When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came For A Visit

When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came for a Visit

It was a typical Tuesday: slow, after Monday's rush. Only two customers had come in since we had opened two hours earlier. I was sitting at the desk, taking care of some paperwork and considering which stack of new trade-ins to attack when the phone rang. The woman on the other end of the line said she was cleaning out her mother’s things; there were a couple boxes of old books, would I be interested in looking at them for purchase? Yes, I said, when should I expect her?  She said she would come by after lunch, maybe closer to two, and she hung up without saying goodbye.

When she arrived, somewhere between lunchtime and two, she had two small Lowes’ moving boxes, each about half full of books. I glanced at the titles on top; would she prefer to browse while I prepared the offer or come back later in the afternoon? She said she would come back later around three or maybe four. She started to turn, then hesitated, saying, as if to answer a question I had not asked, “My mom was in an assisted living home. These were on the shelf in her room.” Her voice caught, she paused, and then added, “And I don’t want them.” She pushed open the door and walked out, the bell dinging behind her.

I started making an inventory list of the first box: a dozen cheap romance novels, a couple of best sellers, an Oprah book club selection, and a couple miscellaneous fiction books. Nothing exciting. I made a note of what I thought the box was worth.  In the next box were two coffee table photo books – the kind that folks used to have laying out, whether they had visited those places or not – one of England and one of Germany. I set them aside. Next were three history books covering the European theater of World War 2 and a pair of photo books of the war. Odd, I thought, that the same woman who had harlequin romances would have military history books in her small library; those don’t usually go together. I lifted them out of the box.

There was one hardback book left in the box. I lifted the slender, orange colored, cloth-bound hardback out and looked at it. It was obviously old, styled from the early/mid 1900s. The title-less cover of the book had a simple, gold weave around the edge, nothing more. The spine was also gilded with gold weave, and had only two words on it, each in its own box. The top box simply said POEMS; below, in a black box, was the author’s name, standing out as starkly as a name carved into a black granite tombstone: MILLAY.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was a semi-popular poet around the time of the Great Depression. I have been a fan of hers since I was in high school when Mrs. Winnie Karens gave me some of her sonnets to read. Happy to reconnect with an old friend, and less-than-eager to get back to the overflowing stack of books demanding attention, I gave in to the temptation.

I pulled my stool out from under the counter and opened the book of poems. On the title page, in the top right corner, in impeccable, clear penmanship was written, “G. Schaeffer – 1942.” I glanced at the stack of WW2 books at my left; the date made me wonder. And, what did G stand for? Gertrude? Glennis? Maybe Grace, or Gracie?

I turned a few pages of the old book. The edges were reddish orange, but the paper was off-white - perhaps “eggshell” would be how Sherwin Williams would describe it - with only very slight aging along the edge. The book had been read, that was obvious, but it was well cared for. Strangely, the book kept trying to open itself, as if it had a secret to tell me. I placed the open book on the counter and lifted my fingers, then my hands, letting the pages separate and form a slight arch as if the book’s spine had been broken at that point.

As I slid my thumb into the narrow space and lifted gently, the pages rolled upward and to the left until the book lay almost flat. I looked down and saw words I recognized: “Sonnet XXX.” I heard myself murmuring aloud, from memory, not needing to read the text.

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink,

Nor slumber against the rain…

Along the left and right edges of the pages there were a few slight smudges, as if thumbs had held the book open repeatedly for reading. The caught a slightly masculine scent rising from the page, leathery and smokey, very faint but still present. Was that pipe tobacco? At the bottom of the page, written in large, round, loopy and masculine cursive, was a note to his beloved: “My love will bring me back home to you. Yours, August.” Below was the date: 4 September, 1942.

I began to connect dots in my mind and a picture began to form. Millay’s book of poetry was a gift from August to his beloved Ms. G. – what was her name? – as he prepared to leave for war. He purchased the book at a local bookstore before shipping out. I could imagine his pipe dangling, carefree, from the corner of his mouth, a curl of smoke dancing around his mustache (why a mustache? Why not?) and kissing the side of his cheek, rubbing through his hair, and fading away. Perhaps he had read Millay first, as if they could share an intimate moment when she later read the book in private. Were they married, already, when he set sail? Or was she faithfully waiting for her fiancée to come home? Was his note merely a promise to return safely, or was it also a promise for a marriage to come?  Had  Ms. G held that book open, reading not only Millay’s words but also the promise of her beloved? How many times had she ached to hold him, whole and complete, so they could begin, or resume, their lives as husband and wife? Would the war change him? I imagined her sitting at a bay window, looking out to the east, willing and wishing he would suddenly appear, first a small dot on the horizon, then growing and growing into a man – her man – and she would rush out to his arms.

My reverie was interrupted by the jingle of the bell at the door as a customer entered the store. With a quick trip to the gardening section, a payment, and a hopeful “See you next time,” I was ready to return to Ms. G, Millay and August.

A few more pages had arched themselves upward, again. I helped the pages roll to another poem, revealing yet another mystery. This page had no writing, but it had yellowed significantly compared to the other pages I had viewed. Across the pages were marks where, it appeared, water had dripped, slightly altering the paper’s smooth texture to a raised grain. A hint of vanilla, iris, jasmine and musk rose from the page…was that Chanel No. 5 I was smelling? I started to scan the page and my palm rose to my mouth as I heard myself gasp.  The poem was titled, “Thou Famished Grave.”

Thou famished grave, I shall not fill thee yet.

I cannot starve thee out: I am thy prey
And thou shalt have me; but I dare defend
That I can stave thee off; and I dare say,
What with the life I lead, the force I spend,
I'll be but bones and jewels on that day,
And leave thee hungry even in the end.

