his life: how his marriage had healed, about changes in his law practice, how he was practicing philanthropy elsewhere, where he was in his spiritual journey. He stopped by the church because he heard we did good things there. He realized something wasn’t right in his life, that he didn’t know what to do to fix it, that he needed to do something different. He never asked for help; in fact, he offered to help us. And by helping us, his life took a turn, a turn towards healing and wholeness. He got in the river and remained there. Jesus abides in us, and we abide in Jesus. When we abide in Jesus, it shows. The fruit we bear leads others to serve as the last portion of our mission statement reads. But the fruit we bear also hot wires our connection to Jesus and opens us to not just occasional acts of service but a life of loving service to God and our neighbor. One of the curious things about Jesus’ teaching to the disciples this morning is that Jesus abiding in them is not conditional on them abiding in him. The disciples’ relationship with Jesus doesn’t depend on them. Instead, Jesus just gets in the river—with each of them. Jesus enters a deep, loving, eternal relationship with each one, including Judas. The relationship is so deep and abiding that it withstands whatever the disciples throw at it: betrayal, denial, abandonment, confusion, fear, sleepiness, and outright disobedience. Jesus does the same for us. He’s already in the river beckoning us to come in. If you are submerged in the river with Jesus, I pray you are encouraged to keep on in your joyous life of loving service to God and neighbor. If you are dipping your toe in the river, I pray you are moved to take a turn, to try something different, to offer to help somewhere and see where that takes you. Whether you are hanging out at the side of the river or fully submerged, here’s some good news: Jesus is already in the river, abiding in you, abiding in us. And for that, we can say: Thanks be to God! Amen.
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If you ask me, my parents are some of the best. 😊 We always had food on our table, a roof over our heads, and books and prayers at bedtime. Every summer, we vacationed with six other families, all of them my parents’ friends from seminary, a group affectionately known as our “Okoboji family” because we vacationed in Okoboji, Iowa. My parents went to my sister’s every track and cross country meet and my concerts, shows, and recitals. As my sister and I grew older, my parents were always there, if asked, to help us move, to pick us up when stranded, and to babysit their grandchildren (my niece and nephew), even if doing so required a cross-country flight. As a now-retired social worker working in foster care, my mother literally taught the class on how to parent, and her boundaries are beautiful. Never does advice leave my mother’s mouth unless specifically asked for, and when I, while weeping, told my mother I felt called by God to Minnesota—my parents and my sister firmly entrenched in Phoenix, my mother said, “Sarah, I understand. When God calls, you gotta go!” They’re the best, like I said. Still, it was embarrassingly recently that I realized how deeply my parents love me and how much caring for me has shaped their lives. I can see now that, for at least two decades, my parents made most decisions based on what was best for me and my sister. They waited to move so we could finish high school. They saved so they could help us pay for college. We could afford only one vacation a year, and because my sister and I insisted, it was always to Okoboji with our Okoboji family, never to any place more exotic. They have, in many ways, laid down their lives for us. Laid down their needs. Laid down their own interests and activities. Laid down their expectations of what we would do, where we would live, or who we would marry. Laid down their opinions.
