Praying for Sodom, Gomorrah, and Our Community - Genesis 18: 20-33

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Old Testament lesson from Genesis 18.

If you want to know what is on a person’s mind or on their heart, listen to what is in their prayers. There you will find the most intimate and personal thoughts, needs, concerns, hopes, joys, and praises of a person – things that they carry to the Lord in prayer. When I visit people in the hospital, the nursing home, or even in their own house, I always ask “What should we pray for today?” I’ve stopped being surprised by the answers. Kathy, battling breast cancer, didn’t ask for healing and strength; instead, she prayed that her son might come to know Jesus as Lord and Savior. Eddie, with a son in prison, wanted to pray for rain so his garden would grow and his cattle would be fed so he could feed the three generations that needed his help, more than ever. In those moments, intimate words and thoughts, and sometimes wordless groans and moans, are delivered to the Lord.  

You have a moment such as that in this morning’s Old Testament reading from Genesis 18. It picks up right where we left off last week, Abraham entertaining those angelic messengers under the tree of Mamre. I would encourage you this afternoon to open your Bible and read the chapter in its entirety. This morning, we are privileged to overhear a conversation, a prayer offered by Abraham to the Lord God. This is an intimate conversation, spoken from his heart to the ears of the Lord, offered in faith and in confident hope that the Lord will hear and respond.

The angels warned Abraham of the Lord’s anger and coming wrath against Sodom and Gomorrah. Sodom and Gomorrah: just the names invoke the image of wanton, open sinfulness that would make Vegas, New Orleans, Singapore, and Amsterdam blush in shame. So great, so grievous, so wretched was their sin that the Lord has heard their debauchery from the heights of heaven and He has descended to see it Himself. And when the Lord sees and when He hears, He declares He will bring down fire and destroy the cities and everyone who lives therein. And Abraham, as he stands on a hill, overlooking the valley housing the twin cities of vice, he sees what is about to come as the wrath of the Lord rolls toward the cities like a massive wall of fire.

Put yourself in Abrahams’s sandals for a minute. What would you do? What would you do if you were standing there, having received this word of warning from God Himself, and now you are about to witness the sheer terrifying and awful wrath of God poured out on those who deserve it most?

One option is to turn away, to run away and hide. My oldest daughter would say, “Not your monkey, not your circus.” After all, you are safe and you are saved, so grab your wife, run back inside, tie the tent flaps and tell her, “You’re probably going to hear something terrible but don’t worry. It’s God just giving them what they deserve. So, what’s for supper?”

Another option is to grab your servants – you have plenty of them, after all – arm them tooth and nail and go down there and be an instrument of the Lord’s wrath. Our anger mingles with God’s, justifying our vengeance, serving the Lord, delivering His vengeance and showing our displeasure at what the neighbors have done.  Onward Yawheh’s soldiers, heading down to war, with our bows and arrows, settling God’s score… 

Depending on the day, depending on how I feel, I could see myself doing one…or the other. How about you?

But Abraham, Abraham does the most amazing thing. He doesn’t run; he doesn’t arm up for battle. He prays. He simply prays. Now, I’ll agree that it’s the most unusual prayer. It’s not like anything you’ll find in the front of our hymnals. It’s unlike any Psalm. It’s probably more courageous than anything you or I would ever dare to pray, because it sounds more like a business negotiation, a merchant bargaining for a bargain, than prayer. “Lord God, if there are 50 righteous, faithful people in the city, surely you wouldn’t destroy them along with all the wicked? You are merciful and gracious. Far be it from you to sweep away the righteous and the wicked!” And the Lord says, alright, for the sake of 50 I will not destroy the city. Abraham prays again, “What if there are five fewer – what if there are 45? Will you destroy the city with 45 righteous people?” The Lord agrees – for 45 he will spare the city. Again and again Abraham prays, arguing for, leaning on, imploring for the mercy of God: 40, 30, 20, 10, like a backwards auctioneer seeking an inverted deal, Abraham pleads God to spare the city for the sake of ten righteous people. And God agrees – for the sake of ten righteous, He will spare the city.