My mind completed the picture. Ms. G. had gotten word that her love – was he beau or husband? Either way, the romantic - had died in the war. Although he promised to return, and although Millay said the grave would not be filled, the promises were not enough to keep the enemy’s weapons of war at bay. Where Sonnet XXX was read and treasured with its words and note of promise and hope, this page, and the famished grave, were marked with her tears of pain and loss. Where the Sonnet had been kept closed and protected, as if it were too much to leave it open and the hope fade, the sheer pain of the loss was too much to keep entrapped, preventing her from closing the poem. It, and she, aged slowly…

I wiped a tear from my eye as I imagined Ms. G sitting at her writing desk, tea cup full but cold, with the book of poems laying there – one page, once filled with hope but now mocking her pain; one page, once just a poem, now a final statement of irony as, somewhere, perhaps even in an unknown place, her beloved lay in the grave. I could see the tears that ran, large and wet, from her eyes, splashing on the open book below as she stared eastward, again, her beloved never to return.

I closed the book and set it aside on the counter, separate from the other books, while I stared out the window, gathering my thoughts. Silly me, I thought, letting my imagination run so wildly while there was work to be done. I finished figuring up my buy offer and went back to my desk to try to work, but I kept looking at the book, wondering about the fate of Ms. G and August. Finally, somewhere between 3 and 4 o’clock, she came through the door. “Do you have a price for me?” she asked. I touched the stack of books and gave her my price. She nodded; that sounded fine to her, but what about the orange book?

I smiled. “You said these were your mom’s books. I think this one might be special. You might want to keep this one. May I ask a silly question?” A nod. “Did your mother wear Chanel No. 5?” A quizzical look, but another nod. I motioned her to a stool at the counter. When she sat, I showed her “Sonnet XXX,” then the well-worn poem. “It’s a slow day. Why don’t you tell me about your her…”

And she did.

The Storied Book

The Storied Book

Once upon a time, there was a woman who owned a bookstore. When the local paper did a story on small businesses in the community, the store was described as “quaint.” At first, she was disappointed by the moniker. Quaint described the Red Hat Society, tea parties with cucumber sandwiches and Gingerbread houses with swaybacked roofs. But when customers started coming, saying they wanted to see the quaint bookstore they read about in the paper, she acquiesced, at first grudgingly accepting and then growing to appreciate being quaint. Her store wasn’t Fox Books, of Tom Hanks fame. Hers was more like Meg Ryan’s: special and unique. It was, well, quaint.

She sold used books, mostly, with customers trading, selling and swapping to get a new-to-them book. Occasionally, a regular customer would ask if she could order a new copy of a book because they just couldn’t wait for it to be traded in by someone else. She would smile and make a comment about “having to check her warehouse” while logging into her Amazon account, and then quote the price, plus just a little bit for her trouble. It wasn’t about the money, it was the service, knowing they would be back in a few weeks, perhaps with that exact book, trading it in for something else.

Most of the time, books came and books went without much attention given. There were simply too many books on the shelves and on the floor, in boxes and in stacks, to pay that much attention to each and every book. Trade paperbacks with little birds at the bottom of the spine, harlequin romances with bare chested men and suggestively posed women, and hardback books with dust-cover artwork of goblets filled with sorcerer’s brew crossed and re-crossed the counter. Like the Children of Israel leaving the constraints of Egypt to head to the Promised Land, books left her store for local customers’ homes, classrooms, and Little Free Libraries all across the world, thanks to her website.

Now and then, a special book would catch her attention. Sometimes it was a spine’s unique printing that made her eyes stop and look twice, or maybe it was the intricate artwork across the cover, or the soft, embossed leather, or even the price tag – “TG&Y - $1.95” – that made her hold the book, wondering what it’s story was. Where had it been, whose hands held it, how many times was it read (if at all), how did it get from the Boston Public Library (stamped “DISCARD”) to South Texas, and who had purchased it in the first place? Had it been a father’s gift to his young daughter as a peace-making gift after her parents divorced? Perhaps a teacher had it in her classroom, let a student borrow it, and it never got returned. Maybe a soldier had packed it in her duffle before going to Afghanistan, or a bored husband picked it up at the mall while waiting on his wife to finish shoe shopping, or maybe an elderly woman left it behind In the hospital room after her husband had passed, suddenly lacking the strength to carry those few ounces home.

But what was sure to set her mind wandering like Tootle the Train in a field of daisies was a book’s smell. There was something about a smell that could transport her to different places, times, and scenes in her mind’s eye. Books have smells, scents and aromas, and those powerful olfactory triggers would set off memories, or feelings, or pictures in the Viewmaster of her mind. One customer worked at Itsaburger and her trade-ins always made her hungry because they smelled of French fries and onion rings. Another customer was a custodian. He brought a book one day, saying it had been in his storage closet for “probably a year” and since he hadn’t read it, thought he would swap for something else. As soon as he left, she set it outside on the “FREE” table, because the pungent antiseptic smell of the custodial closet stirred a memory from her own life that she didn’t want to deal with. A well-used but serviceable copy of Norm Abram’s woodworking book – which included “measured drawerings” as Norm would say in his thick New England accent – smelled of the wood shavings that were trapped between its pages, and reminded her of her dad’s woodshop where, as a little girl, she would watch him make birdhouses for the neighborhood.

And, sometimes both the sight and smell were so intriguing, so mysterious, that she couldn’t help but stop. Her curiosity, piqued, would be fueled by her imagination and a story would form…

Strive to Enter the Narrow Door - Luke 13:22-30

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

In this morning’s Gospel reading, Jesus is speaking spiritual language, spiritual door language, spiritual entry language. This is in answer to a man’s question, “Will those who are saved be few?” St. Luke doesn’t give us anything about the mindset of the question-asker, but I am reading it this way, as if the question were, “How many others will be among the elite such as myself?” Jesus’ gives a non-answer answer: “Strive to enter through the narrow door. For many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able.”

Strive to enter through the narrow door, Jesus says. I get it. I don’t like narrow doors, as you can imagine. They’re not as common as they used to be, thanks to Americans with Disabilities Act, but you find them in irplane lavatories, small closets, the old San Antonio Missions. Narrow doors prevent me from entering. At the Seminary in St. Louis, we had a carillon bell tower on campus. A friend of mine, Dien, could play it, and he invited me to watch him play this magnificent instrument. The catch was you had to go up a narrow spiral staircase to get to it. The door to get to the staircase was about the size of the closet door by our offices, and that doorway opened to an even narrower staircase. Even back in my salad days, I could not fit through that walkway.

