Sermons

Sermon: Sunday, September 10, 2017: Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost — Leave-Taking and Farewell to St. Luke’s Lutheran Church of Logan Square

Texts: Ezekiel 33:7-11  +  Psalm 119:33-40  +  Romans 13:8-14  +  Matthew 18:15-20

Before I headed off to seminary — the first time, almost twenty years ago — I reached out to all of my former pastors, people who’d known me since I was a child. I needed their help as I tried to understand what it might mean for me to set off on this path, when the ending was so unclear. I wanted to know if they thought I was making a mistake. After all, what was I hoping for, going to seminary as an openly gay man at a time when our church refused to ordain gay people?

AR-304059984.jpg&q=80&MaxW=550&MaxH=400&RCRadius=5Each of my pastors shared their own bits of wisdom with me, but one pastor’s response in particular sticks out to me as I stand here with you for the last time in my capacity as your pastor. Pastor Elton Richards of St. John’s Lutheran Church in Des Moines, Iowa, who’d known me during my high school years, told me to “keep singing.”

He’d always said kind things about my voice when I was younger. He’d ask, “How’s my favorite tenor doing?” He did the same with my mom, who has a beautiful soprano voice. So when he signed his letter to me, reflecting on my call to ministry, with the words “Keep singing,” I didn’t think much of it at first. It seemed like another way of saying, “I remember you. I see your gifts.” And even if that’s all he was saying, that would’ve been powerful enough. “I remember you. I see your gifts.”

I think about how powerful those words could have been to the people of St. Luke’s twelve years ago, just before we began this redevelopment. The handful of people who’d clung to the hope that their congregation might still have a future, when the rest of the church had all but given up on them. “I remember you. I see your gifts.”

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St. Luke’s Lutheran Church of Logan Square; October, 2006

But, whether he meant more than that or not, Pastor Richard’s words to me have come to mean more than being seen and acknowledged. For me, “keep singing,” means something more than sharing my gifts, it means “be yourself.” It means, “tell the truth.” It means, “don’t stop now.” It means, “change is coming.”

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Photo of “The Baltic Way” (1989)

It wasn’t until I went to seminary — the first time — that I learned about the Singing Revolution, the term coined by the Estonian artist and activist, Heinz Valk, to describe the non-violent means by which the peoples of Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia sought their freedom from the Soviet Union in the late 80s and early 90s. In one of the most famous of these actions, the Baltic Way, about two million people joined hands to form a human chain that stretched over four hundred miles, crossing the national borders of all three Baltic states. Together, they sang songs that expressed their hope for a new nation, a new future. Through a series of actions like this one, Estonia regained its independence without violence or bloodshed.

The text we’ve heard this morning from Romans is now, for me, forever a song. “You know what time it is, now is the moment to wake from sleep. Salvation is nearer to us now, is nearer now then when we first believed. The night is far gone, the day is near. You know what time it is, now is the moment to wake from sleep.” (Rom. 13:11-12) We’ve used this text as a sung gospel acclamation during the season of Advent for years, so that now, when I read those words and hear that tune, I also remember that season: Advent, a season that fills the long nights with songs about the coming light, about hope for a new tomorrow, about God’s faithfulness to God’s promises.

0225BACE-C31A-447F-B5F3-CF9241BD91D1Despite the great love I have for you, and the light that floods this room through these larger-than-life windows facing out onto the street, in many ways the world outside this sanctuary feels trapped in a long and lengthening night. There’s no way we can gather this morning for worship without naming the devastation that’s been taking place during this hurricane season. Harvey has been called “the worst disaster in Texas history.” At least seventy people died and recovery efforts will take years. Irma is breaking records for intensity and duration, and left a path of devastation across the Caribbean before landing in Florida yesterday. Hundreds of thousands of people have been advised to flee the storm in “one of the largest evacuations in American history.” All credible science tells us that the intensity and frequency of these storms is connected to climate change, and that we should plan to see this trend get worse as long as we continue to ignore the ecological crisis in which we are now living.

And, in some kind of societal equivalent to the devastation of the natural world, we also seem to be living in the eye of another storm of racism and nationalism, as politicians pour gasoline on the fires of racial resentment and white supremacy for short term personal gain at the expense of our common life as a nation. From the riots in Charlottesville to the rescinding of DACA protections for the Dreamers in our communities, we have every reason to think that this storm will continue to rage on as well, as long as we ignore the root causes of the human crisis we have created.

