Sermon: Sunday, August 23, 2015: Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Texts: Joshua 24:1-2a,14-18  +  Psalm 34:15-22  +  Ephesians 6:10-20  +  John 6:56-69

Ceremony-7229The last time I gave any real thought to what I was wearing was my wedding earlier this summer.  Any of you who know me already know that given a choice I will happily slip into a battered pair of jeans and my flip flops and call it a day, but even I had to acknowledge that the occasion called for something more appropriate.  So Kerry and I found suits in complementary shades of grey and matching orange plaid ties — mine a neck tie and his a bow tie — and in those clothes we walked down this middle aisle and exchanged our vows.

These walls have witnessed many vows being made, most often at the baptismal font, and there are traditions around what we might wear to those occasions as well.  The precious white baptismal gowns passed from parent to child as each new generation comes to the water; or the crisp white shirt that our brother Ryan wore when he was baptized at the Easter Vigil earlier this year. The white robes we wear in worship (when it’s not so hot) serving as a reminder of the garment we all share in baptism.

When we are baptized promises are made, either by us or over us. If we are children, our parents promise to nurture us in faith and prayer so that we “may learn to trust God, proclaim Christ through word and deed, care for others and the world God made, and work for justice and peace.” (ELW, 228)  Our sponsors promise to help us live in the covenant of baptism and in communion with the church.  The assembly promises to support us and pray for us. Then, using words that go back thousands of years, we profess our faith in Christ Jesus, reject sin, and confess the faith of the church as the minister asks, “Do you renounce the devil and all the forces that defy God? Do you renounce the powers of this world that rebel against God? Do you renounce the ways of sin that draw you from God?” (ELW, 229) Three questions, three renunciations, as if to undo the three times Peter denied Jesus on the night of his death, and to remind us just how often we are pulled to collude with all the death-dealing powers of this world.

Paul’s letter to the Ephesians sounds an awful lot like the baptismal renunciations as it encourages us to “put on the whole armor of God, so that [we] may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” (Eph. 6:11)

For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. (6:12)

That kind of language used to make me squeamish. The supernaturalism of it felt so antiquated in a world of electron microscopes, space shuttles and modern medicine; the world of science and progress in which we live and in which we put our faith.

safe_image.phpThen I opened my email Friday morning to learn that Isaac Acevedo Jr., a 23 year old man on his way home from work, was shot in the chest and killed on his way home from work at Schubert and North Central Park, just a mile directly west of this sanctuary. According to the police Isaac had no criminal background or gang affiliations, not that either of those things would have made his life any less precious or valuable. He worked two jobs to help pay the bills, since his father had recently been diagnosed with a tumor and has been unable to work. He was the oldest of his parents’ children, remembered as a kind and hardworking son. Police suspect his killing may have been a case of mistaken identity.

Isaac Acevedo was the 290th person to have been murdered in Chicago this year, and since his death on Thursday morning four more people have been killed in our city.  I don’t know why Isaac was killed, but I know that 294 deaths aren’t an accident.  I know they have something to do with easy access to guns.  I know they have something to do with a culture of pervasive violence against women, both inside and outside of their homes. I know they have something to do with a state-budget held hostage by politicians unwilling to do what is necessary to turn the funding back on so that children have after-school programming as they head back to school this fall, and the gang-violence prevention program in our neighborhood can rehire the CeaseFire interrupters it had to lay off earlier this year. I know it has something to do with the systemic racism that has learned to write off the deaths of black and brown children and adults as acceptable losses. I know it has something to do with a prison-industrial complex that relies on penitentiaries as a source of employment and cheap manufacturing. I know it has something to do with the culture of xenophobia that refers to the children of families fleeing poverty and violence in Central America as “anchor babies,” permits presidential candidates to propose slavery as a response to illegal immigration, and treats that not as a joke but as a serious policy proposal.

I know it has something to do with all of that, but what I don’t have is a single, simple enemy of “flesh and blood” against whom I can direct all my anger and all my despair because I know that even the easy targets, even the relatively obvious violators of the public trust — the gunman, the batterer, the legislator — are also trapped in and products of a system in which comfort, wealth, power and self-interest are constantly being lifted up not only as acceptable ideals, but as the highest value to which we and our children might aspire in our world of science and progress.