I guess I could have gone on a strict diet regimen to lose a few pounds. Maybe that would have helped, eventually, but it wouldn’t have helped me that afternoon. Besides, it wasn’t the waist that was so much the problem. I’ve always been a big man and that was designed for someone about the size of my son. Even my shoulders didn’t fit. I tried twisting sideways, but that was terribly uncomfortable. I tried climb the stairs by side-steping, but between my feet and my knees, that wasn’t going to happen, either. Besides: I didn’t want to be the guy on the evening news “Fire department called to Seminary to rescue student from bell tower staircase.”  So, I stayed outside, out in the courtyard. I could hear him play, I could imagine the joy in his face in making music that – literally – the entire town could hear. But I could not watch Dien play the carillon because of the narrow doorway, walkway, and staircase. It was just too narrow.

“Strive to enter through the narrow door,” Jesus says. Strive, struggle, endeavor, make every effort, do your best – we like those kind of words. They’re American. Work hard, pull yourself up by the bootstraps, “git-r-dun,” “just do it.” Obviously, Jesus isn’t talking about physically entering a door. This is a spiritual door, and it sounds like we best get busy doing some spiritual weight-lifting so we can get ourselves into and through that doorway. We don’t want to miss out on the party Jesus describes. Alternately, we don’t want to be the ones left out in the dark.  

This is spiritual language, so it sounds like we have some spiritual training to do. Perhaps we should read our Bibles more, or go to church more often. Maybe we should pray harder or longer, get on a couple of different groups or committees, maybe even teach Sunday school. No…that’s not what Jesus means. Perhaps we should practice care for others, we should spend Saturdays at Christ’s Kitchen, and weekdays at VCAM and evenings at the YMCA helping with a kids’ reading program. Yes, those things are important, but that’s not what He means here. Maybe we should be better Christians, living moral lives so people can see our good deeds. Watch our mouths, don’t watch members of the opposite sex, and keep our hands to ourselves, like our parents taught us. Again, important work, but that’s not going to get us in the door.

In fact, those very things can make us stumble at the door step, at the stoop of the door. They can make us trip over ourselves, thinking we can somehow slim ourselves down enough so we can fit. Drop a couple pounds of our favorite sins here, clean up our act there, and we’ll be in good shape shortly. Anything that makes us think we can do something to make ourselves entry-worthy is, in fact, the very thing that keeps us outside. We might change our behavior, the external things that people see around us, but what about what’s inside? What about those things we keep locked up behind closed doors? In Matthew 15: 19-20, Jesus says, “19 For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false witness, slander. 20 These are what defile a person.” We dare not stand in front of Jesus’ door, thinking we’re all sparkly clean, arguing we should be allowed in because we’ve somehow made ourselves presentable. That’s not the case at all. There are things we simply cannot fix.

Don’t hear Jesus’ word to “strive” as though He is giving you a prescription for what you must do. Rather, He is speaking of what the struggle is: repentance. Repentance is God at work in the sinner. The light of God’s word opens the doors we would rather keep closed and it shines into the nooks and crannies of our lives, our minds, and our hearts and it sees and identifies our sins. All those things we want to keep behind closed doors, locked away in the closets, God calls out into the light. The world calls it efficiency; God calls it laziness. Friends call it truth-telling; God calls it gossip. The media calls it unbiased reporting; God calls it slander. Society calls it freedom; God calls it lust. Self-help gurus call it self-worth; God calls it arrogant pride. Advertising implies you have to take care of good ol’ number one; God calls it idolatry. Shining into the darkness of our hearts, God reveals our sins for what they are and that they separate us from God and they divide us from one another.

And repentance is God exposing it for what it is. Repentance calls evil, evil; sin, sin; and leaves no room for excuses or for our half-hearted, self-righteous attempts to fix ourselves. Repentance surrenders ourselves, with our sinful thoughts, words, and actions, and lays them at the foot of Jesus.

Jesus is going to Jerusalem. There before Him is the door of the city gates. Soon after this, He will be met by welcoming crowds, but only a few days later, He will be hauled through the door of Pilate’s chambers where Jesus will be judged innocent, yet condemned to die. He will be drug back through the door, down the streets, and out the door of the gates that He once entered in triumph, but this time in shame, taken outside the gates and nailed to the cross for all to see. And, when He finally breathes His last, His body will be carried through the narrow door of the tomb where He will be laid to rest, and the door blocked by a massive stone. Jesus says, “I am the door.” Neither stone nor death stops this door from opening and on Easter, the doorway of the tomb is open so that Jesus, who is the door, stands open so all can see: Christ is risen indeed! In His death, He paid the full price for all those sins which serve to keep the door closed, that would otherwise keep us locked in the darkness of sin, death and damnation. In His resurrection, He opens the door to the Father’s mercy.  

Enter through the door! Know, believe, trust and rely that the door is Jesus (John 10:9). Strive to enter through the door. Or, repent to enter through Christ. Through Christ, you are welcomed to the feast. Through Christ, you are ushered into the presence of the eternal banquet. Through Christ, you are declared righteous. Through Christ, you will be in the presence of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and all of the prophets of old. Through Christ, you will be joined with others, from east and west, from north and south, who likewise entered through the door.

There is one aspect of striving that we know full well. We are striving, struggling, making every effort on this journey of faith in life. To us, Jesus encourages us to strive. But, how? And for what? The answer is the opposite is what we might normally think. Our world says strive to be the best and the first. Jesus instead says, strive to be last; strive to be least. Strive to be nothing. Jesus said there are last ones who will be first, and first ones who will be last. Striving to enter is because of God’s working and saving in us. God’s journey is inverse of what we would normally do. So, we strive, not to be good Christians, but to be repentant and faithful Christians. Jesus will teach us how, how to be last. He will make us, in and of ourselves, to be nothing – nothing about which to brag or boast. If there is wisdom and learning to be done in this life, it will be done in us according to His will and in His mercy. He will enable us to strive to be last. Strive to be last and let God make you first. Strive to do nothing. God has done it all. It is what He has done and continues to do with us.  “Strive to enter through the narrow door.” How Jesus delights to stand and welcome you through that narrow door. In His resurrection, He has opened the door of eternal paradise for you and for me, and says, “Welcome, you who are blessed by my Father. Enter.”