When there are lives in the balance, in human agony Abraham implores God’s mercy and compassion. But notice, also, the faith of Abraham, clinging to God that He knows through the covenant. When faced with this God, the God of wrath and judgement, seeing the wrath of God, Abraham holds on to the mercy of God, and He does it because He has heard another sound – not the sound of man’s sinfulness, but the sound of the song of Zion.

When the Lord visited Abraham under the tree at Mamre at the beginning of the chapter, the message was that Abraham, who had prayerfully asked God for a son, would indeed have a son within a year. A Son of the promise. And God promised that Abraham would be a great nation through that one son. And, through that nation, all nations of the world would be blessed. Abraham knows God as a God of mercy, so, standing on that hillside, with the sinful world below and the wrath of God above him, Abraham clings to the mercy of God.

That is the privilege of prayer. It is a privilege that we desperately need today. Think of it. We are here looking down into the sinful world around us. It doesn’t take long to hear it, the sin of the world, does it? Turn on the radio, the TV, your favorite podcast. If you really want to be brave, turn off all filters and risk an internet search. It’s easy to hear of, to see the sin of the world. Sexual immorality, homosexuality, heterosexual promiscuity is not only on the city streets and in sleezy hotels but in the privacy of our living rooms thanks to www-dot-you-don’t-want-to-know-dot-com. Businesses are oppressing the poor in the ever-ending desire for profits. Civic leaders line their pockets while ordinary citizens dig deep and find coins that go less and less far. We hear this, and we recognize it all for what it is, great and grievous against both God and man. And, if we hear it, you know God hears it as well and what it is like for his ears as we all have fallen so far from the glory of His creation.

How do you live? How do you live as a Christin in that world? Some run away, retreating into homes, into some sort of Christian solitude, into church buildings, thanking God they are saved. Others – others run into the battle with hatred. You see them, don’t you? They carry posters, “God hates ______.” They get on busses, ride motorcycles, and shout the message to the world that God hates them. Some run away; some run in.

And then there’s another way. There is another way to live, you know. There is the way of Abraham. Remember - Abraham stands on the crest of the hill before the Lord and with His wrath coming, Abraham prays. He prays for the fallen world. That is a holy place. That is a holy conversation with God, set apart by God for you. Think about it: when Jesus died on the cross, he was there on the crest of a hillside outside the world and from there He could see the whole, fallen world in front of Him and below Him. The sin of the world was seen and heard, from Adam and Eve to the day He returns, and He heard the outcry of the sin-stained world in the mocking words of the religious leaders, “If you really are who you say you are, save yourself and come down from the cross!”

But He didn’t. He didn’t come down from the cross because He didn’t come to save Himself. He came to save you. He came to save this world, this fallen world that you live in. And when Jesus was dying, He heard another sound – the sound, not of God’s wrath, but the song, a faint strain of the song of salvation of Zion. Jesus opened His mouth in prayer, “Father, forgive them.” His Father heard, and He answered. Just as you are privileged to hear Abraham’s prayer, you are also privileged to hear Jesus’ prayer. When you overhear that prayer, you are taken to the heart of your Savor.  God forgives you - not for the sake of 50 righteous, or 40 or 30 or 20 or even 10. God forgives you for the sake of the One who is truly Righteous, Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who bore the wrath of God for you. There He was with the wrath of God above Him, the sinful world below Him, and the entire wrath of God was poured out on that One Man so that the entire mercy of God could be poured out on the world.

And the Lord Jesus calls you and me and His church. He calls us to stop running away from the world in fear. He calls us to stop running into the world with hate. He calls us to stand. Stand here with Him. Stand here in Him. And join your voice to sing that song of Zion. Abraham sang it. Jesus sang it for you. And now you have the privilege of singing the song for the world.

So, what does that look like? Good question. It’s not like God wakes you up one morning with a text telling you what’s going to happen to those people over yonder. But, at the same time, it’s not as difficult as we make it out to be. It’s not that we have to get up at 5am so we can spend 2 hours in prayer before getting breakfast, praying for this world and those around us; or, that we need special prayer formulas and books and places to pray. Actually, it’s much more simple than that. It looks like life. Tuesday morning, you’re heading to Jumbo’s for Senior’s Day and you pass an accident on the side of the road. Firetrucks, ambulance, police cars, all surround 8,000 pounds of metal that used to be two vehicles. Or Friday, you turn on the TV at lunchtime to hear the news break in that there was a mass casualty event – details are sketchy. Or in today’s prayers, you are reminded that there are brothers and sisters who are suffering mightily for the sake of Jesus, even if you don’t know the details. And, in those minutes, you think of those people involved, and you think of your own family, and you find yourself longing for the kingdom of God and the coming of Jesus to end the hurt and pain and senseless destruction that we all-too-often create on this earth. And, in that moment, you are given the privilege of prayer.

