Sermon for Rally Day/God's Work Our Hands Sunday: September 8, 2013

Sermon for Sunday, September 8, 2013

Rally Day/God’s Work, Our Hands Sunday

Luke 14:25-33

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

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

Now, large crowds were traveling with Jesus, because summer was finally over and it was Rally Day in Galilee. So Jesus turned and began his “welcome back to church” sermon by saying: “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.” Amen?

Yeah, I think it probably went over just as well when Jesus preached it, too! This was one heckuva sermon for Jesus to deliver, especially after a dinner party during which he proclaimed “all are welcome!” Now that all those sinners, outcasts, and other folk have heard his message and rallied around him, he says “hate your family” and “carry the cross or you can’t be my disciple?” Well played, Jesus, well played.

Jesus must have been at least somewhat excited to see that his message was reaching more and more people. But the words we hear from him today indicate his concern, too: Do the people really understand what they’re signing up for? Do they realize this is an “all or nothing” proposition? Do they know where this path leads? Looking out at the crowd, Jesus may have noticed how some folks seemed to have one foot on the path with Jesus and one foot back at home. A few were keeping one eye on the door in case someone more important or interesting showed up. Others appeared to be listening to the sermon, but were in fact mentally making a shopping list for later on (go ahead and nod if you know what I mean. And don’t worry – I’ve actually written sermons in my head while listening to other preachers’ sermons! In the name of + Christ, we are all forgiven! Amen?)

It may not be a crowd-pleaser, but this passage from the 14^th chapter of Luke represents one of Jesus’ central messages: All are welcome, grace is for everyone, but following Jesus is a costly affair. This was literally a “come to Jesus” talk for the rallying crowds that day! Jesus says to all who would follow him: “No one comes any further on this journey until you know what you’re getting into and where we are going. I need you to be all in: Both feet forward, eyes on the prize, and, most importantly, hands free of possessions so you can carry the cross and follow me.”

Yes, Jesus calls us to practice “hands-free discipleship”. He asks us to relinquish all that stuff we love to hold so tightly—our over-packed schedules, our control over everyone and everything, our personal comforts and privileges, our strongly held beliefs, and everything else we’re proud to possess—so our hands will be free to carry the one thing Jesus requires of us: the cross of Christ.

The other day, when I preached on this text at the nursing home, I asked the little congregation assembled there what crosses they have to bear (thinking they might mention aging or facing their own mortality) but one resident right away offered: “Being cheerful to my roommate is the cross I must bear!”

Carrying the cross certainly can be a deeply personal struggle with any number of things: loving our neighbors, dealing with an addiction or an illness, or overcoming adversity. Some days, carrying the cross and following Jesus means just putting one foot in front of the other in spite of what life throws at you. Day by day, we all seek to see him more clearly, to love him more dearly, and to follow him more nearly. (nod if you just started humming the music of Godspell just now…)

Today, when we hear Jesus ask us to “take up the cross and follow”, we most often think of our daily discipleship walk. We imagine ourselves enduring life’s difficulties and coming out a better Christian at the end. But in Jesus’ time, the only people who carried the cross were criminals. Carrying a cross meant only one thing: a death sentence. The only people you saw with a cross on their backs were trudging through the city to their execution. This was not an attractive lifestyle choice. Carrying a cross didn’t make you a better person, build character, help you win elections, or give you better arm muscles. It just made you dead.

So for Jesus to say to the large crowd rallying around him “Listen, you can’t be my disciple unless you carry the cross and follow me” must have been quite a shock to the hearers. How many do you suppose turned around and went home? How many do you suppose turned to each other to ask, “What did he just say? Carry the what? Where are we going?”

For those who stayed for the whole sermon, the point was made clear: discipleship is serious business. It’s time to get real about what it’s like to follow Jesus, and to trust in God, when the party’s over, when the crowds are gone, and when Rally Day is finished. It’s time to contemplate just where Jesus is leading us in this cross-carrying itinerary—because it sure looks like we’re all headed to Calvary.