This is what God tells the prophet Ezekiel to announce to the nation: “Turn back, turn back, from your evil ways!” (Ezek. 33:11) That is our job as well, to keep singing, to keep telling the truth, to never give up, to herald the dawn while the night still feels long.

It feels almost ridiculous to try to connect the massive destruction being done to people and places by these raging forces of nature (both human and environmental) and the intimate moment we are sharing here, together, as we say goodbye to each other after eleven years of ministry. But it is not. Not at all.

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Kerry and Pastor Erik, Farewell Patio Party; September 4, 2017

On Monday night you all shared such kind words with me and Kerry about what our ministry together here at St. Luke’s has meant to each of you. Something Katie Baxter said has stuck with me all week. She said that I brought with me a gift for reminding St. Luke’s of its story, and telling it back to you over and over again. It meant so much for me to hear you say that, because that’s exactly what I was trying to do. It’s what all of us who preach are trying to do: to remind the church of who we are in light of who God is, to keep singing the song that started long before our verse began.

So let me do this with you one last time. Let me remind you of the part you play in the larger story, your verse in the cosmic song:

When I came to you, after a long journey of my own in which the odds seemed stacked against me, the church as it was did not recognize my ministry in this place. In the technical jargon that props up institutions, the pulpit at St. Luke’s was listed as “vacant” for the first few years of our work together.

What we did, as piece by piece we began to rebuild the foundations of this congregation, was to contribute one more story to a narrative that had already been forming for decades, a story that showed how God calls people from all walks of life, of every sexual orientation and gender identity, to lead God’s church. Our story, our success, was part of a great human chain that stretched across the church, sometimes quite literally across the floors of synod and churchwide assemblies, creating change out of nothing more than hope for the children coming up behind us, faith in the God of liberation, and the songs that kept us standing. We stood against that storm and it did not overcome us. It was we who overcame, and we shall overcome again and again until the whole human family is free.

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You are a part of that chain. We are a part of that much longer chain. The bonds between us. The love we’ve shared. The church we’ve built. The future we’ve imagined. None of that is going away. Everything we’ve been doing until now has just been part of the labor pains, one great push toward the delivery of the new creation.

Now is not the time to stop pushing. Now is the time to take a deep breath and look one another in the eye, to take hold of one another’s hands, to remember who we are and what we were made for. The sounds that come next may sound as much like a howl as a song, but they will carry the truth of this moment to ears that have been longing to know, waiting to hear if the church has anything to say, anything to sing, that makes any kind of difference in times like these. So the songs we sing next, wherever our journeys take us, had better not be confined to these small places. They need to be heard out in the world, in the streets, in the halls of power, at the voting booth, in the break room, over countless meals with family and friends and strangers.

As you set off on the next leg of your journey now, the path unclear but the destination absolutely certain, I have only hand-me-down words to offer. Thankfully, hand-me-down words are to a preacher what notes are to a composer — you’ve heard them all before, but they still have the power to move you. So I’ll leave you with some of the best words I’ve ever heard.

Keep singing.

Keep singing.

Keep singing.

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Sermons

Sunday, September 3, 2017: Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Texts: Jer. 15:15-21  +  Ps. 26:1-8  +  Rom. 12:9-21  +  Matt. 16:21-28

IMG_1120We’re getting close to the end, can you feel it?

In both Paul’s letter to the Romans and Matthew’s account of Jesus’ ministry, the end is coming into view. For Paul, this takes the shape of what sound very much like parting words, “Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; Love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor” (Rom. 12:9-10) and so on. In Matthew, the inevitable end is the cross but when Jesus begins to speak plainly about it, Peter demonstrates a certain level of denial about what Jesus has been doing and what it will cost him.

Gen-Net-drafts-768x768Coincidentally, perhaps, St. Luke’s is in a very similar moment. By now you’ve heard the announcements, you’ve gotten the postcard encouraging you to sign up for a pair of dinner conversations, and in just a few weeks now you’ll begin “workshopping the story” of just how it is that St. Luke’s proposes to be a powerful church that transforms lives and changes the world. The conversations you have in these small groups will shape the narrative that will become the basis for your 2018 budget — which is another way of saying, what you are doing and what it will cost you.