Now, I admit – it doesn’t sound like prayer, not like the ones you learned as a kid, or the ones we pray formally in worship, and it doesn’t even sound like Abraham. Instead, it sounds like fear and anger and worry and frustration and sadness, all wrapped up into one gracious yearning for God’s mercy in the face of sin we cannot take away. And in that moment is a holy place and a holy conversation. And, in that moment, God’s kingdom comes in a very small way. You, God’s people are alive, singing the song of Zion as best they can with words that are more frustrated than sentimental , more grasping than glorious. Gods people pray for His mercy and for His kingdom to come.

So, no matter where you are, when you are in that prayer, you are near, very near, the heart of Your Savior. And that is the privilege of prayer to Our Father.

 

 

Martha Chose Good; Mary Chose Gooder - Luke 10: 38-42

July 20, 2025

Pentecost 6 – Luke 10: 38-42

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Gospel lesson read a few moments ago.

Imagine you were a citizen of Bethany, 2000 years ago. You sit down to your morning bowl of porridge, flip open the local newspaper, the Bethany News & Eagle, and find your favorite columnist, Ms. Manners. There, you read the following:

Dear Ms. Manners: Help me understand what I did wrong. My sister and I had a dear friend who came by to visit. While my sister sat down and listened to our friend, I scurried around the kitchen making tea and charcuterie board of cakes, figs, and dates drizzled with honey. I was trying to tidy up our small house, making it obvious to my sister that I wanted her help. Finally, I snapped: “Don’t just sit there! Do something!” My sister looked at me, dumbfounded. Meanwhile our guest chided me, saying that my sister had made the better choice. I am so confused. I was doing what is socially demanded and being the good host; she was being lazy. What did I do wrong? Sincerely, Muddled Martha

If you were Miss Manners, how would you respond? What did Martha do wrong? I’ll give you a clue: be careful; the answer isn’t quite as easy as you might first think.

On the one hand, Martha did nothing wrong. In fact, Martha was doing something good: she was being a loving host. Martha was doing the socially acceptable thing, and it wasn’t all that different than Abram as he entertained God’s messengers. She was providing a comfortable space, hosting the Holy Guest in her home. She is being exactly the kind of host that Jesus spoke to His disciples about, saying that if they were welcomed into a home, to stay there and speak the peace of God unto the home. Really, if you look at this narrative in the context of the parable of the Good Samaritan (which we heard last week), where mercy and compassion are actions to be lived out, not mere options to be considered, Martha is fulfilling the role of the Good Samaritan.

To be fair, she did grumble, but that’s understandable. I don’t think she minded being host – after all, she did invite Jesus into her home. I suspect she actually enjoyed it, especially if her so-called love language was service. But, as most of you know, service can become tiresome – especially when you are the only one working, and the work just isn’t getting done. Truth be told, serving isn’t easy. We try to mask it with such colloquial phrases like, “Team work makes the dream work,” and “Many hands make light work.” But, at the end of the day, servitude is work. Joy and frustration are often in an inverse ratio: as one increases, the other decreases. In this case, as frustration mounts, the joy of serving dissipates. I imagine she started to bang a few things around just a little bit louder, sighed a little longer, cleared her throat a little more aggressively. Service, hosting, mercy all become burdensome responsibilities. Finally, with no action resulting from her passive-aggressive tactics towards her sister, she snaps at Jesus: “Do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone?”

It would be easy to turn on Martha shame her for her choices. It would be easy, and simplistic, to imply that service isn’t good, that work around the home is not necessary, that caring for the needs of others is unimportant. It would be easy to beat up on Martha and her busy-ness and instead laud and praise Mary for her sitting and listening to Jesus. But if we did that, what does that say to you who serve – especially if we elevate and praise those who chose to attend Sunday school and worship instead? What does that do to you who serve the meals, who teach Sunday school, who volunteer to help with ministry of St. Paul’s in this community? Wouldn’t that minimize and devalue your work in such a way that it would discourage you from ever helping make a sandwich for the homeless, or volunteer to help Vacation Bible School, or even serve as an usher in the Divine Service?

