Author: MASadmin

My sermon from the Third Sunday in Lent (March 3, 2024) on John 2:13-22.

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When we read the Bible, one thing we might try to do is put Jesus’ story in chronological order. We attempt to take all the things he said, did, and lived through and place them on a mental timeline we can follow along. This kind of work feels pretty relevant to us since we have four versions of his life in our sacred scriptures as well as a bunch of letters and sermons that flesh out a bit of what his life was like. It’s reasonable to want to hold onto all of Jesus’ story while spending each week in worship only dealing with a sliver of who Jesus is. And this is something we’re especially mindful of during the two big religious festivals that anchor our church year. We do all we can to make sure the shepherds, magi, and angels are visible on Christmas morning while making sure to include the last supper, Jesus’ arrest, and his cooking breakfast on the beach when Holy Week comes. Keeping tabs on Jesus’ timeline is one of the ways we discover what it means to follow Jesus in the here and now. But our very human desire to harmonize Jesus’ story can be rather complicated when we discover an experience that appears in two different moments in Jesus’ life. And today’s reading from the gospel according to John is one of those stories. All four gospels include a version of Jesus driving people out of the Temple with each one providing details that the others don’t. This diversity in reporting allows us to paint a fuller picture of what this event must have been like. However there is one major detail in this story that we can’t easily reconcile together. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, this incident at the Temple came near the end of Jesus’ story, serving as the final act that forces the religious authorities to finally do something about Jesus. John, though, took the incident of Jesus flipping over a few tables and driving out a bunch of animals from the Temple in Jerusalem – and placed it at the very beginning of his public ministry. All attempts at trying to make our mental timeline match all four gospels would leave us twisted in knots. But instead of trying to fix this problem, I wonder if it would be more fruitful to notice how John and his community used this story to explore a practice of faith we can’t always see. 

Now when we talk about practicing our faith, we usually lean to things we can do that others, if asked, could watch and witness. We might, for example, read our Bible, spend time in prayer, or volunteer at a local food pantry. These actions are not only visible, if we want them to be, to those around us – they’re also actions that show up in our Bible all the time. Our sacred scripture is full of people worshiping, praying, feeding the hungry, and making sure everyone, including strangers, are welcomed and loved. Faith isn’t always locked in our heads and our hearts  since what we do often reveals what we truly believe. Yet there’s one practice of faith that isn’t as easy to point to because it requires us to do the difficult thing of being honest about ourselves, our past, where we were, and what we were doing. It’s a kind of journey that acknowledges we are rarely the most trustworthy narrator to our own story. We’re invited to ponder all that went into who we are while acknowledging just how vulnerable that kind of work can make us feel. It’s the difficult yet incredibly faithful practice of remembering: of taking not only an authentic look at the role we played in our own story but all the events and experiences that shape what our remembering might mean. Our Bible regularly tells us to remember but we don’t always get an example of what that kind of remembering might look like. That, I think, is why today’s reading from John is so interesting. This passage wasn’t only written as a recollection of what Jesus was doing during a passover celebration in the place God promised to be. It also showed how his disciples in the years and decades after Jesus died and rose from the dead, used these same stories to interpret whatever they were living through. They did not act as if these words were primarily a news report about the past but recognized how it served as an illustration of what continues to happen when God’s love moves in the world. They remembered not only Jesus’ story but let that story become a lens that interpreted their own stories too. Their joys, their losses, and their sorrow all became an opportunity to ponder, wonder, reflect, and notice the God who was already in the midst of it all. They practiced a kind of remembering that drew out, noticed, and uncovered certain themes, words, and experiences that seemed to speak into what they were going through. And when the community around John lived through their own actions, inactions, or those things that happened to them that caused their world to come tumbling down, they remembered the promise Jesus uttered in a place that would eventually come tumbling down too. The community remembered the trauma, the worry, the anxiety, and the fear could only be lived through by clinging to the promise that another chapter in their story was already being written. Jesus’ incident in the Temple became, for them, not some event that started his journey to the Cross but a manifestation of the hope and love that was always at the center of Jesus’ story. 

When John wrote his version of Jesus’ life, sixty-five or so years after the Resurrection, his community had been remembering for decades. They looked back at everything that made up their personal and communal story and saw how Jesus’ story always intersected their own. They saw Jesus not only in the lives of the stories they shared but also saw him in the lives around them. And when it became too difficult to remember either because the experiences were too much or their ability to remember had started to fade, they had a community reminding them that, in God, they were always home. Taking an authentic look at where we’ve been, what we’ve done, or what’s been done to us is never easy. It’s a struggle being honest about our own story since we never are the objective observer we pretend to be. We also, as we live our lives and live through different experiences, we then gain new insights or thoughts that then inform those memories we thought we already fully understood. Our attempts at harmonizing our own story let alone the story of God is an ongoing challenge that we can never quite finish. Yet when we remember in the way the Bible wants us to, we discover how Jesus has, all along, been harmonizing us with the kingdom of God. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is to simply remember; we remember we are a beloved child of God; we remember we are, in faith and baptism, united with the One who claims us as His own; we remember that the Cross isn’t the end of the story and that we won’t be defined by the worst part of our story. Instead, when we remember, we do more than take a nostalgic trip down memory lane: we begin to grow into the new future God is already bringing about. 