Do we think we get to have cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap gas, cheap healthcare, cheap education and cheap taxes? No. Obviously not. So we have created poverty zones within our country and around the world where some must labor for next to nothing so that others can enjoy mass-produced luxuries without wondering where they came from and whose family paid the full price. But no one is willing to pay this price forever. So of course there is violence in our streets and between our nations as human beings, crushed by the faceless apathy and greed of strangers on the north side of the city or the northern hemisphere of the globe, do whatever they can to secure a better life for themselves by any means necessary.

And this system of exploitation is not new, it is terribly, terribly old. We may call it late-stage capitalism, while the apostle Paul calls it “the cosmic powers of this present darkness,” (Eph. 6:12) and Hebrew scripture calls it “the gods that your ancestors served beyond the River and in Egypt,” (Josh. 24:14), but we know what it is.  It is the devil. It is Moloch. It is sin. It is greed, layered upon greed, until it begins to look like a way of life instead of a deformation of creation, and it is killing us!

And it is precisely because our greed-drenched way of life is killing us that Jesus calls us to step away from it. Not as a test of faith, not as a work of righteousness, but as a matter of life and death! Jesus, having fed the crowd out of the abundance of God’s fertile creation, from the multiplication of loaves and fishes, declares to hungry people that he is the bread of life. He says, “this is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.” (John 6:58)

But many are offended, and many turned back and stopped following him.

Why are they offended? What has Jesus said that is offensive enough to drive away the very people who the day before were ready to make him their king? Many think it’s the strange nature of his words, “those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.” (John 6:56)  No offense, but I don’t buy it. Jesus is clearly speaking poetically, metaphorically. Throughout this long discourse on the bread of life Jesus has been comparing himself to the manna from heaven that God provided to the Israelites on their long journey from slavery to freedom. The bread that could not be stored up, but had to be received by faith, one day at a time. The bread that was distributed equally, without regard to age or gender or rank.

Now Jesus says, “I am that bread. I am the bread of freedom. I am the bread of liberation. I am the sign of God’s abundant life available here and now, received by faith one day at a time, available to you all, equally, without regard to age or gender or rank or nation or religion.” And the crowd is offended, because they know him, because they know his parents, and yet he speaks as if he comes from God, calling them to rely less on the old identities that have defined them, and more on the God of new life calling them into a risky and unknown future.


Members of the ELCA’s 2015/’16 “Young Adults in Global Mission” (YAGM) cohort who worshipped at St. Luke’s on 08/23/2015.

We have with us this morning two groups of young adults who have heard God’s call to embark on a risky and unknown future, who are preparing to begin a year of service to neighbors both far and near. Later this morning we’ll be commissioning the seven volunteers who will be living very simply in Casa Romero, the LVC house in Humboldt Park, and working in a variety of settings across the city with organizations that promote the common good. We also have a good number of the ELCA’s new cohort of Young Adults in Global Mission, who are in Chicago for a week of orientation before being sent out to accompany sisters and brothers in settings all around the world who have so much to teach us about what it means that “we, though many, are one bread and one body; for we all partake of that one bread.” (1 Cor. 10:17)

As you embark on these life-changing years, but perhaps even more so when you finish them and return home to the places from which you come, it will be hard for people to hear the stories you feel obligated to tell. “Who is this idealistic young adult, trying to teach me something about how the world really works? I knew him when he was in grade school! I changed her diapers! And here she is, speaking as though she comes from God, challenging everything I thought I knew about what it means to be a good, charitable Christian!”  At least, I hope that’s what you hear, though in order for that to happen you will have to be as committed to accompanying our aching, fragile church as you are to accompanying the communities of faith and practice which are about to become your new homes.