On Thursday I was called to the bedside of Bethany member Bill Kohl, 89 years old. (I’m sad to tell you that Bill died early this morning.) Please keep the Kohl and Romano families in your prayers. As many of you may know, Bill was a dentist for over 45 years. I mentioned to the family that I had been thinking about a good “theme verse” for Bill’s life. Unfortunately, there just aren’t many Bible passages about dentists or teeth! But Bill’s wife, Lois, said she had been thinking for several days about the hand blessing we experienced in worship here at Bethany last week. She was deeply moved by this ritual, when each of you had the opportunity to come forward and have your hands anointed with oil and blessed for the godly work that they do. “I wish he could have been there” Lois said. “He cared for so many people, so many teeth, and so many smiles with his hands.”

And then Lois went on to tell me how when she was called to the nursing home the night before, as Bill’s health started to quickly deteriorate, she walked in and saw a crowd of people working on him. Nurses, doctors, hospice workers, the chaplain—all gathered around her dear husband. All were using their hands to do God’s work of loving, comforting, and healing. All were accompanying Bill and his family on his final journey.  “All their hands are blessed hands” said Lois.

Sisters and brothers, I can think of no better example of what it means to carry the cross and follow Jesus wherever he leads. While we all have personal crosses to bear, discipleship is not chiefly about our own daily struggles. Carrying cross of Christ means lightening the load for others. It means keeping our hands free to do God’s work of loving our neighbors, bearing one another’s burdens, and yes, accompanying the condemned and the dying to the very end.

Today we are celebrating “God’s work, our hands” Sunday, in honor of the 25^th anniversary of the ELCA. This afternoon we will be out in the community, serving our neighbors at two different PADS sites, at the new LSSI Gable Point senior housing, at the Queen Anne home for disabled adults, and at the Fruits of Faith community garden. Behind us you can also see some visual examples of all the ways in which this beloved community does God’s work with our hands. This is a day to celebrate. It’s a day to roll up our sleeves and get to work, in the name of Christ.

But let’s be clear about one thing: we seek to do God’s work not to puff ourselves up, and never to save ourselves or become better people, but rather to join with God in the work of loving our neighbors, and sharing their burdens. Because we are free in Christ—free of sin and death and everything else that would possess us—our hands are available to take up the cross and become instruments of God’s love, peace, and mercy—whether we are providing shelter at PADS, food through the food pantry, making music to soothe souls and draw people closer to God, taking communion to shut-ins…or being present at the bedside of someone who is dying, using our God-given gifts and talents to comfort and to heal.

Sisters and brothers, on this “God’s Work, Our Hands” day, I give thanks for each of you and the ways in which you practice “hands-free discipleship”. Your hands are truly blessed! (Let’s do a very non-Lutheran thing right now and raise our hands in the air, saying “Thank you, God, for using my hands!” And now, everyone E-L-C-A!)

And now, dear friends in Christ, as we prepare for a busy season of work in the church, and as we celebrate all the work we do with our hands, let us also give thanks to God for the work we DO NOT do.  Let us rejoice again in the work that God’s already got covered, for  it is in Jesus Christ, our brother, that we see God’s work most clearly:

We see God’s work of love for the world through the birth of Jesus Christ.

We see God’s work of compassion in the life of Jesus Christ.  

And we chiefly see God’s work of redemption for all sinners in the walk Jesus made to Calvary, carrying the cross, and loving us to the end—even to death on that very cross.  

