Sermon for the Feast of the Annunciation, "Between the Question and the Answer," Luke 1:26-38

I've been meaning to post this sermon for several months now!

Sermon 3/24/26

Luke 1:26-38

Between the Question and the Answer

I’ve been a United Methodist my whole life, and so I can’t say that I have ever celebrated the Feast of the Annunciation before, which is technically tomorrow, March 25th. The small Methodist community of my childhood, ever mindful of doing anything that seemed “too Catholic,” would definitely have been suspicious of a Feast Day focusing on Mary, mother of Jesus. As I was looking at the lectionary readings for this week, though, I noticed the readings for the Feast of the Annunciation tucked in there, and I just couldn’t pass them over. And then when WoMA focused on Mary’s Magnificat for part of their chapel last Tuesday it felt even more “right,” this tugging toward Mary’s story. 

The Feast of the Annunciation is the day that we remember the Angel Gabriel visiting Mary with the news that Mary has been chosen to carry and give birth to God-in-the-flesh, a child who will be named Jesus. In the Roman Rite, the Feast of the Annunciation is a solemnity, a holy day that celebrates a mystery of faith. And indeed, the incarnation of Jesus, and Mary being filled with the Holy Spirit as means of the incarnation - that is full of mystery, isn’t it? The Feast of the Annunciation is celebrated, sensibly, nine months before Christmas - the length of a pregnancy. And so it falls, always, during Lent - only adjusted if it actually falls during Holy Week itself. Today, then, we celebrate the Annunciation - the beginning of the beginning of Jesus’s life - even as next week we will remember his crucifixion. The juxtaposition is a little jarring. 

I, like many of you, am preparing to graduate from Drew this May, but also like many of you, I am not quite there yet. I have a dissertation that’s written, but not yet defended, and a graduation fee that’s been paid for months, but no diploma in my hand. But even though I am not yet finished, and there is no guarantee yet of finishing, I’m planning for, I must plan for, and imagine the future, working on the assumption that there is a “what’s next” after this. I know some of you are in similar situations - making plans for a future that isn’t yet guaranteed, not quite. To draw on President Obama’s language, it is the audacity of hope. 

And I think that’s what celebrating the Annunciation during Lent is like. It’s this audacious, bold hope that is planning on new life that comes after heartache. In the sombre wilderness of Lent, we’re already hearing about the incarnation of God in our midst that is to come. It’s Dean Tanya’s family preparing for new life in their midst even as they are mourning her death. It’s people living under fascist and authoritarian rule planning for a future that’s dependent on the end of oppressive regimes. It’s building for a future that trusts that the present heartache is not endless, not the only thing, and not the last thing. And so, Annunciation. An announcement of good news. This incredible, miraculous, seemingly impossible hope for the future that shows up right in the thick of Lent.    

So, what exactly happens in this annunciation text, an account we find only in Luke’s gospel? God sends the angel Gabriel to deliver a message to Mary, a young women - a virgin, we’re told, who was engaged to a man named Joseph, who was of David’s house, and who was living in Galilee, in Nazareth. Gabriel shows up and says, “Greetings, Mary, favored one” - which literally means one to whom grace has been shown. “God is with you,” Gabriel says. This greeting alone is confounding to Mary, and she ponders the angel's words - which here means that she has a kind of internal debate about them, weighing and measuring these words. Although it would make for some nice symmetry, the word used here is not the same as when Mary is pondering everything that happens with Jesus’s birth in Chapter 2. This pondering is a bit more deliberative, perhaps even more skeptical, or at least uncertain. 

Gabriel, perhaps reading that uncertainty, tries to assure Mary: “Don’t be afraid.” He reiterates that Mary has found favor with God - God’s grace is with her. And then the Big Thing: “You will conceive and bear a son named Jesus, and he will be the Son of God, who will have an eternal claim to the throne of David, and he’ll reign endlessly. 

Mary asks, “How can this be, since I have never had sex?” 

Gabriel responds that the Holy Spirit will come upon her, and she will be “overshadowed” by the power of the Most High - language that we see again during the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountaintop. Mary’s child will be holy. Mary’s child will be God’s son. And, in case that’s not enough, Mary’s relative Elizabeth, an older woman, who was thought to be unable to have children, is pregnant too. Because, as Gabriel concludes, “nothing will be impossible with God.” 

And then Mary says, “Here I am, a slave of God,” language that Mary returns to in Magnificat, when she envisions the systems of domination-upending that God will do through her. “Let things happen to me just as you’ve said.” And Gabriel, satisfied, departs. 

I don’t know about you, but my initial reaction to this text is that I’d have had a few (hundred) more questions than Mary seems to have. She asks one question, which Gabriel answers in weird language. And that’s enough for Mary to respond, “Yes, fine, that works for me.” Uh, what? How about: Why me? How about: What will I tell Joseph? How about: How much trouble will this get me in? How about: What do you mean, God’s child? How about: Will you protect me if I agree to this? How about: so many other questions! 

