4th Sunday in Lent: March 10, 2013

4^th Sunday in Lent: March 10, 2013

Luke 15: The Prodigal Son

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

“I don’t think our Lord would do something like that…”

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

About three days into my very first week as pastor of a church, I was invited to the Annual Women’s Luncheon. I was so nervous to be sitting with all those lifelong members. These were powerful women who, I knew, would be taking reports back to the others about just who this new “lady pastor” was.

Everything was going fine as we ate lunch and had some friendly small talk. Then one of the ladies asked me what I had been reading recently. I love to talk about books, so I launched into an explanation of the latest novel I was reading. It was a book called “Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal.” It’s a great book—if a bit off-color at times—about what it must have been like to grow up as the best friend of the Son of God. If Jesus was a real human kid, then he had to have real friends, right? I told them about one scene, in which a teenage Jesus is hanging out with his younger brother. The little brother takes a lizard and smashes his head with a rock. Jesus picks up the dead lizard and puts it in his mouth, and then pulls it out again, resurrected. This makes the little brother squeal with glee, so he smashes the lizard again, and Jesus resurrects it, again. And again. And again…

So I’m telling the ladies this story, and then I notice that they all have looks of horror on their faces. The woman who had asked what I was reading leaned toward me with much seriousness and said, “Well, I don’t think our Lord would do anything like that.”

That went well, don’t you think?

Apparently, we expect our saviors to be dignified and respectable. We certainly don’t expect the Savior of the world to be resurrecting lizards for the amusement of his little brother.

The Pharisees and scribes also had expectations of the one who would be savior. In fact, our Gospel lesson for today begins by reporting how the Pharisees and scribes were all grumbling about Jesus, saying “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”  How scandalous. How undignified! You can almost hear them grumbling, “I just don’t think our Lord would do anything like that.” 

It is in answer to these criticisms of his ministry that Jesus tells the story of the Prodigal Son. Now, we know this parable inside and out. Even folks who have never read the Bible, or who have rarely darkened the door of a church, know at least the bones of the story: There is a man who has two sons. The younger son asks for his inheritance early, and then squanders it while partying it up in the city. When he’s made a complete mess of his life, he comes crawling back home. But instead of being angry, or throwing him into the barn, the father runs to his wayward son, lavishing him with food and gifts. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.” Amen?

We love that hymn, and we love this parable, chiefly because nearly all of us can identify with the wayward younger brother. All of us, at one time or another, have strayed far from home, far from God, far from our commitments, or from our own values, only to wake up in a pig barn, muttering to ourselves, “This place stinks!” It is Good News to hear Jesus tell of God’s amazing grace and radical welcome for those of us who, like sheep, have gone astray. The story of the Prodigal Son is, in so many ways, our own story of being welcomed into the arms of God through the cross of Jesus Christ.

But there’s one character in this parable we often forget—the elder brother. Where was the elder brother while everyone else was partying? He was outside the door, grumbling. He was standing there with arms crossed, complaining to anyone who would listen that he had been faithful. He was a rule-follower. In fact, he was doing double the fieldwork since the little brother took off and was presumed dead. And now, just because he came crawling back, his father is throwing a party? You can almost hear the older brother, leaning forward and saying with much seriousness: “I just don’t think Dad would do anything like that.”

It’s true that each of us is the younger brother, being welcomed home with open arms. But it’s also true that we often more closely resemble the elder brother, grumbling when we see God throwing a party for someone we deem unworthy. How many times have we judged someone as beyond saving or beyond forgiveness? How often do we find ourselves feeling righteous because we were here first, because we follow the rules, or because we think we’ve put in the hard work all these years? When have you found yourself saying, “I just don’t think our Lord would do something like that”?

When Robert was serving his first congregation in Texas, I remember a lengthy discussion among the ladies about whether the acolytes should be allowed to wear flip-flops under their robes. Undignified. The Lord certainly wouldn’t approve.

And not long ago, having a female preacher leading a Lutheran church fell into that category as well! I still remember the hushed tones my grandmother used when she called to tell me her church had hired “A lady pastor.”

