| January 29, 2012 | "What's for Dinner?" |
| January 22, 2012 | "God Calls You to Follow" |
| January 15, 2012 | "In Line with the Sinners" |
| January 6, 2012 | "Six Miles from Bethlehem" |
| January 1, 2012 | "The Sweet Name of Jesus" |
| December 24, 2011 | "The Babe of Bethlehem for You" |
| December 18, 2011 | "Nothing is Impossible with God" |
| December 11, 2011 | "Waiting on the Lord" |
| December 4, 2011 | "Down at the River" |
| November 27, 2011 | "Entering the Darkness with Christ's Light" |
| November 20, 2011 | "A Most Peculiar King" |
| November 19, 2011 | "Memorial Service for the Rev. George W. Carlson" |
| November 13, 2011 | "Joyous Risk-Taking" |
| November 6, 2011 | "Saint Detection" |
| October 30, 2011 | "The Gift of Grace" |
| October 23, 2011 | "Which Commandment Is the Greatest?" |
| October 16, 2011 | "Our Highest Allegiance" |
| October 9, 2011 | "Grace Upon Grace" |
| October 2, 2011 | "Tending God's Vineyard" |
| September 25, 2011 | "Liver and Onions and Stewed Tomatoes" |
| September 18, 2011 | "A Free Brunch for All" |
| September 11, 2011 | "Remembering 9/11" |
| September 4, 2011 | "The Community Oozing Mercy" |
| August 28, 2011 | "Who, Me? Yes You!" |
| August 21, 2011 | "Set Free in the Bulrushes" |
| August 14, 2011 | "In Praise of Mind Changers" |
| August 7, 2011 | "Schadenfruede." |
| July 31, 2011 | "2:43 a.m." |
| July 17, 2011 | "Jacob on the Run" |
| July 10, 2011 | "Quite a Family!" |
| July 3, 2011 | "Celebrating the Ordinary" |
| June 26, 2011 | "A Ram in the Thicket" |
| June 19, 2011 | "Standing on the Train Station Platform and Rendered Speechless" |
| June 12, 2011 | "Have You Ever Experienced Pentecost?" |
| June 5, 2011 | "Stay in the City" |
| May 29, 2011 | "Stop, Look, and Listen—And Only Then Speak" |
| May 15, 2011 | "Both Shepherd and Lamb" |
| May 8, 2011 | "Christ’s Presence Amidst the Odor of Melancholy" |
| May 1, 2011 | "Resurrection Heroes" |
| April 24, 2011 | "Resurrection: Only God's Possibility" |
| April 23, 2011 | "Tell Me One More Story" |
| April 22, 2011 | "Oh, What Wondrous Love" |
| April 21, 2011 | "Shoes" |
| April 17, 2011 | "Never Said A Mumblin' Word" |
| April 10, 2011 | "Death Stinketh" |
| April 3, 2011 | "From Blaming to Healing" |
| March 27, 2011 | "Its Beauty Is in Its Length" |
| March 20, 2011 | "That Look of Faith in Your Eyes" |
| March 13, 2011 | "The Church's Middle Passage" |
| March 9, 2011 | "Embracing Our Failures As Our Lenten Discipline" |
| March 6, 2011 | "The Teeter-Totter of Life and Ministry" |
| February 27, 2011 | "What's A Care?" |
| February 20, 2011 | "The Badwater 135" |
| February 6, 2011 | "Epiphany Light Boxes" |
| January 30, 2011 | "The Cross at the Intersection of 3rd and Ash" |
| January 23, 2011 | "Twiterpated" |
| January 16, 2011 | "Let the Splish-Splashing Begin" |
| January 9, 2011 | "Who Would You Have Been?" |
| January 2, 2011 | "Stuttering Words Come Alive" |
| older sermons |
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 29, 2012
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany
1 Corinthians 8: 1-13
"What's for Dinner?"
Should Christians eat meat offered to idols? This question, to my knowledge, has never been debated at a First Lutheran Church congregational meeting in our 123 year history. Paul’s words about meat sacrificed to idols catches us in a time warp. And yet, maybe these words are timelier than we ever imagine.
Paul believed that eating meat sacrificed to idols is not hazardous to our souls since idols in themselves are nothing at all; and yet Paul also believed that eating such meat might be hazardous to the souls of weaker brothers and sisters in the community who are offended by this idol meat-eating.
Listen to how Eugene Peterson translates Paul’s letter to the Corinthians: “When you hurt your friend, you hurt Christ. A free meal here and there isn't worth it at the cost of even one of these ‘weak ones.’ So, never go to these idol-tainted meals if there's any chance it will trip up one of your brothers or sisters.”
To make this business of food sacrificed to idols a bit more contemporary, think of the food you serve your guests at home. When you invite someone over for dinner, if you are wise, you ask in advance what they like and what they detest. After all, you want your guests to eat what you prepare. It would be unwise to serve prime rib when vegetarians are coming; pork chops would not be a good idea when your Jewish friends come to dine; you might think twice about offering two kinds of wine when your guest is an alcoholic; and, by all means, never serve liver and onions—better to be safe than sorry. Eating any of these foods is fine and dandy but why offend your guests.
The issue Paul and the Corinthians faced was how to live as a community overflowing with grace. Listen to the aggressive tenor of the current political debates— and these are people who are supposed to agree with one another on the basics. And lest we think this ornery behavior is reserved for Republicans, recall President Obama and Senator Clinton going at it a few years ago. I worry that we may be losing the capacity to carry on conversations of grace, especially with those whom we disagree.
This is where a community like ours does well to listen to what Saint Paul has to say. First Lutheran Church, like any church community, is a laboratory where people with differing opinions have learned to live together with grace over the past 123 years now. We have learned to measure our words, to speak words well, to forgive instead of to judge, and better yet, to pray before we ever speak, “Let the words of my mouth be acceptable to you, O Lord.”
In his Small Catechism, Martin Luther explains the eighth commandment, “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor,” this way: “We are to fear and love God so that we may not betray, slander, or lie about our neighbors, but defend them, speak well of them, and explain their actions in the kindest way.”
In our political debates we hear a lot about “You shall not kill” which, more often than not, deals with the sanctity of life around the issue of abortion. This is a worthy debate but one does wonder why we have not heard one word about the commandment, “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.” All manner of half-truths are being spouted, candidates are viciously attacking one another to the applause of delighted crowds. Pollsters tell the candidates unless they attack their candidates they are toast. When political candidates lament the decline in values and long for the Ten Commandments to be placed in courthouses and on school walls, ask them whatever happened to explaining their neighbor's actions in the kindest way. Why do they avoid the eighth commandment?
Speaking with love does not mean we do not tackle tough issues. This text has often been used this way and when it is, it becomes a sorry excuse to keep on treating people badly and never engaging in worthwhile debate. African Americans, women, and gays and lesbians know well what it means when someone in the church says, “Let’s not discuss that because there are those here who might disagree.” Such advice is nothing more than the undergirding of the status quo and a call to business as usual or, as a pastor friend of mine says, a ministry of no hits, no runs, and no errors. Paul urges us to higher ground, to wrestle with important matters and, at the same time, to do so with considerable grace and with words measured well.
Should we eat meat offered to idols? This is a brilliant question on this day of our congregational meeting. My experience at congregational meetings at First Lutheran Church is that we do a wonderful job seeking the mind of Christ in this place. We cherish words, especially God’s word, and we understand the power of the words we speak. We measure our words so they bear the creative power of God who is at the center of our life together.
This, unhappily, is not always the case in some churches. Sometimes the word is used, not to bring life but death, not love but hatred, not togetherness but discord. Some of you have heard me say, “When I get to heaven—assuming God lets me in—if there is a congregational meeting in session, I will ask if there is another option.” I know that sounds harsh but I have been to my share of church meetings. Like you, I have heard remarks that have curdled my blood and that have wounded people, including me. I have heard people speak the “truth,” riding roughshod over just about everyone present, and yet if this very “truth” was spoken to them, they were not long for the community—they only wanted to speak the “truth” as long as they were doing the truth-telling. The problem, almost always, was that the words were not chosen well and certainly not with love for the community in mind. I know of pastors’ families who refuse to attend congregational meetings because they have been brutalized so badly; I know of lay people who have left congregations because of the nasty rhetoric of some meeting. While it was not a matter of meat offered to idols, it was a matter of whether the love of Christ triumphed and grace prevailed in the community as people discussed tough issues.
God has invited us here to dinner yet again. God’s hope is that we will speak words filled with the power of creation, words overflowing with love for one another. God gave his only Son so that we might dine well here this morning. May we be a community committed to a passion for the truth for sure; far more importantly, though, may we be grounded in the greatest gift of all, the gift of love for one another just as Christ loved us.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 22, 2012
Third Sunday after Epiphany
Jonah 3: 1-5, 10; Mark 1: 14-20
"God Calls You to Follow"
We continue the Epiphany season this morning. Yet again, we watch God come among us, bringing heaven to earth, as Jesus calls Simon and Andrew, James and John, to be his disciples.
The four fishermen fascinate us: what possibly could cause them to drop their nets and follow Jesus in a flash? There is a tinge of irresponsibility about it all. They leave the family business without planning whatsoever for their parents’ well-being. They do not negotiate for fair wages, vacation time, a pension plan, or even health benefits. The four fishermen drop everything and follow Jesus. Their sudden following of Jesus is breathtaking.
I doubt many of us follow Jesus with such reckless abandon. We count the costs. Common sense weighs pluses and minuses. We do this all the time here at First Lutheran Church. You will receive your annual report this morning and part of the report discusses the cost of doing ministry. We have a detailed budget to guide us through the year so that we do not break the bank and so that we can proclaim the gospel. We call it RESPONSIBILITY.
When we see Simon and Andrew, James and John dropping everything and following Jesus, we might get a bit envious. Why don’t we respond so quickly? Are we unfaithful when we plan ahead and examine the costs in detail?
It is important to be familiar with the whole variety of biblical call stories before wondering about our own. Unless we do so, we risk believing that the way of Simon and Andrew, James and John is the only legitimate way to follow Jesus, that one size fits all. If we pause even for a moment and give careful thought to the future, we might feel unfaithful. That is why we must know how God comes to people and says, “Follow me.” No call story is identical. There are occasions when people drop everything but not always. When God calls Moses, Moses hems and haws, alleging he is a clumsy public speaker. God says not to worry, his brother Aaron can do the speaking. God calls young Jeremiah and Jeremiah says, “I am only a boy.” Note that these responses are hardly spur of the moment decisions like that of the boys down at the shore.
In our first reading, we hear another call story. God calls Jonah. Jonah’s response is by no means spur of the moment. Jonah’s is a call story gone sour from beginning to end. He kicks and screams every step of the way. God wants Jonah to go to Ninevah (part of modern day Iraq) and to call this enemy of God’s chosen people to repent. Jonah will have none of it. He jumps on a boat and goes as far from Ninevah as possible. He fights with God while on board and the crew, sensing trouble, tosses Jonah overboard. Jonah is swallowed up by a whale—or at least a big fish. That huge fish vomits Jonah onto the shore. Jonah, ever the petulant one, huffs and puffs and growls, “Okay God, have it your way. I’ll preach a sermon of repentance to the Ninevites.” And off he storms and preaches the shortest sermon ever, eight words, “Forty days more, and Ninevah shall be overthrown!” Jonah looks up at God, shakes his fist in disgust, and snarls, “Are you pleased now?”
Surprisingly, this petulant prophet with his eight word sermon causes 120,000 Ninevites to turn to the Lord; even then Jonah sulks. Jonah is steamed because God shows mercy on the ancient enemy rather than casting them to the fires of hell. Jonah has had enough and he mopes for the rest of the story—and perhaps for the rest of his life!
All to say, the Bible is overflowing with all kinds of call stories. Each is unique and not all of them are pretty.
God comes to us, too, in many different ways. How does God come to you? Not how does God come to Simon and Andrew, James or John, or even Jonah or Jeremiah, but how does God come to you?
