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Posts from the ‘Incarnational’ Category

Peter Sees Jesus See Him

Passion Sunday C-19

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

“The Lord turned and looked at Peter” (Luke 22: 61).  As the cock crowed, as he denied him for the third time, Peter looked into Jesus’ eyes. But a few hours earlier, Peter thought he was ready to go with Jesus to prison and to death; yet he was not ready even to be identified as one of his associates.  In that moment Peter sees Jesus see him and know him.  Peter sees the ugly truth about himself. He sees further proof about Jesus: that he is the Messiah.  He sees the scale and tragedy of unfolding events all at once and he is overwhelmed.  Yet, for all that Peter saw in Jesus’ eyes that day, he did not see the resurrection.

Jesus came to put an end to all our scapegoating and sin accounting.  He came to set us right about God.  In Jesus we see God see us and know us. Yes—yet somehow despite this God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit now call you to come, to walk together following the way of the cross, from death into life. Amen.

Grace Beyond Explanation

Lent 5C-19

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

She took a pound of costly perfume, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair (John 12:3). This sensual and surprising story ushers us into the room where it happened among awkward feeling guests.  Judas and Mary are both eye-witnesses to Jesus and the gospel. Yet they have come to very different, even opposite, conclusions about its meaning.

Our gospel offers a tale of two disciples.  What they see is more important for what it reveals about what’s in their hearts, than for what it says about the event itself. You’ll notice this Sunday, we have stepped out from the gospel of Luke, who has been our companion and guide this liturgical year, and into the gospel of John.  Two meals display prodigal and extravagant generosity mark the beginning and end of what scholars call the Book of Signs in John’s gospel (chaps. 2–12).  The wedding at Cana (2:1-22) and this dinner party in Bethany (12:1-8) involving Mary.  Each occasion focuses our attention on the abundance of God’s love and the human responses to it. The critical question for faith is: What do you see?

To the analytical observer, extravagance without price, indulgence without upside, hospitality without reason, is called foolish and wasteful.  But to one who considers these events through the eyes of faith sees evidence of the kingdom of God.  Our scripture implies it is better to see with the eyes of faith.

The difference between the gospel and snake oil; between a con and authentic religion is that authentic religion ushers us into communion with the unconditional love of God. Grace is a gift without expectation of return.  True mercy is forgiveness without condition for forgiveness.  As the 13thcentury mystics said, “It is without the why.”   We in the Church pervert this gospel whenever we treat grace as if it were a product to be provided only by priests, sacraments, or the ecclesial machinery of our chosen faith tradition.

Those with eyes of faith come to regard all this talk of exclusion as mere rubbish.  As St. Paul wrote to the Christians in Philippi in our second reading, “Whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ…because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”(Philippians 3:7-8a)  Authentic religion invites all people to find their footing upon sacred ground and to build community upon the firm foundation of prodigal compassion, abundant grace, and radical hospitality that is without price, or explanation, or reward.

Mary, whom we read about in John’s gospel today, is among the first flowers to break free from the earth in Jesus’ garden.  She is among the first of Jesus’ true disciples, a fragrant inspiration to us and to people of faith throughout the centuries.

Our dinner party takes place after Jesus had raised Lazarus, Mary’s brother, from the grave.  After raising Lazarus, Jesus could no longer walk freely in public but instead had gone north to a little town called Ephraim where he stayed with the disciples.  At that time, Jerusalem was swollen with Passover pilgrims a-buzz with talk about Jesus. They were looking for Jesus and saying to one another as they stood in the Temple, “Surely he will not come here to the festival, will he?”  The Chief of Priests gave orders that anyone who knew where Jesus was should let him know so that they might arrest him (John 11:56, 57).

Just six days before the Passover, Jesus returned to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha –just a couple of miles outside of Jerusalem.  Jesus was a marked man and he knew it.  Yet, instead of withdrawing –instead of retreating further north—say to Damascus, or Tyre where he and the disciples might have profited from their notoriety—Jesus returned to the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha.  They prepared for him a great dinner party where Mary washed Jesus’ feet with her hair and anointed him with costly, fragrant perfume. It was extravagant.  It was sensual. It was an act of utter devotion.  It was in public.  It was beautiful.  It was something people never forgot.

Judas asked, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (John 12:5).  Indeed, the oil Mary used was very expensive.  300 denarii were roughly equivalent to a year’s salary. But here, Jesus gives us a new way to measure the value of how we invest our time and resources.  We take their true measure not in their utility for ourselves, but by their legacy of grace.  We measure our actions according to whether they inspire others to acts of faith, hope, and love.  Things worth doing linger in hearts and minds like blossoms of an apple tree or a fragrant perfume.

Mary’s gift is extravagant.  Judas is merely greedy.  Mary illustrates faith with loving actions.  Judas talks piously of ‘giving to the poor,’ but we know he is not sincere. Both Mary and Judas ‘prepare’ Jesus for burial –she by anointing him; he by betraying him.

“So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see everything has become new (2 Cor. 8:17). Out of the death of the old the new arises. Friends in Christ, our walk with Jesus will change us.  Life with Jesus will open us to new behaviors.  We do not act just like we used to.  You might not even recognize yourself anymore. Our Lenten journey with Jesus will open us to new dreams.  We shall become more like Mary and less like Judas.

Through the eyes of faith, we see the world differently. We see history is not just stuff that happens by accident. “We are the products of the history our ancestors chose –if we’re white. If we are black, we are products of a history our ancestors most likely did not choose.” Yet here we are all together, the products of that set of choices. And we have to understand that in order to escape from it.” (Kevin Gannon, the 13th)

Authentic religion reveals itself in what is true for all people, in all times, and places: Love of the stranger, care of a friend, compassion for those who are suffering. It is found in those simple things that offer their own reward and open hearts and minds. We find God waiting for us in these things that offer healing and give us joy and make life worth living. This is how we shed our fear and leave behind all the things that divide and separate us today. This is how we become one human family again.  Follow Mary. She knows the way.

The Prodigal God

Lent 4C-19

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

“Bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet” (Luke 15:22).  A robe, a ring, and some sandals were not for fashion or comfort or even for hygiene—although they imply all these things.  More important, these gifts restored status, ownership, and authority.  The wayward son is welcomed home with more than a lavish party.  The Father awarded him a new share in the estate he squandered by half.  The older brother has reason to be angry.