I’d like to believe that we’re seeing here what we often see in Biblical accounts of conversations. The scriptures have a different sense of time than we do. This conversation seems to take mere seconds as we read it through. But maybe this exchange happens over the course of hours, or days. Maybe Mary’s pondering lasted for some long time, giving her ample time to think it all over. And maybe we’re not seeing here what we regularly don’t see in Biblical conversations: the whole story. So many conversations in the scriptures seem to drop off without resolution, like how on TV shows people never seem to end conversations when they’re on the phone. They don’t say goodbye. They just hang up. So I’d like to believe that Mary really asks every question she has, but that Luke considers all of this uninteresting. All that matters to Luke is that Mary agrees with the plan. 

And no doubt, that’s an important detail. But there are some other parts of this exchange between Gabriel and Mary that interest me too. What I find most interesting is this: Although we don’t hear Gabriel pose God’s plan as a question to Mary - “Would you be ok, Mary, with being overshadowed by the Most High?” - she seems to receive it as one. Mary says “Yes,” and her yes, her consent, implies her understanding that she was being asked, even if everything we read in this story is expressed as a statement of what will assuredly be according to God’s plan. 

Mary says yes - and her yes implies that she could also have said no. And that is so, so important. Because I don’t believe that “God’s will” is something that is supposed to be visited upon us by force, without our consent, without our participation. Rather, I think we do better when we think of “will of God” as God’s dreams, God’s best hope, God’s most creative, inspired plan for what might be, what might become, what might be called forth if we, God’s partners, God’s co-creators, you and me - if we say yes to God’s imagination. I like all of those images better than “God’s will,” which makes God a dictator, and us passive recipients. Mary did not hear Gabriel’s announcement passively. Indeed, many biblical figures do not. Jesus does not. Mary listens, ponders, and decides that she can see God’s vision, can see that saying yes will lead to the liberative work she proclaims just verses after our text in the Magnificat. 

Mary could have said no, I think. And thinking about that made me wonder - maybe there were others who were visited by Gabriel who did say no. Maybe Mary was not the first. Maybe she was just the first to say yes.  

We do not have to say yes to the potential futures God lays before us. God’s will - if we must call it that - isn’t coercive. We can say, “I just can’t imagine that future right now, I’m sorry.” And I think that’s ok - truly. I don’t think God punishes us for not being ready, for not embracing God’s dream. Sometimes, we are not ready. Sometimes, we have a different vision to offer to God. Sometimes, we need to do some more healing, or more growing first. Sometimes, we need to ask a lot of questions before we’ll be ready to say yes. And sometimes, we just can’t grasp, yet, the new life that’s coming beyond the Good Friday that looms large before us. We can say “Take this cup from me.” We can say no. Or not now. 

But I do think we miss out, then, on being part of the impossible becoming possible. Saying “yes” is like imagining, even in the midst of our worst grief, that there will yet be joy. 

Somehow, Mary could imagine exactly what God was imagining, and ever is imagining: the humbled exalted and the exalted humbled, the hungry filled with good things. Liberation. Justice. Life. She could imagine with God, and so she answered what she knew to be an invitation. “Here I am. May it be so.” 

In these days of Lent, in these quickly waning days of another semester, in these days where we can barely stand to look at the news, in these days when our community is in mourning, in these days when it seems that less and less is possible for our planetary future, in these days when it sometimes feels as if evil will prevail… in these days, can you imagine - will you imagine - will you cultivate your imagination - will you listen to what God is imagining - what comes after this grief? 

Amen.

Sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, Year C, "Raise Your Heads," Luke 21:25-36

Sermon 12/1/2024

Luke 21:25-36

Raise Your Heads

Last Sunday, I was guest preaching at a church in New Jersey, and my text was one of the classic lectionary texts for Thanksgiving Sunday - the text from Matthew’s gospel, from Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount where he talks about how we should not worry, but instead strive after bringing about the reign of God on earth here and now, trusting in God’s love and care for us, trusting in how deeply God treasures and values us. It’s a bit jarring, then, to switch from that to this text for the first Sunday in Advent. The same Jesus who tells us not to worry also tells us that the sun and moon and stars will be giving us signs that cause distress on earth and the roaring of the seas. He talks about people fainting from their fear and anxiety about what is going to happen. He talks about how we should “be on guard” so that we’re not caught unaware when Christ returns, as if we’ve been snared in a trap. Instead, we have to “be alert at all times” so that we have strength to escape all the terrors foretold, ready to stand confidently before Christ. Oof. Hearing his words in this week’s text, it’s harder to hold on to Jesus’s “do not worry,” when in fact, it seems we very much should be anxious. 