And we, who are the community of St. Luke’s, are also embarking on a risky and unknown future, not only because we are preparing to leave the building we have called home for over a century, but also because we are living at this moment in a time — a moment in which all the old certainties about what it means to be Christian, what it means to be American, what it means to live in our various skins and ethnic identities, what it means to be gendered, what it means to be married, what it means to be family; a moment in which all the old certainties are changing. And we want so badly to cling to the past, to the old certainties. Even the radicals and the revolutionaries among us know that there are pay offs we’ve silently taken that will have to be relinquished if we are going to follow Jesus into a future beyond empire, into a commonwealth without kings, into a body in which we are all precious and beloved, and none of us is expendable.

Some of the disciples heard the rumblings of change behind the words Jesus spoke, and they left saying, “this teaching is difficult, who can accept it?” And, to be honest, even Peter would still go on to betray Jesus three times at the hour of his death. But God remains faithful to God’s promises, even when we fall short, and does not abandon us even when we turn our backs on God. So I have to believe that as Jesus watched the many disciples turn and walk away his heart remained as full of compassion for them as it does for us, who also cling to what we have known, even in the face of God’s irresistible revolution.

This is why we gather each week to sing the songs, and read the scriptures, and eat the bread of life, over and over and over again. Because we know that we are starving for a world set right, and we know that we follow a God that defines us not by our failures but by God’s grace, a grace that liberates us from every reduction of our humanity and demands that we do the same for every sister and every brother, not out of obligation but out of gratitude. We are blessed to be called children of God because that is what we are, all of us, which makes us one family, one body, one bread, one love. Which is why we cry out with our brother Peter, “Alleluia! Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”



Sermon: Sunday, August 9, 2015: Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Texts: 1 Kings 19:4-8  +  Ps. 34  +  Ephesians 4:25–5:2  +  John 6:35,41-51

parker-crowdI was on retreat this past week at Techny Towers, up in Northbrook, at an event held by The Center for Courage and Renewal titled “Habits of the Heart for Healthy Congregations: Risking the Call to Belong.”  I’ve been to Courage and Renewal retreats before, which are based on the work of Parker Palmer, who also happened to be there with us for part of the event.  On Tuesday night I got to be part of a panel discussion on “the changing shape of belonging” during which I was asked to share to what, or whom, I am committed. Here’s what I said:

“At the risk of being trite, when it comes to belonging to a community of faith my first commitment is to Jesus. I offer this in, I hope, as non-chauvinist a way as possible. I don’t mean to suggest that Jesus is the only name by which we encounter the divine, but it is the name I have been given to rely on for health and healing. I also don’t mean to say that I am committed to Jesus because of the cultural inheritance he represents or because I get something out of the relationship — though both are true as well. What I do mean is that as I have lived in community with Jesus, I have grown in my capacity to see the people Jesus saw, like the widow with her mite; to touch the people that Jesus touched, like the leper living at the edge of community longing to go home; to love the people that Jesus loved, like the young man of privilege who wanted to be part of God’s movement without giving up what he already had.  In other words, I am committed to Jesus because I belong in his company, along with people who are very much like me, and people who are very much unlike me.”

When I got done talking I felt pretty good about myself.  I’d managed to say what I wanted to say, and to do it while sitting directly next to someone I kind of idolize.  I’d given my testimony about who Jesus is to me, and why I am committed to living my life in his company.  I claimed my place at Jesus’ side as one who belongs to him.

But Jesus does not belong to me.

At least, that’s what I hear loud and clear in this story from the gospel of John.  After feeding the five thousand and calming the storm, Jesus begins to teach the crowds that follow him with words that challenge them.  Words that challenge them — not because they don’t understand, but because they think they understand too well.  After referencing the story of the Exodus and God’s provision of manna in the wilderness, Jesus says, “I am the bread of life.”  And because he says this, the Jews begin to complain about him.

Now, can we just stop for a minute and get real about who the Jews in this story were?  They were his people, his countrymen.  They were his neighbors.  They even say, “Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know?”  As the crowd struggles to makes sense of and accept what Jesus is saying, the stumbling block isn’t their Jewishness (as two thousand years of Christian anti-Judaism have too often implied), but the fact that they thought they already knew everything they needed to know about him!  The stumbling block isn’t their religious background or their ethnic background, it’s their shared background. Who is this guy, that he compares himself to the bread that gave life to our ancestors in the wilderness?  We’ve known this guy since we were kids, since he was a kid.  He belongs to us!

