Sermon AudioCross of Grace

Revelation 21:1-6Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,“See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them and be their God; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”And the one who was seated on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Then he said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. Do you teach them about the rapture? That’s the question a woman asked me as I sat at Starbucks trying to write a sermon. On Thursdays before I preach, I usually head to a coffee shop or the library to write. It’s not uncommon for someone to strike up a conversation—I guess it’s not every day you see someone sitting in public with a Bible open.On this day, a woman and her husband sat at the same large table as me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew what was coming. I made the mistake of looking up from my screen—and she got me.“So, are you a Bible student?” No, I’m a pastor here in New Pal.“Well, you’re awfully young to be a pastor…” (Like I haven’t heard that one before.) “What’s your church?”When I said, “Cross of Grace Lutheran Church,” the back-and-forth stopped, and she proceeded to tell me how great her church and her pastor are. Then, either noticing my intentional body language—literally leaning away—or the way I kept glancing back at my half-written sermon, she ended the conversation with one last question:“Do you teach them about the rapture?”The rapture? I thought. I tried to come up with a kind response instead of simply saying, “Uh… no.”“Well, in my tradition, that’s not something we focus on…” I said.And goodness, was she disappointed in that answer.“Well, you gotta teach them about the rapture. It’s the most important thing.”The most important thing? There’s so much I could have—should have—asked:What do you mean by rapture?Why is it the most important thing?What does your pastor say when preaching about it? Who do you think gets left behind—and why?But I had a sermon to finish, after all.I’ve never preached on “the rapture.” I don’t think I’ve ever even preached on a passage from Revelation. So, wherever you are, lady, this one’s for you. Because you’re partially right—it is important for us to understand what the rapture is, the bad and harmful theology behind it, and what we might imagine in its place when we talk about life after death.Some of you know all about the rapture. Maybe you grew up in a more fundamentalist church or were terrified by the Left Behind series in the mid 90s. Others of you, good Lutherans that you are, may only have a vague idea of what it means. But all of us have been exposed to some version of this belief. Usually, when people talk about the rapture, it’s part of a theology called dispensationalism. You may have never heard that word, but you’ve definitely seen signs of it—like every time you pass a billboard like this, now how’d that pan out? Or this… Or when you notice our culture’s fascination with the apocalypse and end time predictions.Not to bore you too much, but the idea of the rapture was invented by a British preacher named John Nelson Darby in the 1830s. He took the traditional understanding of Jesus’ return and split it into two parts. First comes the rapture: Jesus appears in the sky, snatches up born-again Christians, and whisks them off to heaven for seven years. During that time, God inflicts wrath on the earth and Christians watch safely from above. Then, after those seven years, comes the final return of Jesus to fight the battle of Armageddon (mentioned in Revelation) and establish an earthly kingdom.This whole timeline is a patchwork—stitched together from one verse in 1 Thessalonians, three from Daniel, and a single verse from Revelation. Behind all that is a bad theology and a harmful hermeneutic—a way of reading and understanding the Bible. First, this approach takes the Bible literally, as if Revelation were some sort of roadmap to the end times. But, as you’ve heard us say before, we mustn't read the Bible literally—we’re called to read it literate-ly and seriously, taking into account the many voices and genres that make up Scripture. Revelation is apocalyptic literature, a kind of writing well known to the seven first-century churches it was written for. It’s not a crystal ball—it’s a prophetic vision full of metaphor and symbolic imagery, not a literal forecast of future events.Second, this theology takes a few out-of-context verses to offer false certainty about what’s to come, rather than wrestling with the mystery of faith. The Bible gives us many different images of Jesus’ return: a banquet in Luke, a wedding feast in Matthew, paradise, green pastures, even a return to Eden. But none of these say when this will happen. In fact, Jesus says clearly: “About that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” (Matthew 24:36) Jesus doesn’t want us trying to piece together a divine timeline. He wants us to live in hope and with trust.And perhaps the biggest thing the rapture gets wrong is this: the idea that we’ll float off to heaven and away from all this; that our souls get to finally escape the pain of this world and just be with Jesus. But here’s the thing: the Bible never says we’re just souls that happen to have bodies. We are both—body and soul—and they will not be separated. Resurrection always includes the beautiful body God gave you.And what if—just hear me out—what if at the end of all things, we don’t go to heaven… What if heaven comes to us?Which is exactly what Revelation says. God establishes a new heaven and a new earth here, in our midst, and God takes up residence with us. Doesn’t that sound more like the God revealed to us in Jesus Christ? The God who entered into our suffering? The God who heals what is hurt? The God who accomplishes the divine plan through seemingly insignificant people, places, and things.It should be no surprise, then, that God would come down to this broken world—full of broken people—and heal it until there are no more tears, no more mourning or pain or death, and make a home here with us. That sounds like the God we know in Jesus.Lutheran theologian Barbara Rossing, an expert on the rapture and end-times thinking, says people are drawn to rapture theology because they want to see the Bible come to life. They want to connect Scripture with their own lives. They want to experience God—and think that can only happen if they leave this place.But the truth is: the Bible is coming to life and we do experience God—in this world, in our lives.The Bible comes to life everytime we feed someone who is hungry, give water to someone who is thirsty, wipe the tears trickling down one’s cheek, visit the imprisoned and detained, relieve someone’s pain, or welcome the immigrant. We are in the presence of God here on earth every time we come to the table, when we share meals with our friends and our enemies, or as Jesus says, when we love others as he loves us.Those acts—those holy, small, grace-filled acts—create little pockets of heaven on earth. They allow us to experience God right here and now, until that great day when God comes to live among us forever, making God’s kingdom come and God’s will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.So no—the rapture isn’t the most important thing. But trusting that God will come down, give us new life, and dwell with us in a world made new, free of pain and suffering and death? Now that sounds more like it. Amen.