And it indeed, it is hard not to be anxious, isn’t it? I’ve had this image stuck in my head: When I drive to Syracuse, where my Mom lives, from New Jersey, where I study and teach, I drive through the Poconos Mountain region. It’s the place where I first glimpse the colors of falls - the foliage in the region is stunning. And it’s also the region where I’m mostly likely to hit snowy weather in winter. With the increase in elevation, it’s usually significantly colder in the area. My trip this week was no different - it wasn’t snowing, but there was snow on the ground, something we still haven’t seen yet in New Jersey this season. And I noticed another thing - there were so many trees that were bent over, practically leaning into the road. I’m not sure what happened - but they looked like they’d been bowed by a heavy weight - a big snowfall? Ice storm? I’m not sure. But there were dozens of trees along my drive that looked like they might never stand tall again. And there was just something about that image that caught my attention: how weighed down those trees seemed. The load they had been asked to hold was too much, and they looked drooping and defeated. 

And I couldn’t help but resonate with them a bit! Maybe you can too. There’s a lot that can be weighing us down as we look at the world around us. I’ve been weighed down by the election cycle and its results and potential consequences, especially for some of the most vulnerable people in my life. There are wars and violent, devastating, indiscriminate loss of life that fill our news everyday and leave us feeling helpless. Perhaps we enjoy less snow to shovel, but we can’t help but have climate change niggling at the back of our mind, reminding us of the price we pay. People have been struggling financially, and the gap between rich and poor is ever growing, both in the US and globally. And none of this speaks to the personal crises we might be wrestling with - illness, anxiety, broken relationships, relentless work and family expectations. Weighed down. I relate to those trees!

And so what do we do with a text like this, at the beginning of Advent when we could use some baby Jesus, prince of peace, but all Matthew has for us is grown up Jesus, full of dire warnings? 

This scripture passage belongs to a genre of biblical writing called apocalyptic literature, along with some parts of the book of Daniel, snippets from the prophets like Ezekiel and Zechariah, a stray passage in 2 Thessalonians, a few passages in the gospels, and of course the Book of Revelation. When we hear the word “apocalypse,” we think “end of the world,” and with good reason - apocalyptic texts are full of dramatic, world-changing imagery. But the word apocalypse actually means “uncovering” or “unveiling” - it’s a “revealing” - that’s why the book of Revelation has that name - its Greek name is apocalypsis - the revelation - the uncovering. But what, exactly, do apocalyptic texts reveal? 

When I was a child, my mother encouraged me to read my Bible daily, and since I was an obedient child, I did just that - read the Bible cover to cover. I didn’t understand it all, of course, but it shaped my faith deeply and stayed with me. But she told me I shouldn’t read the Book of Revelation - it was too scary, too grown up, too hard to understand, and would just leave me too worried. But in this, I disobeyed. I knew its reputation - that it was about the “end of the world” - and I was curious. I wanted to know - how will it end? And so I read. There was a lot that I didn’t understand of course. Still don’t - the book is highly symbolic, and has been interpreted and interpreted, but of course, we can’t know what was in the mind of its author. But what I did understand was the message that I thought seemed pretty clear: If you are faithful, you don’t have to worry. Everything works out well for the faithful followers of Jesus. Eventually, when I studied Revelation as an adult, I learned that my childish take away held up - Revelation seems to be about encouraging the early Christians to remain firm in their faith despite the persecution they were facing from the Roman government. It’s a dramatic book meant to give hope more than it is meant to scare and alarm. 

What if, when we read apocalyptic passages in the Bible, we can interpret them with that lens, with those assumptions about their intent and purpose. Even though the imagery can be overwhelming or frightening, apocalyptic texts are trying to comfort us, not alarm us. They’re trying to bring us hope. And in Jesus’s case, I think he’s trying to remind us: God is coming. That’s not meant to be a threat - not when we’re trying to be faithful followers of God and God’s way. It’s meant to be a promise in which we can put our hope and trust. God has, and is, and will be among us and working among us. 

Look back with me at some of the details of the text, and read them again. Jesus says that when these distressing signs of trouble take place, his followers should “stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” To be redeemed is to be saved. Now, to be “saved” is certainly a loaded theological word, but in context here, we can at least understand that to be redeemed or saved is a desirable outcome. Just when things are seeming particularly ominous, Jesus says, lift up your heads: redemption is coming. 

Next, Jesus talks about fig trees. You know, he says, when the trees are about to blossom. There are so many signs that summer is on its way, and you can tell when the trees are ready to blossom. You’ll also know, he says, when the kin-dom of God, God’s reign on earth, is on its way and soon to arrive. You’ll see signs. God’s reign, God’s way, on earth as in heaven. You’ll see glimpses of the fulfillment of those promises all around you. 