Your calling does not have to be churchy. To be called by God does not necessarily mean you spend your every waking hour here at church; in fact, you might not spend much time here. Luther captures this well when he speaks of the priesthood of all believers. Luther longs for us to discover God in our everyday lives, in those places where, as Frederick Buechner says, “our deep gladness and the world’s hunger meet each other.” Luther lauds his barber, his cobbler, even the good ruler, those who do their jobs well. He admires mothers who care for their children. He celebrates your call in the garden as you snip the roses and smile all the while. He adores your grocery shopping for your elderly neighbor and your passion for important causes of social justice that lift up the lowly. In every one of these callings, we witness a miracle: God invites us to do our very best for the world and to discover our greatest joy all at the same time.
There will be days, however, when our callings make us miserable. The disciples have bad hair days, for sure: Jesus castigates them for their arrogance, lashes out at them for their stupidity; and as they watch Jesus bear his cross to Calvary, you can imagine the agonizing pain they feel. And yet there are other days, mountaintop days, when 5,000 are fed, when a blind man gains his sight, when they experience Jesus’ resurrection—their lives suddenly overflow with wonder and all the challenges and disappointments disappeer. Julius “Dr. J” Erving, the great Philadelphia 76er basketball player, once said, “Being a professional is doing the things you love to do on the days you don’t feel like doing them.”
I love being your pastor but there are those days. This Friday was one of those days; it was like being in the dentist’s chair right here at 3rd & Ash on our patio. I along with our staff and volunteers spent the better part of the day acting like parents of unruly children who refused to listen. I so wanted to send someone to the corner for a time-out—I even said that to one person. There are other days, though, like preaching this morning or singing a hymn together with joy or giving out 235 sleeping-bags and tarps to homeless people at Christmas when the thrill is beyond compare.
The joy of God’s call is that God promises to be with us for the long haul, on the good and bad days, the rich and poor days, the happy and sad days. To know this is to celebrate the miracle of doing those things we love to do and all the while making this world a better place in God’s name.
Keep your ears open. When you hear God say, “Follow me,” your most pious exclamation might just be, “Who, me?” That, my dear friends, is an epiphany, your special call.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 15, 2012
Baptism of Our Lord (transferred)
Mark 1: 4-11
"In Line with the Sinners"
Mark’s gospel begins when Jesus is an adult. There are no shepherds, no wise men, not even a baby Jesus. Jesus makes his first appearance as he is getting ready to be baptized by John the Baptist at the Jordan River.
This seems a peculiar way to start a gospel. Let these words roll around in your mouth just a bit, “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Let the words echo through your mind, “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Do you notice: Jesus is in line with sinners?
The early church was deeply troubled by Jesus submitting to a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. After all, the church confesses that Jesus is pure and spotless. Why is Jesus in line with sinners when he could be in the express lane of perfection?
You have noticed, incidentally, that we still seem to be observing Christmas even though we are well into the midst of the Epiphany season. The poinsettias are still here and the wreath is lighted as if it is Christmas Eve. You may have taken your decorations down at home, but First Lutheran is milking its decorations for all they are worth.
This is the time of the year when the church celebrates God’s appearance on earth in a host of different ways. At Christmas God appears to the poor shepherds. On Epiphany, God appears to the wise men; they are outsiders like the shepherds but, rather than being poor, they are foreigners, from the other side of the border, and certainly not the chosen people of God. Today, you could say Jesus appears to the riff-raff. Whether shepherds, foreigners, or you and me, God seems most pleased to appear to outsiders.
If you are here with your toes in the Jordan River waiting to be baptized and you look around and see Jesus, aren’t you baffled? You lean to the person next to you and say, “Isn’t that Jesus? What in the world is he doing here with us?”
During these days God keeps appearing to the unlikeliest people. Sara Miles, in her book Jesus Freak, writes: “The first thing we learn from the story of Jesus’ baptism is that God is probably not planning to reveal anything particularly important in church, or in any kind of temple we think is appropriate for the holy, or through anyone who’s an official holy man…John the Baptist was, not to put a too fine a point on it, a total nutcase, sort of like the unwashed guy with the skanky dreadlocks and the plastic bags over his socks who sleeps in the entryway to the library. John the Baptist ate bugs. He ranted and raved and spoke sedition. He railed at decent temple-goers, shouting that their sacred ceremonies were useless, threatening them with damnation if they didn’t repent” (Sara Miles, Jesus Freak, pg. 5).
“This profane setting, outside the majestic temple doors, is where God chooses to reveal his love for his son. Like the table Jesus will share with tax collectors and sinners, like, in fact, the cross: these scandalous places are exactly where we will find salvation” (Miles, pg. 6).
We think we know where to find holiness until Christmas and Epiphany roll around and God is unleashed in the weirdest places and to the oddest people.
The good news of it all is that Jesus is not too important or so holy; Jesus stoops down and becomes one of us. He trusts his heavenly Father enough that he does not worry when people say, “What are you doing with them?” He trusts his heavenly Father enough that he gets his sins washed away whether he needs to or not.
There is something so freeing about Jesus’ baptism if we only get it right. Truth-telling is always freeing but often so difficult to do.
I suppose, in addition to your Christmas tree, you have tossed out the Christmas cards and letters that came from family and friends. Did your friends and family tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth in their Christmas letters or do you suspect a classy veneer was placed over their lives so that all appeared well and good for another year? Almost all the news from our friends and family was upbeat. Johnny competed in his first marathon and, though thirteen, has Olympic aspirations; Bill’s business continues to attract new customers in record numbers; Helen and Hank’s marriage is idyllic with ne’er a spat between them. Oh, and the grandchildren: every one of these little ones might just be Christ come again. I do not know about you, but most of these Christmas letters make me, well, want to vomit. I want to scream, “Get real. How about a little truth-telling?”
Inevitably there is one letter though….It is the riskiest one because it is the honest one. My friend Henry reports that their twenty-something daughter cannot stand him or his wife and never wants to see them again; their teenage son has returned to drinking after one year of sobriety. He also notes that he hopes to get out of his current church sooner rather than later because it is a rats' nest and declining faster than the Titanic. None of this is easy to hear but the truth-telling is freeing. I breathe a little easier; finally, there is someone who might understand me a bit better if I dare to tell the truth.
Jesus’ baptism is very much like an honest Christmas letter: all the pretension has been washed away. Here is the God who loves us so much that he comes to live among our foul-ups and failures, our disappointments and disillusionments, our embarrassments and shenanigans. For whatever reason, this God is not afraid to be at our side.
This is the Epiphany season. The ripple of God’s appearances spreads further and further. The ripple spreads to us this morning. It might surprise us, if we listen carefully, to hear God say to his son Jesus standing by our side, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” This alone should make us feel so good. God is very pleased because Jesus chooses to be here with us today.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 6, 2012br>
The Epiphany of Our Lord
Matthew 2: 1-12
"Six Miles from Bethlehem"
(Sermon preached at Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcala
for the ELCA Conference of Bishops’ Academy in San Diego)
We Californians love the wise men. They are our kind of people. They almost saw the face of God in that twinkling star in the sky so long ago and, if they traveled here, one assumes they would come in flamboyant Tommy Bahama shirts and almost see God’s face in the Pacific Ocean’s crashing surf…Almost see the face of God, I said.
A star gets us only so close, to Jerusalem perhaps, even to King Herod’s inner sanctum, but never to the manger. We need more; we need someone who can answer the wise men’s question, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” or Luther’s "Was ist das?”
The chief priests and scribes in Jerusalem knew exactly where to find the Messiah—they had faultless biblical GPS: “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’”
This information leaves us scratching our heads: if the religious leaders and Bible scholars knew where to find the Christ Child, why didn’t they hot tail it to Bethlehem—David’s little town was only six miles away! They could easily have walked there in two hours, especially if they had been following the ELCA Wellness Wheel and Stretching and Praying with Bishop Finck. They had perused the ancient manuscripts, debated the textual nuances at weekly pericope studies, and scrutinized the most troublesome questions at retreats. One wonders, then, why these religious leaders were sitting in their rocking chairs and smoking their pipes when the Messiah was so near. Matthew does not tell us why so let’s venture a guess: they needed more information!
Good people often need a little more information before acting decisively: after all, we want to get things right. You have noticed, I’m sure, how searching people long for that one magical book that will provide the authoritative answer once and for all to that nagging question that has plagued them. And yet, experience tells us that reading one more book inevitably raises as many questions as it provides answers. Finally, God beckons us to start the hike to Bethlehem without all the answers in our pockets.
On July 16, 1769, Father Junipero Serra established this “Mother of Missions,” Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcala, the first of twenty-one historic missions in California. One of the priests, Father Luis Jaime (whose birth name was Melchor—one of the names we often give one of the wise men) had great rapport with the Native Americans. Sadly there were those who became disgruntled and burnt this mission down. In the chaos, Father Jayme became California's first Christian martyr and is buried here, right behind the altar. In retrospect, one might question the motives and sensitivity of those mission developers who came from Spain, even the wisdom of it all. At the time, though, they heard God inviting them to proclaim the gospel in these parts. And California, here they came!
Like those priests who established this mission, we begin the hike to Bethlehem at God’s behest, often with some fear and trembling—that’s often the way it is with things that matter and it is why decisive leadership is such a gift. We long for gospel voices along the way that remind us over and over again that the Lord is leading us and guiding us; oh, how we need to hear that the Lord errs on the side of mercy and is lenient in the face of our blunders and missteps.
Or…could it be that the religious leaders’ reticence to go to Bethlehem had nothing to do with acquiring more information? Maybe they had too much information. Perhaps they had witnessed King Herod’s fearsome side and sensed that worshiping the tiny Savior would cause Herod to unleash all manner of mayhem throughout Judea. Think of the innocent lives that might have been spared if the ones we call “wise” tonight had exercised a modicum of patience as did the chief priests and scribes.
Each of us finally faces the question: whether to hike to Bethlehem? Believe it or not, we even face that question here in “American’s Finest City,” San Diego. 4,000 people are homeless in this city of paradise, 1,000 living in encampments downtown like those surrounding our church, First Lutheran. Our congregation has tried to address homelessness for thirty-seven years now, seeking Jesus among the homeless, hungry, and naked—frankly, there are some days when our staff and parishioners wish there were not so many Jesuses to be found! We provide medical, acupuncture, dental, and legal clinics and warm meals twice a week to 200 people and more; our social workers offer a myriad of services; we even have a hospice program for those dying on the streets—all free of charge. Not a cent comes from our city, county, state, or federal government. Thank you ELCA for your support. You would think we feel pretty good about ourselves, pretty close to the manger. And yet, more often than not, we are six miles from Bethlehem.
Some irate neighbor calls us almost weekly complaining that what we do is not Christian. “They are a bunch of drunks, drug addicts, and bums,” she tells us. One prosperous downtown developer came to my office a few months ago, unannounced, and threatened to sue us for damages, saying that we are to blame for homelessness in our neighborhood and that we make it impossible for him to rent his upscale Victorian apartments to the well-scrubbed and well-healed.
One could say that because we RSVP to God’s invitation to celebrate the Holy Child in the naked, hungry, and homeless, we have caused all hell to break loose. Luther was right: just when we think Jesus is so near, the devil has pitched his tent just as close by.
But you, dear bishops and you spouses, you know this, of course you do. You confront the question whether to go to Bethlehem almost daily. I assume you have all had more than one perfectly good day ruined by a telephone call, out of the blue, that quakes your soul. Your spouse meets you when you return home, gives you a hug, and supports you well into the night as you grapple with the monstrosity of it all.
Remember when the professor of pastoral care asked your seminary class, “What would you do if….?” and wove a preposterous scenario that you and your classmates scoffed at. Remember how you said, “That will never happen.” You were right: it would never happen; what happens is often far worse…And your spouses wait for you at the door.
I have said to my bishops over the years that we parish pastors come to you in the midst of our messes after we have tried every solution and found them all wanting—as least that is what I have done. We then expect you to provide the perfect answer. And there you sit, at your desk, wondering…God invites you to act and yet any action feels like, well…six miles from Bethlehem that might as well be a million miles away.