Let’s back up a second. Last week, we heard the young lawyer come to Jesus and ask the question about how to fulfill the Law. His answer was a good one, citing the Torah, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Those are the two great commandments. You can take those and plug them into the story of Mary and Martha, each sister choosing one or the other. Both commandments are good; both sisters chose something good.

The struggle is that we, as people, are finite beings. We can only do one thing at a time. We cannot serve God and man, Jesus said. It’s not that Martha made a bad choice – Jesus doesn’t criticize her servitude. He doesn’t scold her for not sitting next to her sister in rapt attention. All Jesus says is that she is quite busy, bordering on being overburdened, worried about all the goings-on in the house. Again, no rebuke. His comment isn’t a negative towards Martha, but a positive toward Mary. Martha’s servitude is worthwhile but Mary’s is better.

The two great commandments are both good, but the second, the love of neighbor, flows from the first. Martha does welcome Jesus into her home. She does follow the example of loving service to her neighbor. We might say she looses a point or two for getting cranky, and that’s where things start to go awry – not enough to get in trouble, per se, but she takes her eye off the reason for the service, which is love toward another, and instead sees only herself. Mary, on the other hand, in listening to Jesus wasn’t better than Martha’s being bad (which she wasn’t!), but Mary’s good was better than Martha’s good. Love of God trumps love of neighbor. And, because of that, it will not be taken from her.

There is a time and a place for serving. Consider how often Jesus Himself served. He healed the sick, He calmed the storms that threatened to sink the disciple’s boat, He gave sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf. He taught both on the hillside and in the synagogue. He blessed the children and showed mercy to tax collectors, prostitutes, and other sinners. There were times for serving. There were even times that He was served. Here, Martha scampers and scurries to care for Jesus. In other places, Mary Magdalene bathes Jesus’ feet with her hair. Zaccheus invites Jesus to his home to eat dinner. But remember, Jesus said, “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve and give His life as a ransom for many, (Matt 20:28).” His ultimate act of service for mankind, that is the fulfillment of the second table of the Law, was in fulfilling the first table, loving the Lord God with all His heart, mind, soul – and body, dying the death on the cross for us.

His perfect servitude fulfills the Law perfectly for us, so that in our not-always-loving-and-sometimes-begrudging acts of helping set the table, or washing the dishes, or doing the laundry, in Christ are made holy and perfect. Our often-distracted and not-always-focused reading and listening to the Word of God are made perfect and complete in Christ Jesus. His death on the cross redeems even our miniscule efforts of lovingly fulfilling the Law. In Jesus, the Law is complete for us. You, then, are freed to live out the Law, not under threat of punishment, but under the joy of knowing that in Christ, our service is made perfect, our humble time of worshipping at the feet of Jesus is good.

Here's what this means for you, today, on this 6^th Sunday of Pentecost in the year of our Lord, 2025. It is good to serve your neighbor. It is a good thing to teach Sunday school, or volunteer to reach into the community, to help feed the hungry, to visit the sick, to pray for the hurting, and to demonstrate love to the least and weakest of God’s people. These are good things. But, as good as these acts of love to your neighbor are, it is – to coin a term – “gooder,” or “more good” to sit and listen to the words of Jesus. In those words of Jesus, you hear the promises of God for you, His beloved. You hear His word of forgiveness, life and salvation which work to transform, enliven, and empower you to do those acts of loving service.

Do those acts of servitude with joy, for in loving your neighbor, you are demonstrating love to those whom Jesus loves. And, if you find yourself growing irritated in service, pause, repent, and return to sit at the feet of Jesus in Word and Sacrament, to be re-filled with joy and love toward your neighbor, that you are able again to serve with mercy and compassion.