And finally, when Jesus is talking about traps and escape, what he says more specifically is that the way we prepare is this: “‘Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life.” Jesus is again telling us that it is worry that can make it hard to draw close to God. He’s not asking us to be worried about the future. He’s telling us that the more we can seek not to be overwhelmed by this life, but instead trusting that God’s reign, and God’s way, is drawing near, the more ready we will be for its arrival. 

I’m not trying to convince you that apocalyptic language isn’t over the top, or attention-grabbing. It is meant to be! It is extreme imagery for extreme world circumstances. The early Christians, living under occupation, facing threats to their existence, facing obstacles from following Jesus: it felt like their world was ending. And it was, in many ways. The world they knew was changing rapidly. There were threats to Judaism and Christianity, persecution, wars, turnovers in leadership and policies from the ruling Roman Empire, and then, just a few centuries later, the seemingly eternal Roman Empire was toppled, a future that I’m sure none in Jesus’s day could even imagine. And in the midst of that, words like Jesus offer promises. The world is ending - the world we know. Things are changing. But they have to - for unjust systems to be dismantled the world we know has to end. For a world that’s guided by God’s way and God’s reign, the current powers-that-be must be overthrown. For the long arc of the universe to find its way to justice and righteousness, we should be on the lookout for the sign of things bending towards hope. 

I think of those trees, bent and drooping, weighed down, on my drive home. Eventually, they’ll stand tall again. Eventually, they will bud and blossom. Eventually, winter gives way to spring, and signs of new life abound. As we wait, as we long, as we hope in this Advent season, let us wait with confidence in the promises, not the threats, that Jesus shares. Raise your heads. The day of redemption is coming. That’s a promise. Amen. 

Sermon for the Twenty-Third Sunday After Pentecost, Year B, "Remnants and Restoration," Psalm 126 and Jeremiah 31:7-9 (Proper 25B, Ordinary 30B)

Sermon 10/27/24

Jeremiah 31:7-9 and Psalm 126

Remnants and Restoration

I have been thinking about you all in this challenging season. As I reminded you when I first joined the preaching rotation here, this church was the site of my first job during seminary. I was the youth pastor from 2000-2001. As part of my role I also helped lead in worship and preached about once a month, and this was my first job at a church other than my “home” church. I felt nervous and unsure of myself, but I was also excited to be in seminary and to be really “doing it,” this ministry thing I’d felt called to for a long time. I know this is a painful time. I remember the busy congregation of 25 years ago, and I know you’ve seen and mourned a lot of change, and I know the upcoming change of closure will be the hardest yet. 

I’ve been thinking about what it feels like to lose a place of deep connection in our lives, in our formation. The first home I ever really lived in, from infancy until I was about 9 years old, is still standing, and from the outside it looks the same. But the family that bought it from us completely tore out the inside. The rooms that were once my bedroom, my playroom, the rooms where my extended family gathered for so many Thanksgivings - they’re not there any more, not in any recognizable way. My grandparents’ home, around the corner from my childhood home, has been vacant for many years now, and is slowly crumbling, not safe for anyone to enter. The place I went to high school was demolished, making way for the district’s athletic offices, and a new high school across town. I can’t go into the halls I once walked as a student, a find my old lunch table or the music and theatre rooms where I spent most of my time. And my childhood church, where attend church with my grandparents and family until we moved twenty minutes away - that church closed many years ago now - a tiny country church that shrunk along with the town, and that has now been converted into a private home. 

It’s painful, it fills us with loss, I think, when we feel cut off from a part of our lives, particularly a part, a place, a season, a time that shaped us deeply. Our scripture readings for today both speak to communities who have known this kind of pain on a grand scale. The Ancient Israelites of the scriptures are marked by two major themes: the Exodus story, and Exile. After a season of warnings from the prophets to repent and return to following God, after warnings that they were failing to enact justice for the poor and marginalized, after warnings that their rituals were empty if the people did not truly give their hearts to God, and after warnings that if they did not change, then God would not prevent them from being conquered and controlled by foreign rulers, the Israelites found themselves sent out from their homeland. They were exiled from home. And it was devastating. The scriptures are full of lament and sorrow in the midst of exile. There’s a deep sense of loss. There’s fear, abandonment, grief, a replaying of everything that might have been done another way. 

But there’s also always still, even in the midst of what feels like the harshest punishment, God’s presence. God and God’s promises remain with Israel, even in exile. We see these themes in our scripture texts: In Jeremiah, the people are asking God: “Please, save us - the remnant. The leftover bits of your people.” The exile has come at a cost - lives have been lost. People have scattered. The clear identity of God’s people has been dulled. God, save the remnant. And God responds, “With weeping they shall come, and with consolations I will lead them back.” The Psalm follows a similar pattern: “Restore our fortunes, God,” the people cry. And the Psalmist offers a blessing, imaging how God may answer: “May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves.” The remnant is enough. The people are saved. God restores. There’s a homecoming. 