What is considered undignified, unacceptable, or beyond the scope of what or who God will welcome into God’s house has certainly changed over the years. Consider the controversies over divorced and remarried pastors, or pastors who were also masons. And what about tattooed pastors? What about gay pastors?

What about children at communion? Or infant communion? How do we feel about the un-baptized receiving communion?

What if we extended an invitation to the PADS clients to show up early and worship with us on Sunday mornings?

What if we held services in Spanish once a month and invited our Head Start families?

Since I hear a lot about the parking problem at Bethany, what if we celebrate communion in the parking lot and just invite the whole neighborhood? We could even have a drive-through communion stations under the canopy!

Are you uncomfortable yet?

The truth is, our church sign might say “All are welcome,” but all of us have “elder brother” moments of grumbling about who shows up at the party.

Surely people should be required to dress up for church, like we used to.

Surely that guy won’t get into heaven.

Surely God wouldn’t forgive that sin.

It seems to me the most important thing Jesus teaches us through the parable of the Prodigal Son is how God’s love defies all our notions of formality, respectability, and dignity. When the younger son is crawling back home, what we expect is for the father to stay put and watch him come down the lane. We might imagine that any normal father—even a very loving father—would at least drag out those last few moments. Stand with his arms crossed. Grimace a little bit! We might expect him to convey in some small way that this behavior was simply unacceptable.

But that’s not what happens at all! Instead, the way Jesus tells it, as soon as the father sees his son in the distance, hikes up his robes and runs. He runs, kicking up dust, through the fields, past the servants and the animals. He runs, in a manner unsuited to a man of his status as a landowner and elder. The neighbors are talking, his robes are flapping in the wind, and still the father—our Heavenly Father—keeps on running, until finally he meets that beloved lost child on the road, and enfolds him in his arms.

Friends, this is God’s extravagant, undignified, over-the-top love for you and for all people. God’s embrace is freely given and ever-expanding.

We see the scandal of God’s love for us most clearly when we see Jesus on the cross.

And we experience God’s radical welcome for us here, each time we gather as a community in worship.

Here is where we celebrate that God’s love is beyond human love.

Here is where we sing of a Jesus whose grace is truly amazing.

And here is where we gather to banish the elder brother thoughts that creep in about who is coming to dinner.

Hear again the Good News: God is throwing a party, and it is for you--and you—and you—and especially for those who are not yet here. 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!

3rd Sunday after Pentecost: June 17, 2012

3^rd Sunday after Pentecost: June 17, 2012

Mark 4:26-34

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie B. Smith

On this Father’s Day, it seems appropriate to tell a story that at least begins with my father. Therefore I’ll tell you how, in the summers after my freshman and sophomore years in college, my dear Dad kindly arranged a summer job for me, so I wouldn’t be bored sitting around the house. Wasn’t that nice of him? Happy Father’s Day, Dad! I had taught a few piano lessons and had held a job as  Sunday morning pianist at the Freewill Baptist Church in town, but this was my first non-music job—and it was a job working for one of my dad’s friends. No pressure!

But before you feel too sorry for me (I did plenty of that for myself), you should know this summer job was far from the burger-slinging or toddler-chasing I could have been doing. I had no reason to whine, in fact, because what my dad had arranged was a job working in the university botany lab.

Thanks to my dad, I had the privilege of working for eight hours a day in an air-conditioned, sterile, nearly soundless room, carefully placing Arabidopsis thaliana into Petri dishes. In plain language, my job was planting mustard seeds.

If I had known I would one day be a pastor, I might have appreciated the irony of spending the summer planting mustard seeds. As it was, I did appreciate the air-conditioning. But I was a music major, and I therefore understood exactly nothing of what I was going on in that lab.

Pick up seed with tweezers, wash seed in Clorox, set timer for 90 seconds, wait, rinse seed in water, plant seed in Petri dish. Repeat. Seed, after seed, after seed. Mark 4 verse 31 says the mustard seed is “the smallest seed on earth.” I’m sure this isn’t technically true, but let’s just say that mustard seeds are small. Very, very small.