The world was turned upside that Epiphany because God came to town and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar opted to do nothing more than take a little hike and worship the Christ Child. There were no guarantees as to what would happen once they presented their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They had no idea what fury would soon be unleashed in Herod’s court. What was guaranteed was that they would behold the face of God in a tiny child.
God’s invitation to us is one of grace, to take the six mile journey, over and over again, and to invite others to join us in the thrill of worshiping the sweet Babe of Bethlehem. It is such a simple journey and yet an often treacherous and bewildering one.
Ours is a harsh and astonishing calling. The only guarantee we have is that Christ will be awaiting us at the manger, murmuring, “Take and eat, given for you.” And that is enough for now and, really, it is all we will ever need.
My dear bishops and dear spouses, we give thanks for your courageous leadership and tireless support, for taking us by the hand in these challenging and uncertain times and leading us to Bethlehem to see the Christ Child…A blessed Epiphany to you.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 1, 2012br>
The Feast of the Name of Jesus
Luke 2: 15-21
"The Sweet Name of Jesus"
Names are important. They tell something about who we are and about our parents who named us. My name is Wilbert; I am the third Wilbert. My Grandma Miller would be horrified to hear you call me “Wilk.” She would say to you, “‘Wilbert’ is a perfectly good name.” That tells you something about our family, I think.
Every parent understands the importance of names. Parents love giving careful attention to their children’s names and spend considerable time coming up with the perfect one. The most popular names last year for boys were Mason, Liam, Noah, Ethan, and Jacob; and, for girls, Emma, Olivia, Sophia, Isabella, and Ava.
We named our boys Caspar and Sebastian. Sebastian was named after the British middle distance runner Sebastian Coe. We were watching him break the world record for the mile run when our little Sebastian kicked inside Dagmar for the first time. Of that name, Sebastian, Grandma Miller said: “You pastors certainly name your children odd names.” When we named our second son, Caspar, Grandma Miller wept for joy. You would think she would have been even more horrified, but this name, Caspar, was her father’s and it was also Dagmar’s great-grandfather’s. That tells you something about our family, too.
We all have a tendency either to want a traditional family name or an altogether different and unique name. When God names His son, God insists on a name that will save us. It happens to Elizabeth and Zechariah when they are about to name their son. The crowds want them to name their son, Zechariah, after the father—that naming would have pleased my Grandma Miller. But Elizabeth immediately speaks up and says “He is to be called John.” She has gotten this name from God via an angel. Like those corporations who attach their name to stadiums—what is with Snap Dragon Stadium and no longer Qualcomm--God insists on the naming rights.
And then there is John the Baptist’s cousin. He is also given his name, not by his parents, but by an angel. His name will be Jesus. The name “Jesus” is the Greek form of the Hebrew name “Joshua” which means “the Lord helps” or “the Lord saves.”
Oh, how important names are. A few evenings ago, Dagmar and I watched Ken Burn’s PBS documentary, The West. There was a discussion of the importance of names in the Native American tradition. Naming coexists with meaning. If something does not have a name, it is suspect. The name gives a person being, it gives power, stature, bearing. There are names like Old Wolf, Conquering Bear, Rock Face, Owl Woman, the Whirlwind, Thunder Rolling from the Mountain.
You, too, were named, not just by your parents, but, even more importantly, by God at your baptism. In the old baptismal liturgy, the pastor would ask, “And how shall this child be named?” And with that name, these words were spoken, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Suddenly, your name was filled with the power of God’s name. Your name became much more than your parents ever imagined because you were now named with God’s name. You became much more than Jim or Susan, Frank or Linda. You were wrapped up in God’s name forever. When someone asks you your name, do not forget this part, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
The Way of the Pilgrim is a devotional classic about a Russian peasant who devotes his life to praying a little prayer known as the Jesus Prayer. The pilgrim wanders through Russian with nothing more than a few dry loaves of bread, a small pocket Bible, and the simple prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.” Over and over again, he repeats this prayer, sometimes 10,000 times a day.
He tells a story of the power of this prayer, of Jesus’ name really. A hopeless alcoholic is advised by a God-fearing man to pray the Jesus Prayer whenever he is tempted to take a drink. Whenever he has the desire for a drink, he is to pray the simple prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.” This prayer alone has the power to drive him from drink. You might call invoking the name of Jesus his “higher power.”
The question is asked of the pilgrim, “And which is the best, the Prayer of Jesus or the Gospels?” He responds, “It’s all one and the same thing. What the Gospel is, the Prayer of Jesus is also, for the Divine Name of Jesus Christ holds in itself the whole gospel truth.”
Isn’t he right? The divine name of Jesus, God saves—what more can we ask for? As the Psalmist proclaims, “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”
How fitting to begin this New Year 2012 on the day when we celebrate “the Name of Jesus.” What more can we ask than to carry Jesus’ name with us throughout the year. Whenever problems arise, let us simply pray to Jesus. Whenever we have cause to celebrate, let us say, “Thank you, Jesus.” As the old hymn reminds us, “How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds. It soothes our sorrows, heals our wounds, and drives away all fear.”
Who knows what this New Year has in store for us? Whatever this year may bring, joys or sorrows, wounds or heath, victories or defeats, fears or celebrations—let us wrap ourselves in the name of Jesus.
The prophet Isaiah foretold to us so long ago: “Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.” How good that Mary was obedient and named her son, Immanuel, God with us. Jesus, the Lord saves. May you have a blessed New Year, and may you carry God’s name with you, the name given to you at your baptism, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 24, 2011
Christmas Eve
Luke 2: 1-12
"The Babe of Bethlehem for You"
Guess what? Christmas has arrived. Your presence here this holy night means one thing for certain: your Christmas shopping is finished whether you are ready or not. So…are you happy with the gifts you have purchased for your family and friends?
When I do my Christmas shopping, I search for the perfect gift and rarely find it. Last year I agonized over what to give my wife, Dagmar. I researched laptops extensively. I grilled my hi-tech friends who communicate in the mysterious and cryptic language of gigabytes and megahertz, rotors and right clicks—stuff I know nothing about. After being thoroughly confused by these technological wizards, I took the nerve-wracking plunge and bought Dagmar her very first laptop. She returned it to Best Buy the very next morning.
Christmas shopping is an agonizing and overwhelming undertaking for me. I mull over the perfect gift for months. I go to the mall well in advance of Christmas morning—Christmas Eve, 4:00 p.m., to be exact. The pleasant clerk almost always informs me, “We are so sorry, sir, but that item is temporarily out stock and will not be in the store until January 7.” My stomach sinks; I go home with no gift in hand and no gift in mind. What I do have is visions of sugar plums rotting in my head.
I want to let you in on a secret: I have finally found the perfect gift. It is Neiman Marcus’s 2011 Christmas catalogue fantasy gift. This present should put the finishing touches on Dagmar’s glorious garden and my Yuletide shopping. It is a $1 million dancing fountain for our backyard; for a measly half million extra, Dagmar’s new fountain can be choreographed by the guy who makes the Bellagio fountains dance in Las Vegas. Since my wife is here this evening, I cannot tell you whether I have obtained the fountain or opted for the choreography.
Our emotions rise and fall with the gifts we give and the ones we receive. One homebound member I visited on Wednesday has counted every Christmas card she has received—thirty-two. For her, those thirty-two cards are tokens of how much she is loved. I am no different: I look to see whether the people I have sent cards return the favor. Do you do that?
There are others besides older people who are counting cards. Timothy Radcliffe, an English priest I like very much, writes: “Too many of our young are empty. The anorexic cheerleader; the nerdy genius at Stanford filled with a numb, nameless rage because she did not get into Harvard; the aimless young man living in his parent’s basement with only video games to look forward to; the legions of others who suffer from ‘failure to launch.’ We must help them to discover the one who will fill that emptiness with more than we can imagine” (Timothy Radcliffe, Why Go to Church?, pg. 136).
Think back with me for a moment to the night Jesus was born. The first ones to see the baby had little to offer him. The shepherds in Luke’s gospel were poor outsiders, riff-raff. The best gift they could muster was a stinky sheep and what in the world was the new born baby going to do with a stinky sheep? You could say the shepherds suffered from a “failure to launch.”
During communion tonight, our organist Jared Jacobsen and oboist Julie Morton will play the gorgeous, moody carol “In the Bleak Midwinter.” Listen to one of the verses:
What can I give him, poor as I am? I wonder if this is the wrong question, at least tonight. The Christmas question for which we so desperately need an answer is not what we can give the Babe of Bethlehem but rather what the Babe of Bethlehem can give us. No matter how rich or poor we are, we come empty handed. “We are all beggars” as Martin Luther said on his death bed. We are beggars who have come here looking for a Christmas gift only God can give us.
Saint Augustine’s House is located in Oxford, Michigan, and is the only Lutheran monastery in the United States. It is where my seminary internship supervisor is now a monk. The monastery’s Christmas newsletter tells this fanciful Christmas legend: “When the shepherds came to find the Child in Bethlehem they each brought a gift. All, that is, except one shepherd who was too poor or perhaps too simple to bring a gift. When Mary saw all the gifts to be received, she realized that she would need to free her hands and make room on her lap. So, she looked around and spotted the one shepherd who had brought no gift and whose hands were empty. To him, she gave the Christ Child. And so, the story is told, the one who came with the least received the most.”
The magic of this story is that the one who cradles the baby Jesus in his arms has nothing to give in return. He feels out-of-sorts because everyone else has given tiny Jesus something and he, nothing at all. God comes to people such as this on this Christmas night, to angry teenagers texting incessantly, to middle-agers wondering, “Is this all there is in life,” to old women counting Christmas cards—all searching for love.
The poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote, “God's gifts put [our] best dreams to shame.” How right she is. God’s dreams are so spectacular that we can barely fathom them if we possibly can. How can the Creator of the universe come as a baby? How can a young virgin bear a son? These questions are beyond our wildest imagination—yes, “God’s gifts put our best dreams to shame.” Who among us can recognize that the most extravagant gift of all comes in such a tiny package and, when we open it, it is filled simply with bread and wine? Bread and wine! Like little children, we are suspicious of small packages. It takes time, sometimes years, to savor the exquisite beauty that comes in the smallest package, the one where heaven comes to earth.
If you are able, at least in the coming moments, cast from your mind the thoughts of the thirty-two Christmas cards; cease texting but for a moment. Come like that one shepherd, the empty handed one. Watch for God in a tiny package, born in our midst, now.
When you see Mary and she sees you, form your hands as a manger and receive the greatest gift of all: “Take and eat; this is the Christ Child of Bethlehem given for you.”
A very happy Christmas to you all.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 18, 2011
Fourth Sunday in Advent
Luke 1: 26-38
"Nothing is Impossible with God"
I love being around children at Christmastime. They are filled with dreams and visions. Nothing is impossible: a pony will be under the tree; reindeers can fly; a little baby born in a far off country is God’s son. Don’t you wish you could be a child again when nothing is impossible?
It is not only the young I love being around at Christmastime. I love being around our oldest members, too—quite a few who rarely, if ever, are able to worship here any more. Tonight, we will go caroling at some of their homes. As they see our little ones it will be magical for them, their eyes at least as wide open as our children’s at this morning’s Christmas pageant. I love to watch our older members as they hear the story of Jesus’ birth for perhaps the 93rd Christmas in their lives. They know it so well, especially the King James Version. Whenever we read it to them, I feel as if I am at a revival. When someone reads, “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree…” they jump in and respond, “from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.” On we go. Someone else reads, “And she brought forth her first born Son…” and they whisper reverently, “and wrapped him in swaddling clothes…”
They dab a tear, remembering a Christmas past. They realize, perhaps more than most, that the Christ Child is better than a flying reindeer. They recall this Holy Child being with them when their husband died or when unspeakably nasty words were spoken to them, when life was almost too much to bear. It was this Babe of Bethlehem nestled by their side who made the impossible seem possible again.