Sisters and brothers, God’s work is love. God’s work is sacrifice for the sake of others. God’s work is redemption for all of creation. In Christ, our hands are free to carry on God’s work for the sake of our neighbors, easing their burdens, and loving them as we have been loved – to the very end. Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, September 1, 2013

Sermon for Sunday, September 1, 2013

Pentecost +15 

Luke 14:1, 7-14

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie B. Smith 

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

School has begun, and with a new school year comes an important annual ritual: finding your place at the table in the school lunchroom. It’s been a long time since I was in middle school, but I remember well the worry about which lunch period I would get in my schedule, which friends would have the same lunch, and most importantly, which table would welcome me. I remember the butterflies in my stomach as I stood tightly gripping that plastic tray of food, surveying the lunchroom for a friendly face. And then, blessed relief, as a classmate waved me over to a seat saved just for me! (nod if you remember, too!)

I think most of us would agree we’re glad those days are behind us (and to those of you who are still navigating the lunchroom wilderness—we’ve got your back! It gets better! If you’re sitting next to a young person this morning, please turn to him or her and tell them “It gets better!)

It does get better, but lunchroom politics can be seen as a microcosm of the larger world, in which we humans are constantly jockeying for better positions in the office, in society, and in life in general.

In Jesus’ day, these strategic moves played out not in the lunchroom but at the dinner table, where hosts invited guests based on their ability to repay the favor. If I, a Pharisee, invited you to my dinner party and seated you next to someone with a measure of power and influence, I would expect you to return the invitation next week, honoring me with a seat of equal importance and opportunity for furthering my agenda. It was a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” sort of system, where every invitation, every seating chart, and every dinner conversation had inherent meaning that was just understood by everyone else.

This sort of highly organized and formal system of mealtime etiquette may be a bit hard for us to understand, given our super-casual American way of dining. Not only have we given up on the seating charts and the cloth napkins, we often don’t sit at a table at all, but instead eat our meals standing around the kitchen counter or racing off to the next band practice, the evening meeting, or the second job that keeps food in the fridge in the first place.

Dinnertime may not be the political stage it was in the time of Jesus, but be not fooled into thinking we don’t have similar elaborate structures of honor and privilege in place today. Just as in 1^st Century Palestine, our culture has its own rules we often can’t articulate, but which order our lives and especially our relationships with each other. We know, instinctively, who belongs—and who doesn’t—in any given situation. We know who gets to sit at the head of the table and who sits in the kitchen. We know where the best schools are, which hospital has the best reputation, and where the people in our neighborhood shop for groceries, clothes, and cars. In fact, we know more about this system of honor, privilege and social status than we want to admit.

I learned that lesson in a deeply personal, and deeply embarrassing, way as a young college student.

It was junior year, and I was excited to be moving in with two friends.  

Freshman year was in the dorm of course, and then I spent sophomore year in a tiny apartment with three Mormon girls (there’s a story for another day!) But this move was momentous. Julie and Andrea, two fellow music majors, would be sharing a house with me for the year. We felt like real adults!

The 1940’s-era rental we found was adorable, at least by college standards. There was a large living room for hanging out with friends, and plenty of space for the piano (we were music majors, remember?) And there were three bedrooms. At least—sort of.

There was one large master and another normal sized bedroom, with a shared bathroom in between. And then there was a third tiny room in the back, a later addition, which had a curtain in place of a door and was accessible only through the kitchen. It was probably never intended as a bedroom, but the landlord could charge more money by renting it as a three-bedroom house to cheap college students.

No, it wasn’t ideal, but we loved the house, and signed on the lease. As we prepared to move in, the inevitable discussion about who would get which room began. Round and round we went, arguing as only college age girls can. No one wanted to live off the kitchen in the curtained room, for obvious reasons. Finally, in an effort to end the argument, I made what seemed to my 19 year old self a perfectly valid point:

“Julie should get the master bedroom, because she has the big water bed. I’ll take the middle-sized room in front, and Andrea should take the back room. After all, it’s way better than what she’s used to.”

That’s right—I actually argued that our friend Andrea, who had grown up in New Mexico on a chili farm, in a house with one bedroom for the entire family, should obviously get the tiny, added-on, curtained, poorly insulated, non-bedroom, because of the three of us, she was used to it. She was accustomed to such humble surroundings. We shouldn’t be expected to give up our comfort, when she wouldn’t even notice! Why upset the apple cart? Why change the natural order of things? To my mind, I belonged in the front room just as much as Andrea belonged in the back of the house.