And it was all very strange to me. What was the point? I’m sure I did ask that question, but even the answer was incomprehensible. And so I continued on: picking up seeds, washing them, and planting them. I simply had to trust that somehow, something was happening with those seeds.

On weekends, I was sometimes on watering duty, and it was then I could see the results of my endless hours of tweezing and bleaching and planting. Unlike my sterile planting chamber, this room was packed with mustard plants, and they were growing—like weeds!

Here were the results the professors and students were hoping for. Here were hundreds of flowering plants, growing to maturity from those microscopic seeds. Here was the harvest, mysteriously growing even though I had no idea what I was doing.  Later, I would learn that Arabadopsis thaliana became the first plant to have its entire genome sequenced. 

Jesus says the kingdom is like that: “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.” 

We plant seed, after seed, after seed. We teach Sunday school. We’re kind to our neighbors and are active in the community. We smile at the check-out girl and invite her to church. We give our offering checks. We pray: “thy kingdom come, thy will be done”. And some days we wonder if it’s making any difference at all!

It’s especially hard to see the kingdom coming when giving is down, when it’s summer and the pews aren’t filled, and when our young people don’t come to church. It’s hard to see the kingdom at hand when our neighbors are losing their homes, when the cost of insurance means our loved ones can’t see the doctor, or when children are dying of malaria. And yet we trust. We keep planting, and praying, and trusting that the kingdom will indeed come, on earth as it is in heaven. 

And—thanks be to God—it does! While we sleep and rise, the seed sprouts and grows, though we do not know how. The kingdom “is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”

This weekend I had the privilege of attending the Northern Illinois Synod Assembly with your fellow church members Joel Thoreson, Ron and Pat Henning, Shirley Anderson, Karla Malpica, Bethany Gola, Michael Fortin, and Mel Meier. We heard reports from committees, passed the budget, honored retirees and clergy anniversaries, watched promotional videos and celebrated the 25^th year of the ELCA and the Northern Illinois Synod. (we also ate dessert at every meal!)

As fascinating as parliamentary procedures can be, the best moment of the weekend was yesterday when we welcomed Lord of Love Lutheran Church in Galena as a congregation of the ELCA and the Northern Illinois Synod. 

Bishop Wollersheim invited members of the congregation on the stage, and suddenly from behind us we heard the sound of a trumpet, a tambourine, and singing: “Amen, amen, amen, amen, amen!” And here they came: black and white and brown, young and old, singing down the aisle and onto the stage. Lord of Love’s pastor, Dennis Hill, had been ordained the night before, and they were clearly still glowing from that joyous event. 

That sight alone might have been enough to lift our spirits after a lengthy session of historical speeches and Robert’s Rules of Order! And then we heard the story of Lord of Love.

Lord of Love began as an informal group of just thirteen people. Some of had been members of congregations that left the ELCA. Some had been without a church home for years before, or had never felt welcome in one. But in 2009, those 13 believers came to the Synod office and asked if they could become an ELCA congregation. They had a vision of becoming a church for all believers in Christ, where all are welcome regardless of age, disability, gender, nationality, race, religious background, sexual identity or socioeconomic status. In their own words: “At Lord of Love, when we say “All Are Welcome,” we mean it.”

There were some problems to overcome: for one thing, their pastor wasn’t Lutheran, but Baptist! They had no idea what they were doing. As their congregational president said, starting a new church isn’t on anyone’s bucket list! And on that first day, when they opened their doors, they weren’t sure anyone would come to the kind of church they had envisioned and described. For the first few minutes, it was just the thirteen of them, alone. 

But then they started to arrive. Cars drove into the parking lot. Families walked in. Community members they had never seen darken the doors of their old churches were coming to this one.

That was in 2009. This year, at their official organizational meeting, there were more than 125 signers! Lord of Love, which at one time looked like nothing more than a handful of tiny stray seeds, has now grown and put forth large branches, so that the birds of the air—all the birds of the air—can make nests in its shade. 

The thing is, we often expect the kingdom to look like one thing, and it ends up being completely different. We too easily dismiss tiny seeds. We assume nothing is growing if we can’t see it happening.