Jesus is Lord Over What Makes You Anxious: Luke 12:28-34

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Chris. Amen. The text is the Gospel lesson read a few moments ago, Luke 12:28 ff.

We are living in anxious times. According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, each year 40 million Americans are affected by anxiety.[1]  Anxiety is defined simply as extreme worry.[2] I’m not a psychologist, so please take this as a layman’s interpretation: think of a sliding scale where there’s strong interest, then concern, then worry and then anxiety. While there are many types of anxiety, basically the part of the brain that controls our responses to threats, real and perceived, short circuits and stays stuck in the wide open, full throttle position. Anxiety can be temporary, or it can be prolonged. It can be from outside of us or it can come from inside ourselves. It can be subtle and sneaky or it can be right in our face. Anxiety can do anything from making us mildly uncomfortable to being physically and mentally incapacitated, unable to function or, it causes people to make decisions and life choices they would never make under normal, healthy circumstances. And, for the record, anxiety has no boundaries – it hits both Christians and non-Christian alike.

That surprises some people. After all, as Christians, the promises of God are bestowed on us in Holy Baptism. He is our God and we are His people. The promises He has made through the pages of Scripture are ours: Psalm 121:4 – He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep; Isaiah 42:3 – a smoldering wick He will not extinguish and a bruised reed He shall not break; Matthew 11:28 – come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest; 1 Peter 5:7 – cast all your anxieties on Him for He cares for you.

We know these promises of God. And when we hear them combined with Jesus’ words in this morning’s Gospel lesson, “Do not be anxious…”, we want to rejoice – there is no need for us to be anxious! The Lord has promised it. I know, believe, trust and rely that these promises of God are true.

And then we turn on the TV and we hear about another shooting. I drove through Sutherland Springs Friday and saw the new church that is built, and I remembered what happened there. We open our 401K statements and see how this economic battle with China is effecting our retirement plans. Our paycheck doesn’t seem to go as far. The car didn’t start…again. School is getting ready to start and for some this is terrifying – the prospect of having to meet new classmates, risking bullying and being made fun of literally makes them sick to their stomach. And that’s just the teachers! There will be children crying on the first day of school because they don’t know what’s going to be happening.

Medically speaking, mild anxiety can be helped with having someone to talk to, maybe a friend or a coworker, a classmate or a pastor. Moderate to severe anxiety may need professional help. There’s no shame in that. You would see a cardiologist for a irregular heartbeat; no big deal. Do the same for mental health and take care of yourself the same way. Let me help, let a friend help; if you want someone to go to a doctor with you, call me and I’ll drive.

Theologically speaking, though, the root of anxiety lies in the first commandment, “You shall have no other Gods before me.” That sounds odd, doesn’t it? That anxiety is a sin against the first commandment? The old self loves to be in control, so much so that it tells us that we can be like God. We can be in control if we want to be. We have to take life by the horns, go for the gusto, just do it, have it your way right away. Are we in good hands? Of course – their ours! We make ourselves out to be god, in charge of our own lives and all that is around us.  As long as life is running smoothly and we can make ourselves believe we’re in control, then I’m OK, you’re OK, we’re all OK.

And then something happens and life, suddenly, is hard. Life narrows down. Maybe it’s money problems, or health concerns, or a relationship destroyed, or a new school. We’re no longer in charge. The old self that’s still within us was drowned in Baptism, but he or she is a good swimmer and he or she keeps bobbing up to the surface. There it is, rapidly treading water, anxiously calling out, “Oh, yeah? How will I have enough to eat? How will I have clothes to wear? How will I have a roof over my head?”  Anxiety lies to us, telling us that should be in control of the situation. But we’re not. We’re not even close to being in control. In fact, anxiety amps it up even further and lies, saying no one is in control, that there is nothing but chaos out there. It becomes irrational, but that doesn’t matter because I’m not in control.

Into this storm, Jesus speaks to the anxious heart, “Peace…be still. Do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or your body or what you will put on.”

Now, if you are anxious about anything, at this point your old self is screaming something like, “Pfft…yeah, Jesus. That’s easy for you to say, ‘Don’t be anxious…’ You’re God, after all…I’m just me and that doesn’t seem to be getting it done…”

Jesus full well understands. He knows what it is to have His life threatened to the point of death. He knows what it is to be hungry. He had no place to call His own home. He knows what it is to see friends turn against Him while others run and flee. So, when He directs us to see the birds of the air or the flowers of the field as models and examples, He wants you to see how God shows His love and mercy on His creation. While, yes, there are seasons of hardship for the birds and flowers, that doesn’t change the love that God has for them. And, if that is true for plants and animals, how much more certain and true it will be for us, the pinnacle of His creation.

So repent. Repent of trying to be God, as if we can gain the kingdom for ourselves. It’s not ours to earn. Instead, “It’s your Father’s pleasure to give you the Kingdom.” Christ, whose throne was the cross, and whose royal chambers was the tomb, has in His death and resurrection opened the Kingdom for you. God, in Christ, rules with grace, mercy and compassion. He cares for you now and into eternity. Cast your anxieties on Him; you can’t be God. Let Him be God. You simply be His.

Now, let me have a word for all of my fellow anxious brothers and sisters in Christ: Perhaps you are anxious about money or your health; maybe you’re anxious about your child leaving for college; maybe you’re anxious about your parents or your children; maybe you are now anxious about going to public places. Maybe you’re anxious about school starting in a couple days.

This afternoon, go home and re-read this morning’s Gospel lesson. I want you to notice two things: First, notice that nowhere does Jesus condemn the anxious heart. He doesn’t say that this makes you a bad Christian or that you are now outside God’s grace. Jesus is speaking compassionately here, to the conscience that has been twisted and turned against itself. Here, He does not condemn anyone as being faithless. Instead, He says, “You of little faith.” Yes, anxiety weakens faith but this is not the same thing as no faith. Remember: it’s not the size of your faith that counts, but that your faith – whatever size it may be – remains in Jesus. Little faith still is faith in Jesus. Second, I want you to also see the term of affection Jesus uses: little flock. He is the Good Shepherd; we are the sheep of His hands. As a shepherd cares for his sheep, so Jesus tenderly and lovingly cares for us – even the anxious ones.