So, go back to the Miss Manners moment. If you were Miss or Mr. Manners, how would you answer Muddled Martha? If I were Miss Manners –Pastor Manners, if you will - what would I say to “Muddled Martha”? What would I say to you, Cranky Carl, or Bothered Beth, or Distressed Dianne, or Frustrated Frank, if you were concerned about which choice to make? How about this:

Dear Friend in Christ: you didn’t do anything wrong in serving your friend. What you did was an act of love. It’s tough to serve when others seem to be content to sit and do nothing. Thus, Pastor Manners understands your comment, “Don’t just sit there, do something.” In this case, though, your sister chose well – dare I say, “gooder.” Pastor Manners would suggest that instead of thinking, “Don’t just sit there, do something,” instead repent, and let your attitude be, “Don’t just do something; sit there.” You were concerned about filling bowls and cups. She chose to sit and be filled with the words of Jesus. The next time Jesus comes to visit, fetch Him a quick snack and a drink – that is the hospitable thing to do – and then stop doing and just listen.

And, for all of you at St. Paul’s in the year of our Lord, 2025, that means sitting with Jesus, with the Word made flesh, in the Divine Service, in your daily devotions, in your quiet moments of prayer. Repent of the desire to be busy, the need to do something. Sit and be filled with the Good News of Jesus. It’s the gooder thing to do.

Amen.

We Wish to See Jesus! - John 12: 20-26

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is from John 12: 20-26:

²⁰ Now among those who went up to worship at the feast were some Greeks. ²¹ So these came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and asked him, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” ²² Philip went and told Andrew; Andrew and Philip went and told Jesus. ²³ And Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. ²⁴ Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. ²⁵ Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. ²⁶ If anyone serves me, he must follow me; and where I am, there will my servant be also. If anyone serves me, the Father will honor him.

Why are you here? I don’t mean in some kind of philosophical, epistemological sort of way where we stare at our belly buttons and consider the meaning of life. I mean this literally: why are you here at St. Paul’s this morning?

For some of you, the answer is very simple: because it’s Sunday morning. Where else would you be but the Lord’s house after getting a Sunday morning Wenchell’s donut and a cup of coffee? Let’s take it a step further. Why are you here on a Sunday morning? What is making this time, this space, this place the centripetal center of your day, your week, and even your very life? Why are you here?

For most, if not all of us, the answer is because someone brought us here, to the Lord’s House. Probably our parents, before we could ever say yes or no, they bundled us in baby blankets and kiddie carriers and brought us to church. For others, it was because our husband or wife, boyfriend or girlfriend, or a best friend brought us to church. That personal invitation, that welcome, that request opened the door for the Spirit to work His work in our hearts and minds, calling, gathering, enlightening us to come together to hear the Good News of Jesus. And, if we’re really, really honest, this morning there may be a few of us who are answering, “We’re here because we’re curious about the new guy.”

Those are like level one and level two reasons. Go still deeper, and let me ask one more time: Why are you here? We’ll come back to that in a few minutes.

In the text that I have chosen, it’s early in Holy Week – probably Palm Sunday afternoon or the next day. You recall Jesus entered Jerusalem to the cries of “Hosannah! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” People cut down palm branches and took off their outer cloaks, placing them both on the ground to soften the footfalls of the donkey’s steps and reduce dust as Jesus entered the city of David to the King’s welcome.

Some of the crowd were Greeks, Gentiles, or as the Hebrews called them, goyim – literally, “the non-Jewish nations.” Nevermind that they were there to worship at the Temple for the Feast of Passoverr. They were outsiders, barely tolerated by Jews. They could go to Temple, but had to stay outside of the main worship center, in the outer courtyard aptly called “The Court of the Gentiles.” To roughly compare to our church building, it would be as if they could come through the exterior doors, but had to stay in the narthex, unable to enter the main sanctuary. There was a clear line of demarcation: Jews, Sons of Abraham, were welcome inside; Greeks, the literal outsiders, remain outside.

That’s what makes their request of Philip all the more marvelous: “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” The Greeks knew who they were in relation to Jesus and His Jewish brethren. Perhaps they felt uncomfortable directly approaching Him because of those religious and cultural differences. I suspect that, somehow, they assumed Philip was also Greek – his name certainly wasn’t traditional Hebrew. Maybe Philip would have sympathy on their request and get them a moment of audience with the One who had entered the city to Hosannah. Although they knew they were outsiders, stuck on the outer edge of the worshipping community, they would not be deterred: they wanted to see Jesus. We do not know why. Possibly, just possibly, they were curious to see the One that created such a stir in the city. Maybe they wanted to ask him a question, like John’s disciples had done, “Are you the Messiah, or are we to expect another?” Perhaps they wanted to receive a blessing, to pray for a miracle, to simply see Him and hear His voice. Maybe Jesus would give them the time of day if Philp would make an introduction. All we know is that their desire was to see Jesus. Philip leads them to Andrew; together, they lead the small entourage to see Jesus.