In the end, that’s exactly what happened. The argument pretty much ended there. But I will never forget the look on our friend Andrea’s face. It was a look that said, “Yeah, I get it. I know my place. I know how this system works.” It wasn’t the first time she had been given the last place at the table.

Jesus knew how the system worked, too. He knew the guests at the Pharisee’s dinner party would elbow each other out of the way in their efforts to get into the seats of honor. He knew the host had invited all the right people. He knew there were hungry people just outside the door. And he also knew this dinner party was about more than food–it was about catching him in a mistake, maybe healing or talking to the hired help again. As usual, however, no matter what was on the menu, Jesus served up a healthy portion of learning for those gathered around the table.

First, he spoke to the guests, saying:

"When someone invites you to dinner, don't take the place of honor. Somebody more important than you might have been invited by the host. Then he'll come and call out in front of everybody, 'You're in the wrong place. The place of honor belongs to this man.' Red-faced, you'll have to make your way to the very last table, the only place left.  "When you're invited to dinner, go and sit at the last place. Then when the host comes he may very well say, 'Friend, come up to the front.' That will give the dinner guests something to talk about! What I'm saying is, If you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face. But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself." 

Then, turning to the host, he said:

"The next time you put on a dinner, don't just invite your friends and family and rich neighbors, the kind of people who will return the favor. Invite some people who never get invited out, the misfits from the wrong side of the tracks. You'll be - and experience - a blessing. They won't be able to return the favor, but the favor will be returned - oh, how it will be returned! - at the resurrection of God's people."

At first, this little sermonette from Jesus seems like helpful advice on how to play the game: Sit just a few chairs down, and you’ll look great when the host asks you to move up! To my 19 year old self, this may have sounded like: “Don’t take the master bedroom. But that medium-sized room in front should be fine!”

But hear Jesus’ words again. He says: “Sit at the lowest place. Take the very last table. Better yet, sit in the kitchen, with the servants!” That’s not exactly a strategy for success. And when Jesus tells the esteemed host to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind to the next soiree, the point is made clear: Jesus isn’t giving helpful hints for winning the game, he’s undermining the game altogether. He’s crashing the system. He’s throwing out the place cards and the seating arrangements, doing away with the palm-greasing and the hobnobbing, and is showing the dinner guests a new way. Jesus’ words open up for the listeners the possibility of a completely new paradigm, a system in which the humble will be exalted and the exalted humbled; where the first will be last and the last will be first. He presents for them a topsy-turvy world in

which the powerful are brought down from their thrones, the lowly are lifted up, the hungry are filled with good things and the rich are sent away empty. This is a vision of a life lived with the knowledge that the only judgment that matters is God’s and the only honor that counts is that which comes from seeking first the kingdom and all its righteousness.

In just a few words, Jesus transforms the dinner table into the stage for the radical reversal that is the hallmark of the kingdom of God.

This is the sort of transformative power we experience right here at this table, every time we gather for communion as the whole people of God. In spite of appearances, and putting the ushers and the elaborate communion choreography aside, there are no seating arrangements or dinner protocols at the Lord’s table. It’s very simple: Here is bread, here is wine. Christ is with us. All are welcome! Rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight, band members and football stars, the well-connected and the nobodies, all come to the table with hands outstretched, ready to receive the gift of grace in the bread and wine. Every seat is a seat of honor.

But, my sisters and brothers, the radical reversal Jesus introduces here goes beyond this table. Here we catch a glimpse of the heavenly banquet, but it is in the cross that we see the full picture. Jesus Christ our brother, Son of the Most High God, took the lowliest place of all—that of a criminal, executed in plain sight—and in doing so lifted up the lowly people everywhere. Through the cross of Christ, the transformation is complete. All things are made new! Sins are forgiven and sinners become disciples. Privilege and power become opportunities for service and humility. Prejudice and discrimination become things of history. 