I want you to know these things so that whether your are anxious now, or if anxiety strikes another time, if the devil tries to throw against you, “If you were a good Christian, you wouldn’t be anxious,” or some such other lie, I want you know the truth. Do not let satan twist your forgiven and Christ-focused conscience against you, for it, too, has been redeemed by Jesus. If you hear that voice in your head trying to tell you otherwise, make the sign of the cross and say, “I am baptized.” That sign of the cross, placed on your forehead and heart, marked you as one redeemed by Christ the crucified.

What I do know is this: Our Lord takes those moments of anxiety and He uses them to lead us to repentance. There’s a story about a preacher who prayed, “Lord, I hate lard. Lord, I hate buttermilk. And, Lord, I hate plain flour. But when those things get mixed together and baked, I do love those biscuits. So, Lord, help me realize that when life gets hard with things we don’t like and we don’t understand what you’re doing, help us wait patiently and see what it is that you’re making. After you get done with the mixing and the baking, it’ll be something even better than biscuits.”

If you’re anxious, remember: we are not in control; He is. Earlier, I said “Life is hard and life narrows down.”  I took that line from a devotion written by Rev. Arnold Kuntz. The rest of the quote is this, "Life narrows down, and crisis comes. And suddenly only one thing matters, and there, in the narrow place, stands Jesus."[3]

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[1] https://adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics

[2] https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/anxiety

[3] As cited here: https://www.lutheranhour.org/sermon.asp?articleid=30624

Lord, teach us to pray! Luke 11:1-13

I suspect that when we think about prayer, it’s usually in the context of what we do or, more precisely, in what we should do but we don’t. We think about our obligations to pray as Christ taught us. Pray without ceasing, the Scriptures say, but often our prayers are slap-dash, hit and miss. Let my prayers rise before you as incense, the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice, the Psalmist prays, but our prayers are rarely so sweet and our hands are often lifted in frustration or in demand. Cast all your cares upon Him, St. Paul wrote, for He cares for you, but frankly our prayers are often spoken with more than a little fear, wondering – given the circumstances surrounding us – if He really does care, and if He really does listen, and if He really will answer. And, our Christian conscience knows this, it is troubled by this, and our prayer life – we use the word somewhat loosely – leaves us troubled. For the record, this is true for me as well. So, when the texts discuss prayer, it strikes closer to home for you and for me.

We know we ought to pray. We know we are called to pray. We know we are invited and encouraged to pray. Most of us would like to be people of prayer, faithful in our petitions that ascend in regular, ardent, and sometimes spontaneous moments, not just in times of crisis or need but in times of joy, and thanksgiving and praise.

One of our problems is that we are Americans, most of us of the generations that grew up being taught about hard work, pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps, and taking care of things ourselves. We don’t like asking anyone for help – and this includes God. Rather, we prefer to manage, hit or miss, sink or swim, on our own.

And our Lord does this to cause us to return to Him. He allows us, in our foolish selfishness, to try to pray on our own, and He allows us, in our arrogance, to fail. That failure turns us away from ourselves and turn back to Jesus. It’s ironic – our success in prayer is in our failure in prayer. When we get out of the way and let Jesus take over, then “our” prayers – and I am using “our” in quotation marks, because it’s not really ours at all, but Jesus at work through us and in us – then our prayers become effective.

I have lost track of the number of times that well-intended Christians, people in the pew just like you, have asked me for a Bible study or a sermon on prayer. Usually what they mean is this: Pastor, teach us how to pray. Give us the right techniques so our prayers are answered by God in the way we want them answered. Tell us what to pray for, tell us the words to use so the prayer is pleasing to God and He hears them. This is nothing new. The disciples make the same request of Jesus in this morning’s Gospel lesson.

Now, put this in the context of the last two weeks’ readings from Luke 10. Two weeks ago, we heard the lawyer’s request, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Through the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus taught that you don’t earn God’s grace anymore than the beaten traveler could rescue himself. The Good Samaritan is like Jesus, who stops and rescues each of us sin-beaten travelers when we cannot help ourselves. Then, last week, we heard the narration of Mary and Martha. Jesus, who comes to serve and not be served, reminds us that when it comes to our justification, He does it all. Don’t just do something, sit there.

What Jesus has emphasized repeatedly and forcefully in these two stories is the importance of faith in Him as Lord and Savior, and man’s inability to rescue and save him- or her-self. It’s about the Word of God in flesh, not our confidence in our own flesh. Jesus takes that same truth and applies it to prayer. God pleasing prayer depends on Him, not the person at prayer.

Jesus is the true prayer expert. Jesus whole ministry was one of prayer, interceding for sinners on earth. He stands before God and represents us in the Father’s presence, as a priest stood before the altar in the Temple. Time and time again, through the Gospels, you see Jesus prays – often by Himself, sometimes with the disciples, occasionally in public.  Jesus takes over for us and fulfills God’s call to be praying people. And, having ascended into heaven, until the day Christ returns, He continues to intercede for us. Yet, in a remarkable way, because He is also present among us on earth, He continues to connect with us.

So, Jesus takes prayer out of our hands, so to speak, and leaves it in His perfect hands and in His Word. It’s worth noting that the Disciples, in their request, are offering a prayer to Jesus. It’s simple, just a few words long. It’s humble, confessing they know not now to pray. It’s a confession of faith, that He is Lord and He will answer. They can’t do prayer, see? They trust Jesus will do it.

We pray the Lord’s Prayer so often that I suspect we have lost the awe and wonder of what Jesus teaches. In these few words, we are given a great insight into the compassionate heart of our Savior.