This father is a prodigal. That is, he is foolish, wasteful, extravagant with his love.  The young son is also a prodigal. He is immoderately callous and careless.  An outright failure, he realized the error of his ways.  On the long road home, he rehearses his apology again and again, but he doesn’t even have the time to say it all before the father, runs to meet him, and restores him fully to belonging.

God sets a higher priority on forgiveness than on being right. God places a higher value on reconciliation than on saving face.  Better to be humiliated than estranged. God has done what many of us would not.

For a child of God, family is family.  All are created in the image of God. Therefore, regardless of past actions, religious or political beliefs, none of us have the right to treat anyone differently. We have no excuse to exclude or condemn a person whom God does not view with unkindness or condemnation.  This is the great good news that can also be a tough pill for us to swallow.

Family is family for God.  How ironic, therefore, that family and intimate friendships are so often the place that we struggle most. Pulitzer Prize-winning author Eli Saslow chronicles the true story about a special relationship between a father, Donald Black, and his son Derek.  They traveled the country together for Don’s work starting when Derek was young. Derek enjoyed these trips and liked to help out.  In fact, Derek made a reputation for himself by creating a website, online games for kids, and a daily radio program for the so-called family business.  Looking back, Derek said of his dad, “We were always very close and could talk about everything.”  It seemed like an ideal childhood, except that racism was the family business.

Derek’s dad is the founder of Stormfront, the largest racist community on the internet. His godfather is David Duke, a KKK Grand Wizard.  By the time he was 19, Derek was already regarded as the ‘leading light’ of the fast-growing white nationalist movement in America.

Like the prodigal son, each of them squandered their birthright.  They frittered away their own inherent dignity by denying the full fruits of that dignity to people of color and to Jews.  Derek and his father Don are good examples of people we might feel justified in excluding.  Maybe they’re a little bit like the weird cousin or eccentric uncle we cut out from family gatherings.

This could be where the story ends—as it so often does—in brokenness, cut-off, alienation, and bitterness. But fortunately, for Don and Derek, and for us, we have a good, extravagantly loving prodigal father in heaven.  Jesus’ parable proclaims the stamp of incarnation imparted upon all creation.  The presence of God is present everywhere and in everyone alike.  Rocks and trees, plants and animals, seas and stars proclaim the greatness of the Lord God who has shamelessly claimed us and named us as her children.

In Rising Out of Hatred: the Awakening of a Former White Nationalist, Saslow tells how Derek Black realized the error of his ways.  Eventually, at tremendous personal cost, he disavowed the racism he was taught to believe. It happened because of the courage and grace of a casual acquaintance at college, named Matthew Stevenson, an Orthodox Jew, who set aside the vitriol and rage at Derek sweeping the campus and chose instead to do something different and even prodigal. Matthew went out of his way to meet him on the road, which is to say, he sent him a text message. “What are you doing this Friday night?” Matthew invited him to the weekly Shabbat dinners he held in his dorm. With hospitality, not judgment, dialogue not manipulation, after two years and including lengthy conversations with other intimate friends, Derek’s thinking finally began to change.

This improbable change came through non-judgmental friendship, kindness, and listening. It came through respectful dialogue without name calling.  Matthew believed people can change.  Family experience with Alcoholics Anonymous taught him that. He believed that faith compels him to “Reach out and extend the hand no matter who is on the other side.”  “It’s our job to push the rock,” Matthew said, “not necessarily to move the rock.” Each of us has opportunities to do this among people in our lives. We do not have a responsibility to complete the work, but we all are obligated to engage in the work. Faith compels us to confront the racism inherent in our American history.

Reflecting on this, Derek said, “There are moments I get quite pessimistic coming from the background I do. I’ve seen how effectively white nationalists can take pretty commonly held assumptions in America and elevate them to a level of hate that is fast, burns bright, and last’s a lifetime.”  It’s easy to quickly elevate a private grievance and turn it upside down, like whites are the ones being discriminated against.   Opposing hate is sometimes harder than inspiring it.

Being silent is a choice. We can’t challenge it by being silent. We have to actively work against these beliefs.  Speaking from his years of experience, Derek, says the people with the most power to douse the flame of white racism is another white person who calls B.S.  What is best for all people, including whites, are communities that thrive on diversity.

Our parable offers us a choice. Engage in the work of reconciliation or be like the older brother who refuses to join the party. Self-righteousness and judgmentalism became a stubborn obstacle to his own growth and renewal.  In these waning days of Lent, as our congregation considers ways to uncover our own blindness and complicity with racism—the great three-day banquet culminating in the Easter Vigil Saturday night, April 20th@ 7:30—remains ahead of us.  There is yet time for us to choose whether to accept the invitation to enter into the joy that is for all people.

We have a prodigal God. For all God’s children family is family. “O Lord of all the living, both banished and restored, compassionate, forgiving, and ever caring Lord, grant now that our transgressing, our faithlessness may cease. Stretch out your hand in blessing, in pardon, and in peace.” (ELW #606)

A Wilderness Road

Lent 1C-19

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

 

The first Sunday in Lent feels a long way from the cherished stories of incarnation we read at Christmas.  Mary spoke to Gabriel.  An angel counseled Joseph in a dream. The wise men followed a star, and the shepherds were led by a choir of angels to the manger in Bethlehem.  But for me, it’s not the manger but in the wilderness, where the Word becomes flesh and Jesus becomes someone I can relate to.

There were no heavenly anomalies on the day of my birth after all. No dove or heavenly voice to split the heavens at my baptism. But this wilderness story is different. I do know what it’s like to be in an environment where there is no clear path, where I feel overwhelmed, where circumstances make it difficult to decide what to do, or even know what the choices are.  Maybe you can relate too.

Jesus is still dripping wet from baptism when the Spirit led or compelled him into the desert.  It’s as if God couldn’t wait a moment longer.  He goes there to be credentialed. He goes to the DMV, the Department of Mission Validation, to get his Messiah’s license.  Jesus passed the test to show he understands the proper use of divine power.