Amen.

My sermon from the Second Sunday in Lent (February 25, 2024) on Genesis 17:1-7, 15-17.

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So in May 2010, I took a little trip to an office of the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles which was located in Jamaica, Queens. Since I lived in NYC at the time, I hadn’t owned a car in years but still needed to update my license. I stuffed my bright orange messenger bag with all the documents I needed but also quite a few snacks, my Ipod, and a book since I didn’t know how long I would have to wait. I eventually got to the front of the line and mentally prepared myself for the two part conversation I knew was about to come. The first part happened exactly as I expected since when I handed the person at the window my old license, she immediately asked if I could sing. My parents had, when I was born, chosen the name of my mom’s uncle – Anthony – to be my middle name. For as long as I could remember, I kept being associated with the singer who, at last count, has won eight Latin Grammys and sold over 12 million albums worldwide. The person at the window, after playfully letting everyone around her know she was helping “Marc Anthony” then asked what was wrong since the license I handed to her wasn’t expired. That’s when I started the second part of the conversation I was still getting used to. When Kate and I married, I changed my last name to match hers so we would have one shared family name. And, in New York State, the process for me to do that was incredibly easy. For years, folks getting married could change their name, within certain parameters, on the marriage license itself. It took very little work to legally change my full name but it was a lot harder to change my name everywhere else since not many folks knew what to do with a husband who had a maiden name. It wasn’t too difficult to update all my financial records but I remember a lot of other stuff, including all the forms I had submitted to start the process of becoming a pastor, were impossible to change. I had to restart a bunch of the documents that described my life because too many databases were shaped by designers who didn’t realize how limited their imaginations truly were.

Now the name changes in our Bible aren’t centered around the act of marriage. Instead, we’re often introduced to a character who has an experience that changes who they get to be. For example, Jacob spent a night at the edge of the Jabbok river wrestling with his fear, anxiety, and despair only to meet God and enter the dawn of a new day with the name of Israel. Other name changes, though, are a bit more human such as when the Pharaoh of Egypt changed Joseph’s name to Zaphenath-Paneah after elevating him to a position of authority and power. Today’s name change story from the book of Genesis is, in terms of narrative intensity, somewhere in-between those two examples I just described. Abram’s name change isn’t really all that dramatic since Abraham is actually a slight variant of Abram and both those names mean something like “exalted father.” Sarai to Sarah is even more mild since all it did was take an archaic feminine suffix and make it a bit more contemporary for the world they both lived in. Many of the other names in our Bible were bigger and bolder like when Jesus changed Simon’s name to Peter way back in Mark, chapter 3. Yet today’s name change feels so small that it makes us wonder why God changed their names at all. I think, to see that a bit more clearly, we have to remember this wasn’t the first time God let Abram know what God was up to. Just two chapters before, God gave Abram a similar vision of what his future was going to be like. Abram and Sarai, though, were not quite sure how God was going to make that happen so they took it upon themselves to make those promises come true. Their actions, though, were rooted in the choices rooted in violence and harm. We could, I think, attempt to excuse their behavior by saying they were simply people of their world. But God’s actions in response to Abram and Sarai’s imperfect actions show how love, mercy, and hope are the Godly values we should always use to interpret our own. Abram and Sarai, using their own limited imagination, tried to create the future they thought they were meant to have. And so that’s when God intervened, reiterating the covenant while dragging them into the future they couldn’t see. Their new name wasn’t that new but it was an invitation for them to live into a new future that wasn’t limited by their past, their history, their assumptions, their expectations, or their imagination. Instead, they would be the ones through whom the entire world would be blessed because being a blessing is what being human is all about.

The people at the DMV desk listened to my name change story and then took a bit of time figuring out how to get their database to accept who I was now going to be. I did, eventually, walk out of that place with a new license but even with that piece of plastic, my new name didn’t feel very real. What I needed was an opportunity to live into my new future to see what it might mean. And that actually happened since, in just a few months, I started living a life my younger self never imagined was possible. I went off to seminary and found myself in a new community of students, professors, and churchy folk who only knew my new name. That didn’t mean that I forgot where I came from or ignored everything that made me who I was. But there was something about living out my future in that specific faith community that let me grow into who I could authentically be. I know that my experience isn’t your experience and that name changes occur for all kinds of reasons. But I also believe that all of us, whether we realize it or not, have at least had our names added to when we were brought into Jesus’ holy family. When the gift of faith and the waters of baptism were poured over us and three of the names of God were used to claim you as one of the bright lights God had brought into the world, we were all invited into the future God was already bringing about. We were, in that moment, given new names that not only described who we are but also who we get to be. We, like Jesus at his baptism, were named Beloved and had the name Christian etched on our forehead in the shape of the Cross. These names do not mean that our future will be easy nor do they pretend we won’t face trials, struggles, or pain. God knows the Crosses we bear and also the crosses we give to those around us. Yet these new names do change who we get to be since the limit of our imagination will no longer push us away from a future where love doesn’t end.