I began by asking the question, “Why are you here?” While we explored a lot of possible answers, I asked you to dig deeper and get to the answer that underlies all others. Whatever else may have brought you to St. Paul’s this morning, I pray that the core reason you are here is that, like those Greeks, you want to see Jesus. And, I pray that at the heart of every conversation we have as God’s flock, pastor and people, people and pastor, is that very basic, core desire: we wish to see Jesus together.

Now, that begs a question: what Jesus do you want to see?

In the movie, Talladega Nights, Ricky Bobby, the character played by Will Farrell, says he likes the cute little Baby Jesus of Christmas the best. That’s the only Jesus he wants to know. I suspect that’s not far from what most people in the world want: they want a nice, cute Jesus who doesn’t ask too much of us. Bring him out for Christmas and when things are tough, but otherwise, we’ll do it ourselves – thank you. Truth be told, our old Adam and old Eve wants a convenient Jesus who gives us exactly what we want, when we want it. We want Jesus who gives us this day our daily filet mignon with a nice crusty baguette and farm-to-table vegetables. This Jesus gives us successful careers, beautiful families like our favorite social media influencers, perfect skin, spot-on blood pressure, and teeth that make an orthodontist weep in awe. Health, wealth, and happiness are all ours from this Jesus, upon request – or demand – whichever the case might be. Given our druthers, the Jesus we would see is the admixture produced by Hollywood, Wall Street, and Pennsylvania Avenue which, in reality, is no Jesus at all.

Instead of the Jesus we want to see, we need the Jesus who reveals Himself to us to be seen. And, when you see this Jesus, what you see is the cross.

We don’t know exactly what those Greeks expected to see of Jesus, but when Jesus welcomes them, He teaches them of the where His glory will be demonstrated. It’s not in the parade that took place earlier, with the crowds and the palm branches and the joy-filled, expectant cries. It’s not in the palace of David or even in the courtyard of the Temple from which they are excluded. His glory will be found in His crucifixion, in His death. If you want to see Jesus, you see Him in and through the cross.

Strange place to find Jesus in His glory, isn’t it? It will be the most un-glorious glorification the world will ever know. His fellow Jews will lie and conspire to kill Him. The Roman governor will find Him innocent, yet will sentence Him to death, meanwhile freeing a guilty man who deserved to die. The soldiers will whip and scourge and press a crown of thorns into His scalp. His blood will flow freely. The cross will become His throne, and the crowds – the very same people who on Sunday cried “Hosanna” – the crowds will instead cry “cruficy!” Nails will pierce the hands that broke the bread, that healed the sick, that raised the dead. The feet that carried Him across Israel will be pinned to the rough wood. He is left alone, suspended between heaven and earth, abandoned by both disciples and by His Heavenly Father. The only thing left untouched is His voice, and with that voice, in the noon-day darkness, the Word-made-flesh commended Himself into His Father’s hands, proclaiming that the work of salvation complete as He breathed His last. Only then, through the cross and His death, can you see the glorified and resurrected Jesus. The Third-Day resurrection is only possible because He accomplished the Father’s will to rescue and redeem. “It is finished,” indeed.

That, I pray, is the Jesus you wish to see: the Jesus who died to redeem and rescue you, His people; the Jesus who rescues the world, not as Jew or Greek, slave or free, Germananic or Marshallese, Oklahoman or Texan, but as the Church, the body of Christ, united and without geographic, political, or social boundaries. I pray you seek the Jesus who took your place on the cross so you will never be abandoned by the Father. I pray you seek the Jesus who proclaims your sins are forgiven freely and fully in His blood; the Jesus who welcomes you into a peace-filled and restore relationship with the Father; the Jesus into whom you are baptized, with His death and His resurrection made yours.