When Jesus gets clear about what he is doing and what it will cost him, he begins to describe the inevitable conflict that will occur in Jerusalem when he brings his life-giving, liberating message of divine love to the local seat of imperial power. He fully understands that his ministry will raise tension and unmask the ongoing violence between the empire and the colonized in such a way that the system of domination will use every tool at its disposal to end the conflict quickly. For the Roman Empire in the first century, this meant crucifixion.

It’s absolutely important to understand this because, without this understanding, Jesus’ words to his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me,” sound like an encouragement to passive acceptance of pain and suffering in their lives. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people say something along the lines of “we all have our crosses to bear” as a way of saying “life is hard and painful.” That is not what Jesus is saying. Jesus is not asking those who follow him to resign themselves to lives of chronic pain and crushing burdens.

Instead, Jesus is asking for something much harder. Jesus is asking the disciples to examine their lives and discern the ways that life under the empire has forced or enticed them into settling for something less than their full humanity. Jesus wants those who follow him to get clear about what is at stake for them in the upcoming conflict, to know their own story of oppression so that they can maintain the resolve to struggle for their own liberation. Jesus acknowledges that the empire has more than one tool at its disposal when it comes to keeping us in line. It can threaten us with the cross, or it can buy us by offering us access to the goods it unjustly extracts from others. Speaking to this dynamic, Jesus asks, “For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?” In other words, how much is your life — your integrity — worth? What’s your price?

When Jesus asks those who follow him to take up their cross, he actually means their cross. He doesn’t say, take up your neighbor’s cross and follow me. He says, “let them take up their cross and follow me.” For an example of what this can look like, we need look no further than the labor movement which brought us this 3-day weekend we’re celebrating right now.

644427_846847908334_5572230673972944578_nIf you were with us on Palm Sunday two years ago, then you’ll remember how we stood with fast food workers in the fight for a living wage, the #FightFor15. For most of us, this was not an act of taking up our cross — it was an act of solidarity with those whose livelihoods were actually on the line, those who’d taken stock of how the machine of modern day empire was getting rich off their backs, and who’d gotten organized so that they could confront the system of domination that extracted wealth from their labor without paying them enough to buy food, cover rent, and pay for their families’ healthcare and other needs. The workers whose hands we blessed, who served us holy communion and then marched with us to the McDonald’s where those same hands served fast food to nameless consumers day after day, understood that they might lose their jobs in this fight, that something was at stake for them, but they were not swayed from their goal.

Part of what it means for St. Luke’s to be a powerful church that transforms lives and changes the world is a commitment to helping each member of this community begin to see more clearly how the current arrangement of power and wealth has harmed each one of us, has diminished our fullness of life, has compromised our integrity, has purchased our complacency and our complicity. One of the ways that has happened in the last year is through the public faith trainings that Erin led, and will lead again in the fall. The outcome of community organizing done well is that we each get in touch with our own story of oppression — and, yes, I mean each of us, because there is no way of life under the system of domination, what we used to call empire but which now goes by other names, that escapes oppression.

Fundamentally, empire divides and conquerers. So capitalism not only harms workers, but the middle and owning classes as well. Racism dehumanizes not only people of color, but so-called White people as well. Sexism and gender oppression supply us all with painful, restrictive patterns for relating to our own bodies and the bodies of others. Nationalism creates false solidarity within invented borders at the expense of our neighbors, who are actually our siblings in the vast human family.

There are exciting times ahead for you, St. Luke’s. I can see it. Exciting and difficult, because you have heard Jesus’ call to take up your cross and follow and you have. You have and you will again. When it seems unclear to you just what that cross is, I encourage you to go back and read this passage from Romans again. As you listen to Paul describe what it means to live in loving harmony with one another, examine your life for the forces and influences, the stories and the histories, that make it hard for you to do so. There, in the tragic gap between God’s vision for human life and our experience of it, is the cross — your cross and our cross to bear together as we follow Jesus in a faith that demands everything and promises something even better in return: our humanity, redeemed and restored.