Jesus proves he is not a fickle, self-serving friend.  We can rely upon on him to be there with us and for us no matter what.  This fact inspired Martin Luther to write A Mighty Fortress. God is like a warrior to fight beside us in the wilderness to vanquish those who would wish us harm. “Were they to take our house, goods, honor, child, or spouse, though life be wrenched away, they cannot win the day, the kingdom’s ours forever!” (Martin Luther, ELW #504)

In the wilderness, Jesus showed us how to be human, not divine.  He showed us that being human is enough. Like us, Jesus had to learn how to experience love when life feels like a bleak and lonely wasteland. He had to trust he could be beloved and famished, precious and “insignificant,” valued and vulnerable at the same time.  He had to learn how to find God’s indwelling care within his flesh-and-blood humanity. He had to learn how to distinguish truth from lies.

We have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever in baptism.  And also, we are marked with a cross soot on Ash Wednesday to remember that we are dust and to dust, we shall return.

It’s easy to tell the truth when the truth is welcome.  It’s easy to be generous when you have enough.  Easy to be compassionate when you’re not desperate. In the desert, Jesus gives us courage to make faithful choices even when our life is at risk, to speak the truth even when the truth is not welcome, to choose compassion for others even while we are drowning in our own fear.

If you aren’t in hell already due to real life and circumstances of your own, then Lent is your invitation to take a 40 day walk with Jesus in a metaphorical wilderness. “The goal is to sit with our hungers, our wants, our desires — and learn what they have to teach us.  What is the hunger beneath the hunger?  Can we hunger and still live?  Desire and still flourish?  Lack and still live generously, without exploiting the beauty and abundance all around us?  Who and where is God when we are famished for whatever it is we long for? Friendship, meaning, intimacy?  A home, a savings account, a family?” (Debie Thomas, Human and Hungry 3/3/19)

Specifically, this Lent, I invite you to stand and walk as you are able into the wilderness as we explore together the shape and depth of systematic racism.  This issue haunts and plagues our life, our city, and our nation.  I believe we must put our heads, hearts, and prayers together, to find a path forward or go deep enough to get at the root of this affliction.

Judging the movies, we seldom talk about racial reconciliation, and if we do, we prefer to tread lightly.  We’re more Green Book than BlacKkklansman; more Driving Miss Daisy than Do the Right Thing.  All four movies are funny, inspiring, and well written, but the two chosen as Best Picture depict a white character’s version of a black person’s life.

In 2019 the winning film, The Greenbook, doesn’t go far enough as a story of racial reconciliation.  The transformation of a bigoted white man who becomes friends with a black man while traveling through the American south in the Jim Crow era may be heart-warming, but we cannot confuse it for the work we are so urgently called to do now.  The truth is systematic racism will not be dismantled no matter how many inter-racial friendships we have.  That is because systematic racism is not really an interpersonal issue –it is a social, economic, cultural, and political one. It is real and pernicious, not only in the South, or in the past, or in the hearts of white nationalists, but in the very air we breathe and the life we all live and lurks in every corner of our society today.

We can be loved and hungry at the same time. We can hope and hurt at the same time. “In some ways, Jesus’s struggle in the wilderness brings the ancient story of human temptation full circle.  “Can you be like God?” is the question the snake poses to Adam and Eve in the lushness of the first garden.  “Will you dare to know what God knows?”  In the wilderness, the devil offers Jesus a clever inversion of those primordial questions: “Can you be fully human?  Can you exercise restraint?  Abdicate power?  Accept danger?  Can you bear what it means to be mortal?” The uncomfortable truth about authentic Christian power is that it resides in weakness. Jesus is lifted up — but he’s lifted up on a cross.” (Debie Thomas)

Today we must follow that path.  We walk the way Jesus laid out not knowing where it goes but that it is the right road.  The road through the wilderness is the way of the cross.  For each of us, following this winding path was not so much a choice, but a matter of life and death, a means of survival. What joy there is now to discover so many companions along the way.

Down the Mountain and to the Cross

Transfiguration C-19

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

We are standing on the threshold of Lent. We began Epiphany eight weeks ago following the magi to the manger.  On Wednesday, we begin a 40-day Lenten journey with Jesus’ to the cross ending on Maundy Thursday.

Standing in this open doorway, we are called to consider trying something new, or to give up something we like, to aid the Holy Spirit’s work in us this Lent.  Lent is an invitation to hush our routines and to listen for the rhythms of grace.  (You have three more days to think about it.)

In today’s gospel we read, Jesus got up early. He invited Peter, James, and John, to go on a walk. It was a day like any other. It was a day just like today. Yet, what transpired sounds like a scene from a Hollywood movie.  Jesus leads Peter, James, and John up a high mountain, and while he was there his face changed, his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning. Two heavenly figures, Moses and Elijah, stand there talking. They are discussing Jesus’ departure from Jerusalem when the disciples are overshadowed by a dense terrifying cloud from which they hear a heavenly voice saying, “This is my Son, my chosen; listen to him!” (Luke 9: 28-30; 34-35)

Perhaps Peter speaks for all of us when he says, ‘It is good, Lord, to be here.’  After all, this transfiguration moment seems like the perfect ending to Jesus’ story. Somehow, we imagine that growing in faith is a journey upwards –striving toward the mountaintop of glory, getting past the pearly gates, gaining entry into the kingdom of heaven, and shooting the breeze with Moses, Elijah, and all the other saints in light.  Yet, God has other plans.

Our story does not end on the mountain of transfiguration.  This magnificent scene is not the end but the beginning.  Faith that follows Jesus leads down the mountain.  It leads into the world. It steers us closer to those who are suffering.  The God we worship is immanent and transcendent—incarnate and mysterious.  For reasons that only love can explain, though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not regard equality with God as something to be grasped but came down, was born of human flesh, and lived among us, full of grace and truth. (Philippians 2:6 & John 1:14).

Incarnation is the ultimate journey downward. We finally see who Christ is not on the mountain, but decisively revealed at Golgotha on the cross.  The cross is where we learn that nothing, not even our most evil deeds, can break the bond with the indwelling and life-giving grace of God.  Not even death can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.  God has chosen what we would not.  Thanks be to God.