Father: You see an intimate conversation of a Son to His Father. But, it’s not just any son and any father – this is Jesus the Son speaking directly to His Heavenly Father. It’s unique, something that only Jesus can say. Yet, Jesus invites us to pray that with Him. But it’s not just a casual invitation for you to tag along as a third wheel, an extra who doesn’t really fit in. He shares His Sonship with you. By virtue of your baptism into Christ, you are united to Christ in both death and resurrection, in life and death. Joined to Christ, you are therefore also a child of God. God the Father sees you just as He saw Jesus at His baptism: You are my beloved Son; you are my beloved daughter.  By giving you this invitation to pray to His Father, He is including you in His relationship with the Father. You are able to act as if you were Christ, entering – through prayer – into the presence of God because you are dressed up with Christ and clothed with His righteousness.

Hallowed be your name, your kingdom come. Because you are in Christ, connected with Christ and clothed with Christ, and He is in and with you, you have His identity. You are Christian – little Christ. And, sharing His identity, you also share His vocation.  We live in a strange age when people talk about identity, as if it’s something you can pick up on the shelf at the mega-mart and change like t-shirts and shorts. Your identity, who you are, is grounded in whose you are: God’s. And, because you are God’s beloved Son and Daughter, your prayer is Christ’s: that the name of God is made holy in all that is said and done, and that it is holy-ed in our service to our neighbor in the name of Christ.  In other words, He is teaching us to identify with Him as God’s only beloved and to serve in His mission to the church and to those outside the church. We pray with Jesus that the Father’s Kingdom comes through Christ and with us.

Give us each day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins, for we also forgive everyone who sins against us. And lead us not into temptation.  I want you to notice something here – repeat these three petitions in your head, and pay attention to the pronouns. In the first two petitions, Christ joins us with Himself. Now, in these petitions, Christ joins Himself to us as He prays. Think of it: Jesus doesn’t need daily bread. He certainly doesn’t need forgiveness of any of His sins, nor does He need protection from temptation.  Where before, we gain our identity in Christ, in these petitions Jesus identifies with us and our needs, our worries, our sins, and our temptations. Jesus stands with us – not just in solidarity, but in perfect place of us.  Jesus stands for us.

Earlier I said that want to do things ourselves. But, what do you do when you can’t do anything about it – whatever “it” might be? You get help. God teaches us to pray by placing people in our lives who make demands that we can’t fulfill and with needs we can’t meet from our own resources. This could be a difficult child, a terrible boss, a worse employee, a problematic neighbor, an ever depleting bank account, unending medical tests, whatever “it” is.  Luther said, “People must feel their distress, and such distress presses them and compels that they call and cry out. Then prayer will be made willingly as it ought to be. People will need no teaching, then, how to prepare for it… (Large Catechism III, 26-27).

A couple years ago, a family at church imploded. One barely-legal child ran away from home. I made a bad judgement call and sinned ethically against the parents – maybe I’ll tell you about that another time. When I tried to confess and ask their forgiveness, I was told in no uncertain terms to never show my face again at that house, or else...and the else was clearly articulated. Let me be clear: I don’t blame them that they left the congregation or that that message was given to me. A couple years later, their daughter – still at home – got pregnant. She married the baby’s father. It was, by all accounts, a happy if difficult marriage. Gradually, the daughter’s parents warmed to their son-in-law. All was good. Then, one wet, rainy night, the daughter was killed in a traffic accident. I had confirmed these kids – both the one that ran away and the one who was killed. I watched, first up close and then from afar, as the parents were emotionally destroyed, once and then twice. I wanted to go to the funeral, I wanted to call, I wanted to go see the parents and offer my condolences, but I didn’t want to add even greater pain to what was already nearly unbearable for the parents. And, the echos of the “or else” still echoed in my head. I called my pastor. I cried, asking “What do I do?” I’ll never forget his answer: “Pray – it is the priestly thing to do, and it is effective and efficacious. God will hear, and He will answer, and He will provide for the family.” So, I knelt in our church while the family gathered in a funeral home twenty miles away. With my own heart breaking for them, and with nothing to give, I simply prayed: for peace, for hope, for grace, forgive us our trespasses…and thy kingdom come.

When we have nothing to offer, when we feel the weakest and have no strength in ourselves to do anything, that is when prayer become powerful. That is the prayer of faith that commends all things to the Father’s ears through Christ. Like the grumpy neighbor, we borrow from Jesus by praying for those people. In those moments, Jesus teaches us to pray – not with the right technique, nor with the right words – but with faith, faith that trusts that through our identity in Christ, God will see and hear us, and He will answer us for those people whom He alone can help.

Lord, teach us to pray.
And He does.[1]
Amen.

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[1] Great portions of this sermon are borrowed liberally, either directly or in paraphrase, from Rev. John Kleinig’s work on prayer.

Don't Just Do Something! Sit There!!! Luke 10:38-42

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I am going to ask your indulgence a little bit this morning, for I begin with confession. The Bible does a lot of things – it convicts, it declares sins forgiven in Christ, it enlightens, it creates faith, hope and love. These things we know, these we expect, but this week I was struck by another and different feeling. As I began working with this morning’s Gospel lesson, the Mary and Martha narrative, I confess that this text has made me envious. Yes, envious. It took me a day to sort it out, and when I did I realized I was envious because it makes me wish that I could, like Mary – like you! – not just this morning, but on any given Sunday or any given day, for that matter. I wish I could be an average, ordinary disciple of Christ, who, on a Sunday morning, gets to sit in the pew and be fed; a baptized Child of God, gets to sit with the Word of God and simply read it and learn and grow from what the Holy Spirit does with that living Word. I am envious of you – you, who like Mary, have chosen the good part and sit to receive the Word.

The temptation for pastors – well, perhaps I should keep this personal and not speak for all pastors – the temptation for me is that the Bible becomes a textbook, or a professional document, that is to be dissected, analyzed and reported from. Think about how you read a math, science of history book, or how you analyze a statistical sales report, or how you consider market futures. You do these things to pass the test, or to report to your supervisor, or to make financial decisions for your business or ranch or portfolio. It’s tempting for me to treat the Bible this way.

I’ve been taught Greek to read the New Testament and Hebrew to work in the Old Testament. We learned how to parse verbs and to study sentences and grammar structure. This gets analyzed, along with historical background of the text, and then interpret the text over and against our modern context. Over the course of four to six hours, a sermon is produced, edited and delivered. Meanwhile a similar process is underway for Bible class.  And in the study of the Bible it’s easy to think of it as just a Biblios – Latin, for “book” – and less and less the Bible, that is, the very Word of God.

