Thanksgiving Eve Sermon 2013

Thanksgiving Eve Sermon 2013

John 6:25-35

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Jesus said: ““I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

Today, as I was kneading the dough for my Grandma Golden’s Swedish rye bread—a recipe handed down from her mother and her mother before that and only written down when I requested it—I remembered a conversation with my Great Uncle Walter Salmonson about bread. Uncle Walter (or Valter, as he said it) lived in the nursing home down the hall from my grandpa. On one visit to see them both, I asked Uncle Walter how the food was.

“I don’t like the bread,” he said. 

“Why? What’s wrong with the bread?”

“Vell, it has too much vind in it, you know.”

“Too much…vind?” I asked.

“Ja…too much vind! I like real bread!” said Uncle Walter.

I had never considered my bread to be “windy” before, but after that conversation I took special notice. And you know what? He was right! Our bread does have too much “vind” in it. The perfectly formed, pre-sliced, carefully preserved, fluffy stuff we call bread is full of air. That’s what makes it look so pretty on the shelves and in our lunch boxes! But it doesn’t look anything like the thick slices of rye or whole wheat baked by my grandmother and her mother before her. 

The bread Uncle Walter was hungry for has depth. And texture. And a crust! It makes a strong foundation for slabs of cheese, thick layers of peanut butter, or leftover Thanksgiving turkey. It does not fold nicely, or squish into little balls to flick at your siblings or feed to the ducks, and it will never last for 3 weeks in the pantry.

Uncle Walter was getting fluffy, vindy bread in the dining room, but he was hungry for something that would fill him up. He wanted real bread. 

Sisters and brothers, Thanksgiving is not a Christian holy day or even a particularly religious day at all. But, because this is a day when most of us gather around the table and spend a lot of time thinking about (and eating!) food, Thanksgiving can be a moment for Christians to contemplate what we are truly hungry for.

Like Uncle Walter, we hungry humans want real bread. We want to be filled, and to never be hungry again. But most days, we spend our time chasing after things which never will satisfy our hunger. Day after day, we go hunting for that one thing which will take away the pain, the loneliness, the grief, the fear, and the uncertainty of this world. In that pursuit, we fill our bellies with all sorts of junk food:

Work. Hobbies and distractions of every kind. Shopping and collecting. Anger. Cynicism. Devotion to a particular worldview or political stance. Even good works can become a way of filling the void! But all these things end up being just full of air, and not substantial enough to keep us satisfied even for the day.

In tonight’s Gospel text, we see that Jesus wants to turn the crowd’s appetite from the loaves that merely filled their bellies to the bread that would last for eternity. It’s important to note that this crowd searching for and following after Jesus is the very same crowd that, in the previous chapter, had feasted on the five loaves and two fish with about 5,000 of their closest friends. That meal was so good, so tasty, and so miraculous, that the crowd decided to search for the chef. But when they found Jesus, they were surprised to hear him say: “You’re just looking for me because the last time you saw me, your bellies were filled!”

I can just hear them thinking, “Well, YEAH! Wasn’t that the point? We were hungry, you fed us. It was a miracle! What’s the problem?”

The problem was Jesus wanted the crowd to understand how his teaching, his healing, and his miracles were never the end of the story. Everything Jesus did—including the feeding of the 5,000—was meant to point the people toward God the Father, the creator of all good things, the beginning and the end, the One who gave the true bread of life to the world. Jesus wasn’t seeking followers who were amazed by his miracles or were looking for signs and wonders, but rather fellow travelers who would join him in on the Way, preaching God’s Word of hope to the hungry, the poor, and the captives.

So he told the people: “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.”

To which the people replied: “Excellent! Where can we buy it? Is it at Wal-Mart? Does it come in bulk? We want to eat it for every meal! Give us this bread always!”

When you read the Gospels, do ever wonder why Jesus even put up with some of his disciples and followers? These guys were often nothing more than vindy bread themselves! But then, those who followed him possessed the most important thing. They, like us, were hungry: hungry for hope, hungry for grace and forgiveness, and hungry for a life with meaning. 

Sisters and brothers, as we prepare to feast on many good things—pie this evening, and more wonderful things tomorrow—we gather to rejoice that Jesus is the true bread of life. He is the bread from heaven, given as a gift to the entire world. His life and witness, his death and resurrection, are the bread that fills our empty bellies and heals our broken hearts. Especially this season, when we are fed the message that a Black Friday deal or a Cyber Monday steal can fill the emptiness, it’s good to feast again on the words of Jesus, who said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Thanks be to God, for this and every good gift. Amen. 

12th Sunday after Pentecost: August 19, 2012: "This Changes Everything"

August 19, 2012

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie B. Smith

John 6:51-58

This changes everything.