Now I’ve had my new name for roughly 14 years and I still pause whenever someone says “Mr. Stutzel” since I think they’re talking about my father-in-law rather than talking to me. But I wonder if we all might make a similar kind of pause whenever someone says our name to remember all the names we actually have. Our name and names are big enough to hold our entire story while inviting us into a future where we can become more authentically and faithfully who we’re supposed to be. And while that future will not be easy, it will be one where our crosses and the crosses we make for others will no longer be what defines us. Instead, the love of God that added to and changed our names will also change us into the bearers of mercy, grace, and hope that everyone needs.

Amen.

My sermon from First Sunday in Lent (February 18, 2024) on Mark 1:9-15.

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Sarah Polley is a Canadian filmmaker, former child actor, activist, and writer who won the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay in 2022 for her film Women Talking. She’s a person who has been through a lot and has thought long and hard about what happens we need to just stop. As a person who works in films and movies, Sarah knows how much of a machine film-making can be. She’s often wrapped up in all the pressure to get everything done within a specific timeframe and under budget. Long days and even longer nights are not only considered the norm, it’s expected that the entire crew is supposed to be physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted through the whole thing. And while some people can thrive in that kind of environment, most quickly learn how harrowing, traumatizing, and harmful these places can be. Sarah, while creating the film Women’s Talking – decided to implement something most directors, producers, and film creators don’t usually do. She gave everyone working on a film telling a story of women talking about their future after experiencing sexual violence – to simply stop. If the work became too much, the film would shut down while people took care of themselves. And Sarah shared why she did that while being interviewed on the podcast Everything Happens. Sarah said: “I was inspired by my sister, who’s a [doctor], and … she gives all of her patients her cell phone and says, you can use this any time at night or on the weekends. And we’re like, Susie, that is crazy. And she said, here’s the thing: it’s almost never [used]…[But] my Mondays are so much calmer, because what I don’t have is a waiting room full of people who were panicking all weekend, who didn’t think there was anyone they could call. Usually those same people won’t actually call my number. The fact that they know they can makes a huge difference in their well-being.” Sarah, while creating a film about a really difficult story, gave people permission to stop so they could do the mental, emotional, and spiritual work they needed to do when things became too much. And by doing that, she also gave her film crew what they needed to see – and build – their own kind of resilience that might help bring them through. These kinds of stops are something we’re not very good at offering ourselves or to others. But in our reading today from the gospel according to Mark, we get to witness one of the times when Jesus stops. 

Now we spend the first Sunday in Lent every year watching what happened immediately after Jesus was baptized. Even before the water dried from his forehead, Jesus was immediately sent into the wilderness. The wilderness, as imagined in our Bible, isn’t some kind of spot in nature untouched by human habitation. It is, primarily, the place where our control breaks down. We know we’re living in the wilderness when we are feeling utterly unsafe and alone. And yet that’s usually when God shows up to say that we are seen and known. In Matthew and Luke’s version of this story, we’re given a few additional details like an actual conversation between Jesus and one of God’s adversaries. But in the version we just heard today, we don’t get very much. Jesus, after hearing a voice from the heavens declare him to be God’s beloved son, was then sent on a one verse sojourn into a place where people have no control. Now when we take a step back and notice the wider story, this push by the Holy Spirit feels like an odd interruption. Jesus was, at the time, already in the wilderness since that’s where John the Baptist was practicing his ministry. Jesus, along with many others, had put a kind of stop on their lives to see what John was up to. Some journey into the wilderness because they were curious while others hoped their sojourn with John would help them become who they were supposed to be. Their time John and God was the stop, the sabbath, and the break they needed for their faith to grow. And while no one knew exactly what they would experience out there, I imagine that many expected they would somehow be changed. They would return to their lives refreshed, renewed, and ready to do what they were supposed to do. Their stop with God by the Jordan would change who they were but Jesus’ stop in the wilderness had only just begun. 

Now it’s reasonable to assume that the Son of God was always ready to be who he was supposed to be since he was there when the universe was made. But I wonder if the Holy Spirit, and Jesus himself, recognized that being human means being human. His forty days in the wilderness was not merely an extreme vacation meant to prove how awesome he was. It was an opportunity for him to stop, process, and integrate his story mentally, physically, and emotionally just like we do. The Holy Spirit gave him permission to not immediately go out and change people’s lives but to live into the kind of healing we need as we discover what the promise of God is all about. Jesus, at the start of his public ministry, didn’t need to just be God; he also needed to see how being human often needs permission to make it through. 