It’s easy to feel that way about Jesus, especially if you love him.  The crowds must have loved him, he’d just met their most basic need in the most extraordinary way, taking what little they had and transforming it into enough to send them to sleep stuffed with leftovers to spare.  I love him, because he sees me giving my all, as little as that may be; because he touched me even when I was aching at the margins of society; because he loves me, even when I am more attached to my comfort and my wealth than I am to his revolution.  You love him in ways you already know how to share, and ways that are still searching for words.  You love him because he is your inheritance, because he is your hope, because he is your teacher, because he is your struggle, because he is your shepherd, because he is your savior, because he is your Lord, because he is your God.

Because you belong to him, though he does not belong to you.

Interfaith Worker Justice's Founding Director, Kim Bobo

Interfaith Worker Justice’s Founding Director, Kim Bobo

I was down at the seminary last night for the opening convocation of this year’s LVC orientation.  All of the new volunteers, who will be placed in settings across the country, are gathered this week in Chicago for training and community building. All of the speakers were fantastic but one snippet from Kim Bobo, the founding director of Interfaith Worker Justice, stuck out at me. Speaking to a crowd made up mostly of recent college graduates she said,

“I would far rather work with someone who will do something than someone who knows something. The problem with college is that it spends four years training you that the most important thing is knowing the right answer. Then you get sent out into the world and you feel like the most important contribution you can make to an organization is to have the answers. I’m running the copier, making coffee, and taking out the trash, and my interns want to do something that ‘matters.’”

For too long, too much of Christianity has been about trying to prove we know something. Over the course of two thousand years we have divided the body of Christ again and again with dispute after violent dispute over what “matters,” our ideas about what we must believe about God in order to belong to God.  It’s not hard to see where it comes from, we get it in this morning’s passage as well,

“No one can come to me unless drawn by the Father who sent me; and I will raise that person up on the last day. It is written in the prophets, ‘And they shall all be taught by God.’ Everyone who has heard and learned from the Father comes to me. Not that anyone has seen the Father except the one who is from God; he has seen the Father. Very truly, I tell you, whoever believes has eternal life.” (John 6:44-47)

Ironically, whenever we get too self-satisfied with our answers about what it means to belong to God, we take our role in the story being played out between Jesus and the Jews, those who thought they knew him best, his friends and neighbors. In our insistence on right beliefs we hear echoes of their insistence that they also knew how God would save them, “What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing? Our ancestors ate manna in the wilderness…” (6:30-31) Time and time again we confuse our belonging to God with God belonging to us.

And each branch of the Christian family tree has their own particular way of doing this, none of us are exempt.  Lutherans are extraordinarily proud of our theology. We stand behind Martin Luther’s recovery of the apostle Paul’s assurance that we are “justified by faith apart from works of the law.” (Rom. 3:28) So, we get nervous whenever anyone talks about doing anything, because we worry that someone will get the wrong idea and understand us to be saying that we have to do something to merit God’s favor.  That our belonging depends on our doing instead of what God has already done. The problem is, there are things that need doing — not in order that you might finally one day be worthy of belonging to God, but because you already belong to God.

You already belong to God, and so does everyone else, despite all that the world does to deform our sense of self so that some of us are taught to believe that the world exists for our benefit and others are taught to believe that the world is permanently set against us.  Most of us, in fact, experience the world to be a place of both privilege and pain, which creates in us a sense of anxious confusion as we try to maximize our privilege and minimize our pain.

The world operates on the logic of what Martin Luther might have called “works righteousness,” except that instead of offering us the old trade — our righteous works for the promise of heaven — it has shrunk the horizon of belonging down to earth and demanded our righteous works — in the form of obedience to a political and economic pyramid scheme that benefits a few by oppressing a great many — in return for the promise of acceptability here and now.  It has lied to us and told us that the only way we can know if our lives have any worth or meaning is if they look like the lives led by happy, comfortable, well-fed, able-bodied, White, middle-class, heterosexual, Christian, married, home-owning families. Except, guess what, I’ve checked 9 out of 10 boxes on that list — and they have nothing to do with what gives my life meaning or purpose or value!  If anything, being able to check those boxes leaves me constantly aware of a nagging complicity with a system that was organized before I was born and without my consent to create separation and mistrust between me and and so many other groups of people who are like and unlike me. God’s own people, who are my sisters and brothers.