In a few moments we will watch our little ones dream dreams. There will be angels with crooked haloes; they might be imagining they can fly. There will be shepherds, wondering whether the littler sheep might break lose any moment. There will be teenagers who should know better but this stuff is still so exciting. They will be equipping themselves with visions and memories of the baby Jesus who will be with them for a lifetime.
Today is about dreaming. Today is about a young girl named Mary, the age of some of our pageant participants, who hears an angel say, “For nothing will be impossible with God.” Mary had no reason to believe angel Gabriel’s words that she would soon be the mother of God come to earth. The angel’s words scared her at first. And yet, amidst the fear, Mary dreamed, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”
This morning, we hear yet again, “Nothing will be impossible with God.” Treasure these words.
How many of you have recently said, “It is impossible.” You are so afraid to hope for fear that your hopes will not come true and you will look the fool. You have lost the confidence you once had—scratches and bruises can do that to us. Even your prayers have become dull, lacking any spark of excitement. You pray only for things you know will come true, not those things which are only possible with God.
Keep you eyes open now. Watch the young people of First Lutheran Church put on the Christmas pageant. Look into their eyes. There is something astonishing going on in this place this morning. Someone said to me a few years ago that it is impossible to get children here at First Lutheran Church. Keep your eyes open; look at all the kids. You who have been members for years and years—watch. Chairs have been stuffed into this sanctuary week-after-week. All things are possible with God. Our oldest members, this evening, will witness this excitement immediately as our children enter their homes; they will hardly notice the adults. It is the children who will captivate them. They tell me often, from reading The Pulsebeat and seeing the pictures of our children, that their prayers have been answered, that their church is alive, that the astonishing news of the Christ Child will be told here at 3rd and Ash for ages and ages to come.
Christmastime is about people who have no good reason to hope and yet, suddenly, out of the blue, catch a glimmer of Christ coming very close. It often happens when we least expect it. God is that way. God has been good to this congregation for 123 years now. Watch the children and you will see that God continues to be good to us.
Let us pray….Now open our eyes, dear God, that we may see the dreams of our little ones, the dreams which are our dreams too, with a few more scrapes and bruises and broken edges. Remind us yet again that nothing is impossible when you are present with us through Jesus, the Christ Child. Amen.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 11, 2011
Third Sunday in Advent
John 1: 6-8, 19-28
"Waiting on the Lord"
If you are in charge of the lighting on a movie set, your job is to shine the chief spot on Jesus for all you are worth.
It is not always easy to aim the spot exactly right on the leading character. There inevitably is some unknown actor who steals the thunder and demands a bit more light than what was previously expected.
I remember that happening when I first watched the movie, Easy Rider. This 1969 counterculture classic starred Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. They were the long haired hippies, Captain America and his pal, traveling across the United States on their souped up California choppers. The actor I most remember is neither Fonda nor Hopper but the lawyer who bailed them out of jail; his name, Jack Nicholson. This was the first time I had ever seen or heard of Jack Nicholson; he mesmerized me. Some stars have a way of pushing themselves into the light.
John the Baptist had all that potential and more. He was an eccentric firebrand, a fierce preacher. Throngs of people trudged through the desert to catch a glimpse of him and to hear him speak. Some even waded out into the Jordan River where John thrust them under as they forsook their wicked ways.
Interestingly, in the gospel of John, there is no mention of what intrigues us most about John the Baptist—his peculiar eating habits, his bizarre clothing choices, his fire and brimstone preaching—all these tidbits come from the other gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. John’s gospel is sparse. His literary technique casts brightness on Jesus and shadows on John the Baptist.
You would think John the Baptist would have been tempted to ask for a little more light to be directed his way. After all, the crowds were flocking to him and chanting, “You’re #1.” He was no slouch, he was the real deal. “Are you the Messiah?” the crowds wondered. “No,” said John. “Are you Elijah?” “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” “No.” Why didn’t John grab a little of the attention?
Most of us long to be noticed. It is human nature. We love to be listened to, told how wonderful we are. And, really, how sad if we do not receive a little positive attention once in a while—we all need a little tender loving care.
John resisted being the center of attention with everything he had: “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord.” These words are not even original to him. He copied them from the prophet Isaiah.
John kept his heart pointed beyond himself to the one who, according to him, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.”
Have you ever said anything like, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal” or even “I don’t have all the answers.”
People often ask me an obscure question about the Bible about which I am clueless. I am often tempted to give some answer, any answer. My hope is that you will not notice my dim-witted response. It is almost impossible for me to say, “I don’t have a clue.”
Don’t we all face a similar temptation? When someone’s spouse dies far too young and they come asking us, “Why did this have to happen?” don’t we almost always offer some answer? It’s so hard to say, “I have no idea” or simply to cry with them.
The Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams was asked by a reporter whether he thought the Iraq war was immoral. He paused for twelve seconds, an interminably long time for live radio, and said, “‘Immoral’ is a short word for a very long discussion” (Rupert Short, Rowan’s Rule: The Biography of the Archbishop of Canterbury, pg. 289). His response allowed the question to hang silently in the air. Archbishop Williams did not rush to have all the answers.
Our Advent worship is our liturgical instruction in waiting: we wait in silence between readings; the Advent hymns are not always the most familiar and yet we resist singing Christmas carols until another day; the sparse plainsong music that punctuates our liturgy is also an invitation to restraint. Here this morning, for sixty-five minutes or so, we wait a bit longer for Christ to come into our midst and give us what we need most.
Franciscan priest Richard Rohr writes: “John the Baptist does not have the ultimate or full message—but his glory and genius is that he knows that! He hands it over to the one who does” (Richard Rohr, From Wild Man to Wise Man, pg. 48).
There is a deep dignity in individuals and communities of people who do not have all the answers, especially answers to life’s most perplexing dilemmas. I witnessed such dignity in the theologian Douglas John Hall who spoke at our Professional Leaders Conference in October in Palm Desert. After three days of substantial lectures, Dr. Hall, one of the world’s finest theologians, spoke of a brilliant student of his with a promising career in front of him. He was married, had a small child, and was suddenly struck down with leukemia. When this student came to Dr. Hall, even with all his sophisticated theological knowledge, he told us that he had no answer why such a dreadful thing was happening to this amazing young man. I liked Dr. Hall very much for his humility. It was precisey at this point he seemed most brilliant to me.
There are certain questions for which we must wait for nothing less than the Coming Christ. May we be a humble people whose glory comes in our willingness to wait for Jesus to provide the answers to our deepest needs and creation’s most profound longings. Like John the Baptist, during the Advent day of our lives, may God grant us the grace to let the stage lights shine on Jesus.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 4, 2011
Second Sunday in Advent
Mark 1: 1-8
"Down at the River"
Mark’s gospel starts out like a roaring 1960’s muscle car at a California drag strip. There is the tiny introduction (“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ”) and then Mark slams down the accelerator. Our backs are thrust against the seat and we are going a hundred and fifty miles an hour. When we finally catch our breath and climb unsteadily out of the car, we catch sight of a ranting madman in the middle of the river. Is this any way to start a gospel, especially three weeks before Jesus’ birth when this is the season to be jolly?
Mark skips the Christmassy stuff altogether. Not once in his entire gospel does he mention the baby Jesus. The other three gospels (Matthew, Luke, and John) ease us in slowly before mentioning distasteful topics like sin and repentance. We like it that way. Luke starts out with charming talk of angel visitations to Elizabeth and Mary, quaint shepherds, the little town Bethlehem and, of course, the baby Jesus. Matthew has the wise men from afar regally bearing their pricey gifts and placing them before the holy child. The gospel of John chooses high-fallutin language that is almost too rich, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Mark is different: he gets us to the Jordan River, and fast.
When we finally climb down the riverbank, we catch sight of John the Baptist. He looks like a wild man and reminds us of a primitive country preacher. As William Sloane Coffin notes: “No one would accuse [him] of having had a sunny personality. No one would describe him as a fun-loving fellow.” He goes on and on about repentance and sin and makes us squirm.
We much prefer our sin talk in small doses; if it must to be mentioned at all, we desire it to be directed at someone other than ourselves and about sins that we tend not to commit on a regular basis.
Pure and simple, all John’s talk of sin is painful. Frederick Buechner says it this way: “The Gospel is bad news before it is good news. It is the news that man is a sinner, to use the old word, that he is evil in the imagination of his heart, that when he looks in the mirror all in a lather what he sees is at least eight parts chicken, phony, slob.” (Telling the Truth, pg. 7)
Sin is a lot like old, arthritic knees. Those knees ache something terrible but the prospect of surgery is far worse. How many people have you heard say, “I can barely walk but I will never have surgery.” An orthopedic surgeon friend of mine used to go into his patients’ rooms following surgery and ask, “Are you in pain?” The patients almost always responded, “It is excruciating, Doc.” He responded, “Good, the surgery worked.”
Those who have worked the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous understand the necessary pain of healing. The fifth step of AA recovery is: “Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.” It takes humility to go under the knife and to admit our wrongs, especially to someone else. And yet, if we dare fess up to our shortcomings, what awaits on the other side of brokenness is the miraculous healing of all that haunts our hearts.
The church’s age old wisdom understands our need to tell someone else of our wrongs. You have probably been there a time or two when what you wanted most was to tell a dear friend about what was eating you up inside.
The gospel of Thomas, while not one of the sixty-six books in the Bible, attributes these words to Jesus: “If you bring forth that which is within you, it will save you. If you do not bring it forth, it will destroy you.” These words alone, in my mind, warrant serious consideration for inclusion in the biblical canon.
Individual Confession and Forgiveness is the church’s lost art of healing for those of us longing to go down the river and bare our souls. It always seems to surprise Lutherans to learn that our hymnal actually has a section entitled “Individual Confession and Forgiveness.” We thought only Roman Catholics did that stuff anymore. You might be protesting this very moment: “I don’t have to confess my sins to anyone but God.” You, of course, are right: you don’t have to. But, I suspect that we all need to.
The only place we can think to go offering anything remotely similar to individual confession and forgiveness is the therapist’s office. Therapy is extremely important and can be incredibly beneficial and yet it should never be confused with individual confession and forgiveness. In addition to being free of charge and allowing us to unburden ourselves in the confidence of our pastor, individual confession presents us with a far more precious gift: “[your name], in obedience to the command of our Lord Jesus Christ, I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Those words of forgiveness, my dear friends, are the biggest difference between therapy and confession.
Maybe you will never come to me or to another pastor for individual confession and forgiveness and that in no way means you are a worse Christian. However, most of us have a need to go to someone at one time or another and say, “Can we talk?” We have an even greater need to hear that person say, “It’s all right. I still love you.” And the church adds to that, “You are forgiven in Jesus’ name.” To hear those words! Never forget that this gift awaits you here.
I read somewhere that “the forgiveness of sins is not a change that comes over God but a change that comes over us, brought about by God.” (Herbert McCabe, The New Creation, pg. 73).
At first glance, most of us are repulsed by John the Baptist’s rants about sin and repentance. We want no part of those naďve folks gathered at the river. And yet, as we stand watching and listening, we feel a sudden yearning deep inside to go down and join them. Oh my, how we long to go down and sit on the mercy seat all clean and refreshed, holding the Christ Child in our arms.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 27, 2011
First Sunday in Advent
1 Corinthians 1: 3-9; Mark 13: 24-37
"Entering the Darkness with Christ's Light"
These are the darkest days of the year; each day grows darker than the previous one. You may have said recently, “The time change exhausts me, I can’t stand the darkness” or “I find going home from work in total darkness absolutely depressing.” If you need any reminder that the church is often out of step with the world, Advent is Exhibit A.
The church does a most peculiar thing in these Advent days. We begin preparations for one of our most joyous and important festivals, the celebration of the Christ’s birth, at the most depressing time of year, when things are at their darkest. How to muster an iota of hope in these days?