And that, according to Sarah, is what the “stop” on her film set actually did. It let people be people and admit when their experience became too much. Rather than pushing people beyond their humanity, the stop gave them permission to be who they were supposed to be. Sarah, while describing the impact of the stop on her film, said “… if you just give people the option of [stopping], it’s very rare that you’re going to be overburdened with it. But it does create a sense of care and support that I think just leads to better outcomes all around, like psychologically, artistically, in every way. If there’s some sense that you’re the priority, I just think you’re going to do better…[and I think during] the whole production, we stopped for like ten minutes out of eight weeks. But the knowledge that we could, I think, got people through a lot of days.” When Jesus’ ministry began, he hadn’t lived through what was about to come. He hadn’t fully faced what we do when God’s love comes near. Jesus’ stop in the wilderness wasn’t only a struggle with temptation or against sin. It was also an opportunity for him to grow into his humanity by paying attention to the resilience that comes when we have permission to stop. This stop doesn’t mean we’re taking a vacation nor should it be confused with the essential practice of the Sabbath that God wants to see in all our lives. Rather, it’s about being human and purposefully tending to the mental, emotional, and spiritual needs that make us who we are. God the Creator, after naming Jesus as a beloved son, stopped the ministry we’d expect Jesus to immediately do so that he could be the kind of human his ministry needed. And we, like him, should embrace our own permission to stop as we grow into who God knows we can be. Much of our culture and our lives are centered on how far, and fast, we go. We think we have to keep pushing even though stopping might be the far more healthier thing to do. Creating the space where we – and others – can stop isn’t always easy because we’ve been culturally conditioned to only accept the exact opposite. But when we stop and let ourselves be truly human, that’s when we grow into who God has already declared us to be. You, like Jesus, have already been named beloved. You, in your baptism, have already been named as essential to what God is doing in the world. There is nothing you can do to earn the love God has given you nor do you need permission to be as loved as you already are. But we can, instead, give ourselves – and others – permission to be human; a permission to pause; a permission to do the work that it takes to process what we are going through. And when we do that together, we do more than participate in our own sense of healing and wholeness; we also become the kind of human Jesus showed us how to be. 

Amen.

My sermon from Ash Wednesday (February 14, 2024) on Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21.

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So on the left side of my driveway, right next to the road, is a piece of my property I don’t know what to do with. It’s home to a telephone pole, a stop sign, dead crabgrass, and whenever it rains, all the exposed soil floats down into the roadway. Every Spring and Summer, I dream up some new plant or decoration to put there before giving up and buying another bag of black mulch to throw on top. It’s a space that doesn’t feel like it has much life and yet, two weeks ago, I noticed a tiny bit of green trying to break through. I assumed that it must be a weed since the weather was still mostly cloudy and cold. But on closer inspection, that one little bit of green was actually surrounded by half-a-dozen more plants. It seems my wife, late last year, decided on her own to plant a few bulbs in a place where only dead crabgrass grows. Those little plants decided, on their own, to take a chance and germinate even though most nights were still a bit below freezing. The buds didn’t grow fast but they became bigger and brighter especially when, last weekend, the temperature broke 50. It seemed, for a few bright sunny days, the risk they took to start the next chapter in their lives might pay off. But when I left for church today, all that life was buried under a mountain of snow, dirt, ice, and grime created by a snowplow. 

I’ll admit Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day is always a bit weird. We, in theory, are supposed to be focused on love and romance while, at the same time, spend the day walking around with an ashen cross etched on our foreheads. It’s the kind of day when the memes are endless and I can justify to myself handing out candy hearts with the words “repent” written on them. But this day can also be very hard. Valentine’s Day has a way of implying the love in our most intimate relationships should resemble the ending of every rom com ever written. And if it doesn’t, then we must be worth less than we actually are. Valentine’s Day, in my experience, rarely reminds us how much we’re loved; it often reinforces all the ways we are alone. And if that’s not enough, Ash Wednesday comes along and reminds us of our mortality. There’s a way both of these celebrations can feel as if they’re primarily focused on some kind of end, with Ash Wednesday keeping our eyes on the end of life and Valentine’s Day hoping to end our seeking of any relationship by finding “the One.” But I wonder if, like bulbs bursting forth despite the threat of snow, Ash Wednesday is less about the end and more about how, in Christ, our life has already begun. 