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Sermons

Sermon: Monday, August 28, 2017: Opening Worship for LSTC “Welcome (Back) Week”

Texts: Isaiah 6:1-8  +  Psalm 138  +  1 Cor. 15:1-11  +  Luke 5:1-11

Good morning, and hello. It’s the first day of something new, for all of us. For some of you this will be the day you look back on as your first day of seminary. For me, despite a little bit of work behind the scenes, standing in this pulpit before this assembly feels like the first day of a new call. For others, for people who have worked and studied and taught here for years, this may not feel so new — and yet it is still the beginning of something new. This group of people has never been here before. This moment in time, in our own lives, in the life of the nation, in the life of the planet and the environment, this moment is new and will demand something new of us.

Being open to something new is actually quite challenging. Each of us has been shaped by lifetimes of patterned interactions, each of us has survived countless traumas, and each of us has learned how to read the room and assess the situation so that we can prepare ourselves, position ourselves, defend ourselves based on what has happened in the past.

When Jesus meets Simon Peter in the gospel of Luke, Simon has just recently survived a trauma. His mother-in-law had been sick with a high fever, which Jesus had cured. In response, people began to bring to him “all those who were sick with various kinds of diseases” and Jesus cured the sick and expelled the demons that plagued them. So when Jesus encounters Simon again by the lake at the end of a long night of work, at the dawn of a new day, they have just a bit of history, which might explain why Simon is willing to carry him out onto the waters.

78I suspect each of us has a story like Simon Peter’s, something in our past that might explain why we’ve taken this first step, why we’ve loaned Jesus the little boats we call our lives, why we’ve been willing to set out from the shorelines of the comfortable and the familiar. Those are the stories I’m looking forward to hearing as we get to know each other. When did Jesus enter your home? Who did he heal? What spirits have been cast out for the sake of your liberation? What is it in your past encounters with God that prepared you to say yes when the invitation came for you to “put out a little way from the shore”?

Those back stories form the beginning of our call stories, which we all have. I remember the first time I shared with my father my sense that I might have a call to ministry. I was fourteen years old and we were out walking the dog, talking through the events of the day. To me, it felt momentous to say out loud this dawning suspicion that had been growing inside me, that I thought God was calling me to ministry. My dad quickly affirmed my sense of call by reminding me that we are all called to ministry — that vocation is the consequence of baptism. To set out on these waters is to begin to say yes to the life God is living through each one of us.

598e6f7b9d51d.imageSitting in that boat with Jesus, that’s where I imagine we are this morning. I feel the boat rocking beneath me as the waves roll into the shore. Two weeks ago it was the riots in Charlottesville, with their unapologetic defense of white nationalism. This past weekend it was racist, neo-Nazi graffiti spray painted on garages and sidewalks in front of schools and churches near my home on the north side of Chicago in a neighborhood called Lincoln Square. extralargeSomeone spray painted the sidewalk in front of the entrance to a church recently served by a graduate of this seminary with the words, “diversity is white genocide.” I immediately thought about all of you, this moment we’re living in, this long shameful history we’ve inherited, this movement we’re building, the places you will be sent.

In the Hebrew scripture reading, the prophet Isaiah recognizes that he is in the presence of the holy and his response is to say, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” Peter says something similar, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”

I wonder if you have stories like these to share as well. What is the confession you hold in your heart? Do you, like the prophet Isaiah and the apostle Peter, worry that you may not be good enough for what lies ahead? Are you scared of what people might think once they really get to know you? Do you wonder if you have what it takes to make it in the classroom, or in front of the candidacy committee, or at the faculty meeting? Do you struggle with the language of faith you’ve inherited? Do you struggle with the English language? Does your past make you an unlikely candidate for your future?

Do you feel those waves under the boat, rocking hard?

That is what it feels like to be living in the present. That is the new moment in which God can do a new thing. That uncertainty, that instability, that water is the place where God meets us and asks us to take a risk. To become more than we’ve ever been. Not the solid land of steady footing and familiar relationships — but the shifting, fluid, ocean of life.

This is the moment we let down our nets for a catch. In the coming days, weeks, months, years you will feel those nets fill with schools of fish. We ourselves will be filled with new ideas, new relationships, new visions for our future, new passions and commitments — so much so that it may become difficult to tell the fisher from the net from the fish. We will get caught up in each other’s nets, each other’s lives. It will be amazing.

But for now, at the beginning of this new day, as we look at one another and sense that something new is beginning, let us take comfort in the words Jesus spoke to Simon Peter, just before he asked him to do something that would change his life forever. He said, “do not be afraid.”

Do not be afraid.

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