I recently read the most depressing book I have ever read. The Death of the Liberal Class by Chris Hedges examines our nation’s current political and economic landscape. Hopelessness fills every page, despair is the ink with which it is written. The author writes bitterly of the political process, liberal and conservative alike, saying, “If voting made a difference, it would be outlawed.” In his mind, the wealthy corporations run Washington; the rich get richer and the poor poorer. Whether it is the Tea Party or Occupy Wall Street crowd, he believes the common denominator is that the average person is angry. He has harsh words for the church and its preachers as well. According to Hedges, you would throw me out of this pulpit in a heart beat if I dared tell the truth about our nation’s thirst for weapons and lust for world domination, of corporations riding rough shod over the poor or our complete disregard of the impending environmental disaster.
Whatever your political persuasion, you may be one of those who has just about given up hope. You might be one of the angry ones who, if you were a bit younger, would occupy Wall Street. If you are younger, you may be frustrated beyond belief trying to find any job let alone a decent one.
How many of your recent conversations have been tinged with despair, colored with judmentalism? Think of the criticisms you have leveled against our leaders, whether president, congress people, mayor, or bishop. Not that these people always get it right and not that we should not tell the truth when our leaders oppress people. And yet the Psalmist warns us against eating up people like we eat our bread. It is so easy to judge, especially in these times, and it can be so much fun. Like watching a wreck on the interstate, we just cannot help ourselves when it comes to a conversation criticizing someone in leadership—we positively love it! What seems far harder is to discover some ray of hope.
The world really does not need another genius on the radio to figure out that it is dark outside nor does it need a whiz kid on television to determine that things are not going particularly well in our world these days. What the world does need, however, are a few courageous people who will enter the darkness and let light shine.
Those who enter the darkness these days and speak a word of hope in a time of sweeping judgments and unbridled pessimism are likely going to be viewed as frauds and Pollyannas. Whenever I try to give some leader in the church or government the benefit of the doubt, saying something to the affect that they are in a “no win situation and there are no good solutions left,” someone inevitably accuses me of kowtowing to those in authority. It seems more acceptable to be pessimistic and judgmental than hopeful and imaginative.
It was amidst such a grim landscape that Mark wrote his gospel. The temple in Jerusalem had recently been destroyed. Jesus had been dead for quite a while and he did not appear to be coming back any time soon as he had promised. Where was the hope? Most people had every ounce of imagination wrung out of them and found it impossible to believe that anything good could happen. People were sitting around belly-aching, criticizing just about everything and everyone. Jesus called people to rally against despair, to keep alert, to be on the watch, to keep awake, yes, to hope.
What if we were so moved by Jesus’ invitation to keep alert and awake and on the watch that we replaced moaning and groaning with a healthy dose of watching for Jesus in every moment of our lives? What if we became, as St. Paul said, “Enriched in [Christ], in speech and knowledge of every kind.” If only we let Jesus “strengthen us and make us blameless for the day of his return.” Are you ready for Jesus’ return today, this morning, now?
When I was a pastor in downtown Washington, DC, there were a number of occasions when we expected a key government dignitary to appear at our church for a wedding, funeral, or some other occasion. Whenever this occurred, we were on our best behavior. The custodian would clean the sanctuary like it had not been cleaned since Harry S. Truman visited for a gathering of the national Augustana Lutheran assembly; the garden group pulled weeds and planted new flowers; the choir rehearsed long into Thursday evening; greeters were chosen who smiled at every visitor and asked where they were from—expecting Nazareth to be the possible answer; deacons spent hours crafting their prayers. Our waiting was active, hopeful. If someone special came, we wanted to be ready.
The interesting thing, of course, is that in waiting for someone special, every person who entered became special. While we were waiting for a dignitary, unbeknownst to us, every person became an honored guest.
It works that way, and more so, when we await Jesus’ return. Our entire ministry and our lives become holy occasions for Christ’s return. To expect Christ any moment now makes every one of our actions significant. Whether it is how we greet one another in a few moments, how we sing the next hymn, how we make our offering this morning, how we pray, how we bake cookies for hospitality—suddenly we are standing on tippy-toe, eager for every moment to usher Jesus into our midst. Advent hope works like that. If each and every person might be Christ, then every occasion is precious and all people are holy.
It is fitting that we do our finest hoping when all seems so bleak and dark. When people are saying, “I am so depressed by the absence of light,” we are the ones who enter that very darkness and begin lighting candles, one-by-one. How exciting it is to expect that Jesus will come by here any moment now.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 20, 2011
Christ the King
Matthew 25: 31-46
"A Most Peculiar King"
If First Lutheran had a signature Bible passage to go along with our mission statement, The Heart of Christ in the Heart of the City, we could not do better than today’s gospel reading: “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”
This certainly seems a peculiar reading for Christ the King Day. You would think there would be a more regal reading on this day when we conclude the church year, something with trumpets and timpani and cheering crowds. And yet, in the church’s wisdom, this text about the homeless, the hungry, and the naked is appointed for this Christ the King Day.
We at First Lutheran Church have ample opportunity to worship this king who comes to us unawares—hungry, thirsty, a stranger, naked, sick, imprisoned. Not a day goes by that one of these blessed ones isn’t knocking at our door.
But, I must confess, at least for me, it is not always easy to see Jesus in the homeless and the hungry, the naked and the imprisoned. There are days on my way to work when I make the turn from 4th onto Ash and the church comes into view and my stomach sinks. There they are—or is it Jesus? They are hanging out in front of the church again, drinking and doping, littering and urinating and defecating. Someone will almost certainly have called the office by the time I arrive, to complain, and who can blame them. It is not a pretty picture—for them or you or me. And yet, it seems First Lutheran is not called to paint pretty pictures— painting pretty pictures will be cheerfully picked up by other eager ones. You and I are the ones who, dismayed and discouraged at times, questioning our priorities every once and a while, have these words ringing in our ears, "What you did to the least of these, you did to me.” This work, that hardly seems kingly, is how this church, at least, has been told it can best find Jesus.
Friday was quite a day here at First Lutheran Church—and yet not too terribly different from all the rest. It was a day that can make you proud of being a member here and, at the same time, drive you crazy. As we have done now for 36 years, every Friday, we served breakfast to our patio parishioners. There were more hungry people than usual, about 250; this caused a few tempers to flare and some heightened anxiety. The minute breakfast was over, we immediately transitioned and Episcopal Community Services came to serve a Thanksgiving lunch on our patio to more than 100 of their clients. All the while our medical and acupuncture clinics were going full force. At the same time, the Friday women’s AA group was meeting in the library. And, out of the blue, a woman stopped by and asked if we could use 200 brand new sleeping bags! I was busy preparing for Pastor George Carlson’s memorial service when the door bell rang and I got up from my desk. Water was cascading into my office. The toilet had overflowed and was flooding our entire office area. Once we got that all mopped up, a woman was at our entrance with all her earthly belongings (two shopping carts full) unpacked and spread over the entire sidewalk as if she were selling her belongings to all comers at a Marrakech bazaar. We had asked here to leave repeatedly the day before. I wanted to get home and fast. I was worried. What if she returned this morning when you all arrived, messing up the entrance and making our Sunday morning a tad uncomfortable and messy?
It was only when I closed my car door that I realized how astonishingly stupid my worry was. If that woman were here this morning, nothing could be better. She would provide the perfect opportunity for us to see Jesus’ words come alive, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” That poor, confused, homeless woman who was raising my blood pressure was Jesus. She was writing my sermon and I was oblivious.
As I drove to my warm house for a peaceful rest and a tasty meal, I was lucky to remember what always shakes some sense into me. I thought of the Russian Orthodox Church’s tradition of the holy fool. In addition to their orders of priests and deacons and bishops are the holy fools, the ones who sleep on church steps in Moscow on rainy nights, who talk to themselves, who it is uncertain whether they are on the verge of breakdown or breakthrough, who are the Christ come to visit us whether we notice or not. The Orthodox community accords them the highest honor. These holy fools hardly remind us of Christ the King until we remember those troublesome lines about what you do to the least of these, you do to me.
And those of you who are here this morning, who are homeless (astonishingly, there were more homeless people than usual at worship!), recognize that you are as important as a bishop and a pastor and a deacon and anyone else—and maybe more so. Recognize that God—and only God—has accorded holy orders upon you; you are the one gifted ones who bear Christ in your own unique way, at a terrible cost to you personally. May you know great blessing being Christ in our midst.
Strange king…I pray every day for the grace to see Christ in the people you and I have committed ourselves to serve. Our calling, at least here, is to see Jesus in the naked and hungry and imprisoned, in the ones conveniently discarded by most of society.
On my best days, I remember that our king was hungry and homeless and that he was finally hung on the cross which was his final throne in this world. It is then that I am able to give thanks that you and I are called here and offered the astonishing opportunity to see Christ every single day. God grant us open eyes and open hearts to see Christ the King in our midst.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Memorial Service for the Rev. George W. Carlson
Held At Christ Lutheran Church-Pacific Beach
(where Pastor Carlson served from 1982-1990)
Luke 2: 25-35
Pastor George Carlson bears a striking resemblance to Old Simeon. You can see the twinkle in his eyes as he nestles the Christ Child in his hands; you can hear him preach, “For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples...” George’s entire life was devoted to lifting that Child so that all whom he was called to serve might see their salvation.
I assume you have thumbed through your bulletin by now and realize this service is going to be a bit longer than most. Marlyss kept asking, “How long do you think the service will last?” Trying to be pastoral, I said, “There is no telling.” There was so much to squeeze in from George’s life lived abundantly—hymns treasured, Psalms cast to memory, prayers indispensable to the Carlson clan’s life together.
The planning for this celebration began the day little George was baptized at First Lutheran Church—Des Moines, Iowa. Ever since then, just like parents who tell their children that one last bedtime story to keep the monsters away, George has been telling that one last story about Jesus dying and yet conquering death by rising from the dead. He knew this day would come and, when it did, he wanted you, whom he loved, to be prepared and to have no fear.
By the way, did you know this story-teller had a big heart? That may come as a surprise to those familiar with George’s medical history. It was 1976. George and Marlyss had five children and a big church to tend, First Lutheran in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Out of the blue, George, who was 49, was stricken with the first of a number of heart attacks. Many of you were spellbound by this man with the big heart, albeit a jerry-rigged one. Rather than tip-toeing through the rest of life, George dove back in, heading to the golf course and sailing on the shining sea.
Pastor Carlson also headed back to the pulpit—he cherished the homiletic craft. I am sad to say I never heard Pastor Carlson preach a sermon. However, I did have the honor of watching him live a sermon. On my visits in past weeks, Marlyss or one of the children was always waiting at the door; they would whisper, “Dad doesn’t have much longer to live.” And then, as I quietly entered so as not to stir him, George, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, would whisper an unforgettable blessing over me (Bishop Finck told me the same thing happened to him). George could not give up being the big-hearted pastor even in his dying.
George Carlson celebrated life. It was not that he was afraid to die; in fact, he spoke of the prospects of heaven like a Swedish explorer preparing to embark on a new polar adventure. And yet the enchantment of heaven could wait, for George wanted to eke out every ounce of life he could this side of the kingdom come.
Why accept death? Life is for living not for dying. God gave George a beautiful wife, Marlyss. The two were exemplary “partners in the gospel.” I watched them ply their craft one afternoon at Mercy Hospital in Hillcrest. George needed every ounce of oomph to navigate the hallway with one hand holding an IV pole, the other clutching the back of his crazy hospital-issue pajamas. Marlyss, as love-dovey as on their first date, was arm-in-arm with her handsome George. They came upon a nervous young woman sitting precariously on the edge of her chair. They started talking to her as if they had known her for years. She was applying for a nursing job. George and Marlyss told her: “Relax. You are smart and beautiful. You are going to get the job.” I wondered how they ever knew. Fifteen minutes later the woman came out of the personnel office and the “partners in the gospel” went to work yet again, “So, how did it go?” The woman said, “I’m not too confident—there are 100 other applicants.” Not missing a beat, George and Marlyss said, “We are certain you will get the job.”…My, was I proud to be at the side of George and his bride, ever “partners in the gospel.”
The truth is we do not choose how long we will live or how we will die. Some people die in a flash and others, like George, cling to life a little longer. Those longer days can be a precious gift if done right. God gave George and Marlyss five children who adored their parents and continuously doted over them in those final days. The grandchildren were there too—oh my, the stories your grandpa told of you—could they all possibly be true?