John 10:22-30At that time, the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and asked him, “How long will you keep us in the suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us, plainly.”Jesus answered them, “I have told you and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me, but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them and they follow me. I give them eternal life and they will never perish. No one will snatch them from my hand. What the Father has given me is greater than all else and no one can snatch it from the Father’s hand. The Father and I are one.” “You do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep.”“You do not believe because you do not belong.” What if that’s the whole tweet, as they say? What if that’s all we need to hear this morning? And what if you and I are supposed to be convicted by that – as followers of Jesus – rather than use it as some kind of judgement against those who consider themselves not to be followers of the Jesus we claim?“You do not believe because you do not belong.”Jesus is talking to the Jews who weren’t on board yet with what he was up to. And, with a little pastoral imagination, I like to think his disciples were within earshot of this conversation; that they were following him around, as usual, and that Jesus knew he was being heard by both at the same time; that he was speaking to both crowds at once – those who belonged and those who didn’t believe.There are plenty of people in the world who don’t believe in Jesus – or God – or have a Christian faith for all sorts of rational, considered, thoughtful, theological reasons. Maybe they’re deliberately, purposefully atheists. Maybe they’re people of another faith – Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, pagans. I’m not talking about them, necessarily.Instead, I found myself wondering this week about those who don’t believe, but who would, could, might believe, if only we – as followers of Jesus – would do better at finding ways for them to BELONG, first. (“You don’t believe because you don’t belong…”)I heard two stories just this week, in two very different, settings, from two very different sources, about two sets of parents who were struggling with the fact that their gay or lesbian children weren’t people of faith; didn’t go to church; didn’t believe or worship or practice a faith that their parents wished that they would. In one case, the child had been raised in the Church, but had fallen away from an active, practicing life of faith. In the other case, the family wasn’t one who had ever practiced a faith, but the father came to believe in mid-life, and wanted to bring his wife and grown children along with him for the journey. (For what it’s worth, one of these stories came by way of a colleague, here in Indianapolis. The other was from a completely unrelated story I heard on “This American Life.”)Anyway, what these two sets of parents have in common, is their outspoken disapproval of their children’s sexuality, which is evident to the adult children they want to love, by either the theology they adhere to (“Love the sinner. Hate the Sin.” sort of stuff.), their political persuasion (the politicians and policies they support that do harm to their gay children), or both.In other words, the children of these parents know that they don’t – and will never – BELONG to their parents’ faith communities or fit into their misguided view of the world, so how could they and why would they ever want to believe in the things their parents professed about a loving, gracious, merciful God?“…you don’t believe because you don’t belong.”In my opinion, so many people in so many walks of life are falling away from the faith or throwing it all out with the bath water, because they see Christianity connected with exclusion, judgment, hypocrisy, greed, violence, and more. People don’t believe because they don’t belong – or because they don’t want to belong – to a body that embodies any of those things. And, as hard and as sad and as frustrating as that is, it makes perfect sense to me. And it’s why we have so much work to do.And I think that work starts with belonging. They don’t believe because they don’t belong.People long to feel and to experience welcome, love, and affirmation. And when they do, they might begin to wonder about believing and embracing the God who promises it.If we want people to feel like part of God’s family… If we want people to learn about the grace we proclaim… If we want people to believe in the wideness of God’s mercy, in the amazing love of our creator, in the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and in life everlasting…I’m convinced that they need to know, trust, and feel like they BELONG, first. And I think our call is to show and to shout and to share the good news of that belonging as loudly and as clearly, as often and in as many ways as we can manage.I heard another, beautiful story this week – perfect for Mother’s Day – about a different family altogether who proved what belonging can do. Many years ago, this set of American parents adopted a 7 year-old boy from Romania, who had lived the first 7-and-a-half years of his life in an orphanage where he shared a crib with another boy his age that entire time. As they grew, they stayed in that crib, to the point that they had to sleep sitting up. They didn’t go to school. They didn’t go outside. They only left their crib to eat and to use the bathroom. Daniel, the boy who was adopted by the Americans in South Euclid, Ohio, never even knew the names of the adults who took care of him in that orphanage.The short of the long is that Daniel came to the states utterly unprepared for the life with which his adoptive parents hoped to give him – he simply wasn’t ready socially, emotionally, or intellectually for a life with people who loved him. After 7 years in a crib, how could he be? And after a six-month honeymoon period with his new family in the states, things went downhill fast and furiously.Daniel developed an anger and rage over all that he couldn’t process or understand about his experience in the orphanage, his having been put there in the first place by his birth parents, and his place in the world and with his new mom and dad. He threw tantrums they described as “tornadoes of rage … eight hour marathons where he would throw anything he could get his hands on.” There were thousands of holes in his bedroom walls from his violent outbursts.He abused social workers and specialists. He choked a puppy. He gave his mom, Heidi, a black eye, once. He held a knife to her neck, another time. It got so bad they hired the equivalent of a bodyguard to be in the house, so that Heidi was never alone with her new son.Finally – and I’m leaving out a lot of the story, mind you – they embarked on a fascinating, controversial treatment for Daniel’s diagnosed Attachment Disorder where they pulled him out of school, Heidi quit her job, and they spent several months side-by-side, literally no farther than three feet apart. If one of them went to the bathroom, the other waited outside the door. They only time they were not next to each other, was when they were sleeping.They worked to establish the bond that’s supposed to be created between mothers and infants, under normal circumstances, by being very deliberate about eye-contact, for instance, and proximity. Daniel wasn’t allowed to ask for anything – he had to learn, from experience, that Heidi would provide basic needs for him, like food and drink. Daniel’s punishment for not playing along, or for doing something wrong, was called a “Time In,” where he would be subjected to time on the couch, being hugged by his mother.Ultimately, it worked. After eight weeks of this and a year of “holding therapy” where the family of three cradled each other – holding 13 year-old Daniel like a newborn – for 20 minutes, every night for a year, Daniel began to transform, slowly, but surely, almost imperceptibly, into a boy who believed that he would be and could be and was LOVED by his parents. Another way to say this, if you ask me, is that Daniel came to believe in that love, because he was finally convinced that he belonged to his new family. He believed because he belonged.And I think this is our call as people of God in the world. People need to see and to know that they already belong to the good news and grace and eternal life we claim. And I think it’s our job and it should be our joy – even when it’s hard – to show that kind of love and belonging to them.I think they need to see us marching at PRIDE parades.I think they need to see us teaching about and practicing anti-racism.I think they need to see our kids walking against homelessness and they need to see us giving money to their cause.I think politicians need to receive our letters, our phone calls, and our votes – in the name of Jesus – that speak out on behalf of people who are hungry and homeless and criminalized for that. (Join us for that next Sunday, between services.)I think the women who are served by our Agape ministry to sex workers need to experience the proximity and generosity of that ministry.And the list goes on. But I’ve said enough. And, just because it couldn’t be more timely, I’ll close with something from the new Pope Leo that makes me think he’d agree with me. Apparently, he said this once:“We are often worried about teaching doctrine, but we risk forgetting that our first duty is to communicate the beauty and joy of knowing Jesus.”They don’t believe, because they don’t belong.I think those who don’t believe what we claim to know about the grace of God need to experience it, first; they need to see us making room for them, for their doubts, and for their unbelief – whoever “they” may be. And that needs to happen, not because it’s our job to convince them of God’s love, but because we – and the world – will be blessed and better for having shared this love humbly, hopefully, and with a warm welcome of belonging, in Jesus’ name.Amen[To hear the full story of Daniel and his family, listen to Episode 317 of This American Life, “Unconditional Love.”]