What gives my life purpose and value is that I belong to God, whose answer to my anxious confusion is not to maximize my privilege and minimize my pain as so much prosperity-promising religion suggests, but to do the exact opposite.  In Jesus, God has shown us a way of loving that gives up privilege and stands with those in pain. In Jesus I see a way of godly living that Paul commends in his letter to the Ephesians,

“So then, putting away all falsehood, let all of us speak the truth to our neighbors, for we are members of one another … Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” (Eph. 4:25;5:1-2)

The world is filled with people giving it their all, aching at the margins, clinging to their privilege — people like you and me, and people so very different from us — and if we are going to be part of God’s healing and redemptive purpose we will have to give up so many illusions about God and about ourselves.  We will have to dismantle the machinery of capitalism, which treats people like objects and objects like people. We will have to deconstruct myths of White superiority, which pretend that White people’s successes and People of Color’s sufferings are both deserved and disconnected. We will have to disavow nationalism, which teaches us to accept the bondage and humiliation of other people as long as it happens away from our view. We will have to confess that our ideas about God are so much smaller than God’s own self, and be ready to release not only those elements of our Christian heritage that seem peripheral, but even those which may feel essential, in order to participate in the expansive welcome God has in store for all of us.

I don’t think that’s actually so different from what Jesus said to his friends, his neighbors, his people, the Jews — who are also our friends, and our neighbors, and our people as well, along with every other person on the face of the earth, Muslims and Bahá’í, Hindus and Jains, Buddhists and Atheists, Indigenous and Colonizers, Asian and Latino, Black and White, and all the rest of God’s richly diverse creation — I will be who I will be, I will become what I am becoming. I am not confined to your memory, I am laboring alongside and within you to give you a future with life. I will support you.  I will sustain you.  I will feed you.  I will be your bread, and you will be my people.  You belong to me.  All of you.



Sermon: Sunday, August 24, 2014: Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Texts: Exodus 1:8 — 2:10  +  Psalm 124  +  Romans 12:1-8  +  Matthew 16:13-20


For the last week or so I have been binge-watching House of Cards on Netflix. I don’t know if it’s my way of dealing with a summer of brutal news, or just a television addiction that’s moved on to new material, but I can’t get enough of Senator turned Vice-President Frank Underwood and his wife, Claire.

If you’re not already a fan, House of Cards is a political drama that follows the political career and personal life of an ambitious, and I would say sociopathic, politician. I don’t want to spoil the show for those of you who haven’t gotten around to watching it yet but still plan to. Suffice it to say, those who hinder or oppose Frank Underwood have short careers and sometimes shorter lives. He uses the full power and authority of his position in government to shape the world in his favor, giving very little thought to the lives of the people he uses and destroys along the way.

I get the sense that the story from Exodus we’ve heard this morning is an early form of this kind of political drama, as it merges the storylines of the powerful and the powerless in a way that’s intended to evoke in us comparisons to our own time and place. In the role of Frank Underwood we have Pharaoh, a title for the king of Egypt that originally referred to the royal palace, but over time came to signify the king who lived there. The word “pharaoh” literally means “Great House.”  It’s very similar to the way we hear news reported as coming from the White House or the President interchangeably.

The news coming from the Great House in this story is just as horrific as anything I’ve seen on House of Cards, and just as terrible as anything we’ve seen this past summer.  Power has changed hands in Egypt, and the new king has forgotten allegiances made by the former regime with the people of Israel who’d made a home there during a time of famine. They go from being guest workers to slave labor, used to build cities for Pharaoh’s empire. South-SlavesAgain, the points of comparison to our own nation’s history of using enslaved labor to create an economy and an infrastructure that allowed us to become a world power should set us to wondering which roles we are playing in this ancient-modern drama.