Father George gathered each of you (Greg and Mike and Mary and Sue and Kathy) at his bedside, one by one; he lavished heart-deep words upon you with his few remaining breaths; he told you things only you were blessed to hear. He gathered each precious grandchild into his hands, too, and, yet again, created heart-deep words just for you.
And then, on his last night, as the shadows lengthened and his story-telling drew to a close, you gathered at his side to pray the final story, telling of your hopes and dreams; it went something like this, “Into your hands, O Lord, we commend my dear husband, my dear father, my dear grandpa.”
The writer and pastor Eugene Peterson says to pastors and their families: “People watch [you]. They see and are influenced either for good or bad by the seriousness and reverence in which [you] order [your] response to God…they notice the way [you] live with [your] families and friends—they see or don’t see forgiveness and grace, blessing and patience in [your] body language, gestures, and offhand remarks” (Eugene Peterson, The Pastor, pg. 316). You, with your beloved husband and father and grandfather at your side, have gotten it right. We have been watching you with considerable wonder. You have committed your life to telling the story of Jesus’ triumph over death to thousands and thousands of people. We thank God that you have touched our lives with your considerable grace over the years and particularly in these days as you have walked in the valley of the shadow and yet have feared no evil.
Even in death, George has one final story to tell us all. If you listen, you can hear him preaching: “Dear and beloved friends and family, have no fear; celebrate life, please, celebrate life.” And then, look, he cocks his thumb as only he could and says: “Never forget, death has been destroyed through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord. Rejoice, my dear loved ones, rejoice.”
Pastor Carlson should be here now so let me be so bold to utter a few final words on his behalf: “May the Peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Amen.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 13, 2011
Twenty-Second Sunday After Pentecost
Matthew 25: 14-30
"Joyous Risk-Taking"
One talent is equivalent to about fifteen years’ wages. That is a lot of money. What would you do if someone gave you fifteen years’ wages as you left here this morning?
In today’s parable, the master of the house is going to be gone for quite a while; in anticipation of his absence, he entrusts an astonishing sum to three of his servants: one is given seventy-five years worth of wages all at once or five talents; another thirty years or two talents; the final servant fifteen years wages—while lower than the other two, nothing to sneeze about.
The master leaves no parting instructions for how to use their new found fortunes. For that reason alone, it is intriguing to see what the three do with their money. According to Jesus, people use money that God entrusts them in drastically different ways.
The English poet John Keats once said, “I was never afraid of failure, for I would sooner fail than not be among the best.” This sentiment sums up the first two servants. They are not afraid of failure. They take risks by devising elaborate trading schemes and they double their money. When the master returns, he is thrilled by their ingenuity and daring. “Enter in the joy of your master,” he says to them both.
The third person takes no such chances; instead, he buries his money. He reeks of caution, cowardice, and fear. I think you know the tongue-lashing he receives from Jesus.
There are people who prefer exercising caution to taking risks in order to spread the news of Jesus’ love. I know of a church just like that. For years now, it has amassed a considerable fortune in the bank. While their roof does not leak, their sanctuary is beautifully appointed, and their organ is in tune, their ministry to the community is nonexistent. This congregation will soon die very rich. It will be remembered not for its mission but as a cob-webby museum that refused to risk its considerable fortune for the sake of God. Sad.
Jesus invites each of us to risk some of the gifts entrusted to us for the joy of the gospel. Each of us is invited this morning to make a financial commitment, a pledge, to this church’s ministry in 2012.
While I hope not, there may one or two among us petrified to make a pledge. The guy who buries his talents suffers a similar fear. He abhors stewardship time, loathes his preacher ever mentioning money, and refuses to join the other two servants in the master’s joy. He is a sad guy to behold.
There are many here today, however, who are thrilled to share their financial resources for God’s ministry in this place. One of you determined your pledge right in front of me a few days ago, calculating what 10% of your salary—the biblical tithe—will be in 2012. You said, “I’m not sure I can afford this, pastor, but I want to do it. It brings me joy.” Your risk reminds me of what a Philadelphia disc jockey urged his listeners to do every night before he signed off: “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.”
Jesus enjoys such daring. When he tells his parable, he has only days to live. He will be shooting for the moon, too, heavenly actually, for the sake of his friends, for you and me.
I don’t need to tell you that this congregation finds astonishing joy in risk-taking. I have never heard anyone at First Lutheran tell stories of caution, cowardliness, or how much money we have in the bank. The stories we love to tell are always about this congregation’s reckless abandon over the past 123 years.
We love telling how this congregation, about sixty years ago, moved only a few blocks from its original site to stay smack dab in the middle of the city. Other congregations deemed it far wiser to move to greener suburban pastures but our ancestors did a contrarian thing, took an enormous risk and stayed right here and built a brand new church building. Some wondered whether people would continue bringing their children downtown to church—isn’t it dangerous at 3rd and Ash at night? We continue to thank God for our risk-taking forbearers who stayed in the city for good.
We love telling of Bread Day, a story really of an evangelism program going haywire. So the story goes, one Friday morning, a group of good First Lutheraners baked delicious bread and brewed aromatic coffee for the well scrubbed business people on their way to work—a brilliant evangelism scheme, really. Apparently no tie guys or dress gals stopped by. Who did smell the aromas were our homeless and underserved brothers and sisters who have been stopping by here for thirty-six years now. Funny how the Holy Spirit works. This story has become positively mythological in this place. It is hard to know exactly what happened on that first Friday morning but, one thing is for certain: we have entered into the joy of our master as those who preceded us took a daring risk and we sure love telling their story.
We have a new story to tell, too, by the way. It has always seemed that this congregation’s heart has been bigger than its pocket book. In the past three out of four years, we have balanced our budget. Not only that, we have given more and more money away, every year, to the ministries of our Pacifica Synod and Evangelical Lutheran Church in America—we support missionaries and seminaries and disaster relief all around the world. We could, of course, say we are helping the downtrodden, reaching out right here, without increasing our commitment beyond our doors. But we have chosen, by God’s grace, to do otherwise, to share our gifts with a church bigger than ourselves, here, at 3rd and Ash. We have increased our ministries here, too. Who would have imagined that we would have a growing Sunday School for all ages? Enter the joy of the master! Who would ever have guessed that we would have a confirmation class with six students and acolytes to boot? Positively joyous! And believe it or not, there are three babies on the way to First Lutheran parents--our ancestors must have been visionaries to build right here!
First Lutheran Church could have played it safe but, by God’s grace, this congregation has risked over the years and in so doing has entered the joy of the master.
I pray that you will be part of the joy. Please take a risk and make a pledge to our ministry in 2012. Really, when you hear Jesus tell that parable of the three servants, which servant would you most like to be? I’ll leave it up to you to decide.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 6, 2011
All Saints Sunday
Matthew 5: 1-12
"Saint Detection"
When you hear the word “saint,” if you are at all like me, you think of some famous follower of Jesus like Martin Luther or Martin Luther King, Jesus’ mother Mary or the disciple Peter, Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Rosa Parks. These saints are well worth our holy pause this morning. And yet, lifting up the big time saints can make those we love and us feel pretty insignificant.
What we celebrate this morning, All Saints’ Sunday, is actually two church festivals in one, All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. Historically, All Saints’ Day is on November 1; this day lifts up the martyrs and those who performed extraordinary wonders and acts of mercy. All Souls’ Day, November 2, is when the church remembers those not nearly so famous; they are the people who have touched our lives and whose company we tend to keep. In our prayers this morning, we will remember those blessed ones from this congregation who died in this past year: Emil Magdich, Virginia Kleinmeyer, and Beverly Michaelson. We will also remember those who are very dear to us whose pictures are gathered at the altar. These are the saints with whom we have rubbed elbows; they are our friends, our mothers and fathers, our grandmas and grandpas, our fellow worshipers.
According to the tradition of the church, the title “saint” is bestowed upon us at our baptisms—not at our death and not, at least for Lutherans, when we perform three certifiable miracles attested to by Presiding Bishop Mark Hanson. When water is poured over our heads and the words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” are uttered, that is all that is required for us to be elevated to sainthood. In our prayers this morning, we will also lift up those who were baptized this past year: Henry Carter and Madelyn Storm. They became saints before our very eyes. We might wonder how they can possibly be saints. Henry and Madelyn are both cute as buttons but they have done nothing exceptional in their little lives—unless, of course, you ask their parents and grandparents. Nevertheless, we call them saints because God has made them saints. This is God’s doing, not ours. God makes saints.
The difficulty, more often than not, is our inability to detect sainthood in one another. “Saints?” we ask. “How possibly can he or she be a saint?” We know these people all too well.
Frederick Buechner offers a helpful hint at saint detection: “In his holy flirtation with the world, God occasionally drops a handkerchief. These handkerchiefs are called saints.”
We have all caught these handkerchiefs fluttering from heaven and yet, if we admit it, these handkerchiefs have all been a tad flawed: he was so committed to the work of the church but rarely paid any attention to his own family; she visited all the sick of the parish but thought she was better than everyone else; he always stood up for the poor and oppressed and yet was so judgmental of those who did not demonstrate a similar passion for the downtrodden. All saints, all flawed. We can be so quick to see the imperfections in our friends and family and our brothers and sisters in Christ that we find it hard to discover God’s image in them. What we do here this morning, by God’s grace, is to practice the craft of saint detection in one another.
I read a few evenings ago that ancient spiritual teachers urged their followers, “After God, consider each person as God.” Are you able to see God or even sainthood in the people sitting around you this morning?
I first met with you as your prospective pastor on a rainy and blustery Saturday, January 8, 2005. As we gathered around cake and coffee in the lounge, and I answered some of your questions about my past ministries, I told you of my favorite character in all of fiction; his name is Mr. Fruit. Mr. Fruit appears in Pat Conroy’s book, Prince of Tides. He is an odd duck. Mr. Fruit could often be seen directing traffic on a Friday afternoon in his little South Carolina town’s busiest intersection though he was not a police officer. Mr. Fruit always led the 4th of July parade, waving a little American flag, even though he was not an honored dignitary or elected official. It was the community that allowed Mr. Fruit the places of honor in their community.
Pat Conroy writes that the character of a community is measured by how it treats its Mr. Fruits. I would add: the character of a Christian community is measured by how it detects sainthood in our Mr. Fruits. Every community has its Mr. and Ms. Fruits, and, surprise, surprise, most of us have the name Fruit.
How might we discover sainthood in one another? Jesus’ beatitudes offer instruction in saint detection. It is tricky business though. The attributes Jesus lifts up in saints are rarely easy to spot; they are not characteristics we typically ascribe to blessed ones, to saints. Jesus said: “You’re blessed when you are at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.” That is sainthood? “You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.” A saint? “You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are—no more, no less.” Do any of you relate to these sayings of Jesus? Did you know that you are a saint? (These beatitudes are from Eugene Peterson’s The Message translation of the Bible.)
The joy of Christian community is when we see Mr. Fruit singing in the choir, Ms. Fruit collecting the offering, tiny Fruits passing the peace on Sunday morning. The wonder is when we realize we are Mr. and Ms. Fruit, all saints. Strange, my dear saints, but true.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 30, 2011
Reformation Sunday
Romans 3: 19-28
"The Gift of Grace"
Those of us who are Lutheran love Reformation Day. Since October 31, 1517, when Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses onto the church door in Wittenberg, Germany, we have never quite acted the same. Reformation Day feels like such a triumphant day: our church is decked out in red, the color reserved for the Holy Spirit and martyrs who spilled their blood for the gospel’s sake; we sing “A Mighty Fortress” with more gusto than we do most other hymns; and, for good measure, we place Luther’s picture on the bulletin cover lest a single soul misses what this day is about. Reformation Day is the birthday of the Lutheran church.