Homecoming is certainly a theme in the scriptures - we can think, for example, of the powerful parable of the prodigal son, welcomed home by the loving father, no questions asked. A welcome home is such a powerful thing, isn’t it? As much as I started by sharing with you so many places in my life where I can never “go home” again, I find myself in a strange season in life where I am a student at Drew Theological School again twenty years after I attended here the first time. I graduated with my Master of Divinity in 2003, and in 2020, I started my PhD at Drew. I returned to a very familiar campus. I returned to many of the same faculty who were my wise professors the first time around, and have continued to teach me now, all these years later. 

But even though I have returned “home” to Drew, of course, it is not all the same. I don’t have the same classmates. The places I lived twenty years ago have been upgraded into luxury housing I could never afford. Seminary Hall has an addition - for which I’m thankful - but which also changes the building a lot. Many students take classes online, and fewer are on campus, in the building. And I’m different. I started the MDiv at Drew when I was 21 years old, not even five years out of high school. Now I’m a person who is in my 40s and who has spent years in ministry and had so much life experience that I didn’t have the last time at Drew. I’m home at Drew - but home is different, and “me” is different too. And thank goodness for that. I loved Drew then, and I love Drew now, but I’m reminded that being “home” at Drew has more to do with its values, its commitments to justice and love and compassion that I resonate with, its pursuit of diversity and wisdom that inspire me, rather than some unchanging material aspects. 

I’ve been thinking about my Drew homecoming as I think about these Exile texts and as I think about you all. I hear you in the voice of the prophets and the voice of Jeremiah - a remnant - the remaining people, perhaps feeling like you are about to be exiled, and perhaps already longing for home. What do God’s promises look like for you? Because I do believe God’s promises are with you. I do believe that God will restore, rebuild, grow new life in and with you. But what does that look like when you can’t come home in the way that you might have hoped? 

I mentioned to you that my childhood church is now a private home. I have so many memories of my little childhood church. It is where I learned the stories of the bible, and memorized scriptures in Sunday School. It’s where I was confirmed - it happened a few years earlier than usual there, since we were a small congregation. It was where I first took communion. It was there, as a five year old, that I collected the used bulletins after church each week to save because I was going to be a pastor when I grew up. It was where I made my first request for a favorite hymn at a hymn sing, and where I first made a prayer request out loud on my own. So many precious memories. When we voted on the closure of that church at our Annual Conference, my Uncle, who was a District Superintendent at the time, when to speak at the microphone. And what he said was: this church may be closing, but the impact it has had is not over, because this church produced pastors, and church leaders, and faithful disciples of Jesus Christ who continue to follow Jesus even though it won’t happen from inside those same walls anymore. This church planted seeds, and produced fruit, and the harvest will still continue. This church has a legacy that matters. 

Friends, remnants sometimes get treated as a byproduct, waste of something else that was created that is leftover and not worth much. But thankfully, we serve a God who can do a whole lot with a very little. God loves a remnant. God brings life from what is leftover. God work restoration where it seems there was nothing left. God takes the pieces of our broken hearts, and rebuilds. And so even when “home” isn’t here to return to, God builds home within us, and we bear the fruit of all the seeds that have been planted in us along the way. 

Some of the details of what is “home” are changing. And we are changing, ever and always. But the constant is God, who is with us at home, and with us in exile, and with us as we find home again. Thanks be to God, our home. Amen. 

 

Sermon for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, Year B, "Picnic and a Boat Ride," John 6:1-21 (Proper 12B, Ordinary 17B)

Sermon 7/28/24

John 6:1-21

Picnic and a Boat Ride

Our gospel lesson today is a text that’s probably familiar to most of you, at least somewhat. And it is one of the rare events that appear in all four gospels outside of Jesus’s death and resurrection. So we get the sense that this story is important. Of course, each gospel writer gives it their own spin, and John, whose gospel is the most different from the other three, also has the most variations in his account of this event. So let’s make sure we read carefully. 

Jesus has been teaching and healing. He crosses the Sea of Galilee with his disciples, and the crowds follow him, because of the healing work he’s been doing - they see it as a sign from God, and also, of course - they want to be healed! When Jesus sees the crowds coming, he turns to Philip, one of the Twelve, and asks, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” In other gospels, it is the disciples who raise this question. But John says that Jesus poses this question in order to test Philip, because Jesus already has a plan of action. 

Philip and the other disciples seem a bit overwhelmed by Jesus’ question. Philip notes that even a large sum of money wouldn’t feed such a huge crowd - and Jesus and the disciples evidently don’t have a large sum of money. Andrew has noticed a boy with five loaves of bread and two fish, but what could that amount of food - plenty for a few - do for a crowd of 5000 people? But Jesus simply has them all sit down, and then he gives thanks over the food, and starts passing it out. Everyone somehow eats all that they want, and now there is even food left over. The leftovers gathered, and there are now 12 baskets of leftover food where there was once only 5 loaves and 2 fish. A miracle. 