John 21:1-19After these things, Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias. This is how he showed himself to them. Gathered there were Simon Peter, Thomas who was also called the Twin, Nathaniel of Cana in Galilee, the Sons of Zebedee and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” And they went and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.Just after daybreak, Jesus came and stood on the shore, but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. He said to them, “My children, you haven’t any fish, have you?” They said to him, “No.” He said to them, “Cast your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.” So they cast it and they were not able to haul in the net because it was full of so many fish. The disciple whom Jesus loved said to Simon Peter, “It is the Lord!” When Simon Peter heard that it was Jesus, he put on some clothes for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. The others went in the boat, bringing with them the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land; only about a hundred yards off.When they had come ashore, they saw a charcoal fire with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring with you some of the fish you just caught.” So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, one hundred fifty-three of them. But even though there were so many fish, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.”Now, none of them dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they new that it was Jesus. He came and took the bread and gave it to them and he did the same thing with the fish. This was the third time he had appeared to them since he had been raised from the dead.After they had eaten breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter said to him, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time, Jesus said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter said to him, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” A third time, Jesus said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter, upset that he had asked him a third time, “Do you love me?,” said to him, “Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. When you were a child, you used to fasten your own belt and go wherever you chose to go. But when you grow old you will stretch out your arms and others will fasten a belt around you and lead you to places that you may not choose to go.” (He said this in order to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) And when he has said this, he said to him, “Follow me.” Pastor Cogan said something, almost in passing last Sunday, in his sermon reflecting on Pope Francis. It was a one-liner that caught my attention in the moment and that came back to me when I read today’s Gospel. He said that Pope Francis – faithful, humble servant that he was – “was a shepherd who smelled like his sheep.” “… a shepherd who smelled like his sheep.”Did anyone else catch that? Or remember that? Or wonder any more about that? I did, because I think it has a lot to say about where we find Jesus and his disciples – and especially, this famous conversation and command to Peter – on the beach at breakfast, not long after the resurrection.“Do you love me?” … “Yes.” … “Feed my lambs.”“Do you love me?” … “Yes.” … “Tend my sheep.”“Do you love me?” … “Yes.” … “Feed my sheep.”And you can’t blame Jesus for asking again, and again, and again. It’s no coincidence that Jesus asked him three times, after what had happened just days before, of course, when Peter, questioned just before the crucifixion, denied Jesus three times to strangers, just as Jesus warned him that he would. So, this “Q and A” between Jesus and Peter – this whole experience on the beach after Easter, really – is chock full of symbolism and meaning. But, to the sheep and the lambs…Too much of the time for us, “sheep” and especially “lambs” – so close to Easter Sunday, in the spring of the year – elicit a warm and fuzzy, soft and sweet, cute, cuddly, cozy kind of vibe – don’t you think? They are the stuff of Springtime and Easter baskets, right. But the truth is, sheep are actually dirty and lambs are pretty dumb. (Here’s that video I’m sure many of us have seen of a sheep being both – dirty and dumb.) And remember that even the “sheep” Jesus refers to so often, even before this brunch on the beach, are pitiable and lost and in need of redemption, too. Remember that the “sheep” in Jesus’ teachings need to be separated from the goats, they need to be found because they’ve gone astray, they need to be saved from the clutches of the wolves that surround them, and they need to listen for the sound of their shepherd’s voice to lead them. And besides, all of that, remember that the warm and fuzzy Lamb, in Jesus himself, gets sacrificed, after all. And remember that the Lamb of God, in Jesus Christ, showed up to do the dirty work of taking away the sin of the world.There’s not much “warm and fuzzy” or “cute and cuddly” or “soft and sweet” about any of that, in the end. The Lord’s work is dirty work, to say the least. So it’s notable, for me, that Jesus uses “sheep” and “lambs” as a metaphor for Peter, the fisherman – again – this time around.So when he talks about feeding sheep and tending to lambs, it seems to me, that Jesus is talking about the hard and holy stuff of life and discipleship for believers, this morning. And he’s implying that you really need to LOVE Jesus, in order to fully enter into the business of following him faithfully.So we’re invited to wonder, what in the world that means for you and me? Where are the sheep and the lambs, the lost and the lonely, the scared, the sick, the suffering – and the stinky – in this world and in your life?He makes it really hard for us to avoid the question. When Jesus asks us if we love him, who and how and what is he really asking us to consider? How many of us – like Pope Francis – smell like the sheep we’re called to love and serve?For starters, it seems random, but it’s no mistake that the Gospel writer says there were 153 fish in the net that morning. It’s not likely anyone actually counted those fish. It’s a number that smarter people than me suggest is meant to symbolize the entirety of creation; or they say it symbolizes all the people and every nation of the world. So, it’s just another reminder that, as followers of Jesus, we’re meant to tend to, feed, care about, and love all people; from every nation; in every land; even when it’s hard. Even when it stinks. Do you love Jesus, even if it leads to people and to places where you may not want to go? Do you love Jesus, even if it leads people to your doorstep who you wish wouldn’t come?Of course, we answer this question in other ways, too.I hope, when we consider our financial commitments to the General Fund in the days ahead, we’ll hear that question, again: “Do you love me?” And I pray our commitments and the offerings that follow will be one meaningful way that we respond – even if it’s uncomfortable, unfamiliar, unconventional by the world’s standards and expectations.I hope, as we’re filling out our Time and Talent Sheets for the year ahead, too, that Jesus’ question will ring in our ears, “Do you love me?” And that how we choose to serve the world through our little part of the kingdom at Cross of Grace will reveal our answer in a faithful way – and that we’ll do it even when it’s inconvenient sometimes; even if it’s new; even if it’s something we’ve done before or something we never thought we’d do at all. Even if it stinks from time to time, like helping to clean the church or to mow the lawn.I hope, that as we live our lives in this broken and hurting world, that we see around us – on the evening news, in the hallways at school, in the house down the street, on the faces of strangers, and in the mirror – I hope we see the sheep and lambs of Jesus – the children of God – who are starving for, who need and who deserve to be fed and tended to and loved with the same grace we long for, need, and try to share around here.I hope that when we wonder about what it looks like to love Jesus, that we aren’t afraid to get our hands dirty, to stop pretending that life in this world – our own lives or the lives of our neighbors – are always neat and tidy, soft and sweet, cute, cuddly, and convenient. I hope our lives of faith in this world leave us smelling like sheep.Because the truth is we are all sheep. Each of us is a lamb. We all stink of the sin that covers us. And we’re all unable to be free of it on our own.So Jesus shows up to inspire us and to encourage us and to love us, first – all so that we might follow him – like he invites Peter to do – into a new way of life. So that we’ll follow him into a kingdom that is built on service and sacrifice, generosity and grace, mercy and good news; a kingdom built with very clear directions from the resurrected and living love of Jesus Christ our Lord – who so faithfully feeds, tend to, and loves us – and the world – so that we can’t help but return the favor, in his name.Amen

John 20:19-31When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name. All across the country—and the world, for that matter—congregations are hearing sermons on Pope Francis, as they should. In fact, I am certain Lutherans will have not preached this much about a pope since the days of the Reformation! I am also certain today’s sermons speak much kinder of the Pope than Luther, who called the pope of his day a sewer of wickedness and the antichrist. Today, there will be none of that. Pastors of all denominations are lifting up Pope Francis’ advocacy on migration, environmentalism, and reform in the Catholic Church. Many will praise him for his efforts to empower women and his more open posture toward the LGBTQ faithful. Others will highlight the simple lifestyle Francis chose, long before he became pope. In Argentina, when he was known by his birth name, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, he eschewed the opulence of the bishop’s palace, choosing instead to live in a modest apartment. He cooked his own meals, regularly visited the slums of Buenos Aires, and took public transportation. People regularly saw the archbishop on the bus. It wasn’t just about frugality—it was about solidarity. He wanted to live close to the people he served. He was a shepherd who smelled like his sheep.This commitment continued when he became pope. In 2013, Francis declined the luxurious papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace, choosing instead a two-room suite in a guesthouse for clergy visiting the Vatican. Breaking a century-old tradition, Francis said, “I am not used to opulence. is good for me and prevents me from being isolated.”Even yesterday, at his funeral, Francis was placed in a simple wooden box, not the traditional triple casket. His final resting place at St. Mary Major has no grand tomb, no ornate inscription—just a plain headstone with the name "Francis." A quiet, fitting end to a life marked by humility, service, and downward mobility.How fitting it is, then, that Francis' death coincides with the story of Thomas, because both Francis and Thomas were deeply familiar with the wounds of Jesus. Usually when we hear this story from John, we focus on Thomas’ doubt. We jump to his defense—saying we all want proof, all want what others have received. But today, what stands out to me is Thomas’ courage and Jesus’ graciousness. How gracious it is for Jesus to offer his wounds to Thomas, to provide exactly what his faith needs. It’s as if Jesus says, “If it’s my wounds Thomas needs to believe, then it’s my wounds I will give.”It is a remarkable grace—to show someone your wounds, to put on display the very thing that inflicted pain, to reveal the reminders of rejection. Yet Jesus doesn't stop there. He invites Thomas to touch them. That is grace upon grace.And it works.Thomas doesn’t simply see the wounds and say yes, Jesus has risen. Thomas goes further in both deed and word than all the other disciples. I imagine his fingers trembling as he touched the still-scabbing nail marks. His hand must have shook as he reached into the spear-sized hole in Jesus' side. And then, only after entering the wounds, Thomas says the deepest confession of faith yet uttered in the Gospel.: "My Lord and my God!"Not just master, not just teacher— my God.Jesus is revealed not through strength but through weakness. Not in greatness but in meekness. It's not a miracle of abundance, not a sign of divine power, but wounds that lead to worship. Seeing the wounds, the disciples recognize Jesus. Touching the wounds, Thomas' faith is