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I have really great neighbors.

Our little block is populated by two policemen, one fireman, a judge, an addiction counselor, a retired professor, several teachers, and (of course), two pastors. We like to claim it as the safest block in all of Crystal Lake!

But one of our neighbors, in particular, became a fast friend when he moved next door to us this spring. Chris is from Texas, and we were extremely excited to discover that he’s a master meat griller and smoker. Our neighbor Chris owns a state of the art barbeque grill with multiple levels, a burner on the side for sauces, a bottle opener, and quite possibly the ability to achieve a Mars landing, if you know how to work it. Chris…is awesome.

His wife and son are pretty nice, too.

At some point this summer, Chris mentioned to us how he really missed using Texas mesquite for smoking and grilling meat. Robert and I recalled this conversation when we were visiting family down south this July—and you can bet we found a way to smuggle three huge bags of mesquite wood from Lubbock to Crystal Lake, with visions of brisket and chops making our mouths water all the way home.

A day or so after returning home, we saw Chris and Kellie out on their back porch, so we proudly marched over toting the three bags of mesquite to present as a gift. Chris came down off the porch to meet us.

In retrospect, we did notice a funny look on his face when he saw what we were hauling. Robert announced loudly, “Check it out! We brought you some mesquite!”

 To which Chris replied, “Oh, man, you’re not going to believe it, but we went vegan last week.”
Without even blinking, my dear spouse kept on walking toward the grill, saying, “Yeah, right. That’s a funny one! When’s the next party? We’ll provide the pool, you provide the beef!”

It was when I looked at Chris’s wife’s face that I knew this vegan thing was no joke. Our neighbors--our meat-loving, backyard grilling, Texas foodie friends--had decided to become vegans while we were away on vacation.

No more chops! No more brisket! No more burgers or ribs! I’m sure our growling stomachs spoke as loudly as our disappointed faces.

But then, it’s not all about us, is it? So Robert and I exclaimed, “Oh, that’s great! Wow! What prompted this change?” And Chris and Kellie outlined for us the radical shift they were making, in response to a change in values and priorities, transforming their entire relationship to food and to the dinner table. As good neighbors and friends, we offered our wholehearted support for their new lifestyle choice and promised to hold a backyard pool party soon.

Chris and Kellie promised to bring some grilled veggies.

Walking back home, it struck me how sometimes food is more than food. Sometimes eating is more than just dinner. Sometimes, the dinner table itself becomes a place of transformation, changing the way we relate to our neighbors and to the world.

For several weeks now, our Gospel lessons have been focused on the table as a place of transformation.  The Gospel writer, John, has been taking us in circles, expounding on Jesus as the bread of life, Jesus as the bread from heaven, Jesus as the true bread, Jesus as the bread that removes our hunger forever.

But in today’s Gospel lesson there’s one word in particular that stands out, and that is: “eat.”

• Whoever eats of this bread will live forever
• “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?”
•  Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.
• Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life
• Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.
• Whoever eats me will live because of me
• Your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever

Eight times, in just eight verses, Jesus tells us that eating changes everything. Other food is just food, but there is bread we can eat which gives eternal life. There is bread that means life is worth living here and now. There is bread that has the power to transform the world, and that bread is Jesus’ own body.

Communion is such a part of what Christians do on Sunday morning that perhaps its transformative, counter-cultural, subversive nature is lost to us. And yet, when we hear the words, “This is my body, given for you” and place the bread in our mouths, this isn’t a symbol or a reenactment. Instead, as Lutherans we proclaim that Jesus, beyond all understanding and in spite of our unbelief, is present in, with, and under this bread and wine.

And that means that in eating and drinking we become one with a body that touched lepers, consorted with prostitutes, ate with tax collectors, challenged authorities, preached truth to power, suffered next to criminals in a public execution, and defeated the power of death. When we eat the bread and drink the cup, we are ingesting, digesting, and confessing the body of Jesus, who gave his life for the sake of the world.

This is much more than dinner! This is so much more than food. This is transformative eating. this changes everything. Jesus Christ, present for us at this table, in bread and wine, transforms the way we relate to our neighbors and the world by giving us his own body.

On a regular day, dinner is hardly ever transformative.

Martin Luther King, Jr., once said, “It is appalling that the most segregated hour of Christian America is 11 o’clock on Sunday morning.” Sadly, this remains largely true. But coming in at a close second today must be the dinner hour.

Without even discussing the demise of the home-cooked family dinner, it’s easy to see how we are divided by race, age, economics, class, and even politics at the dinner hour.