Sir, we wish to see Jesus. You can – you should – expect that of your pastor: that he shows you this Jesus. You have the right and the expectation to demand it of me and hold me to account.  Expect of me, demand of me, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus who shows Himself to in water and word, in bread and wine, in the forgiveness of sins, and who calls us to Himself through His Spirit into the Church which is the very body of Christ. Sir, show us this Jesus.”

Last Sunday, I promised that I would do that, to the best of my ability, with the help of God. And you, in return, promised that we would work together to proclaim that Jesus in both words and actions to the world, to this city, to this immediate neighborhood that needs to see Jesus crucified, risen, and alive for them. That is good. I know there is a sense of excitement as we begin this time of ministry together.

But, I do want you to know this: in calling me to be your pastor, you have continued the perfect track record of St. Paul’s, and every Christian congregation, for that matter, of calling a sinner into this Office. Sooner or later, my Old Adam will bubble to the surface. He is a good swimmer, after all. I’ll say or do something, or I won’t say or I won’t do something, and either by omission or commission I will sin against you. And, there will be a day when you will sin against me. When that happens, I pray that we are able to collectively say to each other, “we wish to see Jesus,” and in words and actions, we are able to confess our sins to each other and then forgive each other through the death and resurrection of Christ.

In doing that, we serve each other in the name of Jesus. We will do that here, in this holy sanctuary. We will do it in this neighborhood surrounding 1626 E. Broadway. We’ll do it in Enid. We’ll do it in our homes and places of work and play. We’ll serve each other in the name of Jesus.

According to legend, in the years after World War 2, a military chaplain was touring a church in France that had been badly damaged. Although the building was being carefully restored, in the narthex was a badly damaged statue of Jesus. Its legs were gone; one hand was broken off and the other arm was completely missing. Perhaps most stunning of all, the bottom of the mouth was absent. The chaplain pointed out to his tour guide the irony of the restored building but the statue was so badly damaged and left unrepaired. The tour guide’s answer stopped the chaplain in his boots: the reason, he said, is that it reminds us when we leave this church, we serve our community as the voice, hands and feet of Jesus.

So, go back to the beginning. Why are you here? You are here to see Jesus where He has promised to be for His Church and to receive the blessings of Christ, in Word and Sacrament. But, you aren't just here for yourself. You are also here for those around you, around us. This community needs to see Jesus. It might not know it, but it does. When you leave here, you do so strengthened and fulfilled to serve those people in the name of Jesus as His voice, hands and feet.

In His name.
Amen.

 

Mission Valley, TX: June 7, 2017-July 1, 2025

Moving on...literally

July 02, 2025

Last evening, with the "thunk" of the deadbolt, we left the house that we called home for the last eight years. On June 7, 2017, we arrived, fresh from the Houston metro area. I spent the night in the house with our three cats, sleeping on an air mattress and sitting in a folding camp chair. Laura and the kids spent the night in a hotel in Cuero. That night, I wrote one of my first blog posts saying that we were in a new house which had not yet become a home. 

It did, very quickly, become that very thing: a home. Not just a parsonage - an old term for the chirch-provided dwelling for the pastor and family - but a home. It was comfortable, quiet, and country. We loved, laughed, cried, cussed. We yelled in anger and whooped with joy. Since we have been married, every home we lived in - apartment or house - we added to the family. It happened there, too: Reese, the Wonder Dog, the Goofball, Super Puppers, she became part of our family. Slightly less significant than a new baby - slightly - she added a new element to the home. 

Last night, after almost 3000 nights, we said farewell to 12127 FM 236. The truck had left an hour or two earlier, loaded down with our stuff. Lord willing, it will be delivered as promised, one-time, to our new house-to-become-home in Enid, Oklahoma.

The house was, for all intents and purposes, emoty. The refrigerator was gone, unable to provide a lat night snack. Had Old Mother Hubbard shown up, she would have been right at home with bare cupboards. With neither a chair to sit in nor a bed to recline in, there wasn't a reason to delay. I turned the porch light off for the last time, not needing to show the kids that the door was open for a late night return. 

I climbed into the car, loaded down so that Jed Clampett gave his seal of approval. It was so full we had to take turns breathing. I stopped at the end of the driveway, turned on my blinker, and drove away. I chose not to look back. 

After all, Tom Bodett wasn't there to say he was leaving the lights on for us.