born anew.Francis understood this. He knew that if he wanted to encounter the risen Christ, he needed to find and touch Christ’s wounds just as Thomas did. In one homily, Francis said:"How can I find the wounds of Jesus today? I cannot see them as Thomas saw them. But I can find them in doing works of mercy and in giving to the bodies of our injured siblings in Christ, for they are hungry, thirsty, naked, humiliated, in prison, in hospitals. These are the wounds of Jesus in our day."This wasn’t something Pope Francis merely preached about. He embodied this, too.Early in his papacy, he traveled to Lampedusa to mourn migrants lost at sea and decry the "globalization of indifference." In war-torn Bangui, he entered a besieged Muslim neighborhood to preach peace, declaring Christians and Muslims brothers and sisters. In Bangladesh, he met with Rohingya refugees, embraced their suffering, and called them "the presence of God today."But perhaps the most moving example is this: That is Pope Francis doing a video call through WhatsApp with the only catholic church in the Gaza strip. What’s remarkable is that Francis has called that community every night at 7pm since the third day of the war. Anton, the spokesperson of the congregation, said “the pope would always ask how we were, what did we eat, did we have clean water, was anyone injured?" Was anyone injured? Even from a video call, Francis did his best to enter their wounds, to see suffering, to understand the pain they were enduring, that they continue to endure. And he did this every night, no matter how busy he was or where he was, telling them he was praying for them. I imagine the community on the other end of the call did in fact show the pope their wounds, like when bombs fell on the attached school, killing six Christians sheltering there. Or in these last eight weeks while no humanitarian aid has been allowed in and people have died from starvation and disease.Anton says the pope's final call came on Saturday, two days before he died. Francis told them he was praying for them and said he needed their prayers. "He told us not to worry as he would always be there for us," Anton said. "He was with us until his last breath."It is not our inclination to look at wounds, let alone touch them. We tend to look away from pain, suffering, and death. Yet the story of Jesus and Thomas, and the example of Francis, invite us to do just the opposite.And I get it—looking away is easy, even necessary sometimes. All the hurt and injustice can feel overwhelming, paralyzing even. But to have the option to look away is a privilege many do not have. The invitation Jesus gave Thomas is the same invitation given to us: reach out your hand. Touch the wounds.I know we aren’t the pope. We can’t just call someone in Gaza or travel to the war-torn places of the world. But are there not wounds here, among us? Like in our neighbors grieving losses we don't always see. In young people fighting battles with anxiety and loneliness. In the elderly who sit in nursing homes, too often forgotten. In the struggling families trying to make rent here in Central Indiana. The wounds of Jesus are in the growing homeless population in downtown Indianapolis. They are in the food pantries and shelters that are stretched thin, even in our own backyard. They are in the racial and economic divides that persist right here in central Indiana.Friends, the invitation Jesus gave to Thomas — "Reach out your hand and touch" — is the same invitation he gives to us. To draw near. To notice. To listen. To show up.So where, in your daily life, is Jesus inviting you to touch a wound? - In the coworker going through a divorce? - In the friend who's been quiet for too long? - In the neighbor who just lost a job?And for the wounds across the world: stay informed. Pray. Vote. Protest. Give generously. Stand against oppression that causes such suffering. Only when we are familiar with the wounds and what causes them can we do something about them.And Though your fingers may tremble and your hands may shake as you do it, you are reaching out to Jesus himself. And there—in the trembling, in the reaching—we find him.The risen and living Christ, our Lord and our God. Amen.

Luke 24:1-12But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb taking the spices they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the entrance of the tomb, but when they went inside they didn’t find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them.The women were terrified and they bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here. He is risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day, rise again.” Then the women remembered what he had said and, returning from the tomb, they told all of this to the eleven and to all the rest.Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary, the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles, but their words seemed to them and idle tale, and they didn’t believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb. Stooping and looking inside he saw the linen cloths by themselves, and he went home, amazed at what had happened. We’ve been telling stories around here throughout the season of Lent, leading up to this morning and Easter’s great story of gospel good news. I’m so grateful for the brave, faithful Cross of Gracers who shared brief, true, very personal stories about their lives in this world – and about the many ways their lives and their faith came together at a variety of crossroads, for them. We heard stories about miraculous healings, surprising encounters with the divine; family, friendship, and falling in love. And more on top of that.On Good Friday, to wrap up that storytelling extravaganza, we heard one more story and then we listened to the story of Jesus’ crucifixion, suffering, and death on the cross. And then we left in darkness and silence, with only the microphone we’d been using all season, left standing at the foot of the cross, all by its self. Alone. Off. Unplugged. Silent.I’m not sure who got the symbolism of that or knew how deliberate that was, but it made me think of this picture I remember seeing somewhere, some time, several ago. "Speechless" by Darrell Van Citters Mel Blanc, of course, was the voice actor for all of those distinct and memorable Loony Tunes characters: Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, Sylvester and Tweety Bird, Foghorn Leghorn, Speedy Gonzales, Pepe LePew, and Daffy Duck. (Those were the days when cartoons were socially unaware and culturally insensitive in ways that kids like me probably shouldn’t have been watching them for hours on end every Saturday morning. But we didn’t know what we didn’t know!)Anyway, these lonely microphones – the one in that picture and the one we left here on Friday – are a powerful symbol for me – and a connection and inflexion point – between Good Friday’s silence and the invitation I hope compels us on the other side of Easter’s empty tomb.The women show up to do their thing for the body of Jesus – to grieve his death, to anoint his body, maybe to confirm that what they had seen and heard really was true: that their friend, teacher, messiah … that their savior … really was dead and gone. And when they get there, the stone has moved – and so has Jesus – and they have this terrifying encounter with some sharp-dressed men, who remind them about what they woulda, coulda, shoulda remembered: that Jesus was alive and well, just as he said he would be.So the women leave with a new story of their own to tell: that Jesus was the real deal after all – just like he’d told them all along. The men, of course, aren’t buying it. They don’t believe it, because … women. So Peter hoofs it to the tomb to see for himself. And what do you know? The women – and Jesus, himself – were right after all. Men.But it’s that question from ZZ Top (the Sharp Dressed Men) that gets me today. It’s the question from the angels at the grave side that I can’t ignore: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” It seems like a rhetorical question, but it sticks with me because, I think, it’s how and where each of us is invited to figure out what kind of story we’re going to tell about all of this, in the end.“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”While it seems like the angels imply the women shouldn’t be looking for Jesus at the tomb – again, had they been paying attention and believed what he’d been telling them all along. But, I’d actually like for us to “look for the living among the dead” not because we don’t understand or believe what has happened here, but precisely because we do understand and believe it. I mean, I want us to “look for the living among the dead” because it’s the invitation of Easter, it’s the joy of faith, and it’s the call of our discipleship, if we want to follow Jesus.I think we look for the living among the dead because Easter’s good news is meant precisely for the dead and the dying; for the lost and forgotten; for the oppressed and the outcast. It’s for the sick and the suffering; the poor and the marginalized. This good news is for those without a microphone and for those with stories to tell that no one seems to be listening to.Of course, Easter’s story is about the forgiveness of sin, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Those we’ve lost around here lately – our friends, family, and Partners in Mission – Jerry, Carol, Joan, Bob, Steve, and Dick – and all those who’ve gone before, know about life in the face of death in ways we can only imagine on this side of heaven. The story of Easter’s good news is certainly theirs.But Jesus’ death and resurrection wasn’t all or only about the other side of heaven. He died and was raised so that we might bring life and love; grace and mercy, peace and hope to bear upon the world as we know it, here and now. Jesus died – and was raised – to prove that what got him killed in the first place … God’s ways of justice and equity, peace and inclusion, humility and generosity, sacrifice and suffering … that God’s Way was and is THE WAY to life everlasting – not just then and there, but on earth as it is in heaven, too.So I say we go, not just looking for the living among the dead, but that we go looking to bring life to the dying – the suffering – the struggling – the oppressed – the outcast, the sinner, and all the rest. That’s the call, the command, and the story of Easter. We are meant to leave the tomb with such good news to share that it changes everything for anyone and everyone who needs to hear it most.Easter’s story calls us to stand up to violence and injustice – and the death, destruction and dehumanization they foster – at every turn.Easter’s story is one meant to make us care for creation in ways that prevents it from dying faster than it can restore and repair itself.Easter’s story is one that makes room for all people – and their stories – rather than removing them from the narrative.Easter’s story is one that should give Christian people enough faith in the God we worship to trust that that God is big enough to love people who believe differently than we do – if they even believe at all.I think Easter’s good news of resurrection was and is the cosmic mic-drop moment of our faith. And our call is to pick up the mic again – maybe even to take it from those who would do otherwise – and to tell a story more loudly and more clearly full of grace, mercy, love, and hope for all people.Why do we look for the living among the dead? Because the world needs people who have the faith, grace and courage to bring good news to the poor, now; release to the captive, now; recovery of sight to the blind, now; and to let the oppressed go free, now.If we’re not doing any of that with Easter’s good news, we might as well leave it in the tomb and unplug the mic.It seems too good to be true, but Google says that Mel Blanc’s last words were “That’s all folks!” Whether that’s the case or not, I can’t say for sure. It IS true that his family had his most famous one-liner etched into the headstone at his grave.Easter’s good news is that death wasn’t and isn’t ever ALL there is, when God has a God’s way with it. Easter means, not just that there is life after death, but that because of that, we have life to proclaim and to practice in the face of all the death, dying, and destruction we face and facilitate too much of the time in this world. “Why do we look for the living among the dead?” Because Easter gives us a better story of life and blessing and joy, of promise, good news, and hope to proclaim and practice in its place.Amen. Alleluia. Happy Easter.