Children sit at the kids’ table or are left at home with the sitter. The over 65 crowd eats at the buffet or at a completely different hour than the rest of us. Foodies and locavores choose the hippest new local dive. Suburbanites flock to Applebee’s and Chili’s while city dwellers avoid them like the plague. Urban Spoon helps us choose a spot with two dollar signs or four, and offers reviews to help us avoid “sketchy” neighborhoods. Even fast food separates us. Do you buy your coffee at Starbucks or Conscious Cup? Do you go to Chick-Fil-A or Wendy’s? And what will your choice say about you?

And that’s just it: above all else, the dinner hour is segregated by choice. Look around the restaurant or even your dining table and you’re likely to see someone who looks just like you, spends money like you, votes like you. Dinner companions are chosen for maximum comfort and compatibility. On a typical day, we eat the bread of segregation and drink the wine of convenience. There’s nothing transformative about this menu.

But then, on Sunday, we come to the Lord’s table, where Jesus has invited everybody. All y’all come, as my Texas family would say!

While it’s true that our churches still don’t reflect the full beauty and diversity of the kingdom, look around you today and you’ll see that you’re probably sitting next to someone in a different age bracket. When you come to the table, you will likely be standing next to someone with much more—or much less—education than you possess. When you reach out, open-handed, you will receive the same bread as that one church member you need to forgive—and will drink the same wine as the one you hope will forgive you.

This is Jesus’ body, given for you…and for you…and for you…and for you. No matter who you are. No matter how you vote. No matter what you can pay. No matter what you did before you showed up here.

This is the radical, subversive nature of eating the bread that is Jesus. The bread we eat is the flesh Jesus gave for the life of the world—the whole world!—and with this bread and this cup we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

Eating this bread changes everything. Eating this bread means we become a body that unites, not divides. Eating this bread means we become a body that lives for others, not for ourselves. Eating this bread means we go out from this place transformed into a people that sees the world with new eyes.

At this table, for this one moment, we catch a glimpse of what it will be like to dine in the kingdom of heaven. How then, can we ever be the same? How will Jesus, true food and true drink, transform you this week?

Let’s sing together:
Be present at our table Lord. Be here and everywhere adored. These mercies bless and grant that we, may strengthened for your service be. Amen.

August 5, 2012: 10th Sunday after Pentecost

Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15; John 6:24-35

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

On Tuesday afternoon, a rather unusual traveler arrived in the church office.

I was at home wolfing down a late lunch when our faithful office manager Kelly called to say: “There’s a young man here from England who’s looking for a place to stay. Any ideas?”

Aside from the fact that he was from England, this didn’t seem too unusual. People come to the church all the time looking for help. I always try to do what I can—but in this case, I knew PADS was closed until October, Good Samaritan wasn’t open on Tuesdays, and our church had just hosted a group of Palestinian teenagers the week before. I, myself, have had a steady stream of visitors in our basement since summer began. So I said to Kelly, “Tell him to go to the fire department” and I hung up the phone.

An hour later, sitting at my desk back at the church, I saw a young man walk into the office. I immediately knew this was the same character. I went out to greet him, and discovered that his story truly was more unusual than I first thought. Matthew, age 20, is indeed from England, and he was traveling from Seattle to New York—by bicycle—on just $10 per day. He had biked 60 miles that morning and just needed a place to sleep before going to his next stop in Oak Park.

I hemmed and hawed. I flipped aimlessly through the church directory, trying to think of who I could call. I looked nervously at the church member sitting in the office waiting for a meeting. What should I do? The last thing I wanted was a guest in my home that night, much less a complete stranger. I was sure my husband—in country for once—would be even less excited about this prospect.

“You can stay at my place,” I said, finally.

We could have an entire conversation about the safety and wisdom of this decision at another time, but the point to be made this morning is that Matthew turned out to be a blessing--first and foremost to the teenage girls on my block. Several young neighbors gathered to swim in our pool and observe our exotic guest, and were delighted to announce to me, “He sounds like Harry Potter!”

I expected to feel pretty good about doing a good deed, but it was the opportunity to hear Matthew’s stories that was truly a gift from God I didn’t expect.

Biking from Seattle to New York on ten dollars per day means Matthew relies daily on the kindness of strangers for shelter and food. He told of the varied reception he’s received at churches. At one large inner city church he stopped to ask for help, but before he even got the sentence out, and without a hint of eye contact, the answer was “no.” He saw another person sitting in a neighboring office and asked to talk to her, but was told “She’ll tell you no, too.”

Another pastor happily took him home but then quizzed him over dinner, “Are you going to heaven?” When Matthew answered “Yes”, the pastor followed up with, “But are you SURE?!”

Fire stations have been pretty hospitable places, but one time he shared his situation and was told “Sorry, we can’t help an able-bodied male in good weather.” Another time, a woman agreed to let him stay at her home, but just as he was getting ready for bed, she said to him, “If you steal from me, I’ll kill you.”