And yet we must ask: is today, Reformation Sunday, really all about Luther’s audacity before Pope Leo X and his famous line, “Here I Stand,” as if he and we are some churchly version of Frank Sinatra’s doing it “my way?” or is there something more important afoot? Strange as it may seem, the Reformation really is not primarily—if at all—a celebration of Martin Luther—it cannot be—it must be more. Luther would have been horrified to hear of a church body named after him and to find people defining themselves as his followers rather than followers of Jesus Christ.
Up until the Reformation, Luther was a faithful and yet troubled Augustinian monk, trying repeatedly and unsuccessfully to save himself by doing what was right. He never felt as if he was pleasing what, in his eyes, was an angry God. Then came that momentous day when Luther read, as if for the first time, Paul’s words in Romans 3: 23, 24 (“Since all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus”). With those words, “justified by his grace as a gift,” ringing in Luther’s ears, his life, the church, and the world were turned upside down.
Luther’s discovery of the free gift of grace shattered the imprisoning chains that have enslaved so many of us through the years who try to get things right and yet always seem to come up short. The Reformation is about a God who loves us though we are, more often than not, at least a tad unlovable. We sing “A Mighty Fortress” so loud because the chains of our unworthiness have been burst asunder, not by Luther, but by God through Jesus Christ.
While the words were spoken almost 1200 years before Luther, I love how old Saint Basil said it: “I am a sinner; I give you thanks, Lord, for having patiently borne with me.” That is the Reformation spirit! Thank you, God, for bearing with me, a sinner.
So, what exactly is this gift of grace? The author and preacher Frederick Buechner describes grace this way: “Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There’s no way to earn it, deserve it, or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.
“A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace.”
Oh, to be a people who celebrate God’s grace.
This past week, pastors and other professional leaders of our Pacifica Synod had our yearly retreat in Palm Desert. I arranged for one of our speakers, the Rev. Dr. Douglas John Hall, to be with us. Dr. Hall is one of the world’s finest theologians. He taught at McGill University in Montreal for many years. He is eighty-four years old. He uses a cane, sits down to lecture, and is hobbled by a number of illnesses. For the past year, I have been in conversation with Dr. Hall and fallen in love with his graceful manner. Right before it was time for him to speak to our group, Dr. Hall told me he was very nervous. He said he was an old man and past his prime. He wondered whether he was up to the task. As we all watched him and listened to him, we were mesmerized by a man of considerable grace. When I thanked him for his astonishing presentations, he said something to the effect: “Whatever I have said these past few days that is good and rings true is due to the wonderful teachers I have had over the years—they taught me everything I know. I am simply an old eighty-four year old man giving my swan song.” That, my dear friends, is grace.
Many of you are people of grace. To be graceful does not necessarily mean that you have the discipline to read your Bible every day or that you always say your prayers before falling asleep at night. To be graceful means to be deeply indebted to God who loves you no matter what your failings. To be graceful is to understand that anything you achieve worthy of praise occurs thanks to God.
A graceful person says, “Good evening, my name is John and I am an alcoholic.” John understands his sobriety is a supreme gift of grace from God. He could not stop drinking on his own, but one day, when he was at rock bottom, God gave him the exquisite taste of grace.
A graceful person is a sister who has hated her brother since that petty slight thirty-nine years ago, and then, out of the blue, decides to make that nerve-wracking telephone call. When her brother lifts the phone, she weeps for she knows what is soon to occur….That, my friends, is grace.
A graceful person wakes up in the morning and simply says, “Thank you, God, for another day I do not deserve but that I certainly will cherish.”
Martin Luther risked his life to make it clear to any who would listen that God’s deepest passion is to save us from all our foul-ups, failures, and shenanigans. Even when we find it hard to love ourselves, God loves us all the more. That, my dear friends, is why we celebrate the Reformation. That is grace.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 23, 2011
Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 22: 34-46
"Which Commandment Is the Greatest?"
“Which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Not a bad question, really. I suppose we have all wondered about this from time to time. Whenever such a question is asked, we do well to look at who is asking it. Are they asking the question to enhance God’s love for the world or simply to engage in an ornery debate?
If Babe Ruth asked you how many balls and strikes a player gets at each bat, you would smell a rat. If Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts asked you now many amendments are in the U. S. Constitution, you would immediately know games were being played. If Betty Crocker asked you how many cups of sugar go into baking a sheet cake…..I think you get the point.
The Pharisees asked Jesus, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Do you really think they wanted Jesus’ opinion?
It was not just any Pharisee who asked Jesus the question about the greatest law. It was a sophisticated lawyer. He had spent a lifetime pondering all 613 of God’s laws. He understood the minutiae, had parsed the nuances, and was well versed in the ancient debates surrounding God’s laws. This was his job. The 613 laws told God’s people what to wear, what to eat, how to treat their children, how to treat their enemies, when to rest, when to work. When someone wondered whether he could milk his cows on the Sabbath, he went to him for an answer. If a person was starving in the desert and only had a two day old lobster, he could answer whether it was permissible to eat this dead shellfish to save her life.
Most of us have been involved in such contests of wits. If a woman is going to lose her life unless she aborts her child, is abortion permissible? If a drunken husband beats his wife repeatedly, can she walk out on him? Is it ever acceptable in God’s eyes to give a lethal injection to a mass murderer? Have you ever asked such questions?
“So, Jesus, out of the 613 laws and commandments in the Old Testament which is the greatest?” The Pharisee, an accomplished lawyer, a partner in the offices of “Pharisee, Sadducee, and Sons,” must have known. Before he could walk, he had seen the decorative mezuzahs hanging on the doorposts of every room in his family’s house, reminding him of the words from Deuteronomy 6: 4-9: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.” He had worn tzitzit, ceremonial fringes hanging from his waist, since he was a boy, constant reminders of God’s precious gift of the law. This man knew the law.
“So, back to the question, Jesus, which is the greatest?” Jesus must have wanted to scream, “Don’t play games with me.” Jesus did not miss a beat. There was one small problem, however: Jesus offered two laws rather than one. You can hear the lawyer’s exasperation, “I said one commandment not two.” Jesus offered one commandment from Deuteronomy 6:5 (“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all our might”) and a second for good measure from Leviticus 19:18 (“You shall love your neighbor as yourself”).
Jesus’ answer did not take the lawyer or other Pharisees anywhere they had not been before. What he did, though, was astonishing: he called us all to revere not only God but also our neighbors and ourselves, all in one breath, as if all three are equally important. Already we want to protest and debate: “But Jesus, which is more important: God, neighbor, or I?”
Most of us like playing these intellectual games, at least occasionally. We sometimes prefer trouncing someone in debate than focusing on how best to love one another and God and ourselves. I often hear this debate pitted this way: which is more important for the people of God, to worship on Sunday morning or to serve our brothers and sisters and stand up for justice?
The German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in a discussion group with a group of seminary students in the late 1930’s, told his students, “Only someone who speaks out for the Jews has the right to sing Gregorian chant.” Unless we serve others, our worship is worthless. Some people love that; they clench their fists in solidarity with the downtrodden and claim that those who care much for worship are simply misguided chancel-prancers and foolers with fringes. As in so many religious debates, there is another side. Who can imagine the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s soaring calls for civil rights without first casting those words to memory during his Baptist Church’s worship services while growing up? And Mother Theresa—who can imagine her working with the world’s poorest on the streets of Calcutta, alongside her Sisters of Charity, without continuously retreating to daily prayer and daily Mass for sustenance?
So which is more important, service to our brothers and sisters or worship of God? Perhaps you have noticed: there are three answers—just like Jesus offered: worship of God, service to our brothers and sisters, and the spiritual uplifting of ourselves.
It is so easy to squabble over these kinds of questions. Jesus answered the Pharisee’s question in two short sentences--and, in truth, he did not have to answer with even one word for in a few short days his answer would be given with his life, hanging on the cross. As his detractors pondered religious questions well into the night, Jesus hung on the cross, loving those debaters and detractors and the entire world.
Too often, I am afraid, we invest an inordinate amount of time and energy debating questions for which there are no satisfactory answers. Perhaps it is better, the moment we get into a heated debate about some religious question, to immediately remember what Jesus did: he loved the Lord his God with all his heart, and soul and mind, and he loved his neighbors as himself. Rather than forming a sophisticated debating society, Jesus spent his life, even on the cross, loving his Father in heaven and you and me.
So, which is the greatest commandment? I think you already know.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 16, 2011
Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 22: 15-22
"Our Highest Allegiance"
I suppose we have all done it a time or two in our lifetime. We have driven the same route home for years and years; we could drive it blindfold. And then there comes a day when we drive by that very spot we have driven by a million times and, for the first time ever, we notice a fascinating house or a gorgeous view we never saw before. Out of the blue, our trip home is like it has never been. It is all a matter of focus.
Most of us have driven by this morning’s gospel reading quite a few times in our lifetime. It is the King James Version that we likely know best: “Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s.” The moment we hear these words, we ask the same, familiar, worn-out questions: What is legitimate for the government to ask of its citizens and how should we respond? How should church and state interact? When is it appropriate to say “no” to the government, if ever? Almost always when we hear “Render unto Caesar” our mind goes to government.
Driving by this text earlier this week, I saw something I had never noticed before. This text is all about God and only tangentially, at best, about Caesar, government, the United States of America. To hear this text and immediately think of taxes is to miss the point.
When I drove by this text this week, I saw for the first time Jesus inviting you and me to offer our highest allegiance to God. Now, in order to see this text this way, we must refocus and look much more carefully. Jesus knows the Pharisees could care less about how he answers their questions—they want to trap him and drag him to the cross—something they will succeed in doing by week’s end with Pilate’s help. So, Jesus is very careful and, because of his care, we can miss the point as did the Pharisees.
The minute the Pharisees say to Jesus, “Teacher, we know that you are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with the truth, and show deference to no one…” just like Jesus, we smell a rat. When certain people say, “Pastor, we really love you,” I know what is coming next: “BUT….” And so, if the Pharisees want to play mind games, Jesus will play too. But I know you are here for something more than playing mind games so let me give a shot at what I think Jesus wants us to hear beyond this boxing match with his adversaries.
This gospel reading is all about where we place our deepest loyalty, to whom we show our highest reverence and allegiance.
As a kid, one of the people who sat two pews behind us in church was Henry Nehemiah Nickerson. Mr. Nickerson was on board the USS Utah when his leg was blown off in the battle of the US Occupation of Vera Cruz, Mexico, on April 21, 1914. He was twenty-six years old at the time and his leg was amputated close to the hip. Mr. Nickerson received the Medal Honor. Mr. Nickerson came to church every Sunday with one pant leg folded up and pinned. You did not have to see him to know when he was entering the sanctuary because you could hear his old metal crutches squeaking the moment the sanctuary doors opened. My father told me the Medal of Honor was the highest award one could receive for bravery in battle. Every year at Christmas, Mr. Nickerson sat on the reviewing stand for the Wheeling Christmas parade. The year our junior high marching band was in the parade, I blew my clarinet a little harder and a tear formed in my eye as I passed the hero I had been taught to revere.
We all learn about reverence. We stand for the singing of the National Anthem and remove our hats and place our hands over our hearts. At the Sunday Padres’ Sunday games, who isn’t moved when the crowd stands for the singing of the Marine Hymn as we offer our reverence to the assembled Marines who protect our nation?
But I have gotten a little bit ahead of myself. I have talked about warriors and allegiance to nation. In getting ahead of myself, I have almost driven past the most important part of what Jesus has to say. If we are to be followers of Jesus, we must always ask first, not what we should render to the United States of America, but rather what we should render unto God. In asking this question, what to render Caesar is not even in the equation.
I read this week, “We appear guilty not so much negatively by disobedience, but positively by not enriching ourselves by nearness to God.” (Paul Evdokimov, Ages of the Spiritual Life). “Render unto God the things that are God’s” is meant to draw us near to God. All that has been given to us is given by God. We have been created in God’s image, not Caesar’s or President Obama’s, but God’s image.
When we understand our highest and ultimate loyalty is to God, everything else falls into place a bit more neatly. When God gets our highest loyalty, we might even have a chance of seeing our enemies as bearing the image of God and perhaps, for the first time, finally getting our loyalties straight.