In today’s gospel, Jesus teaches the disciples, Pharisees, and all those gathered round, “I am the good shepherd.” Instead of a morally “good” shepherd, the Greek word used in this passage indicates Jesus is calling himself a “true” or “real” shepherd. Unlike the hired hand who leaves the sheep vulnerable when trouble comes, the good or “true” shepherd protects the sheep and is willing to put his body in harm’s way for the sake of the sheep. The goal of the true shepherd’s work is to give the sheep abundant life—as Jesus says just prior to today’s reading. Whatever the sheep need for abundant life, the true shepherd is willing to give. Contemplating how the true shepherd is willing to give, our minds may immediately jump to Jesus’ crucifixion and death, the way Jesus lays down his life, but the gospel of John tells a larger story: that of a God who lays down heaven to enter earth. A God who lays down power. A God who lays down might. A God who lays down majesty. God enters the world in Jesus, enters the world as a baby, makes Godself vulnerable to hunger and thirst, to everyday aches and pains, to the sorrows and joys of being human. God lays down what makes God-God. In order to share our humanity. In order to preach and teach, heal and forgive, feed and befriend. In order to die, yes, but also to rise. In order to ascend and send us the Holy Spirit. In order to plant the church—that we might share in the abundant life of the Spirit. This is the work of the true shepherd. For us, Jesus’ sheep. At that embarrassingly recent moment that I realized how deeply my parents love me and how significantly caring for me has shaped their lives, I realized something else: They have never asked me to love them back. They have never asked me to sacrifice for them. Their love for me has never been contingent on my love for them. And so, I am free—to love my parents or ignore them. I am free to call them regularly or never call them. I am free to figure out how to spend holidays with them or just let the holidays pass without mention. My parents will love me, regardless. Amazingly. The same, dear people, is true in our relationship with God. God’s love for us has never been contingent on our love for God. So we are free—to love God or ignore God. We are free to share in Christian community or never darken the door of a church. We are free to serve all people and strive for justice and peace in all the earth or to spend our lives serving only our own interests. God will love us, regardless. Amazingly. The day I realized I could freely love my parents—or not, I decided I wanted to. Not because I was obligated to. Not because of a threat of losing their love. But because I wish to be a loving person, because my parents are deserving of love, and especially because loving them brings joy to me. We who are called by God to “love the Lord” as our mission statement says do so freely. We get to love God back and in so doing, we know the joy of loving. We know the joy found in a life of loving God. This is a life on which Audrianna, Trevor, and Riley are about to embark, a life summed up in the promises they will make today, promises each of us who are confirmed made: To live among God’s faithful people To hear the word of God and share in the Lord’s supper To proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed To serve all people, following the example of Jesus and To strive for justice and peace in all the earth Loving God is less a warm feeling about God or even what we believe in our heads about God and more about sharing in Christian community, serving all people, and striving for justice and peace in all the earth. Loving God is less a discernment of right or wrong belief and more about getting out in the ditch and picking up trash, serving the community meal, mentoring confirmation students, teaching Sunday school or Vacation Bible school, and listening with an open heart to someone in distress and especially keeping that conversation to ourselves. Whether we respond—or not—to God’s call to love the Lord, Jesus, our true shepherd, loves us with an everlasting love. He’s the best. Thanks be to God! Amen. I remember the first time I stood at the west coast and gazed across the Pacific Ocean. I was 22 years old and newly engaged to Ben. For many years, his extended family owned a beach house at Canon Beach on Oregon’s northern coast, their house just 3 houses from the beach itself. We dumped our suitcases at the house and walked the short distance to the sand. From the front door, we could hear the tide coming in and going out, coming in and going out, a dull roar. We could smell the sea—the pungent smell of fish and salt. We could feel the humidity on our skin, the wind whipping my hair across my face, the sand on our feet, sand we could never entirely escape, no matter how thoroughly we rinsed. As we emerged from the paved street unto the damp sand, I glimpsed Haystock Rock, much photographed and beloved, and then the wide blue expanse, extending far beyond the horizon. Right and left, along the coast, the ocean spread as far as my eye could see. I took it in but couldn’t quite take it in.