Because of the cross, there is no more fighting for the head table, for Jesus himself sits at the right hand of God. And, thanks be to God, because of the cross of Christ, there is no more back of the bus, no bottom of the heap, and no back bedrooms, for all have been lifted up with him.

Let the people say Amen!

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTObtM6qhVw

Sermon for August 25, 2013: Just then, there appeared a woman...and Jesus saw her.

August 25, 2012

Luke 13:10-17

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

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

Last month, when my family and I started our annual long, long drive to Texas to see my family, we first made our traditional stopover in St. Louis. This year, in a break with tradition, we stayed two nights—partly to better appreciate the city, and partly to break up that long, long drive. Did I mention it’s a long, long drive to Texas?

I was especially proud of our vacation plans this year because I planned to make liberal use of Groupons—web-based coupons—for everything from appetizers and drinks to a pedicure. On the first morning we were there, I was excited to use my St. Louis coffee Groupon, so I was up and out the door of the hotel before the men in my life had even rolled over and registered that we were no longer at home.

St. Louis is, shall we say, “balmy” even at 7 am in July, but I nevertheless walked briskly through downtown toward the coffee shop. There weren’t many folks on the street at that time of day, but as I turned the final corner, there she was. She sat nestled back in the doorway of a defunct business, in the shade, and I could see that she was in a wheelchair. Even out of the corner of my eyes, I could discern what she wanted. She was rattling a Styrofoam cup of coins, and quietly mumbling—like her own, personal, morning prayer liturgy—“Can you help me? Just a few coins, please. Anything will help. Can you help me?”

I didn’t want to see her, but I looked over anyway, and immediately saw that her face was completely normal on one side, but the other side seemed devoid of cheekbones and structure of any kind. It was as if Salvador Dali had been given the chance to design a human face, and she was the canvas. Her face was a face only on technicalities. I didn’t want to see her, but I looked over anyway.

And then I looked away.

I didn’t want to see her.  I was on a quest! I wanted my morning coffee! I wanted to use my Groupon! Above all else, I wanted to stay on schedule. This was a carefully planned vacation, with an itinerary and scenic overlooks and what my dad calls “hysterical markers” along the way. No time for detours or unplanned stops. Furthermore, what business did she have to interrupt my vacation in such a way? There are so many other days out of the year when I have no problem living into my Christian vocation, listening to people’s stories, and giving to the poor—but today was different. This was vacation. This was my Sabbath! And I didn’t want to see her.

If I were to place myself in today’s Gospel lesson, I think it’s pretty clear I would not be Jesus. In fact, I would say it’s a good practice for all of us to read the Gospels and realize that we are not Jesus. Amen? In fact, the truth is, I am probably the synagogue leader in this lesson today. At least on that day on vacation in St. Louis, I most closely resembled the synagogue leader, who watched Jesus call up a disabled woman and heal her on the spot and who then turned to the congregation and said: “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” 

The message was: “I don’t want to see you all doing this next week. This guy is a guest preacher, a revival preacher, and I know he’s doing some cool stuff. But rules are rules, and I don’t want to see you all coming in here for healing on the Sabbath when he’s gone.”

To the bent-over woman and all who, like her, came to the synagogue in need of healing, the message was pretty clear: It’s not just that I don’t want to see you coming here on the Sabbath. I don’t want to see you.

I suspect you can see yourself in the role of the synagogue leader in this story, too. How often have you passed by the homeless person in the doorway without a glance? How often have you averted your eyes away from wheelchairs, feeding tubes, scars, or the faces of those in deep grief or pain? Our fear of the pain and suffering around us leads us to find safety and security behind rules and regulations: If I don’t look, I don’t have to respond. Everyone says, if you give them any money, they’ll just spend it on drugs. You should never open your wallet in the presence of a homeless person. I give to the needy through my church. I wouldn’t know what to say to someone who just lost a child, so it’s better if I don’t say anything. The truth is: I just really don’t want to see him.