Luke 19:28-40After Jesus had said this, he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’ ” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus, and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. Now as he was approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” Why do we do hard things? Why do we voluntarily endure pain, like summiting mount everest, writing a novel, or finishing all the New York Times games, including Sudoku! I don’t understand for the life of me why people run marathons… 26.2 miles? Hours of running just to run? And people pay money for that?! Why do we choose things that will undoubtedly bring us pain? Most of us are wired to pursue pleasure and avoid pain. We tend to choose activities with low cost and high reward. Effort is hard; pain isn’t fun—so we try to reduce both whenever possible. We say we want things to be easy. But strangely, we often value the things that cost us something—things that ask more of us than we thought we had. We want some place or thing to pour our effort into. But why?There are a few theories. One is called the Effort Paradox. Ian Hutchinson wrote about it in The Atlantic recently. While effort is typically something we shy away from, it can paradoxically draw us in and enhance the value of what we’re doing. Hutchinson gives the example of the Comrades Marathon - a 55 miles race in South Africa. But here is the kicker, you have twelve hours to complete it. Right at the twelve hour mark, a group of people link arms and block the finish line! You’re not even allowed to complete the hell you’ve put yourself through. And yet, those who don’t finish often come back year after year—because the effort itself is satisfying.We see this paradox elsewhere, too. Kids at play make up extra rules or obstacles, just to make the game harder—and more fun.Now Hutchinson admits the appeal of hard work varies among people. Some are motivated by the joy and purpose derived from tackling difficult tasks. But the Effort Paradox doesn’t explain which hard things we choose, or why. Yes, effort can make us feel good and imbue a sense of value. But is that enough to explain the hard things we really choose? Things like parenting. Marriage. Leading a team. Starting a business. Caring for a dying parent. The pain isn’t part of the appeal—so why do we stay in it?This is where our friend David Brooks offers a deeper take. He asks: how do people endure the most severe challenges and overcome the most alluring temptations? It’s generally not through heroic willpower and self-control. If those faculties were strong enough, diets would work, and New Year’s resolutions would be kept. No, we tend to endure great pain only when we are possessed by something more gripping, namely love. When something or someone seizes us, we can’t help but fall in love. And love demands devotion. It animates us — but it also conquers us. It calls for persistence, obedience, and sacrifice. This is not just why folks get married but how they stay married. It's why you make a third breakfast for your toddler after he fed the first one to the dog and threw the second one across the table. It’s why after decades you continue in the same vocation, no matter how maddening it may be at times. It’s this kind of love—not satisfaction from a completed task—that makes hard things meaningful. And paradoxically, Brooks argues, the more we embrace difficulties in this life, rather than avoid them, the more meaningful, passionate, and purposeful this life becomes.So all week I kept asking myself: what seized Jesus? What love compelled him? Because that’s the only way to make sense of what he does. Why would Jesus willingly make his way into Jerusalem? Why does he choose the pain that lies ahead? He doesn’t just allow it—he pursues it. Why is he determined to face death?All week as I read the text, it just made little to no sense to me. Why would anyone get on a young donkey that has never been ridden and ride it down the side of a mountain? Have you ever ridden a horse or a donkey downhill? I have. It’s terrifying. And that was on a trained animal! Jesus zigzags an untrained donkey down a steep slope to the very city where he knows he’ll be crucified, all while seemingly celebrating the ceremonial chants of his kingship? What kind of king chooses this? What kind of God volunteers for death? Why would anyone, Jesus included, go through such effort? And, is there any effort greater than bearing the sin of the whole world with open arms? Than defeating death once and for all? It can’t just be about grit. This isn’t the kind of effort that brings satisfaction just because it was difficult. No, it has to be something else. It has to be that for some reason Jesus is captivated by love, a deep irradiating love for you, me, and all the world. A love that is beyond our logic of pleasure and pain. A love that is so animating and self-denying that it demands devotion and obedience, obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. That’s what Palm Sunday is all about. It’s not just the triumphal entry, but the choice to love us all the way to suffering and death. It’s a celebration of such all-consuming love.This Holy Week, allow yourself to be consumed by that love. Let this story, which is about to unfold over the next few days, grip you. Let it captivate you, whether you’ve heard it eighty times or it’s your first. Brooks says, “The capacity to be seized is a great and underappreciated talent.”So be seized—by this God in flesh, riding on a donkey to his death in order to give you and me life. Don’t turn from the pain thats coming. If anything lean into - ponder it, see it for what it is - effort! Effort on your behalf. As one psychologist wrote, “effort is one of the things that gives meaning to life. Effort means that you care about something”. And it is Jesus' effort that gives meaning to our life, to your life. All through Lent, we try our best to do hard things, painful things; not because we want the satisfaction of doing something difficult, but because the effort is a sign of devotion, an outpouring of love. This week, take your practice one step further. If it’s fasting, add a day, if it’s not eating something, remove something else. If it’s prayer, add more time. If it's generosity, give even more. And if you didn’t start a practice—don’t worry. It’s not too late.Come to the prayer vigil. Make Maundy Thursday a priority—hear again the Last Supper and Judas’ betrayal. Witness the pain of Good Friday. Feel it. It will make Easter Sunday all the more joyful!We do all of this not so that we will be loved, but to see and experience just how much you are loved already. Maybe—just maybe—you’ll begin to feel the devotion that led Jesus to his death. Yes, I’m asking you to voluntarily choose pain this week. But paradoxically I think it will make the week all the better. As C.S. Lewis said “When pain is over, it is over, and the natural sequel is joy.” The same is true for this week. There will be pain. There will be death. And there will be resurrection. But let’s not skip over the first two.Why do we do hard things? Because love demands it. And this week, Love rides in on a donkey, walks through betrayal, bears a cross, and cracks open a tomb. Let this love seize you.Amen.