This story is ongoing.  It didn’t end all those years ago but continued. It is the never-ending story of God’s miraculous embrace which now includes our poor lives and the world around us.  In the arms of God, we undergo our own transfiguration, as we journey downward with God and walk the way of Jesus’ cross.  See, the veil between us and God is being lifted.  St. Paul writes, ‘we are being transformed by the image of God we all carry within us, from one degree of glory to another by faith. (1 Corinthians 3:18).  Our journey with Jesus, is an unveiling of the gospel, so that what is inmost and truest about who we are, may to some degree become manifest in us—not just upon our faces or in our eyes, but also so that it might be realized in our family, community, society and the world in which we live.

God has chosen what we would not.  This is the news that is too good to be true: God has sought us and rescued us, not despite the world, but for the sake of the world.  The prayer our Lord taught us is now our mission –that God’s name be made holy and God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Of course, all this can be and often is, too much for us.  The glare of God’s love burns too brightly.  It asks too much so that we, like the children of Israel standing before the radiant face of Moses, want to veil the gospel.  We become like Pinocchio lamenting that “He’s got no strings!” Over time, whether it is our culture, our religion, or simply we ourselves give in to the temptation to shroud what God has unveiled.  We make choices God would not.

I’m embarrassed to think now how I might have thought a few years ago for examples of this veiling in third-world countries or unfamiliar situations that mostly involved other people—not us.  If there is a silver lining to what we are experiencing today, it is that we know we are personally connected and unavoidably involved in this willful avoidance of the truth.

What a week it has been.  (I feel like I say that to myself every week.)  We could make a list.  One you may not have noticed that deeply grieves many of us was the decision by our Methodist brothers and sisters to renew their centuries-old discrimination of LGBTQI people. We in the ELCA have been full communion partners with the United Methodist Church for ten years.  We stand together in affirming the sacred worth of all God’s children of every orientation, gender identity, and/or biological make-up.

Following the example of our Lord Jesus Christ, we quite obviously also extend this affirmation of human dignity and sacred worth to people of color.  I don’t think there’s a person in this room who would deny that. But what is also manifestly obvious is that just saying it won’t make it true.  The vestiges of the old racial animus remain intact and operating in our legal system, our educational system, our banking system, our political system, in our cultural institutions, and in our church.  So-called ‘color blindness’ has become a convenient way for us to hide what we don’t wish to see.  Systematic racism cannot be wished away but must be dismantled.

This Lent I invite you to journey down the mountain with Jesus and gaze deeply into the face of human sorrows reflecting together on the plague of systematic racism.  You can join the conversation by signing up for one of the book discussion groups or attending one of the sessions planned at the forum.  You can make it a focus in your prayer and fasting, and/or your giving.  Let us do this to renew our church and to make it more welcoming as Jesus would have us do.

Debby Irving tells the story of her own journey in her book Waking Up White: Finding our Place in the Story of Race.  Born into a wealthy, privileged white family of New Englanders that pridefully traces its roots all the way back to the Mayflower, Irving encourages us to begin our own journey by examining whiteness, not class, as a key to understanding racism.  She humbly asserts that, if she can do it, anybody can.

This Lent let us choose what God has chosen. As living members of the body of Christ let us all become part of Christ’s glory so we, with unveiled faces, reflect the glory of the Lord Jesus, as we are being transformed into his likeness, walking with confidence following after him down the mountain bearing the light of Christ into a dark and weary world.  Amen.

You Are Mine

Baptism of our Lord, C-19

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

I read an old pastor joke about a young man who wanted to be baptized.  The pastor met with him and asked, “Baptism is a serious step; are you prepared for this?”  “I think so,” the young man said.  “My wife picked out appetizers, and we have a caterer to serve the meat and vegetables.”  “That’s not what I meant,” said the pastor. “I mean, are you prepared in spirit?” “Definitely,” the young man said. “We have both red and white wine.”

We conclusion we can immediately draw from this is that old pastor jokes are lame—and a little bit judgy.  Yet, another lesson might be that for an inherited faith like Christianity, sometimes cultural expectations can keep us from seeing what is most important.  We mix up the chaff with the kernels of wheat.

Martin Luther said, “A truly Christian life is nothing else than a daily baptism once begun and ever to be continued” (Large Catechism).  Every day, deep within us and mostly without our knowing, wheat is being folded into our chaff.  Baptism is an event and a process. The baptismal process of saint-i-fi-ca-tionis gradual, but the effect of the event is immediate.  We are indelibly marked with the cross of Christ once and for all. This sign, given in baptism, is today, given to those On The Way. The sign of the cross marks the spot where the treasure is buried. All people carry the spark of the divine image. Everyone is a beloved child of God.

From the prophet Isaiah we read the Lord who created you, who formed you, the lord of the cosmos, the author of Life, stoops to whisper directly in your ear: ‘Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I know you by name, you are mine’ (Isaiah 43:1)

This is the season of Epiphany.  It is the season we celebrate the many and various ways God has spoken to us—by the prophets and the Word; by water, wine and bread, through brothers and sisters down through the ages.  Epiphany means God is not content to remain in, with, and under all things.  God urgently desires to make herself known.

I’m still smiling at the memory of the children’s Epiphany pageant last Sunday.  Didn’t they do a great job?  Once again, we were inspired and moved by the story of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the manger at Bethlehem, of the wild start and of the wise men.  No less charming or profound was the child who took a big bite out of the communion bread before the procession. He was dressed like a lamb, but according to his understanding, he was really a wolf in sheep’s clothing! And then there were the wise men who managed to give baby Jesus just one of the three wonderful exotic gifts they had toted from afar—because they broke the other two. I wonder did the real wise men have parents who quickly and quietly cleaned up after them too? Or could we, like children, have become careless with the gifts of grace, discarding some of the precious wheat with the chaff?

In a world filled with war, cruelty, hunger, and disease; in a time when people everywhere are riven into warring clans and political tribes, isn’t it clear we need to hear again not only that we are beloved of God, but so is our enemy? This is the kernel that sprouts into wheat and yields fruit in us, thirty, sixty, and one hundred-fold. This is wisdom to repair our broken hearts and rebuild communion with one another.