Now Matthew, in his version of Jesus’ life, bookended Jesus’ public ministry with two long very long sermons. The first one, starting in chapter 5, is known as the sermon on the mount while the last one, starting in chapter 24, appeared right before his arrest, trial, and death. These two sermons serve like Jesus’ statement of purpose – putting into words what it’s like when God’s kingdom comes near. And so after beginning the sermon of the mount by pointing out how God often values the people we don’t, Jesus then moved into a section dominated by a word whose pronunciation is as harsh as its definition. That harshness, I think, invites us to focus on every one of Jesus’ “don’ts” and wonder what parts of our own practices of faith would Jesus say “don’t” to? That kind of self-reflection can be healthy when done with honesty and an incredible amount of vulnerability. But it can also bury us in despair when we notice how much of our identity is defined by what others say. We can also, if we’re not careful, turn Jesus’ list of “don’ts” into a kind of checklist that we use to spiritually harm others while patting ourselves on the back. In our desire to not be a hypocrite, we turn Jesus’ list of “don’ts” into an end in themselves. Our life with God, then, becomes defined by a checklist of faithfulness or morality that is never quite big enough to speak into all the grime, dirt, joys, and sorrows life brings. That kind of life might not be trying to earn God’s love but it stops living as if God’s love can be so much more. And that’s why, I think,  Jesus didn’t let his words at this part of sermon on the mountain only be a series of “don’ts.” He kept going, throwing in a “when” that assumes the faith practices of life, such as the sharing of money, praying in public and in private, and living as if we already have enough, will not be seen as the end of faith but as its beginning. Faith is a gift from God we “do” – and the “do” is always more than simply avoiding the “don’ts.” The faith Jesus imagines is a faith that reorients our priorities away from ourselves and towards the priorities of God. And while that might seem a pretty big ask to do, in Matthew’s version of Jesus’ life – that priority is always grounded in mercy. It’s a kind of mercy that doesn’t seek attention but gives it to those who feel unworthy and alone. It’s a kind of mercy that doesn’t demand power but empowers those pushed aside. And it’s a mercy that does ask our story to end with a rom-com ending but trusts that, with Jesus, we are already part of a story that will never end. 

The vibe for Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day will always be weird. It’s a day when we remember endings while giving one another flowers that have already bloomed. But today is also meant to be a kind of a beginning. It’s the beginning of the season of Lent when we spend forty days and six Sundays marching to a Friday we paradoxically call good. Today is the beginning of our yearly reminder that faith and love is an active and living thing; moving us away from our priorities and towards a way of being in the world that finds its purpose in what God has already prioritized. Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day is an opportunity to be honest about ourselves, our wants, our joys, our needs, and our sorrows, as we remember how – in Christ – another chapter for us and our world has already begun. This is a moment when we admit that life often buries us in snow, grime, and dirt right when it feels like we are about to bloom. And yet because of your baptism, your faith, and your identity as a child of God – your time with Jesus has only just begun. 

Amen.

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.

As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead. So they kept the matter to themselves, questioning what this rising from the dead could mean.

Mark 9:2-10

My sermon from Transfiguration Sunday (February 11, 2024) on Mark 9:2-10

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So every song ever written was, at some point, contemporary. I’m not saying every new song is always up to date and modern; just that every song’s specific style was once considered brand new. I was reminded of this last Sunday while watching the Grammys since that award show gave all kinds of music fans something to hold onto. The fans of Olivia Rodrigo, Tracy Chapman, and Joni Mitchell not only got to see those artists perform; they also witnessed how different kinds of music mattered to the people right next to them. When it comes to pop music, each one of us likes what we like; and I, personally, wouldn’t know how to explain to you why a specific artist or genre matters to me more than any other. But I wonder if the reason why we invest so much passion and energy into the music we love is because music is more than simply sounds in the air. Music has this way of creating an immersive experience that we get to be a part of. It surrounds us, fills us, and has a way of enhancing every other sense we have. Music also has a habit of changing our relationships with people when we’re gathered in an expansive European cathedral or standing in the low light of a bakery’s basement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. When we wrap ourselves in music, we create new memories while reliving old ones rooted in the people and places that have shaped who we are. Music is something we can, and should, study, analyze, and critique. But music is also meant to be an experience that carries us through the days, months, and years of our lives. When we let music be music rather than only something we try to understand, we discover a little bit of what Jesus was up to when he took Peter, James, and John on a hike.

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Mark is out of sequence from the stories we’ve been listening to over the last few weeks. The stories we’ve heard showed us what Jesus’ public ministry was like at its beginning but the reading from chapter 9 comes closer to its end. Jesus, after preaching and teaching throughout Galilee, Syria, and beyond, took his friends to the city of Caesarea Philippi. That city was built at the foot of a hill covered with religious temples that included one that imagined the Roman Emperor as a god. It was there, while surrounded by all the imagery celebrating the so-called divinity of Rome, when Jesus asked his friends who they thought Jesus was. Peter, being Peter, responded quickly, confessing Jesus to be the Messiah, the One who would change the world. Peter, though, kept talking and he also revealed how his understanding of the messiah was rooted in a very human point of view when it comes to power, strength, and might. Jesus, in response, rebuked Peter and tried to steer his thoughts to somewhere new. And it was after all of that when we discovered that Jesus, and his friends, took a six day break. Mark doesn’t tell us what happened during those six days but I wonder if the disciples spent most of that time trying to understand everything Jesus had said. They, if they’re like me, probably replayed that conversation over and over again in their heads while attempting to figure out how a Messiah who could cast out demons wasn’t casting out the Romans from the land. They had spent over a year watching this Jesus heal the sick, feed the hungry, and change the lives people had. Jesus was right there in front of them but there was so much they didn’t understand. And so after sitting with their thoughts for six long days, Jesus then took Peter, James, and John up a mountain.