Make no mistake: I am not asking for sympathy. It’s a bit of a professional hazard, similar to a doctor losing sight of a patient as person, not just a number, or a teacher seeing just minds to be shaped instead of children wanting to learn. And, when we pastors add in the additional responsibilities of the parish with phone calls and pop-ins, with hospital and shut-in visits, with crisis care and not-so-crisis pitter-patter, with meetings and (let’s be honest) daydreaming, with family needs and personal needs, we get “busy.”

Busy. The adjective is accurate, for there is work, ministry, that needs doing. The other day, someone asked how it’s going and I rushed into my litany of things I was doing. They said, “Sounds like you’re busy,” and I nodded my head. Later, as I thought about that conversation, I realized something.  I was using “busy” more as a badge: I’m worth my time. Eugene Patterson says[1] that a pastor who considers himself “busy” is nothing more than an idol worshipper. The idol is himself.  No, wait…to be more accurate, the idol is myself. Much like Martha, scurrying around, cooking, cleaning, tidying, folding, sorting, fretting and finally fussing at both her sister and Jesus, I got busy being busy. I could argue – unsuccessfully, I might add – about the motives, it was for the good of the church, and so forth, but the reality was this: my Bible was open, but I was looking at it for sermon preparation, not as the living Word of God. Why, even reading for the Bible Book Club, it became a task of getting all 45 pages read for the week.  I forgot the one thing needful.

I suspect I’m not alone.  While our perspectives might be different, we all live in a busy, hectic world. Yes, you are here in the pew this morning, following in the footsteps of Mary, your sister in Christ, but we live in a Martha world. “Don’t just sit there, do something!” is the mantra that surrounds us, from Sunday afternoon through Saturday evening. The world demands production of goods and services. The world values movement, preferably at moderate to high speed. The world expects things to be right the first time. The world teaches us to keep up with the Jones’ next door, and that includes hectic schedules for the entire family. As long as we’re busy, we’re OK, and as long as we keep moving we don’t have time to stop and realize what we’re missing.

Yes, the world is much to blame for this – its temptation of busy-ness is very real. But, there is also the temptation from within us. The old Pogo cartoon, “We have met the enemy and it is us,” is sometimes more right than we care to admit. From within, our old Adam will resist the very Word of God that gives life and forgiveness and hope and joy and certainty. I wonder if there isn’t part of us that is simply afraid to engage with the Word, to be engaged by the Holy Spirit, to sit at the feet of Jesus and simply listen. We are so uncomfortable with being in the presence of God, who became flesh to dwell among us, that we cannot stand to dwell with Him. It’s easier to avoid Him than to be with Him…especially when our old Adam thinks we will be chastised and corrected. Or, or maybe it’s that we think we don’t understand the Bible, we can’t understand the Bible. We buy into the hype that it’s a book of mystery that the average layman can’t grasp, and – besides – that’s what our pastor is for, right?: to tell us what we need to know and get us into heaven and the rest can be skipped over.

Whether it’s the world or our own sinful flesh that temps us to stay busy and stay away, it’s a far cry from, “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10). It’s a far cry from sitting in silence with the Word of God. It’s a far cry from letting Jesus speak to us. It’s no wonder that Christians frequently lament how far they feel from God, that it seems He isn’t present in their lives, that it’s almost as if He has left them behind.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I want you to notice something. While Martha scampers around, making food, preparing the table, and all the while getting more and more frustrated at the fact that Mary is doing nothing but sit, Jesus ignores her preparations until she finally stops in frustration. And then, Jesus speaks. He speaks to Martha. He chides her, but He isn’t ugly; He is direct, but He isn’t rude; He is correcting, but with love. Jesus gives her a Word, just as He has been giving words to Mary. He speaks and says, “You are anxious and troubled by many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken from her.” It’s as if Jesus says, “Don’t just do something, sit here. You’re worried about dinner. Sit here, and let me feed you with bread that does not perish and with water that gives life. We can eat and drink, we can dust and clean, we can sort and stack, we can sew and knit another day. But today, today, know that the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give His life as a ransom for many. Sit, Martha, repent of the busy-ness, repent of the distractions, repent… Don’t just do something, sit here.”

So, as you go back to your homes today, and you go back to the “Don’t just sit there, do something” world of busy-ness tomorrow, do what you need to do.  Be faithful in your vocations. But in the silence – whether it is in the morning, before the busy-ness begins, or as you settle in for the evening, with the day’s work done, open your Bible. Jesus meets you there. And with Mary and Martha, be still. Don’t just do something; sit there. Sit there and receive the good portion, for it will not be taken from you.

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[1] Peterson, Eugene The Contemplative Pastor (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Pub. Co, 1989), p.

Like a Good Neighbor, Jesus is there! - Luke 10:25-37

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 earlier, Luke 10:25-37.

An insurance company has a jingle that goes something like this – I’m tweaking it to not name names - “Like a good neighbor, [we will be there].” It’s a great slogan. It’s simple and catchy – I bet every one of you knows exactly what company that is. It implies a special bond, a special relationship. This company wants to be your neighbor, not just an insurance company. Your neighbors are people you know, people you like, people who know you. Neighbors, usually, are people very much like yourself. Neighbor brings to mind the good old days when you went next door to borrow a lawnmower or a cup of sugar, you would watch each other’s kids and hang out together. Neighbors are willing to help each other out. Why? Because you’re like your neighbors and they are like you.

But that’s also where the commercial gets in trouble. This insurance company wants you to be their neighbor, and they’re willing to be your neighbor, if you meet their standards. You walk into an agent’s office and fill out some paperwork. They run a background check on you, getting to know you – not as a person, but as data: any criminal history? Speeding tickets? How many miles do you drive? Two door or four door? What’s the construction date on your house? Does it meet all current building codes? What neighborhood do you live in? After all, we want to make sure you have good neighbors before we go too far in this relationship.