John 12:1-8Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served and Lazarus was seated at the table with Jesus. Mary brought a pound of costly perfume, made of pure nard, anointed Jesus feet and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.Now Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him) said, “Why was this perfume not sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he used to keep the common purse and would steal from what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought to so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” If you’ve been around for any number of the many funerals we’ve had at Cross of Grace in the last few months (many of you know we’ve had too many funerals around Cross of Grace in the last few months), you know that Pastor Cogan does a very deliberate, careful job of inviting and encouraging those gathered to act on their grief. I mean, he goes out of his way to encourage those who are grieving and celebrating the life of someone we’ve lost to do something about that sadness – to send a card, a note, a text; to make a phone call or an appointment for lunch; to tell the stories, to share the memories, to let others who are grieving know that you’re grieving, too.It is worthwhile, compassionate, pastoral instruction. It’s how we grieve together, love one another, give thanks for and celebrate a life well, even after the big day of someone’s funeral – a day that can’t possibly contain or cover or resolve all of the grief we carry for those we’ve loved and lost.And I think that’s something like what Mary is up to with Jesus this morning, only in a pre-emptive sort of way.As the story goes, Jesus returns to Bethany – where he had been before and where he had gotten into trouble for raising his friend Lazarus from the dead. And, when “raising the dead” was added to the list of things Jesus could do – people kept following him and believing in him and wanting to see more of him. And all of this worried the powers that be, so they made plans to kill Jesus because of it. They’d even given orders for anyone who knew where he was to hand him over. So, when Jesus returned to Bethany – the scene of his crime as it were – trouble was brewing.Which is what makes Mary’s anointing so remarkable. It was like his days were numbered, and she knew it. Like, the end was near. Like his diagnosis was terminal. Like it was time to say and to do what needed to be said and done, before it was too late.I think, like Pastor Cogan’s encouragement at a funeral service, Mary’s anointing was a worthwhile, compassionate, pastoral example of how to love one another, to give thanks for, and to celebrate a life well – on this side of a loved one’s grave.It’s remarkable because there was plenty of other important work to be done. Maybe they should have been hiding Jesus away somehow, not calling attention to him by dousing him with perfume. Maybe they needed to devise a scheme to get him out of town or to plan his defense. They certainly didn’t need to be wasting their time and money on nard and anointing – as far as Judas was concerned, at least.And isn’t that always the case? Aren’t we often too busy, too distracted, too much in denial about our own mortality – or about those that we love – to say the things we wish we had said? To do the things we pretend we can put off until tomorrow? To offer the forgiveness? To make the amends? To say the hard thing? To take the trip? To make the change? To take that leap of faith, convincing ourselves there will be time for that when … when we graduate; when the kids are older; when the nest is empty; when we’re finally retired; when we have more, or make more, or when… when… when…But Mary and Jesus show us a different way. We may never know all that was running through Jesus’ mind as he readied himself for Calvary and for his own crucifixion. Was he full of fear or faith? Was he anxious and exhilarated? Was he full of doubt or determination? Was he at peace, calm, having second thoughts, resigned … some combination of all of these things?Whatever it was, it makes me wonder about what he longed for most, in his most human heart of hearts, in those days before his dying. And I imagine he wanted the same things we would each long for if we were given enough advance notice of our demise: to be with the people we love and with the people who love us back; to say and hear and share all the things we hope we’ll have the courage, the faith, the time, and the words to say.Which is why, I imagine, Jesus appreciated Mary’s anointing, like he did. She wasn’t trying to fix things or postpone the inevitable or make plans or busy herself with distractions. All she wanted to do was honor her teacher… to worship her Lord… to love her friend in a way that was deep and real and as true as could be.Mary shows us something like what each of us would, could – and maybe should – choose for ourselves – or for those we love the most – if we are fortunate enough to have the chance for a last hurrah, a final goodbye, or time to think and pray and plan for our final moments with them.So, what if we readied ourselves for the last days of Jesus’s life – for his entry into Jerusalem, for his last meal, his last words, his last breath – all of which we will regard through worship – and by way of at least one more funeral for Jerry Mielke – in the days ahead … what if we readied ourselves with a little Lenten discipline that hits more close to home?What if, in honor of Mary’s expression of love, devotion and gratitude to Jesus, we not wait to do something like it … something kind, loving, generous and full of grace for someone we love – even if they’re not knocking on heaven’s door? What if Mary’s moment with Jesus is an invitation for us not to wait until we can’t wait any longer? What if Mary’s anointing is a call for each of us to do NOW, what Pastor Cogan will remind, invite, and encourage us to do at the next funeral, and the next, and the next, and the one after that, too, I hope.Let’s let Mary’s anointing be an invitation to say the thing now; to send the card, the note, the text; to make the phone call or the appointment for lunch; to tell the stories, to share the memories, to offer the gratitude before we can’t do that any longer.Let’s be more generous. Let’s forgive like we mean it and let’s be forgiven like we deserve it, in a way only God’s grace can manage. Let’s share moments of grace with no expectations and no strings attached and I’ll bet you three hundred denarii it will lead to joy. I’ll bet it will lead to peace and hope and all kinds of other good stuff, too. Because when we share that kind of love and devotion with another, Jesus comes to life among us, and our mortal selves put on immortality, in this life, on this side of eternity, and we stir up the power of God in our midst and we get a glimpse of the kingdom and of resurrection and of new life, on earth as it is in heaven.Amen

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So he told them this parable:“There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So [the father] divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” ’ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate. “Now [the father’s] elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’ Then [the elder son] became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ” Two Cross of Gracers, in two weeks’ time, sent me two different social media posts about something that was entirely new to me – but that is apparently picking up steam and support in certain circles of Christianity. And since then – over just the last couple of weeks – various expressions of this same idea, this belief, this theological notion keep showing up in the world around me. Have you heard people talking lately about the proposition that “empathy is a sin?” Yeah. Empathy has been deemed a “sin” in some fundamentalist, “conservative Christian” circles of the faith. Empathy … which, according to most dictionaries means something like “the ability to understand and share the feelings of another person.” Empathy … the willingness to learn about and have compassion for the experiences of somebody else. Empathy … which sounds something like – oh, I don’t know – loving your neighbor as yourself, perhaps?Again, in certain Christian circles, this thing called empathy is being warned about as an expression of sin.There are books. One is called The Sin of Empathy: Compassion and its Counterfeits and another is called Toxic Empathy: How Progressives Exploit Christian Compassion. One podcaster proposed that the very word “empathy” should be struck from the Christian vocabulary, because it’s just too dangerous. And, be careful, ladies. The same guy who suggested that said that “women are especially vulnerable to this” whole empathy thing.Another theological pundit posted this recently, which seems to come from the same cesspool of corrupt theology:“Jesus is not a bleeding heart liberal. He did not ultimately save you out of pity for you. He saved you for his own glory. And he saved you from the infinite wrath He had against you for insulting His glory. This is the masculine theology of the Bible. Learn to love it.” Now, the Seven Deadly Sins aren’t any more “scriptural” in that they aren’t laid out explicitly as such, like the Ten Commandments, for example. But it’s worth considering why, in the name of Jesus, anyone would add “Empathy” to a list that includes things like Pride, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Greed, Lust, and Envy. Does it seem like Empathy has anything in common with the evil and brokenness on that list?!From what I can tell, the logic/the rationale/ the theology behind all of this is a sort of self-serving, pop-psychology-inspired effort at “tough love.” It implies that being empathetic – having the capacity to share another person’s feelings, experiences, or emotions – or taking the time and doing the work of trying to accomplish that to the degree that it inspires your ability to care about and love them … that all of that is an expression of brokenness in that it looks like weakness on your part and results in harm toward others because it may allow them to keep living in their own sinfulness.And this seems to be the case because, from what else I can tell, this way of thinking is being used very deliberately to dissuade Christian people from caring about or tending to the hurt and harm of those with whom they disagree; those they want to dislike; those that some factions of the faith are working really hard to disenfranchise. And it seems to me that, by calling Empathy a sin, they can do all of that dirty work in the name of Jesus.It’s as if they’re saying, “Close your eyes and stop your ears to the cries of the LGBTQ+ community because your empathy, your willingness to see them as people – as Children of God, created in God’s image, just like you – only affirms, encourages, and perpetuates their capacity to sin.” It’s as if they’re saying, “Don’t listen to the very real struggle, concerns, or need of that woman or girl who is considering an abortion, because you risk understanding her very real struggle, concern, or need, thereby facilitating her capacity to make a decision you should already disagree with.”It’s like they’re saying, “Don’t listen to the stories and experiences of those sex workers. It might soften your heart and encourage their poor choices.”It’s like they’re saying, “Don’t get to know the story behind those migrants who have crossed the border to save the lives of their children, as you might very well choose to do, if you were in their shoes; just keep pretending they’re all gang members and drug dealers and psychopaths so that you can more easily despise, deport, and fear them with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.”It’s like they’re saying, “Don’t dig too deeply into the stories of those people who are homeless or you might learn about the mental illness, addiction, loss of healthcare, neglect, abuse, bad luck and broken social networks that landed them on the streets and keeps them there.” This is a ruse. It’s a lie. It’s a trick. It is fake news that empathy is a sin.It’s also a grand expression of cognitive dissonance for anyone who’s ever heard today’s parable. It’s like their saying, don’t pay any mind to what is probably the most popular, well-known story in all of Scripture that comes straight from the mouth of Jesus himself – this little ditty about the Prodigal Son – and, more importantly, the parables’ prodigal dad… …this story where Dad had every right to offer some tough love to the punk ass kid who ran off with his inheritance, squandered it recklessly, and had the nerve to come back for more.