Now we could, I think, try to unpack and explain every part of this story since the church gave it its own name. I have, in the past, focused on different parts within the story – such as Peter’s response, James and John’s silence, and how verse seven is the only place in the gospel according to Mark when God the Father told the disciples what to do. The Transfiguration is a story that invites us to go deeper into Jesus’ own story since we are re-introduced to Moses and Elijah. And it’s also a story when, in one sense, we see Jesus’ divinity on fully display – in the kind of event that matches who we expect Jesus to be. It’s fruitful to try and understand what the Transfiguration is all about but it’s also okay to let it be an experience we can never fully explain. Jesus, like I said last week, was always himself regardless of where he was. When he was teaching in a synagogue, praying alone on a mountain, confronting the religious authorities, and hanging out with people who needed mercy and peace – Jesus simply gave them life and then connected them to a community who could help them live their life in the months and years to come. Jesus, I think, knew that his disciples had spent the last six days trying to understand what he meant. And while he could have put together the ancient near east version of a powerpoint presentation, he also knew the disciples would need something to hold onto while living through the next part of his story. In their race to understand, they lost touch with the ways Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, trial, and death would end any understanding that they had. They needed to know that their Jesus was always going to be their Jesus – and that another chapter in their lives and in their world was already on its way.

That kind of faith is, I think, not something we can easily understand since it needs to be more than simply thoughts sitting in our head. Faith is supposed to be an experience that speaks, shapes, and influences every other experience we have. Faith, like music, enhances the lives we live while opening us to what this world could be. And while that sounds pretty awesome, it’s also pretty risky since it knows that our faith will be shaped by other kinds of experience that make us wonder why we believe in the first place. Faith, I think, doesn’t make life easy but it does hold us through all that life might bring. And while we might have a mountain top experience like Peter, James, and John, we also have to remember that these weren’t the only faith experiences pointed to in today’s story. Jesus, after letting his disciples wonder and ponder for six straight days, didn’t invite all his disciples up the mountain nor did he let James, Peter, and John share with the others all they had seen and heard. Jesus, instead, let each of the disciples have their own personal experience that would let them know they were not alone. The healings they saw; the words they heard; the welcome they were extended; and the relationships Jesus created for them with people they never expected to meet – those were holy moments big enough to hold them through the sorrow and heartbreak to come. The faith God gives us isn’t only something we have; it’s also meant to be an experience that holds us through all the wondering, doubts, questions, joys, and sorrows a life with faith will have. And when we let our experiences be experiences rather than turning them into things we have to immediately unpack, understand, or move on from – that’s when we might notice how Jesus already has a hold on us through all the experiences life brings.

Amen.

As soon as [Jesus and his disciples] left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.

That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him. In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, “Everyone is searching for you.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

Mark 1:29-39

My sermon from the 5th Sunday after Epiphany (February 4, 2024) on Mark 1:29-39

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Two Thursdays ago, a person showed up at church wanting to drop off a gift for the Tri-Boro Food Pantry in Park Ridge. They knew I was its treasurer and they immediately handed me an envelope after walking into the building. I was, at the time, in the middle of several different conversations with several other people so it took me a few seconds to realize what was going on. I ended up doing that thing where I asked questions, buying time for my brain to catch up. The person in front of me, it turns out, was a musician who organized a benefit concert with his friends. They, together, used their gifts to be a gift for those in need. It’s always cool when folks recognize how their passions can make a difference in the lives of those around him. And yet it took me a while to figure out their story because he assumed I already knew what he knew. In fact, the conversations started with the words “You probably already saw…” which, in his defense, wasn’t a terrible assumption to make. But the truth is I often don’t usually know all the happenings orbiting the pantry since I can only mentally hold so much. Assuming those around us know what we know, have seen what we see, and think like we think is a very human thing to do. And in today’s reading from the gospel according to Mark, we notice how the community’s curiosity about Jesus created an environment where wholeness could grow. 