Being beloved and knowing others are too means we can face together and begin to dismantle the legacy of systematic racism that afflicts us.  We can face with open eyes and hearts the truth that gender and sexual orientation are much more fluid and diverse than we previously thought.  We can start to build a new economy that is more sustainable.  We can become better family members, friends, and neighbors. Our baptism becomes more than words on a certificate or fancy cake. Baptism becomes more than fire insurance. It is a fire to separate the chaff from the wheat, to help us distinguish what is vital from what is dead.

“Child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” (ELW p. 231) These words go beyond merely re-assuring us because these are not merely human words, but a divine Word.  God’s declaration of love carries power to break the grip of fear and shame.  The announcement that you are God’s child has potency to break even the bonds of death.

In Marilynn Robinson’s lovely book, Gilead, a dying old preacher writes a long letter to his very young son for when the boy grows up, long after he is gone.  He writes, “There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is a power in that. I have felt it pass through me, so to speak. The sensation is of really knowing a creature, I mean really feeling its mysterious life and your own mysterious life at the same time”

A lot of us have been confused about this.  Baptism does not add to the divine spark God invests in our lives.  It brings it into sharper focus. We do not baptize so that God will love and accept us as children.  Baptism is not a pre-requisite to a relationship with God.  Instead, it is a lesson that God is active in with and under every person, plant, animal, and thing that lives.  Jesus commanded we be baptized so that we might finally and forever know who we are and what our life is really worth (Matthew 28).  We baptize to participate more fully in the mysterious presence of the undying life that has already joined us to each other.

Now our ignorance is ended, our awareness expanded, and wisdom has been planted so that the old ways of war and death might be replaced with God’s ways of peace and shalom, so that wheat may grow from the chaff.  Whether we remember our baptismal day is less important than remembering that we too are blessed and beloved. Even if we have not yet been baptized, we can rejoice that we are blessed and beloved, for baptism, as Gilead’s narrator reminds us, is a blessing that doesn’t make us or our lives sacred but acknowledges, recognizes that we are [all] being filled with God’s abundant grace.

This Side Up

Advent 4C-18

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

The angel Gabriel leaves, and Mary runs. “With haste,” straight to her kinswoman.  A newly pregnant teenager makes for the hills, not slowing down until she reaches the home of Elizabeth, her also-pregnant cousin. The Angel’s proposed plan is preposterous and dangerous, but Mary said “yes!”

When her kinswoman welcomes her, she bursts into song — a song so subversive, governments twenty centuries later will ban its public recitation. (Debie Thomas)

Mary runs and finds community. She finds solidarity, someone who knows and understands. In their embrace, they find an answer to the question they each carry in the privacy of their own hearts. ‘No, they are not crazy.’  This is happening. God confirms again it is true, not with an angel choir, or a roaming star, or a voice out of heaven, but with the leap of joy Elizabeth felt in her womb.  According to scripture, Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months, or until John after was born before returning home to an uncertain future with Joseph in Nazareth (Luke 1: 56).

These are real women, in flesh and blood, in whom the fullness of the mystery of God was pleased to dwell and through whom God’s plan for the salvation of the whole world was entrusted.  This is the miracle and promise of the incarnation. Once we see and trust the Mystery even in the simple piece of clay we are, then we can begin to see it in each other. We start to see the divine image within ourselves, in each other, and in all things. This is the precious gift Mary and Elizabeth offer you again this Christmas. If you receive nothing else your life will become a fountain of blessing to you.

But there is more. Luke essentially describes how to be the church to one another.  It could be called the very first Christian worship service. Mary and Elizabeth — the young and the old, the unmarried and the married, the socially established and the socially vulnerable — finding common ground in their love for Jesus. It has been the same ever since.  Look around you. It is not clear what we possibly all have in common, but for Christ Jesus who calls us by name and claims us as God’s own child. As Henri Nouwen said of today’s gospel, “God’s most radical intervention into history was listened to and received in community.” What a gorgeous and challenging example for us to live up to.

Mary received the gifts of community, blessing, and hope from Elizabeth. Together, they formed a church, the living Body of Christ. These very same gifts we offer each other. What do you say when someone gives you everything you could want or ever need? Mary responded by singing.

Mary sang a song she knew by heart.  It was from scripture, from 1 Samuel 2:1-10. It was the song of another young woman named Hannah. It was already centuries old when Mary took it up and made it her own.  The Magnificat, we now call it. Mary’s song is sung every time and place the church gathers for Evening Prayer as we did this past week (and will do again tonight at Immanuel). It is read every year on the fourth Sunday of Advent.

This song of Mary is the oldest Advent hymn. As I mentioned before, reading it has been banned in certain places because it was considered subversive, fostering revolution.  The Magnificat was excluded from evening prayer in churches run by the British East India Company in India. Years later Gandhi requested Mary’s song be read everywhere the British flag was being lowered on the final day of imperial rule in India.  The junta in Argentina forbade the singing of Mary’s song after the Mothers of the Disappeared displayed its words on placards in the capitol plaza. And during the 1980s, the governments of Guatemala and El Salvador prohibited any public recitation of the song.

Today, we hunger and pray for God’s kingdom to come.  We are impatient for the leaders of this world to be toppled and for the lowly to be lifted up.  This is how God answers us?  With a song? A song so simple, ephemeral, here for a moment and vanishing the next. What is that compared to armaments, or the ingenious power of evil to inflict pain, or the ability of the few to assert control over and against the many now arrayed against us?

What makes rulers recoil and tremble at this song?  It engenders hope. Singing makes those who sing into a community, however briefly. Mary’s song imparts a blessing upon each of us as bearers, with Mary, of the divine image. The gift of Mary’s song is the seed corn of the church. Here, the seed of the dangerous preposterous gospel is broadcast with abandon. Words of grace are sewn by singing in the good soil within every human heart accessible, known, and belonging only to God.

Here, for Christmas, is the sturdy faith of our ancestors. It carried them through adversity and injustice far greater than we experience today.  Stop wringing your hands they say. Clap and sing the ancient songs you know by heart.  Make them your own for hope to be kindled, for peace to be shown, for righteousness and justice to roll down like waters now today and upon our children.