Yes, more often than we like to admit, we are the synagogue leader, more concerned with broken rules than the broken people around us, and if you get nothing else from the Gospel lesson for today, I hope in the coming week you will take a moment to see—really see—the people around you. Awhile back there was a campaign called “Start Seeing Motorcycles”, encouraging motorists to pay attention to the 2-wheeled folks on the roads with them. Do you remember that? In this case, I think the Gospel convicts us and reminds us that we would all do well to start seeing each other. Start seeing what your neighbor is going through. Start seeing the brokenness in our own community. Start seeing those whom the world has called hopeless, insignificant, or not worth looking at.

This week, on the 50^th anniversary of the March on Washington, we remember how people of color stood up and said to their fellow Americans “Look at me! See me! I exist.” Some of the most powerful images of that time period for me are the photos of the Memphis Sanitation Workers’ Strike, when workers marched with signs that said simply “I AM a man.” I am a man! See me! We give thanks to God this week for all those who boldly made themselves known, as well as for the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the other prophetic voices who said to the rest of us “Start seeing your darker brothers and sisters” and helped us to have a vision of what it would mean to be the “beloved community.” Amen!

Are you still with me? Good, because I want to challenge you now, sisters and brothers, to place yourselves not in the role of Jesus or in the role of the synagogue leader, but rather in the role of the bent-over woman. You may not be afflicted as she is, but what I know is this: each and every one of you appears in this place today carrying some kind of burden. Each and every one of you comes weighed down by something—depression, grief, anger, cancer, divorce, unemployment, credit card debt, addiction, doubt, mistakes made, or opportunities missed. It’s so heavy it sometimes causes you to be bent over, and you can hardly stand up straight. You’re just barely getting by.

But I also know this: almost all of you have appeared here today wearing your Sunday best, putting on a smile, and pretending to have it all together. Nod if you know what I’m talking about! Why do we do this? Because you know very well that other people don’t want to see that stuff. You know very well that people (and, sadly, especially church people) would rather keep to the schedule, keep church under an hour (ha!), and keep all that difficult stuff under wraps, unspoken, and unseen.

And yet…here you are. The Gospel according to Luke says: “And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, ‘Woman, you are set free from your ailment.’ When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.”

We only know a few things about the woman in the synagogue, but none of them are as important as these key points: Just then, there appeared a woman….and Jesus saw her.

A woman in need appeared, and Jesus saw her. She was bent over in the same way at the market, and on the street, and at the river washing her clothes, and no one paid any attention, but just then she appeared…and Jesus saw her.

She came to pray at the synagogue every week, bent over almost to the ground, quite unable to pray or praise freely, and no one gave her a second glance, but just then she appeared…and Jesus saw her.

For eighteen years she was bound by this spirit, while others told her to sit in the back of the bus or to come back another day. But on that day in the synagogue, Jesus saw her and proclaimed that it may be the Sabbath, but now is the time for restoration. Now is the time for wholeness. Now is the time for liberation! Amen!

My dear people, the Good News of the Gospel is that you are here, and Jesus sees you. Jesus sees you, bent over, weighed down, and just getting by. Jesus sees you, when no one else wants to stop and look.

On this day, this Sabbath day, burdened and heavy-laden though we are, we come, wanting to give our praise to God, wanting to stand up straight, wanting to get it right, and what we find is that God, in God’s goodness, gives us something even greater than we could hope for—healing, wholeness, and restoration, through Jesus Christ. Not when it’s convenient for other people. Not when it’s on the schedule. Not when we get around to asking for it. Right now. Today. Here—in, with and under the bread and the wine, through the water and the Word, and yes, sometimes through this beloved community. Come to the table, all of you, and know that you are set free. Thanks be to God.

Sermon for August 18, 2013: Sorry, wrong answer.