When the people see the miracle, they call Jesus a prophet, and they want to force Jesus to be their king. They want him to be their leader, their ruler. This isn’t what Jesus is about, though, not in the way they want. And so he withdraws from the crowds on his own. The next verse I’ve never really noticed before, but it caught my eye this time thanks to a commentary by Alicia D. Meyers that I was reading. We read, ‘When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, got into a boat, and started across the sea to Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them.” The disciples just…leave. I’m not sure where they were going. Maybe they had plans already, and knew Jesus would meet up with them. But they don’t go looking for Jesus, as far as we’re told, anyway. They don’t ask him what they should do next. They don’t check in. They just get back on the boat and leave town. 

And then the sea becomes rough and a strong wind is blowing over the water. It’s a dark and stormy night - but suddenly they see Jesus, walking along on the water, coming to them in the boat. They’re terrified. We’re not sure why; they’ve seen Jesus do miracles, after all. But maybe walking on water was just a next-level kind of thing. But Jesus says to them something he says many times, particularly in John’s gospel: “Do not be afraid.” And then suddenly, they’ve reached their destination safely. 

It can be interesting to use this text to consider what we think about miracles, particularly the supernatural kind, the bend-the-laws-of-the-universe kind. Did Jesus miraculously make the food multiply? Or did something else happen? Did Jesus really walk on water? How? Why don’t we see miracles like that today? Or were they reserved for Jesus, never to be repeated? But although these questions can make for an interesting conversation (or sermon), I want to push us in a somewhat different direction today. I think we learn in this passage both something about what we might expect (or not expect) from Jesus, and what Jesus expects from us. 

That’s right: Jesus has some expectations for us, his disciples. In our text, John tells us that Jesus wanted to test the disciples, and see what solutions they would come up with to address the hungry crowds, even though he already knew what he planned to do. How do we feel about that - the idea of Jesus testing us? The other gospel authors don’t mention anything like this, and this idea of the disciples being tested is more consistent with John’s style of writing and his understanding of how Jesus was at work in the world. But still, it’s here for us to wrestle with. I will admit that the idea of God testing us doesn’t really jive with my theology most of the time. It makes God seem too manipulative to me, like we’re being set up, guinea pigs in some divine experiment. I don’t think God is like that. 

But I have to remind myself, and maybe you do too, not to conflate “test” with “trick” or “trap.” Sometimes tests can be designed to be tricks or traps, but they aren’t necessarily the same. Sometimes being tested is a good thing, a necessary thing. We use tests all the time, so that we can assess what people know and what they don’t and whether they’re ready for the next thing. Right now, believe it or not, my nephew Sam is 17 years old, and he’s just about ready to take his road test for his driver’s license. We have to test young drivers to see if they’re ready to be on the road by themselves, for their safety and the safety of other drivers. A road test isn’t a trap or a trick. It’s an assessment. Sometimes a test reveals areas where we’re not prepared. Even failing a test isn’t always the worst thing that can happen. I think of my best friend in high school - it took her three failed road tests before she finally got her license. Now she’s an adult and a mother and a nurse and a more grounded and careful person than she was at 16. She failed a test - and it helped her mature as a driver and a person, and now I feel very safe being her passenger! We might know some things very well, but a test might reveal that we’ve overlooked a particular topic or have an area of misunderstanding. It might reveal that we’ve made progress, but we’re not ready yet to move on to the next thing. Tests can be hard. They can give us some anxiety. But they don’t have to be tricks or traps. 

So when I read here that Jesus is testing the disciples, I ask myself what he was looking for in his disciples. I think he wondered what they had learned so far in their time with him, as they’d accompanied him in his teaching and preaching and healing. And I think he wondered what they were ready for. How far would they follow him? How would they be as leaders themselves? Well: neither the crowds nor the disciples make a good showing, I’m afraid. Because the crowds are too focused on what they want from Jesus: signs and magic and a king. And the disciples are busy fleeing to the other side of the sea without Jesus. A consistent theme in John, and in John 6 in particular, is that the crowds want to know what Jesus can do for them tangibly: they want food, they want physical healing, and they want him to be a king, maybe one who can overthrow the oppressive Roman government. I sympathize with their longings - who wouldn’t want someone to lead who could do those things? Why wouldn’t we want to follow someone who can keep us fed and keep us healthy? But it seems like that’s all they want from Jesus. The crowds seem far less engaged in what Jesus is teaching, less interested in letting their lives be transformed by God. 