…this story where a Dad – had he been worried about committing the so-called “sin of empathy” – would have sent his long-lost-son back to the wilderness of those pig pens to slop it up with the hogs until he learned his lesson, got his act together, groveled, apologized, and learned to live right.None of that is the story Jesus tells today, because it’s not God’s story. That is not God’s way.Jesus tells the story where Dad – God, the Father – is overcome by empathy and compassion, lifts up his robes, runs to his child, embraces him because of his lostness – not in spite of it. Where he slaughters the fatted calf, throws a party, and then calls for some empathy from the other son who’s too busy being mad and selfish and self-righteous to understand what it means to be really, truly lost in this world. That other son – the elder brother – the one who gets corrected, if not reprimanded – by the father, was like one of these 21st Century Theo-Bros who would have called his father’s empathy a sad, sorry, sinful expression of something other than the faithfulness, mercy, and LOVE that it was.People, do not be fooled, deceived, or tricked into seeing empathy as a sin, or as a weakness, or as something God doesn’t desire from each and every one of us. And please pay attention to and pray for the pastors, politicians, and people who proclaim otherwise.And if you need a touch point – a reminder – some encouragement about the Truth of the worldview Jesus’ parable proclaims, please continue making your way to Calvary in the days to come.God, in Jesus, climbing onto the cross that we find there is the greatest sign, symbol, and source of empathy the world has ever known. It is The Way. It is God, in the person of Jesus, personifying the power and blessing of empathy by living, moving, breathing, and dying his way into the shoes of the world’s people. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t a sin, for God’s sake.It was faithfulness. It was virtue. It was grace. It was tough love turned inward so that the fullness of that cosmic mercy could be poured outward for the sake of all people … all people … all people. And, it was and remains to be THE calling and cause and claim upon any of us who want to faithfully follow Jesus, in this life, for the sake of the world.Amen

Luke 13:1-9At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’” Did they deserve it? That’s the question Jesus poses to the people reporting a recent tragedy under Pilate's rule. Pilate was known for cruelty and contempt toward the Jewish people. In this case, some Galilean Jews were offering sacrifices when Pilate’s soldiers slaughtered them, mixing their blood with that of the animals, desecrating the sacred rite. It was as if Pilate declared: these Jews are no more human than the animals they slaughter.The people came to Jesus to confirm what they already believed: “Did you hear about that horrible death? What did they do to deserve it?” They wanted an explanation. Surely, there had to be a reason. The common explanation was sin: divine punishment.That was the belief of the day: suffering was punishment for sin, your own or your parents’. But Jesus pushes back. It’s not their sins that caused this, which feels like good news—until Jesus warns them not to think themselves better. To drive the point home, he tells them about a tower that collapsed and killed 18 Jerusalemites. Did they deserve it? Were they worse sinners than others? No, Jesus says, but unless you repent, you will perish just as they did. Is that a threat? A promise? A prophecy? Jesus doesn’t explain, just like he doesn’t explain suffering. Isn’t that hard for us too? We long for explanations for suffering—ours and others'. We’re often gentler on ourselves, but when it comes to others’ pain, we’re tempted to look for fault.When tragedy strikes—a plane crash, a tornado, a terrible car accident—we don’t think those people had it coming. We think: tragedy, bad luck, not divine punishment.But what about poverty? What about homelessness? We see a tent compound, trash scattered around. We might not say they deserve it—but we think: if only they made better decisions, if they avoided addiction, if they took care of their health, maybe they wouldn’t be in this situation.This year, we’ve been learning and talking a lot about homelessness, especially here in Indianapolis. Our high school students and I have spent this semester diving deep into the issue as part of their Sunday School curriculum. The advocacy workshop we hosted focused on two Indiana bills addressing homelessness. So I was eager to attend the Spring Faith and Action conference at Christian Theological Seminary, which focused on that very topic.The keynote speaker was an author and activist I hadn’t heard of before: David Ambroz. He started by sharing a bit of his own story. Born into homelessness, he, his mother, and two siblings roamed the streets of New York City, living mainly in Grand Central station. He recounted one particularly cold night, Christmas Eve, when David was just five years old. It’s frigid and they are wandering the streets for hours, ice forming on their faces, as his mom flees the people she believes are chasing them. It’s only after David has peed himself and pleaded profusely that she relents and they go to a men’s shelter, where they are given a single cot for all four of them. Laying on that cot, David remembers his mom, the caring mom now, asking him “do you want this”, gesturing to the lost souls in the shelter. “No!” he cried. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to sit here in my own urine, surrounded by nameless, homeless shadows.” But in the dark, Mom sparks something: hope. I’m five, but I know this—I want a roof, a bed, blankets. I want to protect my siblings. I want to protect Mom from mom. “Good,” Mom says softly. For a moment, she’s the mom I dream of. We pile together on the cot, and I fall asleep, held by hope.The story was as powerful as the rest of his keynote. David talked about his time in foster care, he offered solutions, but he ended by asking, “Do you think I deserved to be homeless, to be grinded up in the foster care system? Do you think the people who live on your streets deserve such suffering? No! But until we change our thinking, until we don’t believe these people and children in utter poverty deserve this, nothing will change. We have the capability to end childhood homelessness and poverty—we just don’t have the willpower, because in our heart of hearts, we still believe they deserve this.”That's exactly what Jesus is getting at. People living in poverty, living on the streets, are not suffering because of divine judgment. Jesus may not explain why suffering happens, but he makes clear it is not a punishment from God for one’s sins. That’s not to say sin doesn’t have consequences; surely it does. But I would ask: What sin is worse—the ones that contributed to being homeless, or having the means and resources to help but choosing not to? And I don’t just mean individually, but as a community, as a society.In greater Indianapolis, we have spent over a billion dollars on sports stadiums and parks in the last 15 years, most of it coming from tax increases. Not even 4% of that has gone toward housing and homelessness. If anything, people are suffering more from our sin: from the slow, unjust systems we have created, from having the means as a society and as individuals to help, but choosing not to. From the self-righteous thought that they must be worse sinners than us, that they deserve this suffering.Yet, thankfully, the trying task of deciding which sins are worse, which deserve punishment and which don’t, is an unnecessary and unfruitful task—one Jesus is uninterested in.What I hear Jesus saying is: the people you assume are worse sinners than you are not. And unless we repent, unless we change our thinking, unless we turn to help, we will suffer too. As Bonhoeffer said, “We are bound together by a chain of suffering which unites us with one another and with God.” Because God doesn’t explain suffering; God shares it. To redeem all the suffering of the world, God did not command suffering to stop but rather became flesh in Jesus and suffered with us. It is by his suffering that we are redeemed and given the opportunity to lessen the suffering of others.We are the fig tree, given another year, another day, another moment to bear fruit, to lessen the suffering of others. In Jesus’ eyes, we are not a waste of soil, of resources, opportunities, or time—and neither are those who live in tents, stay in cars, or sleep on sidewalks.What does bearing fruit look like in our time and place? It’s simple, but not easy: It means doing what we can and acknowledging the humanity of those suffering around us. If you’re wondering how to begin, here are some ways you can bear fruit in this community. Next Sunday after second service, I am taking our high school students to Horizon House, an organization dedicated to helping our neighbors experiencing homelessness get permanent, safe housing. We’ll get a tour and make some sandwiches for their guests. You are welcome to come; just please let me know if you’re interested.And if that doesn’t work for you, consider reaching out to Lutheran Child and Family Services. They run the only long-term housing program for kids aging out of the foster system, many of whom are at the highest risk for homelessness. I learned just this week that their on-site pantry is running low and could use food donations. If you can help, reach out to me, and I’ll connect you with the right person.Lastly, I leave you with the same charge David Ambroz gave at the conference: we may not be able to help every person we see on the streets, and he can’t either. But he does acknowledge them. He looks them in the eye and says, “I’m sorry I can’t help today, but good luck.” If nothing else, we can do that—acknowledge their humanity with kindness and respect. When that happened to David as a child, it let him know, if even for a moment that he mattered, that there was hope. Our neighbors certainly deserve that. And what about us, do we deserve all that God gives us? The second chances, the boundless love, the endless grace with no strings attached? No. But thank God we don’t get what we deserve. Amen.