This too would be more than enough if we received nothing else this Christmas. But there’s still more in this bottomless box of grace—which honestly, we can never fully explore—to help make heads or tails of our topsy-turvy lives.  Mary’s gift comes marked with a sign that says, “this end up.” You can’t plant tulip bulbs upside down. You don’t open a box from the wrong end. You can’t make sense of an English sentence without moving from left to right, and in life, you won’t make headway without knowing the first shall be last and the last first. Mary’s song has clued us in. The ways of this world are upside down from what really matters. We mostly go about it all wrong.

For centuries, Christians have served as living invitations to a right-side-up life rooted in God’s love for an upside-down world.  Despite terror and persecution, the church thrived because people who encountered Jesus’ followers were impressed by what they saw and heard. “They saw lives that had been transformed—men and women who were ordinary in every way except for the fact that they seemed to have found the secret of living” (Huston Smith, The Soul of Christianity)

Living inside God’s embrace transforms our lives with love.  Unexpected and mysterious, this perfect love casts out fear.  Perfect love lifts our spirits.  Perfect love has kindled joy and renewed our hope.  As Mary’s song proclaims, God in Christ Jesus has set us right side up. What is left for us to do but sing?

The Road Home

Advent 2C-18

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

“Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth” (Luke 3:5).

Ancient words about roads like these don’t sound miraculous anymore. Modern roads everywhere make the way straight and smooth.  Bridges raise valleys and tunnels level mountains. Yet, to our forebears in faith, Isaiah’s roadway was an answer to prayer, an interstate highway home through the dangerous desert wilderness, straight and fast, from Babylon to Israel, from slavery to freedom, from death to life.

In my younger years, the road home led south on I-35 to Des Moines, and west along I-80.  I remember driving between Minnesota and Colorado late at night in the middle of a winter storm.  I could only see the dotted center line to my left and the solid white line to my right. With the foolishness of youth, I just aimed the car between those two lines and trusted the road to be there through miles of open country, over hills and rivers, in the darkness, through blinding snow.

Perhaps we take roads for granted.  In the wilderness, once you find a road, you find your way.  You’re no longer lost. Isaiah’s royal highway led people home without a map, without exhausting themselves, without special knowledge.  They didn’t have to do anything but follow the road home.

Next to God’s kingdom, there should be a sign that reads, ‘If you lived here, you would be home by now.’ God’s kingdom is already, always, everywhere, here and now.  Our truest home travels with us.  It’s never far away.  John stands signaling at the on-ramp for the lost to be found, for those stumbling in deep darkness to find light, for the hungry to find food and for those who thirst to find living water to drink.

It’s John the Baptist, after all, and not St. Nick whom Luke calls “prophet of the Most High” (Luke 1:76).  It’s the wild and wooly John whom God appointed to prepare the way for the infant Jesus. So, we should listen when John announces there is something more than a messy pile of wripped boxes and wrapping paper coming into our lives.  God is coming. Grace un-folding and abounding is making a way again to us.  A royal highway is being prepared. God in Christ Jesus will bring low the high obstacles. Christ will straighten the crooked pathways. Christ is working out a way to you and to bring you home again, amid shouts of joy.

In the fifteenth year of an Emperor, when governor so-and-so and two other rulers had authority, and the high priesthood of (blank) and of (blankety-blank) were in charge in Jerusalem, the word of God came—not to any of them—but to John, son of nobody you’ve heard of, in the wilderness. (Luke 3:1-2). Luke’s gospel is a shot across the bow to political and religious wind-bags and despots everywhere. God’s holy highway breaks through the wilderness, from the margins, among the lowly. The voice in the wilderness cries out for the way of God to be prepared with relentless urgency.

The wilderness is a place that exposes our need for God. It’s also a place that calls us to repentance. For 21st century Christians like us though, “sin” and “repentance” are weaponized words we fear will lead, not to liberation, but to humiliation.

So, what is sin?  Growing up, we were taught that sin is “breaking God’s laws.”  Or “missing the mark,” as an archer misses his target.  Or “committing immoral acts.”  These definitions are incomplete. They imply sin is a problem only because it angers God.  But God’s temper is not what God is worried about.

“Sin is a problem because it kills.  It kills us.  Why?  Because sin is a refusal to become fully human.  It’s anything that interferes with the opening up of our whole hearts to God, to others, to creation, and to ourselves…Sin is estrangement, disconnection, sterility, disharmony.  Sin is apathy.  Care-less-ness.  A frightened resistance to an engaged life.  Sin is the opposite of creativity, the opposite of abundance, the opposite of flourishing.  It is a walking death.  And it is easier to spot, name, and confess a walking death in the wilderness than it is anywhere else.” (Debie Thomas, Journey with Jesus, From the Wilderness, 12/02/18)

Maybe the biggest surprise is that the road to heaven Christ opens has also linked us with each other.  The pathway to God runs through, not over, our fellow human beings.  As if by some miracle we reach our destination in a moment, all in an instant, not by coming to the end of the road but simply by being on the road.  Walking the way of Christ, we are in Christ.  Christ is with us and we are with one another.

That’s why people matter, justice matters, how we live makes a difference not only for those around us but for us too. The peaceable kingdom is more than a dreamy vision of heaven. It is God’s dream for the world.  If ever once you’ve lived there then you know you’re already home no matter where you travel.

The apostle Paul was a living example. The church in Philippi, located on the coast of northern Greece, was of particular delight to Paul.  It was the first church he established among the Gentiles of ancient Macedonia.  Lydia, a successful businesswoman, a trader in ‘purple cloth’ was his first convert there. It seems Paul and Silas stayed in Philippi quite a while.  Paul wrote, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you.” (Phil. 1:3-4).  Paul’s words are particularly striking given that he wrote this letter to his brothers and sisters in Philippi while he was still in prison.

What did Paul find to be so joyful about?  Living conditions in an ancient jail left much to be desired.  Yet, across the miles, Paul continued a deep relationship with the Philippians.  Their mutual affection strengthened them and was a source of grace despite the locks, walls, and obstacles between them.

John Wesley once observed there is no such thing as a solitary Christian.  Through the gift of baptism into Christ’s body, we have all received the gift by which we, like Paul and the Philippians, are bound together into one family of God. It comes without shiny paper, ribbons or bows.  It comes with Christ’s promise, announced by John the Baptist: “every mountain and hill shall be made low”.