And then there’s the disciples, those closest to Jesus. First, even those they’ve already seen Jesus do amazing, unexplainable things, they can’t imagine a solution to his question: “How will we get these people something to eat?” Maybe they’re content to let Jesus figure out the answers. How could they be expected to come up with a solution - they’re not Jesus, after all. Maybe they’re not sure they can trust him yet. Is it all too good to be true? And then, again, when Jesus has withdrawn from the crowds anxious to make him a king, we hear nothing of the disciples. What are they doing? Are they, too, trying to force Jesus into a role? Are they helping manage the crowds? Or standing off to the side, waiting for Jesus to tell them what’s next? I wonder what they’re thinking when they decide, in fact, to leave, to go back across the water to where they came from. Are they ready to ditch Jesus altogether? Are they anxious to be away from the unexplainable events of the day? Just go back to their normal routines? We just know that when Jesus shows up, walking on the water, they’re afraid. Maybe afraid of what this means for them. How can they be good enough to follow Jesus? Yet, how can they do anything but try to keep following? No wonder they’re afraid: awed and dazzled by Jesus, feeling confused, unworthy, incompetent, and yet feeling like what choice do they have but to keep trying to follow him anyway. 

 It’s easy to look at the disciples in the gospels and see all the mistakes they make, and convince ourselves we’d do better. But I think they’re portrayed as they are so that we can take comfort, actually, in knowing that we’re not the first to struggle with fears and doubts in our discipleship. We’re not the first to wonder if we can trust Jesus, and yet also want Jesus to fix all of our problems. We’re not the first to feel incompetent at discipleship, and yet keep coming back to try again. The disciples get it wrong, a lot, and even worse than this. But they keep going. Jesus keeps teaching them. I don’t think they ever feel quite ready. But somehow, they’ve changed our lives, changed the world, millennia later. 

Jesus does test us, I think: checking in on where we are in our discipleship. But I’m reminded of the grades I used to get in elementary school. Not the grades for how well I was performing academically. Instead, there was a whole section on how we were performing socially. Were we learning to be thoughtful, well-adjusted classroom citizens? You couldn’t fail in that section. You could get an “unsatisfactory.” But teachers tended to opt for the more hopeful “needs improving.” Or the encouraging “improving” that might come on the way to “satisfactory” or “excellent.” I think when Jesus tests us, the scale is a little bit more like that. Ready to challenge us where we need improving. But always ready to affirm us, build us up, teach us some more, lead the way, and tell us: Do not be afraid. So, take heart, friends. Jesus wants to know what we’re going to do about the broken-hearted world around us. Probably, we’re going to mess it up. But instead of demanding that Jesus fix it for us, or running away altogether, let’s stay and learn from the teacher, and then practice, practice, until we’re improving, until we’re thriving, until we’re ready for whatever Jesus calls us to next. Amen. 

1. Thanks to Alicia D. Meyers, at The Working Preacher for sparking this line of thought. “Commentary on John 6:1-21.” 

https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-17-2/commentary-on-john-61-21-6

Image: JESUS MAFA. Jesus multiplies the loaves and fish, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48287 [retrieved July 29, 2024]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Year B, "Finish It," 2 Corinthians 8:7-15 (Proper 8B, Ordinary 13B)

*Posted out of order, but here's a sermon from earlier this summer.

Sermon 6/30/24

2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Finish It

Have you ever seen an unfinished building or construction project? I remember growing up one of my best friends lived in a home that her father had just built. Only there were little bits and pieces that he never quite finished. For example, there was a door that was meant to go to a porch and stairs into the yard - but the porch and stairs never got built. Be careful - that door led to a ten foot drop! Years later it did get finished, but I was well into adulthood before that happened. There are several famous building projects around the world that have never been completed like some of these we see on the screen,  including this one, the National Monument of Scotland, also known as “ Edinburgh’s disgrace.” (1)  Closer to home, many of you have probably visited Boldt Castle in the 1000 Islands region, the castle built in the early 1900s by millionaire George C. Boldt, and then abandoned while still mid-construction because of the sudden death of his beloved wife Louise. Some of you may have even visited the castle years ago, as I did as a child, when not much had yet been done to restore the property, and everything was covered in graffiti and it all radiated: abandoned project.   

There is something both fascinating and sad about these unfinished projects. A lasting and visible reminder of plans someone had that ultimately weren’t completed, a vision that couldn’t be carried out for whatever reason. What about projects in your own life? Are you the type of person who always finishes whatever project you begin? Or do you have a tendency to get intrigued by many things and give them a try, but maybe leave some partly done and move on to the next thing? My own record is kind of a mixed bag on this.  I tried to teach myself how to knit, for example, and worked on the project of trying to knit a scarf at irregular intervals over the course of several years before I finally acknowledged it was never going to happen and gave my 2/3 of a scarf away for someone else to finish. Sometimes, I’m sure I’ve found a new passion - but then I lose interest.  Other times, though, I’m pretty disciplined about following through. For example, the ordination process in The United Methodist Church took me 9 years to complete, start to finish, and at the time I was ordained, that meant I had been in the process for more than a third of my life! But I never wavered. I pasted the document listing the steps of the process on my wall, and checked them off one by one. Sometimes, I’m committed to finishing what I started, no matter what. What’s something you were determined to do and committed to seeing your vision through to completion? 