Another host showed off his very large arsenal of weapons. Matthew commented to me, “We just don’t have guns like that in the UK. What possible use do Americans have for an assault rifle at home, anyway?” A very good question, indeed.

But the best story is of Matthew’s experience staying at a monastery in North Dakota. I found Matt to be a chatty, outgoing guy (which certainly helps him survive an adventure that requires asking for help multiple times a day) but this was a contemplative monastery. In other words, no talking. Matt struggled with the concept of eating dinner in silence.

But the dinner was delicious—plates and plates of food. And then, out came one of the monks with the largest barrel of Rocky Road ice cream he had ever seen. The monks didn’t take dainty little tastes, either. Matthew described them heaping scoop after scoop into their bowls: A heavenly banquet! Manna from heaven!

The Israelites, on their Exodus journey, never received Rocky Road ice cream from the Lord. But they did receive just enough for the day. Each day, the Lord said, I will rain bread from heaven for you. And that is what the Lord did: “In the evening quails came up and covered the camp; and in the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. When the layer of dew lifted, there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground. When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, “What is it?” For they did not know what it was. Moses said to them, “It is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.” (Exodus 16)

But whatever it was, Scripture tells us the Lord kept his promise, and provided just what the Israelites needed each day.

In the same way, Matt has been fed with just enough for the day on his journey. It’s hardly ever Rocky Road, though. He eats a lot of baked beans and canned pears. Great protein, he says, and definitely within budget! In the beginning, even that menu posed a challenge, because in the interest of traveling light he didn’t carry a can opener. He stopped at homes, diners, and gas stations to ask help with that, too.

Matthew also related that at first, some people wanted to give him food to take on his journey. Soon, however, his bicycle was so loaded down with granola bars and energy drinks that he finally had to say no. Burdened by that extra weight, he could never have traveled the 35 miles a day required to reach his destination. Like the Israelites in the wilderness, he would just have to go out and gather enough for that day. Each day, he would have to trust others to give him his daily bread—people like me.

Before you start to think this is a sermon about how generous, loving, and saintly your pastor is, now would be a good time to confess that I was beyond crabby about welcoming Matthew into my home. I was not thinking Christian thoughts when I first considered this option. But then I remembered a few things:

“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13)

“Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink?” (Matthew 25)

“Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you. Jesus said, ‘Feed my sheep.’” (John 21)

“By this time it was late in the day, so the disciples came to him and said: ‘Send the people away so that they can go…buy themselves something to eat.’ But Jesus answered, ‘You give them something to eat.’” (Mark 6)

I can’t help thinking of the testing of the Israelites in the wilderness. The Lord said to Moses, “I am going to rain bread from heaven for you, and each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. In that way I will test them, whether they will follow my instruction or not.” Matthew may have been the one on a voluntary Exodus, but it seemed that perhaps it was I who was being tested. In fact, the truth is, perhaps I was the hungry one.

I could have fed myself with a quiet evening at home. I could have fed myself with lying around in my comfy pants, watching the Olympics and keeping things as familiar as possible.

But, instead, even though I was reluctant; even though I, like the Israelites, grumbled about what the Lord was doing; even though I might have preferred Rocky Road to the manna being provided for me—the Lord fed me with exactly what I needed.

I made Matthew homemade pizza, but through the goodness of God I was the one nourished, filled with stories I never would have heard otherwise. Robert and I provided Matthew a place to sleep for a night, but we also got a chance to live vicariously a journey we will likely never experience ourselves. Matthew had been rejected, turned away, and judged by plenty of Christians already—but in showing him kindness (even reluctantly) we were the ones who learned something about the radical welcome of Jesus Christ. Robert and I even had the opportunity to share our faith in God with Matt, even as we marveled at his own faith in the goodness of people. These memories will last much longer than a quiet evening at home ever could, and we went to bed with full bellies and full hearts.

Jesus tells the hungry crowd in John chapter 6, “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.”

Sisters and brothers in Christ, we all spend our days laboring for the food that perishes. It’s easy to be consumed by daily tasks, trying to fill our hungry bellies and starving hearts with empty calories and meals that will never satisfy: accomplishments, comforts, power, beauty, financial security, or certainty about the world and the people around us.

Then, out of the blue, walking through the front door—perhaps even dropped from heaven—comes a stranger, a neighbor in need, or an unexpected guest. And there, in the most unlikely of places, we just might come face to face with the “bread of God which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world”. That bread is our Savior Jesus Christ: healer, teacher, prophet, and stranger, despised and rejected, crucified and risen. Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Through the grace of God, and by Christ’s radical welcome, we meet him every week here at this table, in the bread and wine.

Let us go now to the banquet! Amen!