A decade later, when I got to know folks from Tonga, an island nation of the South Pacific, I heard their stories of the settling of Tonga, how their ancestors braved the Pacific Ocean in large canoes traveling from the Solomon Islands. Large canoes, but canoes for a distance of 1500 miles. How did they make it alive, in the face of that wide blue expanse continuing far beyond the horizon? How could it be that any human could live to tell the tale of that journey? In today’s gospel from Luke, Jesus appears to the disciples following his resurrection. As he did in the gospel of John last week, Jesus shows the disciples the marks of his crucifixion: his hands and feet. He eats fish in their presence, a further confirmation that Jesus is risen, not just spiritually but in the flesh. Unlike the disciples in the gospel of John who excitedly tell Thomas “we have seen the Lord!,” unlike Thomas’ confession “my lord and my god!” here, the disciples are joyful, yes, but also disbelieving and wondering. How can it be? How can it be Jesus? Wasn’t he crucified? Today, the gospel writer Luke paints another portrait of faith: joy, wonder, and disbelief, all rolled into one. Here is a faith that says: How can it be? A faith that says: Would you look at that? A faith that says: Wow! Jesus’ resurrection moves the disciples into a posture of joy, wonder, and disbelief, a fitting posture when faced with the miraculous resurrection of one who was crucified and buried. Because they couldn’t make logical sense of it. Because the good news of it couldn’t be taken, entirely, in. Because, though Good Friday bitterly disappointed them, ultimately, their hope was fulfilled. What does God do that makes you say: Wow!? What does God do that leads you to question: How can it be? What does God do that makes you marvel: Would you look at that? I invite you to turn to one or two people sitting near you and share at least one thing that God does that leads you to joy, wonder, or disbelief. The Pacific Ocean is just one small example for me of something that makes me say: Wow! And how God got the Tongan people safely from the Solomon Islands to Tonga is one small example of something God has done that leads me to question: How can it be? But there are so many examples. What are they for you? Go! Worshipers discussed these questions, and then, several people shared with the larger group. When I think about the history of St. John’s, about what God has done and is still doing here, on this humble road amidst trees and just a few neighbors, how can it be that over 125 years later, God is still on a mission here? Our world has shifted dramatically since the Spirit of God first opened St. John’s doors. When St. John’s began, there was no internet and no widespread automobile use. When St. John’s began, man had not yet landed on the moon, and neither the first nor the second world war had been fought. When St. John’s began, women could not yet vote, and civil rights for all citizens were not guaranteed. So much has changed in our world, yet God still has a mission for St. John’s of Cedarbrook. We still come—to worship, to serve, to learn, to grow, to be in community. How can it be? Would you look at that? Here at St. John’s of Cedarbrook, our mission statement reads: Loving the Lord – Living in Faith – Leading Others to Serve. Living in faith does not necessarily entail rigid conformity to certain doctrine, insisting that others believe as we do, or never questioning what the Christian faith teaches. Remember from last week: faith is not certainty. Living in faith might mean, instead, living all life from a posture of joy, wonder, and disbelief. Living in faith might mean holding lightly those mysteries we cannot entirely comprehend and being okay with not knowing what we think. Living in faith might mean standing back and admiring the awesome power of God, acknowledging how small we are and yet beloved. Living in faith might mean wondering how God is at work in each person, among all nations, in creation, and even among other religious traditions, seeing the entirety of our world as God’s handiwork. Today, when meeting the risen Christ, the disciples in their joy were still disbelieving and wondering. There is much at which to marvel, to question, and to rejoice. For Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen. Margie is a person of faith. Alive to the Spirit of God, Margie responds to God’s call with openness and courage. She has sheltered women fleeing domestic violence, moved across the country to care for grandchildren with disabilities, and helped with and led many and various programs at church—with foster kids, people experiencing homelessness, and the congregation at large. Margie has also lived with great physical pain and illness, broken relationships, and questions that are scary to answer. At every turn, she declares that all things are possible—with God’s help.
Nicole is a person of faith. After struggling with other philosophical perspectives in college, Nicole discovered Christianity and began reading and listening to the Bible every day. Though she is only in her mid-30s, she has read the Bible all the way through multiple times, and her faith is a source of strength and joy for her. Because she is lesbian and partnered, Nicole had trouble in the past finding a church that would accept her as she is. She herself has wondered how her sexual orientation and her religious beliefs fit together. Ken is a person of faith. When I first met Ken, he was on fire for God. He sang in the praise band at church, served on council, shared his faith in his daily life, prayed and did devotions every day, and eagerly sought opportunities to serve God and others. A few years ago, his job became unmanageable in terms of time and responsibilities, and Ken had a hard time seeing a way out. Due to