Sermon for August 18, 2013

Luke 12:49-56

PREACHER: Pr. Carrie Smith

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

Every family has stories that are told over and over, at every gathering, until they gain the level of parable or even legend. In my family, most of these stories are about my Great-Grandma Helene and her cooking skills. One of my favorites has to do with her “famous” fruit cocktail cake. It was really just a recipe from the newspaper, nothing fancy, but what made it “famous” was the fact that every so often, my Grandma Helene would make her fruit cocktail cake with mixed vegetables instead, which sort of ruined the whole flavor profile. If you’re wondering how this could possibly happen, it might help to know that my grandma regularly removed the labels from her canned goods to give them to her church (you know, to raise pennies for schools or for children in far-away lands) and would then place the full, label-free cans back on her shelves for later use.

Sometimes, we just get it wrong.

Not long ago my in-laws were visiting from Oklahoma, and they happened to be here over a Thursday night, which is otherwise known in the Smith household as “Project Runway night”. I knew it was a long-shot, but figured there was nothing to lose, so when the time came around I invited my father-in-law to watch it with me. “Sure!” he said, and sat right down. Now, I was surprised by this, but also pleased not to be interrupted for my favorite reality television. It wasn’t until about 15 minutes into the program that I saw his face turn from expectant, to confused, to down-right distressed. Finally, during a commercial, my father-in-law (retired Air Force and long-time employee of the Federal Aviation Administration) grumbled loudly, “Well, I guess this show ISN’T about airplanes after all.” (Project Runway, of course, is actually about fashion design.)

Sometimes, we just get it wrong.

In today’s Gospel passage, it was Peter and the disciples and the crowd of thousands who just got it wrong about Jesus. Luke chapter 12 offers us an inside look into Jesus’ frustration with those who were closest to him and how they consistently—sometimes even comically—got it wrong about his mission and about their purpose as his followers.

Today’s reading picks up in the middle of a long sermon Jesus is preaching to a crowd which includes the disciples and thousands of others, all trampling each other to get a look at him. At the beginning of the sermon, Jesus first warns the hearers about the Pharisees and other false teachers; then he urges them not to fear those who kill the body but rather to fear the one with real authority; and then he assures them that each hair on their heads is counted, that they are of more value than many sparrows; and that everyone who acknowledges him will be acknowledged before the angels of God. It was a masterpiece of a sermon! A real crowd-pleaser, I’m sure he was thinking.

And then, one guy in the back raises his hand and says: “Jesus, tell my brother to give me some of our family’s money!”

And, to put icing on the cake (the mixed vegetable cake, perhaps), Peter jumps up to ask, “Um, Jesus, are you talking to us, or to everyone?”

Sometimes, we just get it wrong – especially when it comes to Jesus.

And that’s why, in today’s reading, we see Jesus speaking with frustration and even anger to those who are just missing the point. He tells them to trust God and be ready for when the master comes, and they want to talk about splitting earthly inheritances. He teaches them to consider the lilies, how they grow into a beauty better than all of Solomon’s finery—and they want to know if there’s going to be a quiz at the end. “Are we gonna be graded on this? Are you talking to us, Jesus?”

Jesus said to Peter and the others who were gathered:

(The Message Version)

"I've come to start a fire on this earth - how I wish it were blazing right now! 50 I've come to change everything, turn everything rightside up - how I long for it to be finished! 51 Do you think I came to smooth things over and make everything nice? Not so. I've come to disrupt and confront! 52 From now on, when you find five in a house, it will be - Three against two, and two against three”

And then, to wrap things up:

“Frauds! You know how to tell a change in the weather, so don't tell me you can't tell a change in the season, the God-season we're in right now.”

Well…this clearly isn’t what the disciples—or the crowds—were expecting. They got it wrong! They thought Jesus came to make their lives easier, to make their neighbors stop fighting with them, to fix all their problems and teach them how to live a happy life. They didn’t expect Jesus to talk about dividing families, leaving home, giving away treasures, challenging authorities and becoming friends with outcasts and sinners.