It comes as we move forward in faith, keeping the dotted line of compassion and forgiveness for one another on our left, and the solid line of God’s steadfast love on the right.  You don’t need anything more.  You don’t need any special knowledge or skill.  You don’t have to know where you are to find your way home and into the loving arms of God.

The church is the gathering of those once scattered. Diverse and different, we are one in Christ.  The church is also a sending forth of those gathered. We are right where we need to be—we dwell securely in the house of the Lord—as we stay on the move, walking the way of the cross as Jesus did.  The one who came, and is coming draws us together, holds us together.  We are together in our life in God, moving together toward the consummation of all things.  (William Willimon) Rich and poor, slaves and free, male and female, young and old, gay and straight, Jew and gentile, Christians and non-Christians. All are welcome.  We are joined in one great communion by the Advent of our God. Let the people say, Amen!

Be the Already

Advent 1C-18

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

And so, our story begins. This first Sunday in Advent our gospel comes from St. Luke as will be our custom throughout the coming year.  Notice, the Church begins its new year when the days are still getting darker.  Advent is not a season for the faint of heart. In place of swaddling clothes, twinkly stars, and fleecy lambs — each year we begin the story of God looking fiercely and honestly at the world as it really is, here and now.  Gorgeous, fragile, and falling apart.

“People with faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken” (Luke 21:26).  In prophetic language that sounds distressingly contemporary, Jesus describes a world reeling in pain. “When you see these things,” Jesus says, don’t turn away.  Don’t hide.  Why?  Because it’s only when we embrace reality — when we acknowledge and welcome the “here” of human suffering — that we experience the nearness of God.

In Advent, endings and beginnings run together. Ancient truths and dreams of the future teach a single startling truth: our creator and redeemer are one and the same. Our living God, the Ancient of Days, is our Alpha and Omega, our beginning and our end.  Today, and in this season, the past and future join hands to guide us in navigating the difficulties of this present moment and lead us into the loving embrace and the ongoing work of God that is already, always, and at all times everywhere.

This present moment is all we ever actually own in life. Yet it can be really hard to focus solely on the here and now. American novelist Flannery O’Connor once wrote, “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost blind, you draw large and startling figures.”  That’s precisely what Jesus does in his prophetic wake-up call in our gospel today.  He shouts, he draws startling figures, and he uses every rhetorical device at his disposal to snap his listeners to attention.  “Be on guard,” he warns his disciples.  “Be alert.”  “Stand up and raise your heads.”  Look.

It is hard for people today, reading this gospel today, not to think the end-times Jesus is talking about is only about the future—possibly even the distant future—when Christ returns to the world again in glory from on high.  We forget the most important part of this message: the apocalypse is also now. Lutheran theologians are fond of saying the kingdom of God is already and not yet. Christ our king is already here. The victory is won but the struggle with the power of fear and death continues. Somehow we focus on the ‘not-yet,’ and  neglect the ‘already.’ The hopeful message of Advent is watch, wait, look, be part of the already!

Lauren Wright Pittman is an artist and Presbyterian pastor who created the beautiful image we have in our worship folders today entitled, “Raise Your Head.” She writes, “Jesus says to respond to these apocalyptic signs with staggering hope and confidence. When it feels like the very foundations of the heavens are crumbling, we are to stand up. When the roaring sea and the waves confuse us, when the sun, moon, and stars come tumbling out of the sky, we are to raise our heads. When the news cycle feels like an endless fire hose, people pour into the streets in protest, families are separated, and fires blaze through neighborhoods, we are to stand up and confidently usher in and claim the redemption that God promises.”

Be the already.  Focus on what’s not yet makes us into passive spectators, leads us down blind alleys and into fruitless speculation.  “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father” (Matthew 24:36).  Instead, the meaning of the cross and of the resurrection is that you can be part of God’s already.

Advent calls for brutal honesty, even when honesty leads us straight to lamentation. In Advent, we are invited to describe life “on earth as it is,” and not as we mistakenly assume our religion requires us to render it.  We are invited to shout forth our pain and bewilderment.  To name the seeming absence of God.  Advent is an invitation to yearn.  That is, to name the “here” of our desires without shame or reservation.  Advent is the season when longing makes sense.  Advent is an invitation to imagine.  In Advent, we are called to hope creatively.   To hope against the grain.  Or as Barbara Brown Taylor puts it, we’re called to trust that “darkness does not come from a different place than light; it is not presided over by a different God.”

“Advent is an antidote to illusion.  It cuts to the chase.  It insists on the truth.  It lays us bare.  Advent invites us to dwell richly in the here, precisely because here is where God dwells when the oceans heave, the ground shakes, and our hearts are gripped by fear.  “When you see these things,” Jesus says, hope fiercely and live truthfully.  Deep in the gathering dark, something tender continues to grow.  Yearn for it, wait for it, notice it, imagine it.  Something beautiful — something for the world’s saving — waits to be born.” (Debie Thomas, “When You See These Things,” Journey with Jesus, 11/25/18)

Former President George H. Bush died Friday.  He was 94.  A reporter for the New York Times, Peter Baker gave this accounting of his final hours. “George Bush had been fading in the last few days. He had not gotten out of bed, he had stopped eating and he was mostly sleeping. For a man who had defied death multiple times over the years, it seemed that the moment might finally be arriving.

His longtime friend and former secretary of state, James A. Baker III, arrived at his Houston home on Friday morning to check on him.

Mr. Bush suddenly grew alert, his eyes wide open.

“Where are we going, Bake?” he asked.

“We’re going to heaven,” Mr. Baker answered.

“That’s where I want to go,” Mr. Bush said.

Barely 13 hours later, Mr. Bush was dead. The former president died in his home in a gated community in Houston, surrounded by several friends, members of his family, doctors and a minister. As the end neared on Friday night, his son George W. Bush, the former president, who was at his home in Dallas, was put on the speaker phone to say goodbye. He told him that he had been a “wonderful dad” and that he loved him. “I love you, too,” Mr. Bush told his son. Those were his last words.” (Peter Baker, “George Bush’s Final Days,” NYT, 12/01/18)

I never voted for him, but from the perspective Advent provides, his kinder, gentler style of leadership looks like something essential we must reclaim for ourselves going forward. For mortals, our beginning and ending inevitably come together. See! They lead us to the same place. “The bridegroom comes! Awake.  Rise, prepare the feast to share; go meet the bridegroom who draws near.” (ELW #436)  Together, let us be the Already.