Foremost on my mind these days is finishing my PhD. I’m in what is hopefully my last year of a five year program, working on writing my dissertation. The PhD student drop out rate is incredibly high - some statistics I’ve seen suggest that more than 50% of people who start a PhD never finish it. Sometimes people drop out right at the start, because they find out the program is more rigorous than expected and they weren’t quite prepared. But there’s a lot of other reasons folks drop out too, even quite near the end, when all that is left is the dissertation. It’s expensive, being a PhD student, and sometimes people drop out for financial reasons - they don’t have enough income, they need to go back to full time work, they can’t make ends meet. Sometimes they don’t have enough support from advisors and faculty who encourage them and check in. And sometimes people who do well with the structure and deadlines of the coursework part of a PhD really flounder when there is no structure or clear timeline when you get to the dissertation part of the program and have to be very self-directed. Sometimes people just decide all the struggle is not worth it. I’m quite certain every PhD student has at least considered throwing in the towel. I know I’ve had my moments. But I am determined. I will finish this thing. 

 That’s the apostle Paul’s advice in his letter to the Corinthians from our text for today. “Finish it,” he says. The church at Corinth had committed a year ago to take up a collection, a financial offering to go and support the work of the church in Jerusalem, the “home base” congregation of Christianity in the early church, a community that was frequently in financial need and relied on the support from congregations in wealthier communities. The Corinthians had pledged their support and started gathering funds. But for some reason, they’ve delayed in completing their task. Things are taking longer than planned, and maybe some folks aren’t even sure they want to give anymore. Early in 2 Corinthians and elsewhere in his letters, Paul alludes to tensions between the Jerusalem church leadership and other parts of the growing Christian movement. There were many disagreements and debates to work out over who was leading the movement, who could be included, and how people could become part of Christianity. Perhaps, in the midst of the struggles, the fervor of the Corinthian church for supporting the church in Jerusalem had waned. Perhaps, with the passage of time, people were no longer as excited about the mission as they’d once been. Perhaps they’d encountered more struggles, more demands on their resources. Whatever the reason, Paul’s letter seems to imply that there’s a real question of whether or not the Corinthians will complete the task to which they’ve committed themselves. 

But if they listen to Paul, they will finish it. Paul builds them up, reminding them of their gifts, their love, their excellent generosity. He doesn’t command them, he says, but he does want to see if their promises were genuine or not. He reminds them of Christ’s generosity, and of the generosity of congregations that have less abundant financial resources than they do. And he says to them: “Finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it.” You had a vision, you planned to give from your abundance - now do it. See the task to completion. 

 Friends, I know that you are in a season of transition. It’s been a season of upheaval and change in our denomination, and though I have longed for some of the changes that have been made, I know they’ve also come at a cost to congregations and clergy and resources. We’re in a long and ongoing season of transition around the role and influence of the church in the larger society that can be discouraging. And I know that you are also in a season of pastoral transition, which is always one of the most difficult times for congregations. I’ve been through lots of pastoral and congregational transitions - I know it can be exceptionally easy to sort of “opt out” during seasons of change. It can be easy to lose sight of the plans and vision that you once had, especially if now, carrying out that vision looks different than it did when you were first dreaming together. I know that the lure of complacency, of apathy, of taking the path of least resistance and least effort can be so strong. 

 But I also know that staying the course is worth it. Where do we find the strength? As Paul urged with the Corinthians, I think we find strength by remembering the gifts God has given us. We recall the commitments we’ve made. We remember how God has been with us, and how God promises to go with us into the future. We put our faith in a generous Christ, who calls us to follow him. We count our blessings. And we declare: We will finish it. In this season of change, I encourage you to think about the plans and visions, the hopes and dreams you have both in your personal journey of discipleship, and as a congregation. What plans and promises have you made? When you were dreaming big, what did you see in the future? Where have you felt God’s presence, and God’s leading? What have you felt inspired to do? How did you feel when you were first stepping out on faith? In the past, what has helped you stay motivated, dedicated? Remember, and renew your commitment. Recommit to the vision. God is still present, still leading, and still giving you all the resources you need to move forward with purpose. Speaking to another congregation, the church in Philippi, Paul says, “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6) God is faithfully completing good works in our lives day by day. Let us be faithful too, completing what we’ve begun. With God by your side, finish it. Amen. 

1.  https://www.fodors.com/news/photos/10-famously-unfinished-buildings-around-the-world

Image source: https://foundr.com/articles/leadership/personal-growth/finishing-the-project