The disciples got it wrong. The crowds got it wrong. And we, too, often get it wrong.

Our denomination’s churchwide assembly convened this week in Pittsburgh. Several of our Bethany members were there, including Pastor Rafael Malpica-Padilla, Ron and Pat Henning, and Joel Thoreson.  The big, rather unexpected news of the week was the election of the first female presiding bishop of the ELCA, Bishop ElizabethEaton. This historic event has definitely been the most talked about outcome of the assembly—along with the history making use of social media like Twitter and LiveStream, which is how I was able to keep up with the proceedings. (If you don't know what those things are, then you might understand why this is a big deal!)

The election of Bishop Eaton got my attention, for sure, but my favorite moment of the week happened when the candidates for bishop were giving their speeches before one of the final ballots. Among other questions, the candidates were asked what they thought the biggest challenge facing the ELCA would be in the next six years.

Bishop Jessica Crist from Montana thought for a moment, and then she pointed to the huge assembly banner behind her proclaiming “Always Being Made New”—the theme for our 25^th anniversary.

“See this?” she said. “Our biggest challenge is remembering that it says Always Being Made New, not Always Being Made Big.”

And then she followed up with this comment: “Over the next six years, we need to remember that we’re called to faithfulness, not to success.”

What Bishop Crist named so boldly in that speech was the way we get it wrong today not only about Jesus, but about “the church.” Much of the pessimism about the state of the church and of Christianity today I believe comes from the fact that we still, after all these years, are getting it as wrong as the disciples did.

We expect Jesus to bring us prosperity, to give us the seven keys to a healthy marriage, and to offer us three easy steps to success in life and business.

And…we expect that success as a church means more members, bigger buildings, and packed pews. We expect the church to teach kids about Jesus so they will be “nice.” And we definitely expect the church to always be one big, happy, cozy, family. So we Lutherans pray, “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest” at every meal—and then we’re surprised when it actually happens! Jesus shows up, and we’re surprised by what he says.  

Because the Jesus who shows up very often isn’t the baby Jesus, meek and mild, but the one we encountered in the Gospel lesson today: radical, mouthy, frustrated, out of bounds, out of order, politically incorrect, and determined to mess with our expectations.

Because the Jesus I have encountered, dear friends, is nothing like what I expected!

Jesus compels me talk to people I wish I could ignore. How frustrating!

Jesus leads us to forgive people when grudges feel better.

Jesus pulls us out of our comfort zones and shoves us into new opportunities.

Jesus shows up, time and again, at this table in the bread and the wine.

Jesus says “follow me” and then refuses to take us to the Dells or Disneyland or anywhere WE want to go, but instead leads us to the homeless shelter, and the prisons, and to seminary, to adventures unknown, and yes, to the cross to suffer alongside the oppressed and the voiceless and the forgotten.

And, quite unexpectedly, Jesus shows up outside the tomb on Easter morning!

Sometimes, we just get it wrong.

But, my sisters and brothers, no matter how wrong we get it in life or in our relationships, through Jesus Christ, we have been made right with God. Amen! No matter how wrong we are even about Jesus and the church, we are wholly and completely reconciled and made right with our Creator, through the cross and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Amen!

Sisters and brothers, the Good News is this: No matter how wrong we are about Jesus, no matter how bad our theology is, no matter how weak our denomination’s social statements are or how slowly the church moves towards justice and inclusion, Jesus takes our wrong-headed ideas, our broken hearts, our struggling churches, and our messy lives and makes them new. Nothing is so broken that God can’t fix it. Nothing is so hopeless that God can’t make it new. Through Jesus Christ and the cross, even the worst arguments and division become opportunities for growth and understanding.

Sometimes, we get it wrong. But Jesus got it right, once and for all, on the cross. Thanks be to God! And the let the people say Amen!