And yet Jesus tells us to trust. Trust that in spite of our worries or statistics that seemed stacked against us, the kingdom is coming. Trust that in spite of dire predictions that the mainline churches are dying, Christianity has become irrelevant, or the world is going to hell in a handbasket, we have reason to hope. 

Our hope is in the One who said, “The kingdom of heaven is at hand” and “the kingdom of God has come near”. Our hope is in the One who sees in a handful of discarded church members and lonely souls the seeds of a new church. Our hope is in the One who heals girls everyone else thought was dead and who gives blind men sight. Our hope is in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen, friend of the friendless, voice of the voiceless, our master gardener, the water of life, our rock and our redeemer. Amen!

February 12, 2012: 6th Sunday after Epiphany

February 12, 2012: 6^th Sunday after Epiphany

Mark 1:40-45

Preacher: Pastor Carrie Smith

“Control the Message”

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

On the surface, this morning’s Gospel lesson is a nice, feel-good, healing story. It’s the kind of story that could make the evening news—a human interest piece to counteract all the campaign reports and bickering about the economy. “Leper living on the edge of town gets healed by a stranger and is welcomed home by his family. No sign of the visitor with healing powers. More on the News at 10.”

Indeed, we need this kind of Good News today more than ever, and we give thanks that Jesus is our great healer. Jesus completely healed a man of his leprosy, and in the same way he heals us. Jesus heals our hearts, our grief, our guilt, and our relationships. He is the Balm in Gilead that heals the sin-sick soul. He is the healer of our every ill and the light of each tomorrow. He picks us up, turns us around, and puts our feet back on the ground…and I’m so glad Jesus lifted me! Amen?

But there’s something else going on here. There’s something in this particular scene from Jesus’ mission and ministry that seems…strange. The strange part is right there in verses 43-44, where Jesus, after sternly warning the healed man, sends him away saying, “See that you say nothing to anyone.”

Say nothing to anyone! Keep quiet! But wait…aren’t we to go, baptize, and share the Good News? Aren’t we called to participate in God’s mission to the whole world? What was Global Mission Sunday all about, if we’re not supposed to say anything to anyone about Jesus and his power to heal?

It’s hard to imagine Jesus telling a healed man to keep quiet. But then…maybe Jesus had his reasons.

Maybe, for example, he wanted to control the message.

We may not think of Jesus as a control freak, but these days, I often wish he would do a little more micro-managing. There are times when I wish Jesus had a better publicity team and a solid campaign strategy. He needs someone to work on his campaign playlist, for example. After all, if President Obama gets Al Green and Aretha Franklin, and Mitt Romney gets Kid Rock and Toby Keith, why can’t Jesus update his soundtrack a bit? (Some churches are working on it for him, by the way, holding communion services featuring the music of U2 called…wait for it…a “U2-charist”! And there’s even a church in California that holds a Lady Gaga mass.)

…But I digress.

Playlists and soundtracks aside, what really bugs me is how, when a cable news network wants to include the “Christian” perspective, they call on some guy with a suit and tie from Big Bob’s Better Bible Church or the All-American Anti-Outsider Heritage Society to share his thoughts. It drives me nuts to have my faith represented by people who summarize Jesus’ message in bitter sound bites and political positioning. Every time I hear a TV Christian spouting off about who Jesus hates this week, or how following Jesus can make us rich, or why Jesus, given the choice, would have certainly been an American—I just want to say “Jesus! Get a handle on your publicity! Can’t you do something about these spokespeople? Isn’t it time to hire a new campaign manager? Control the message!”

Considering how badly we’ve been known to mangle the mission and message of Jesus Christ, is it any wonder that he’d want to keep the story under wraps? After all, the stuff Jesus did was perfect fodder for gossip and misunderstanding. He didn’t just heal people—he restored relationships and changed whole communities. When Jesus healed this man’s leprosy, for example, he also re-introduced him to his whole life! As a leper, he had likely been living on the edge of town, cut off from everything he knew and loved—but now, because of Jesus, he was free to go back home, hold a job, and be a part of the community once again. This was such a dramatic life over-haul that Jesus had to have known the guy would want to share the news.