But what does it mean to be a good neighbor? That’s the question the lawyer was fixated on in this morning’s Gospel reading. What does it look like to be a good neighbor? To explain, Jesus tells a parable that very well could have been off the front page of today’s newspaper: Good Samaritan Saves Troubled Traveler. You know the story and you heard it again. A traveler gets mugged, beaten and left for dead. Two temple servants, a priest and Levite, pass by on the other side of the road so they can pretend they don’t notice his bleeding body – the very antithesis of a rubbernecker if there was one. The third passerby stops to render aid. The kicker is that this third traveler is a Samaritan. Jews hated Samaritans, and vice versa, so the fact that he stops to help a man – who, presumably, is a Jew (given the travel between Jewish towns of Jerusalem and Jericho) and, therefore his sworn enemy, is what makes the story memorable. He doesn’t stop and ask for references; he doesn’t ask for a background check; he doesn’t even consider his own personal safety – the bad guys could still be out there in the rocks and hills. He stops because he has compassion for the man who needs help.

Compassion is a powerful word. In the Greek New Testament, the word literally means to move one’s innards. We get an inkling of this when we speak of our physiological response to an accident or a terrible piece of news. We might say our heart dropped, or our stomach hurt. It’s because we are moved to compassion. In English, if we break the word down, the prefix “com-“ means “with” – that part’s easy. But the root, “passion,” probably isn’t what you think it is. You probably think passion has to do with love – for example, he gave his wife a passionate kiss. But, passion actually comes from a Latin root that means “to suffer.” Therefore, compassion means “with suffering.” The Good Samaritan suffers with the traveler. He gets down off his donkey, drops to his hands and knees and washes the wounds with wine and applies oil as a salve. He binds up  the wounds to stop the bleeding. He takes the wounded man to a nearby inn and pays two days wages for the man to continue to receive care with a pledge to pay any balance owed the next time he comes by.

In telling the story about a good neighbor, Jesus is actually telling the story of what love looks like. If compassion is a gut, visceral reaction, then love is compassion put into action. Love doesn’t sit idly by. Love responds without regard for the other’s status or ability to return love. You notice the Samaritan doesn’t expect repayment. There is no quid pro quo here, no tit for tat. No strings attached, no conditions, no expectations made on the part of the Samaritan for the wounded man. There is only compassion – love put into action. It is a gift given freely and without a limit. Love is open-ended and it is generous.

Now, Jesus asks the question, “Who was the good neighbor?” The lawyer answers correctly, identifying the Samaritan. Now, flip the question – who could not be a neighbor? Who couldn’t bring anything to the table? Who couldn’t negotiate, who couldn’t argue his case, who couldn’t even beg for mercy let alone demand attention? The traveler. Broken, beaten, bleeding, he was as helpless as a man could be. He couldn’t argue his case with his own countrymen, explaining why he needed their help. He was helpless. Not much of a neighbor.

Take that and go back to the original question: what must I do to be saved?

The Lawyer had answered the question with the summary of the law, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus even commends the answer as being correct: do this and you shall live. “Do this and you shall live.” Consider the weight of those six words. Jesus isn’t lying – if you are able to keep the Law perfectly, without any spot or blemish on your record, you will live. But if you think the Law is something you can do for yourself and fulfill yourself by what you do and don’t do, you’re missing the picture. In reality, each of us is as broken down and beaten up as that traveler on the Jerusalem highway, dying in our sins and our sinfulness. Just like a dying man or woman cannot save himself or herself, no more can a sinner, who is dying in their sins, save themselves.

See this parable as a story, not of what you must do to be saved, but as a story of what was done to save you. Jesus descends, not from Jerusalem, but from heaven. He takes on human flesh and, even though He does nothing wrong, is hated and despised by his fellow countrymen, even being called a Samaritan. With no regard for His own life, Jesus’ great compassion moves Him to render perfect assistance. He cleanses our sin-scarred body with His blood and applies the soothing oil of His righteousness. He picks us up and carries us, not to an inn, but to the church where the body of Christ stands ready to carry on the work and ministry of compassion for the wounded traveler. The Church, Luther says, is a hospital for sinners where the soul is able to be restored to health in Christ.

The cost was great – and so is Jesus’ compassion. He pays the full price for our redemption, not with denarii and coins, but with His own blood. In the parable, the good Samaritan was the third passer-by. When the third day passes by, Jesus’ resurrection demonstrates that the payment was made in full and the Father – the innkeeper – marks the debt of sin paid in full. There is no more debt to pay. You do not earn eternal life. It is a gift of God, paid for fully and completely by the blood of Jesus.

Jesus is the perfect neighbor, filled with perfect compassion, enacting perfect love toward those who are loveless and unlovable. And when we realize that this parable is a narrative of what Jesus has done for each of us, something remarkable happens. The questions change.

Instead of the selfish questions “what must I do to be saved,” and “who is my neighbor?” the questions are no longer about me. Instead, the question and the focus change. “Because Jesus has saved me, how can I be a good neighbor and show compassion to those around me?”  

Perhaps you will have an opportunity one day to be a Good Samaritan and stop and render aid at the scene of an accident, putting into use the First Aid and Stop the Bleed training we did a few months ago. That will move you to compassion, trust me, and you will suffer right along with the accident victim, albeit in a different way. But compassion doesn’t have to be reserved for “big” moments and love doesn’t have to be held in reserve for special days. You can demonstrate compassion by calling a grieving widower, eating lunch next to an unpopular kid in class, or by talking with a stranger at Christ’s Kitchen who has missed more than one shower and who the rest of the world overlooks. In those moments, you are putting compassion – what moves your guts – into action and showing that person the love of Christ that rescued you.  

It’s easy to do this with people whom you love. In a sense, it’s easy to do with a complete stranger. But it’s harder to do with people who have hurt you, or you have hurt. That person who hurt you so badly in the past, and whose spouse is now critically ill? Have compassion – suffer with them. But it’s not comfortable to do that, you say. I agree. That’s what compassion is about, remember – suffering with. Reach out, in love, with a kind word, a cup of coffee, a shared meal, and a word of prayer.

And, when you see someone through the lens of the cross of Christ, and you are moved with the compassion of the one who died for you, when you act out of the love that Jesus has showered over you, what you might find out is that they’re not such bad neighbors after all.