Luke 13:31-35At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.” He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’ Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’ ” We lie to our children. That is one thing I’ve learned in my brief two years of parenting. Most of them are innocent, harmless lies—if there is such a thing. “There are no more cookies, Clive! Mickey Mouse is going to sleep too. Oh sorry buddy, that toy is broken. Yes, that’s chicken, it’s chicken, just eat it!” Those are some of the more common ones in my household. I’m sure you have, or had, your own in your home. Or maybe you remember some that your parents told you. And if you are sitting here saying, "Well, I never lied to my kids," or “my parents never lied to me," I hate to break it to you, but you're lying right now and yes they did.This is not to shame any of us or to make you look at your own parents in a different light. Most of the time, the lies are told out of protection, care, and concern. We don’t want our kids to bear the weight of whatever it is: Spot went to live on a farm or Mommy and Daddy were just talking. This is normal and well-intentioned, no doubt. However, according to the novelist Allison Grant, there are some lies we tell, however well-intentioned, that do more harm than good.This past week, Allison wrote an op-ed in the New York Times about one of those lies—one she says she’ll never tell her children—and that is about pain. When something will hurt and how much. Now, I am sure you have a story about a time you told a white lie about how much something would hurt and everything turned out fine. Well, that wasn’t the case for Allison.She was born with one leg shorter than the other, by about three inches. When she was 11, she underwent a complex corrective procedure. Over 13 hours, surgeons drilled holes through her bones and attached a metal frame from the outside of her hip to her toe. For the next two years, the frame helped stretch Allison’s leg those three inches. Before the surgery, when she asked if it was going to hurt, she remembers being told, “Don’t worry, we have ways to manage any unpleasantness.” Reassuring, yes, but it skirted around the truth. Those two years, Allison was in excruciating pain, so much so that morphine, valium, and muscle relaxants were all needed on a regular basis just to mask it a bit.Reflecting on that experience, Allison writes, “The difference between what I was told and what I experienced shattered my faith in doctors and left me questioning whether I could trust adults at all. Now, as a parent—and through my years working in health care—I’ve made the conscious decision never to lie to people about pain.” Even with something small, she says, she is realistic about the pain they likely will encounter.This is not a sermon about parenting or about not lying to kids. I certainly don’t have all that figured out yet. Rather, I hope this lens of honesty on pain and danger helps us see how God, like a good parent, doesn’t lie to us about the danger and pain we’ll face—and how that truth sets us free.We all want to protect people we love from pain. But what if real love tells the truth, even about the pain? I’d like to think that’s what God did for Jesus. God was honest with Jesus about his life, his ministry, and the suffering, too. God didn’t protect him from Herods or sugarcoat the cross. And yet—Jesus walked ahead to Jerusalem.That is where we find Jesus in our story today. Teaching and healing from town to town on his way to the holy city when some guys come up and say, “You need to leave right now, Herod wants to kill you!” And Jesus responds with one of the best lines in all the Bible, “Tell that fox that I’ve got work to do, so just try to stop me.”Don’t you wish you could respond like that? Such confidence, such disregard for danger. Make no mistake—Herod was a very real and present danger who could invoke great pain. By this point in the story, he’s already thrown John the Baptist, Jesus' cousin, in jail and then beheaded him! But here in this scene, Jesus—the guy who always says, "Be not afraid"—shows all of us exactly what being not afraid looks like. “Sorry, Herod, I gotta keep going. I have work to accomplish, and you won’t stop me.”Don’t you want that? I mean, how is it that Jesus can face such danger, can be threatened with such pain, and not even flinch? I’d like to think, in part, it’s because God the Father was honest with Jesus, his only Son. That in the many hours of prayer and discernment, God told Jesus everything about the life and work that was before him. How he would cure people and cast out demons. How he would go to Jerusalem, though foxes would try to stop him. How he would hang on a cross if he chose—but that wouldn’t be the end because God promised resurrection.God didn’t lie about the pain and the danger. And because Jesus knew what was coming, he could face it all head-on, unafraid, trusting in the promises God had made him. We might not ever be as fearless as Jesus, because well we aren’t Jesus. But I do think God in Jesus is honest with us, too, about what we will face in our lives. And we hear that in this passage.There will always be foxes and Herods that are a real danger to us. We will face pain in this life. But here, Jesus makes another promise to us, one that can help us face the foxes. As a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wing, so does Jesus desire to gather and cover you.Notice I say cover you, not protect you. If you’ve spent any time around chickens, you know that a hen can’t actually protect her chicks from a fox. Those wings don’t do much of anything against razor sharp teeth and fast claws. And so you might think, “well what good is that then?!” If foxes and danger are inevitable, and a hen can’t truly keep her chicks safe, then what good is thinking of God as a Hen? Of all the animals Jesus could have picked to describe himself, why choose a mother hen?Because a hen’s love is stronger than any fear a fox instills. She will do all she can to cover her chicks, even gathering them with her wings while she gives up her own life to the fox. We all have foxes. The grief that lingers long after the funeral. The resentment or silence that frays marriages now barely hanging on by a thread. The words said or left unsaid that strain our friendships and families. The overwhelming pressure of raising children—how much screen time is too much, how to balance work and home, how to not fail them. The fear that no matter how hard we try, we are not enough. These foxes creep close, circling, threatening to undo us. But hear this promise: you are not left alone. You are gathered. You are covered. You are sheltered beneath the outstretched wings of Christ, alongside others just as weary as you. And in that love, we don’t find protection from the foxes, but courage. Jesus lays down his life so that we can live—not in fear, but with trust and in the promise of resurrection. The foxes do not get the last word.We cannot lie our way out of life’s pain, not to ourselves and not to our children. Allison ends that op-ed piece saying “We should tell our kids when it’s going to hurt. In the long run, it will hurt them a whole lot less.” That’s what God does with us, not to hurt us but to free us from fear and face the pain and danger in this world, trusting also that we do not face the pain alone. We have each other and we have the love that covers us, love that casts out fear. Amen.