But what would he say? How would the story get re-told by his friends? Would they say Jesus was a quack doctor, selling leprosy potions just outside city limits? Would the authorities come and ask for a permit? This could slow down the mission considerably!

And so, it seems, Jesus tried to control the message, sternly warning the man: “DON’T tell anyone about this. Just go home and make an offering to the priest in your village. That’s it. And no interviews!”

But of course, that’s not what happened. The man couldn’t help himself—he did tell his friends. And then they told someone else. And those folks told their friends. The news about Jesus was like one of those YouTube videos of a cat playing with a dishcloth or a teenage boy riding a Big Wheel off his roof: it went viral! Scripture says “he went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly, but stayed out in the country; and people came to him from every quarter.”

Jesus may have wanted to control the message, but the thing about the Good News of Jesus Christ is this: it’s good news! And news gets around. But the problem is that once the news about Jesus got around, it was harder for him to teach and preach, to heal and restore, because both the crowds and the authorities watched his every move.

A friend told me about seeing Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in Chicago a few years ago. It seems they wanted to take their kids to the bookstore while in town. But in order to make that happen, the authorities had to close down the street. Then they closed the bookstore and did a security sweep. They then roped off the entrance with those velvety red ropes, and when the Jolie-Pitts family got out of their limousine, they were rushed into the store. All of this so their kids could have the chance to walk among stacks of books, to peruse the selection of Dr. Seuss and Harry Potter, and to experience what most of us would consider to be a normal family activity.

If life is hard for Brad and Angelina, it’s hard to imagine how bad it was for Jesus. He wasn’t just famous—he was infamous. He was infamous because the things he did challenged the status quo, flew in the face of convention, and disrupted the way things used to be. Lepers didn’t come back home, for example. And now, in spite of his attempts to control the message, the word is out—Jesus is a leper-lover.

Writer Anne Lamott wrote: “You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.” And it’s true: We have an awful knack for misinterpreting and misrepresenting the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We use his mission and ministry for our own purposes, shaping his message to fit our agenda. And even when we flock to him, seeking to follow him, looking for healing, we bring our agendas with us. Like the paparazzi crowding around Brad and Angelina, hungry for photos while they are trying be good parents, we come to Jesus assuming we know his purposes.

But time and again, Jesus overwhelms us with his goodness, with his grace, and with his healing. Time and again, even when we come to him with our agendas (and maybe especially then!), Jesus heals and restores us beyond our expectations. It turns out that no matter how we spin it, Jesus’ purposes are always the same. Jesus is always about healing, cleansing, restoring, and making us whole.

The leper who begged for healing received more than he imagined when he was sent back home completely cleansed.

Jairus’ daughter, already thought to be dead, was lifted up by Jesus and sent off to have dinner.

The woman who had a bleeding disorder for twelve years was made well just by touching his coat.

Families are restored, addicts find sobriety, the dying receive peace, and long-held hurts and grudges leave us like the healed man’s leprosy.

But chiefly, we proclaim that the whole world was healed and restored beyond our imagination (and in spite of our agendas), when Jesus Christ, son of God, was sacrificed on the cross for the sake of all.

Like the leper who was cleansed and sent away by Jesus, we too have received new life in Christ. But have you told anyone about it lately? Or are you letting others control the message?

We Lutherans are typically a quiet bunch. We don’t want to seem that we’re pushing our faith on anyone. But the sad result of that silence is that people who need healing remain unwell. Those who linger on the outskirts of society or of polite company never know true welcome and restoration. Those neighbors we don’t want to offend with our “Jesus-talk” wait, just outside the door, for a word of hope or a chance at forgiveness.

What would happen if we shared openly what Jesus has done for us? What would it be like if the story of Jesus’ power to heal and restore—your story, and mine—became the primary voice and face of Christianity today? What if we became Jesus’ new campaign managers, unseating those who would distort the message?

Sisters and brothers, as we approach the season of Lent, I invite you to consider sharing your story as your Lenten discipline. Share the Good News—not so you can grow the church. Not because you love Bethany. But because you love Jesus, and because he’s made a difference in your life. Share your healing story, that others may be healed. Amen.