Jesus, after calling his first four disciples, went to visit the fishing village of Capernaum. Since it was the sabbath, Jesus joined the community for worship at the local synagogue. Like we heard last week, visiting preachers were often invited to lead and teach when it came to participating in the service. Jesus, after reading from the Bible, surprised everyone with words that carried a lot of authority. It was then when an unclean spirit lurking in the crowd spoke out, implying that Jesus would destroy everyone he touched. Jesus, in a very public way, sent that Spirit packing which made folks wonder who – or what – he was. But when the opportunity came to bring life, Jesus did exactly that. Once worship was over, Jesus moved from that very public space to one we might assume was pretty private. Yet it’s at this point in the story when we need to remember where Jesus was. When we imagine a village, we might think of small homes scattered around bits of land – maybe even mimicking the suburban developments we call home. But villages, towns, and cities in the ancient world were incredibly dense with people living right on top of each other. In Capernaum, the homes were one story tall and only a few rooms in size. They were built along shared courtyards that ran along streets no bigger than an alley. The lack of space meant that it was assumed everyone knew your business and that you knew everyone else’s business too. This, I think, might make us feel a bit queasy, inviting us to give thanks for the privacy our homes might give us. Yet we, in this area, live a version of that life since every town in Northern New Jersey acts like a small town. We like knowing who our neighbors are even though we lament at all the gossip we find ourselves a part of. And while we might imagine how we are above it all, every one of our towns have dozens of facebook groups caused by disagreements that led to anger and schisms. We love hearing which streets in our towns are closed for repair but notice how quickly our arguments turn vicious and personal. And while “being known” and recognized by our neighbors can be the one thing we need to help carry us through all life brings, we can end up feeling completely alone when we’re holding something we can’t always share. Small town life is incredible and terrible all at the same time. And when we let our assumptions about each other be the limit of who our neighbors can be, it’s hard for us to be the kind of community God calls us to be. 

So I’m guessing folks in Capernaum knew Simon’s mother-in-law was sick. They also knew her son-in-law had left his family in a bit of a bind after leaving his nets by the seashore to follow a man he just met. The news about Jesus’ work in the synagogue probably spread faster than his walk down the street into a courtyard surrounded by buildings full of all kinds of people. He was there because, since the sabbath wasn’t over, staying at the home of his disciples made a lot of sense. But I also wonder if Simon and Andrew brought him there hoping Jesus was more than they had already seen. Up to this point in Mark’s version of Jesus’ life, there’s no story about Jesus healing someone of a physical illness. They didn’t know exactly what he could do but after witnessing what he did in front of everyone, they wondered if he could do the same in a much more private space. All they had seen was how, while in a holy place, Jesus did a holy thing. Since Andrew and Simon were still getting to know Jesus, they could have assumed that was the limit of who Jesus could be. But they, along with everyone else, brought Jesus to Simon’s mother-in-law because they hoped Jesus would be Jesus no matter where he was. 

When Jesus showed up at the home of Simon’s mother-in-law, there was no guarantee Jesus could do what Jesus did. All they had was a call, a word, and an event that happened in a very holy and public space. The people around Jesus, though, took a chance to not let their experience of Jesus be the limit of who he might be. They hoped the One who told them to “follow him” would also follow them into places where hope was needed. Jesus wasn’t one way in public and different when all the eyes turned away. He was always simply himself – bringing mercy, forgiveness, and grace to all. We, I think, are invited to not only model Jesus’ ministry – using the gifts God has given us to bring wholeness to all. We are also called to be a bit like Simon, Andrew, and everyone in the community who wouldn’t let their experience of Jesus be the only thing He could be. Rather than letting their assumptions dictate Jesus’ story, they stayed curious about Jesus, their God, and even themselves. The made the choice to not embrace the small town identity that only lets people be who we let them be. Instead, they leaned into the part that invited them to know every part of their neighbors’ story. Unlike the healing stories that were about to come, Jesus didn’t have to connect those he healed to a community that could sustain them in the life and months ahead. The community already knew who needed help because they brought all of them to Jesus. Creating and living as that kind of community isn’t easy because it forces us to not act as if everyone knows what we know or have seen what we seen or think like we think. Rather, we need to be curious about ourselves, our neighbors, and those we’re just starting to get to know. And when we think we know what someone will say or do, that’s when God encourages us to not let our assumptions be the limit of who they get to be. We, instead, will be the kind of community who is curious, who wonders, and who trusts that – because Jesus is Jesus – we get to be so much more. 

Amen.

Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.