his job, he was unable to come to worship and couldn’t find time to do the church-related things that brought him joy. Which led to sadness and a sense of being lost. Thomas was a person of faith. Doubting Thomas, that is. He traveled with Jesus and ministered alongside Jesus. Along with the other disciples, Thomas listened to Jesus preach and teach, but Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus appeared in the upper room with the other disciples on that first Easter evening. It was then that Jesus showed the others his hands and his side, evidence of his crucifixion. The other disciples told Thomas: “We have seen the Lord,” but Thomas said he would believe it when he saw it. A week later, Jesus appeared again, and this time, Thomas was in attendance. As he did with the other disciples, Jesus pointed out his scarred hands and invited Thomas to put his hand in Jesus’ side. “My Lord and my God!” Thomas exclaimed. After which Jesus replied, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe,” but every single disciple saw and then believed, not just Thomas. To be a person of faith is to be a person of doubt and questions, uncertainties and struggles. Me included. At 16 years old, I read the Bible and prayed voluminously every day in addition to all my church activities. At 18, a friend of mine told me he was an atheist, a revelation that sent me into panic. At 19, I was in college studying religion and being exposed to new theological ideas. At 21, I was simultaneously disgusted with the church and couldn’t stay away. I was (politely and respectfully) walking out of worship services because I couldn’t tolerate what I saw as violent, hateful theology, and I was applying for the candidacy process in order to eventually become a pastor. (That’s another story I’ll share sometime.) In the 24 years since then, I have grown and matured and discovered balance and acceptance of what is, still, imperfect in the church. But my questions and doubts, uncertainties and struggles continue. Of course. Even now, there are times when, while praying aloud, praying suddenly seems ludicrous. Who am I talking to? I wonder. What foolish thing am I doing? Even for pastors, faith in God is rarely an easy, straightforward endeavor. Because faith is not certainty. Faith is not certainty. While doubt can easily be part of faith, certainty cannot. Faith, by its very nature, is uncertain. Or as Christian mystic and writer Richard Rohr says, “Faith is agreeing to live without full resolution.” Indeed, until we meet God in God’s fullness, we live without full resolution. We trust in God, but there will be things we won’t know, things we won’t understand, things whose reasons we won’t grasp. That is the nature of faith. Because faith isn’t certainty. Ten years ago at Bible camp with my church kids, we decided we would all gather together to do a high ropes challenge called the Leap of Faith. At this particular camp, the person doing the Leap of Faith would get harnessed up, put a hardhat on their head, and climb up a telephone pole with large staples acting as footholds. Once at the top, the person would move from a sitting position to a standing position on the flat top of the telephone pole, 100 feet in the air, and then leap, trying to grab a handle suspended maybe 10 feet away. I had belayed countless times for the Leap of Faith, meaning I had been the one holding the rope and ensuring the safety of the person doing the Leap of Faith, so I had been eager to expose my church kids to this challenge. But then, once the kids had all successfully climbed and leapt, it was my turn, they said. Okay, I can do it, I said. I got harnessed up, got my hardhat, and climbed. Everything was going swimmingly until I got to the top of the telephone pole. How does a person get from a seated position to standing on a piece of wood only six inches in diameter? I sat and pondered this a while. I may have been crying. I contemplated the physics of jumping from a sitting position but realized I would painfully hit the telephone pole with its large staples all the way down, even with my harness. I contemplated climbing down the same way I had climbed up. Down below, my kids cheered me on. “You can do it, Pastor Sarah.” “Go, Pastor Sarah!” I yelled down, “I don’t know if I can do this.” They yelled back, “Yes, you can!” I wasn’t certain I could do it but realized I had no choice. So I decided to lean into faith. I somehow got to a standing position; I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. But from there, it was easy. I closed my eyes and leapt. By the grace of God, I made it safely to the ground. Like the Leap of Faith, a journey of faith has its easy times and its hard times, its questions and doubts, its uncertainties and struggles. The hard times are not evidence of a lack of faith but rather a vibrant faith, one that continues wrestling with the questions even when the answers are not satisfactory or clear. The church is the place from which we hear people yelling, “You can do it!” “I’m praying for you!” “We love you!” And of course, in the end, whether we believe in God or not, God still IS and will do whatever God does, quite apart from us believing in God. Today, if you are in the midst of questions and doubts, uncertainties and struggles, welcome to the club! We are or have all been right there with you—even if we’ve never talked about it. Thomas and the other disciples, they doubted even with Jesus right in their midst. Jesus’ words today are for us. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” We are blessed for, even in our questions and doubts, uncertainties and struggles, we have come to believe. Thanks be to God! Amen. |
AuthorPastor Sarah Stadler shares her sermons from the previous Sunday. Archives
May 2024
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