Peace. Shalom. Salaam.

Christ the King B-18

Immanuel Lutheran, Chicago

Peace. Shalom. Salaam.  It was apocalypse now last Sunday.  People of faith throughout Edgewater streamed to the throne of God as foretold in the book of Revelation for the annual ECRA Thanksgiving Service.  Looking out at the large, diverse, happy crowd assembled at the Ismaili Center, Congresswoman Jan Schakowsky read the Thanksgiving Proclamation by Abraham Lincoln and said, “I haven’t felt so at peace in a very long time.”

Let we who were there testify. At the-end-of-days people of God sat on metal folding chairs. Among the Saints of God are some who sing well and many who don’t. There are some that are concise and articulate and many who are long-winded. For the apocalypse, worship will run long but there is guaranteed to be a spirit of joy, generosity, and thanksgiving. As modeled by our hosts at the Ismaili Center, at the end times, there will be a dedicated and devoted attention to hospitality. Each and every person will find a welcome to rival the Prodigal Son.

Could the world be about to turn?  Could it finally be the end of this old tired world?  Could the reign of hatred, fear, and division ever possibly end?  “Peace. Shalom. Salaam,” we sang.  These words are like a prayer that echoes an ancient gospel long forgotten and seldom proclaimed anymore from tens of thousands of Christian pulpits, and ten thousand times ten thousand Christian communities. Christ our king does not build a wall to separate us from people different faiths or no faith at all, but a bridge.  Christ our king reigns from a throne not in heaven but here on earth. The end-of-days is now. See! The kingdom has already come like a child waiting to be born in us. These are the days of the birth pangs. The evidence is all around us.

Midway airport was mostly quiet last night in stark contrast to the crush of holiday travelers and the approaching winter storm expected to hit there today. I went to meet Leah who flew home alone after spending Thanksgiving with family in Los Angeles.  I remembered a time, not so many years ago, we watched together as the first snow of the season gently fell across Chicago.  Leah was thrilled –and in that remarkable way a young child sees the world—she said, “I can’t believe how God makes every snowflake different.  I get tired cutting out paper ones.”  We both agreed.  We’d stop making new patterns of snowflakes at about twelve.

The first three verses of the gospel of John read, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came to be through him, and without him, nothing came to be.”  (John 1:1-3) Snowflakes, trees, blades of grass, and people—each one unique for all time—this is the kind of king we have.  Standing under guard before Pilate, we must admit he is not the sort of king we expected.  Mocked, abused and crucified, he’s probably not the kind of king we wanted.  Jesus wields power made perfect in weakness. (2 Cor. 12:9) Jesus rules with love, justice and mercy, and forgiveness. Again and again, we are tempted to doubt his power. [Yet] What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. (John 1:4) Peace. Shalom. Salaam.

The ancient gospel proclaimed by early Christians in the Book of Acts declare the same thing. They preached “Jesus is the [Eternal] Christ” (2:36, 9:22) and therefore the deepest pattern for everything that preceded and followed him. Jesus is God’s divine Logos, the blueprint by which the universe was made, and through which it is now being sustained.  As the Book of Revelation puts it, the Christ is “the Alpha and the Omega” of all history and of all creation (1:8, 21:6, 22:13).  Let the end times begin with us.

Many of us are taught Christ is God’s plan B.  Jesus came into the world to solve the persistent problem of human sin. We were taught that is was God and not us who demanded Jesus had to die. Yet as he stands in the Roman Praetorium, ready to take the throne of his cross, now we see the full truth.  Christ is God’s plan A. From the very beginning, Jesus the Christ is the very meaning, purpose, direction, beauty, joy, goal, and fulfillment of the whole divine adventure. (Richard Rohr, Daily Meditation, 11/2/15) Jesus is the revealer of the One “who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.” (Revelation 1:8)

Peace. Shalom. Salaam. We will have to radically expand our idea of king and ruler to take in what this means. “With this perspective, Christianity need not compete with other religions; rather, authentic Christians can see and respect the Christ Mystery wherever and however it is trying to reveal itself–which is all the time and everywhere, and not just in my group.”  Martin Luther said whatever preaches Christ is the gospel regardless of who said it or where you encounter it.  For the apocalypse to be now all tribalism becomes impossible.

In Another Turn of the Crank, the Kentucky sage, Wendell Berry, writes, “I take literally the statement in the Gospel of John that God loves the world. I believe that the world was created and approved by love, that it subsists, coheres, and endures by love, and that, insofar as it is redeemable, it can be redeemed only by love. I believe that divine love, incarnate and indwelling in the world, summons the world always toward wholeness, which ultimately is reconciliation and atonement with God.”[Wendell Berry, as quoted in Spiritual Ecology: The Cry of the Earth, Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, ed. (The Golden Sufi Center: 2013), 77.]

Christ our king leads the way. We will not know God, ourselves, each other, or anything else that exists except by entering into communion. To try to know something without first loving it is not to know it very well at all. Our failure to understand Christ our King in this fundamental way has made much of the Christian search for truth brutal, arrogant, divisive, the possession of a few, and confined almost entirely to our heads.  I take joy in the fact that as we move deeper into the 21stcentury, Christians seem to be re-discovering the way of Christ our king is the way of incarnation, the way proclaimed by the very name of our dear congregation.  Immanuel is the way we become a living sanctuary of hope and grace.

The French-born author Anais Nin famously once said, “We don’t see things as they are.  We see them as we are.”  We must be changed, renewed, refreshed, refashioned, reformed and resurrected.  In Christ, the old world is passing away. See! A new kingdom has begun. We join our prayers with those of every place and generation. “Let your kingdom come and your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven!  Let our eyes be opened, our ears be unstopped. Let our hearts of stone be replaced with hearts of flesh starting now. Peace. Shalom. Salaam. Let the apocalypse begin right here, right now, among us.  Yes, this Jesus is a different kind of king.  Let the people say …Amen!

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