Soon people begin to worry that the Israelites are outnumbering the Egyptians. The people who’d fled to Egypt looking for a better life in the face of hardship and danger in their homelands have become a threat to those in power, who fear that they will realize their advantage and rise up to claim a better life for themselves. It reminds me of exit poll analysis that showed how the growing Latino community in the United States helped elect and re-elect President Obama, and was “changing the face” of electoral politics at every level of government.

Then comes the horror. Responding to the threat of an ascendant minority, Pharaoh commands that all the boy children will be sacrificed at birth, thrown into the Nile River, which in Egyptian religion was imagined as the conduit from life to death to the afterlife. And again we hear the parallel with our own experience of this summer of tears. police-brutality1These young Israelite boys being thrown into the river could be young men of color in Chicago, or Ferguson, or Oakland, or Florida. We know what a culture that treats minority youth like a threat looks like, because we live in just such a culture.

But the Nile wasn’t only the watery highway to the world after death, it was also the source of all life. It was the Nile’s cycle of annual flooding that dredged up rich soil that kept Egypt fertile while the rest of the Levant starved. It was the river of life, so it’s no surprise that this story finds the hope of the people of Israel being drawn up out of the river. The child is named Moses, whose name in Egyptian means “Son,” but in Hebrew means, “to be drawn out.” He is the child of two cultures, the son of power drawn out of the water.

What is a surprise is how this future savior is spared from certain death upon the Nile. At the river’s edge, far away from the Great House, a group of women divided by race and wealth come together to save the life of a child. On one side of the river a heartbroken mother sends her child on a dangerous voyage in the hope that he will be spared the fate that awaits him if he should stay at home. She places him in a basket and sets him on the river, much like mothers who send their precious children north to the United States in search of a life they can never have at home. On the other side of the river a woman of power and privilege, a daughter of the empire, finds the child and knows that he should have died in the waters. “This must be one of the Hebrews’ children,” she says. She also takes a risk and defies the will of Pharaoh, bringing the infant into her home. Then she brings the child’s mother and daughter into her home as well to nurse and care for the child who is, in fact, her son. An act of sedition, a strategic use of privilege, creates a new family and saves a life.

Border-Migrants-crossing-river-2Which side of the river are you on? Where is the Great House, and who makes the rules? On what bodies of water are you floating, are you drowning, are you being drawn out?

There are so many rivers dividing us. Rivers of blood and tears on the streets where children are being shot by those sworn to protect them. Rivers that draw the borders between nations of wealth and opportunity and nations of poverty and perpetual violence.

But there are also rivers drawing us together in acts of loyalty to a law deeper than any issued by the Great House, or the White House, or whatever house tries to rule us. DSC05630There are baptismal waters, waters we are dipped in and drawn out from that erase any distinctions between the privileged and the dispossessed. Waters that carry us from death into life. Waters that make us allies instead of enemies.

Where have you seen people gathered at the river, crossing the lines that divide us, acting like we all belong to one another? 

I saw it just this past Thursday, as neighbors from Logan Square and across the city gathered in front of the Milshire Hotel to show their support for those who have been evicted and have until the end of the month to get out, calling on our elected officials to ensure that this location be rehabbed as quality, affordable, supportive housing so that our community might continue to be a home for all people.

I saw it online as I followed through social media the preparations and then the leave-taking of the cohort of young adults in global mission who were with us in worship last week; who, living out their baptismal call, have now shipped out to the far reaches of the planet determined to reshape the geography of power by creating lasting relationships built on love, mutuality and accompaniment.

I see it here again this morning as we welcome and commission a new crew of Lutheran Volunteer Corps workers who have gathered here from all across the country, and who will spend the next year living in intentional community as they join with a wide range of organizations building up our city for the sake of the common good.

There are all kinds of power in this world. There is the power of Pharaoh, the Great House, the halls of power where policies are made that toss real lives into the river. Then there is the power of God, that obliterates any line we might draw to separate ourselves from one another, making us one body, one neighborhood, one community, one world. In our baptism, God hands us the keys to the halls where this kind of power reigns supreme and invites us to tell a new kind of story, to become actors in a different kind of drama, where we testify with our lives to the reality of a world we have only seen in glimpses but know is breaking in. Amen.