Mark 1:21-28

My sermon from the 4th Sunday after Epiphany (January 28, 2024) on Mark 1:21-28

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Today’s text from the gospel according to Mark is a little weird. Jesus, after returning from the wilderness and calling his first disciples, immediately entered a synagogue and did something we only see in horror movies, comics books, and late night tv ads. Now the casting out of demons and unclean spirits is something Jesus did all the time in Mark’s version of Jesus’ life. It was Mark’s way of showing how Jesus’ presence in the world reshapes our present, our future, and the entire universe. Jesus, when he showed up, challenged and disrupted how we see ourselves, our neighbors, and took care of one another. And while none of that sounds, I think, very strange when we talk about the Christian faith, things get interesting when we ponder the supernatural. We’re comfortable during worship talking about Jesus’ miracles, His presence in Holy Communion, and how our prayers are, sometimes, answered. But when the conversation includes demons, unclean spirits, and spiritual procession – our responses can be all over the place. We might, for example, have no problem talking about demons, evil, and the spiritual forces that move through us and in our world. Or we might notice how many of the so-called “unclean spirits” in our Bible resemble people who were living with depression, schizophrenia, or a bipolar disorder. When we act as if only one of those views can be true, we often cause harm. We end up dissuading people from seeking help through the God-given gifts of therapy, counseling, and psychiatry or turning people into a biological soup made up of chemicals, hormones, and repressed memories. Seeking help through therapy does not make you a bad Christian nor does lighting some sage on fire when the vibes in your house feel off turn you into something other than a follower of Jesus Christ. But when we spend too much of our time trying to separate, compartmentalize, and wall off from one another the physical, emotional, and spiritual parts of lives, we lose out on what it means to live our lives in the world. And I’ve often found that when we do this too much, Jesus breaks through to show us something new. 

I wonder if we can see a little of what that newness looks like by paying attention to what happened before the exorcism took place. Jesus arrived in the city of Capernaum which was really a large fishing village with maybe 1,500 people living within it. Its economy was centered on fishing in the Sea of Galilee as well as farming and harvesting olive trees in the surrounding hillside. Capernaum had one large road running north-to-south with side streets covered in small one-story homes.  A synagogue was built along its main roadway and was, in Jesus’ day, pretty plain without any seats or even a paved floor. It was standard practice for the entire village to, on the sabbath, assemble in the synagogue for a worship that wasn’t very formal. Within the service, there was space for people, even visitors from out of town, to read selections from the Bible and interpret what they thought it meant. Jesus’ behavior, then, at the start of worship wasn’t strange. We might, at this point in the story, immediately focus on the authority Jesus’ teaching seemed to embody. But I think it would be fruitful to spend a little time with the fishermen, farmers, merchants, men, women, and children who were already there. This community regularly interrupted their lives to spend time with their God. And they lived in a world full of mystery, different religions, and times when their own faith was weak or strong. The community was filled with all kinds of people whose spiritual life was exactly their own. And in the middle of them was an unnamed man possessed by a spirit. 

Now Mark doesn’t tell us who, or what, this spirit was. We never learn its backstory or how the man was possessed. Mark doesn’t describe how the unclean spirit made its presence impacted his life or interfered with his closest relationships. This gap within the story allows us to use our spiritual imagination to wonder what this man’s life was like. We might, influenced by our own personal biases, turn him into an evil force resembling something out of the movie The Exorcist. Or we might assume he lived with multiple personalities or had a constant over-the-top manic episode. This man, in our mind, stood in the back, away from everyone, living with all kinds of hurt and pain. And once we’re done picturing him in our head, it’s then when we realize that Mark did tell us one thing about him. We don’t know his story but we do know he was there. The man with an unclean Spirit was in the synagogue with the disciples, Jesus, and everyone else. He wasn’t sitting at home, barred from coming into God’s house. He was exactly who he was – a part of the community. And when Jesus showed up, he explicitly reaffirmed that truth by not immediately calling him out. He, instead, did something we might consider even more shocking than the exorcism itself: Jesus treated the man with the unclean spirit like he did everyone else. He included him, taught him, and showed the man with the unclean spirit as well as everyone in that place they were worth everything to God. And when the demon finally spoke, using the word “us” to imply Jesus was there to destroy the man himself, it was only then when Jesus acted. The unclean spirit wanted to keep this man away from anything that gave him life. And so rather than answering the spirit’s question, Jesus casted it out because bringing others into a life rooted in hope, connection, and love was why Jesus was there in the first place. 

I wonder, then, if that truth image can show us who we get to be as we live into our identity as part of the body of Christ. This community is not supposed to be for only one kind of person since life is complex, complicated, and full of mystery. When you are living through our own mental health crisis, seeking help doesn’t mean you don’t belong here. And when the language of possession, demons, and the supernatural describes exactly what you are living through, you still have a home here and with God. We, together, have a responsibility to care for ourselves and all around us through whatever they are living through. We get to learn each other’s story and not let the walls we build around one another interfere with our kindness and care. When we surround one another with a love that includes each other and keeps us safe, we are able to be exactly who we are. And when we a beloved friend, parent, child, or spouse is tormented in ways we struggle to comprehend or understand, we can believe their story – and promise that, no matter what, they’ll always belong. That’s how we journey with them one another through therapy, study, and prayer. It’s how we keep each other connected to the things that give us life. An exorcism is, I think, not merely a supernatural feat of power that shows off what we can do; it’s all about driving out that which keeps us separated from the connections that shape the life God is calling us to live. This kind of work isn’t easy nor will we always get it right. But this is what we get to do because Jesus, in our baptism, through the gift of faith, and with grace – keeps us connected to a promise of life, love, and hope that will never end it. 

Amen.