The Psalmist said: “Those who look to the Lord are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame” (Psalm 34: 5).
My dad taught me to reverence Mr. Nickerson. Does anyone teach us how to look to God and reverence God? Absolutely.
Last Sunday morning, when I was standing near the baptismal pool, greeting worshipers and preparing for worship, I watched Geri Engelke, one of First’s longest time members, walk into the sanctuary. She went directly to the baptismal pool, placed her fingers in the water, and made the sign of the cross. She was teaching us reverence. Geri was remembering whose she is, that she bears the image of God from her baptism. Focus, friends, focus on God.
On Friday, I watched Doris Shimizu hand out coffee to our homeless and underserved brothers and sisters—Doris has been doing this now for thirty-six years. As I watched her, I sensed her teaching us all how to reverence God, this time, though, a bit differently. She was teaching us to see the image of God’s son, Jesus Christ, in every person who went through the food line, calling many by name and honoring all. Focus, friends, focus on God.
In the weeks ahead, each of us will be invited to reverence God in our lives by making a financial commitment, a pledge, for ministry here in 2012. This is one of our highest honors. Every time we place our envelope in the offering plate, we teach one another about reverence, showing others how richly God has blessed us. Whether we commit 75 cents a week or $275, we are reminding one another that God has given us everything we need. Our commitment to ministry in this place is our demonstration of reverence for being able to gather here, week after week, in the presence of God and to share God’s blessings with all our brothers and sisters in need. Focus, friends, focus on God.
Wherever you drive today, I pray that you will focus on the words, “Render unto God the things that are God’s.” As you do so, may you be drawn very near to God.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 9, 2011
Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 22: 1-14
"Grace Upon Grace"
Today’s parable makes me sad. It rips at my gut actually. Wedding preparation should be filled with joyous anticipation. If you have ever planned a big celebration and anticipated your best friends coming, you know how excited the king must be about his son’s impending wedding. You can imagine the lavish preparations—cleaning the palace, preparing the finest recipes with the most delectable oxen and tender veal, hiring a band that played the favorites of young and old alike.
You would think people would drop everything to come to the king’s palace. It is the opportunity of a lifetime. Wouldn’t you drop everything if you were invited to a state dinner at the White House? But that’s not what happens when the king sends out the dazzling gold embossed invitations and then waits eagerly for the RSVP’s to return. The responses are disappointing to say the least. One invitee goes back to his farm instead of attending the festivities—pigs apparently are more important than the king’s son; another simply goes away—where could he go more important than the king’s palace; another has business to attend to— couldn’t the business wait a day; and others mistreat the ones delivering the invitations, even killing them—and this because they are invited to dine with the king.
Imagine how discouraged you would be if your child is getting married and no one wants to attend. What would you do?
We just taught our confirmation class that Sunday morning is a wedding feast with God—actually, every Sunday is Easter. God invites us here. What can be more important in our lives—the beach, the Chargers, the Sunday Times? Is there anything in your life that can possibly trump celebrating God’s love offered through the death and resurrection of Jesus? And yet many of us have our reasons for not attending.
I want to reveal to you one of my deepest, darkest secrets. Whenever people do not show up for worship here and attendance is lower than anticipated, my entire Sunday is rocked and ruined. Really! I sulk through the rest of the day and Dagmar inevitably says to me, “Attendance was poor today, huh Schmus?” Last Sunday was one of those low days. I was so excited in advance. We had picked rousing hymns, I had worked on my sermon, Jared’s organ music was stunning, the flowers were arranged beautifully, the altar was exquisitely set with gifts from heaven, and yet, not so many showed up at worship. Though worship attendance has climbed steadily in recent years, one day did me in. Now, I understand that this happens from time-to-time—people are on vacation, others at conferences, some sick—and yet, low attendance eats at my insides like termites on raw wood.
The king, though disappointed by the pathetic response to his upcoming festival, does not give up; he does not let disappointment ruin the day. When the A-Listers send their regrets with “cannot possibly make it, but will be thinking of you,” the king immediately dispatches his servants to the highways and byways to invite the B-Listers. The feast is ready and someone must attend. The show must go on.
Now at this point, the parable not only makes me sad, it also makes no sense to me. When the B-Listers finally arrive, one is tossed out on his ear. Why is this poor person thrown out--after all, he was not deemed good enough to be considered on the first list and he really is invited as an after thought on the king’s part. Jesus says he is thrown out because he isn’t dressed properly. Did the king really think a single B-Lister would own a tuxedo or Chanel dress?
I assume this bugs you too. Elton Richards, a predecessor of mine in Ardmore, says this: “The dramatic turn in the parable has little to do with the dress code. Some had made light of the invitation by staying away, but this man was making light of the invitation after he had come. God's gracious invitation always comes to us as we are, but we need to come not as we were. Grace is free, but it is not cheap. It involves change—repentance. Insiders are always tempted to take God lightly—to assume once at the table we can stay as we are. Consumers of God's grace, we dare not be presumers of that grace” (Elton Richards, “Sorry, I’m Busy,” Day One, October 13, 1996).
The Bible is filled with meals of grace at which no one should presume an invitation. All biblical meals are for B-Listers, people like you and me for whom an invitation to any meal hosted by God comes as utter surprise—call it grace! What better definition for “grace” than B-Listers invited to a special meal? One of the most beloved stories in all of Scripture is the extravagant meal the father throws for his prodigal son’s return home; this meal is sheer grace. The night before Jesus dies, he pauses for one more meal with his closest friends who will betray and deny him—again, grace. When Jesus rises from the dead, there are all manner of graceful meals for Jesus’ cowardly and forlorn friends—one in the evening as the confused disciples gather at table at Emmaus and another as the despondent disciples come to a breakfast fish fry with the surprise guest, the Risen Lord. And in Revelation 19:17, we hear of that heavenly eternal banquet where redeemed sinners will gather before the king’s throne forever, “Come, gather together for the great supper of God.” Grace upon grace, all these meals.
My dear friends, this meal, this morning, is one more of those astonishing meals. Jesus speaks so fondly of our gathering here— “Whenever you do this, do it in remembrance of me.”
Without meals, this congregation can close up shop. In fact, without meals, whether we know it or not, the shop is already closed! If Christianity is about anything, it is about meals. Our meals are essential to what we do here in Christ’s name; all dish out grace upon grace whether here on Sunday morning or outside on the patio where hundreds receive their daily bread. God is present in every one of these meals.
Each of us has been invited to this meal this morning. Though we are all B-Listers, each a curious mixture of good and bad, grumpy and happy, miserly and generous, nevertheless, God has invited us here to celebrate his son’s resurrection.
I am very happy you are here this morning—thrilled actually! I am certain your presence makes God even happier.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 2, 2011
Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 21: 33-46
"Tending God's Vineyard"
Tony Bennett is best known for singing “I Left My Love in San Francisco.” This eighty-five year old has just come out with a new album, Duets II. He sings with the likes of Queen Latifah, Willie Nelson, Andrea Bocelli, and Lady Gaga. The British jazzy hip-hop singer Amy Winehouse joins him on “Body and Soul.” Ms. Winehouse died tragically in July after struggling with alcohol and drug abuse. She was twenty-seven years old and far too young to die
Tony Bennett became very concerned about her health when they met in London to record together. “I wanted to tell her that she needed to shape up or she could end up destroying herself.” Bennett knows from experience. He had his own spell when, as he puts, he “was naughty with some drugs.” He was offered sage wisdom that turned his life around. Someone who had watched far too many talented artists die from drug and alcohol addiction told him that such abuse was “a sin against his talent.”
Tony Bennett’s words, “a sin against his talent,” have stuck with me since I read them a few weeks ago in The New Yorker magazine (Gay Telese, “High Notes,” The New Yorker, September 19, 2011, pg.62).
In our gospel reading this morning, Jesus tell a parable about a landowner who owned a vineyard and asked people to watch over it when he went to another country. The landowner had seen to it that all was in order before he left: he planted a vineyard, put a fence around it, dug a wine press in it, and built a watchtower. The vineyard must have been as pretty as the Napa Valley. He also was certain that those who would watch over his vineyard had all kinds of talents.
Those called to tend to the vineyard got pretty selfish. The owner repeatedly sent people to collect grapes from the vineyard and repeatedly the tenants treated his representatives with sickening brutally. They beat one, killed another, and stoned yet another. He sent others and they abused them too. Things got so dreadful that the landowner finally sent his own son—surely they would respond kindly to him. When the son arrived, “They seized him, threw him out of the vineyard, and killed him.” I think you could easily say the tenants sinned against their talent.
In this allegorical parable, the vineyard owner, of course, is God; those who initially tended the vineyard are the Jewish people and later the early church and still later you and I; those first sent to collect the grapes are the prophets; the owner’s son, of course, is Jesus. I have wondered these past couple of days what exactly the vineyard represents. Is it the land of Israel, is it the church, or is it something more? Is the vineyard all of God’s creation? I hope it is the latter.
You and I are called to tend to God’s creation. Each of us has a different gift in this enterprise. I am called to preach here on Sunday morning, to preside at the Lord’s Table, to visit the sick and homebound, and, yes, now to teach confirmation class. You are called to do something different but at least as important.
What are you called to do in the vineyard? Be careful. Whenever we hear a parable like this, our immediate inclination is to offer a churchy answer to what our calling is, something like setting up the altar, singing in the choir, serving on church council, helping out at TACO, offering a regular portion of your income to the ministries of this place. These are all wonderful pursuits but I fear perhaps a bit too narrow in the tending of God’s vineyard.
Martin Luther refers to our callings as the priesthood of all believers. Whatever we do throughout the day—preparing the morning coffee, talking with a loved one on the phone, interacting with a colleague at work, going grocery shopping—all these are opportunities to be priests. I know they don’t seem like particularly holy tasks, not terribly churchy, but they all have something to do with caring for God’s vineyard.
Tony Bennett’s words keep ringing in my ears, “Don’t sin against your talent.”
Have you ever thought about what it is in your life that only you can offer Jesus Christ when he comes your way? Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist monk, provides a helpful answer. (We can learn oodles of important things from our brothers and sisters from other religious traditions.) Thich Nhat Hanh calls us to practice “mindfulness.” Mindfulness is being aware of and grateful for every little thing in our lives. He encourages us to chew our food 30 times before swallowing. Thirty times! As we chew our oat meal and munch on dill pickles, we praise God for these delicious gifts of creation. Our calling becomes gratitude for the simple things of life.
One particularly beautiful tradition from our Native American brothers and sisters is giving thanks for the cows and chickens whose lives have been sacrificed so we might eat our fill. Hear their prayer: “We give thanks for the plants and animals who have given themselves so that we can enjoy this meal together.” Our calling as we sit down for supper is our profound appreciation for all creatures, great and small, that help us live.
What better saint to exemplify this way of living than Saint Francis of Assisi. The church gives thanks to God for Saint Francis on his own day, Saint Francis Day, this Tuesday, October 4. Francis loved God’s vineyard so much that he even talked with the birds and sang hymns to God together with the stars and the sun and the moon. Though he gave away all his earthly possessions, he seemed rich beyond measure. I suppose we all would like to be a bit like Francis; isn’t that why bird baths and statues of his likeness fill our gardens? Isn’t that why people bring their beloved dogs and cats to churches everywhere this weekend to have them blessed? We love that happy and holy fool.
I suppose, if truth be told, we all sin against our talent from time-to-time. And yet, as often as we forget to demonstrate our gratitude to God, even more often, God sends his son, Jesus, back to tell us of the wonders that are ours living in God’s garden. “Take and eat,” he says. Oh, to live in God’s garden.
And yes, I believe that God is still watching over Amy Winehouse and inviting her to sing with the angels and Saint Francis in heaven.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 25, 2011
Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 21: 23-32
"Liver and Onions and Stewed Tomatoes"
For some peculiar reason, Grandma served liver and onions that beautiful September Sunday afternoon when your family went to visit her. The side dish was stewed tomatoes. Remember how you could hardly eat a bite though you tried? Your father saw your untouched liver and stewed tomatoes and said, “Honey, aren’t Grandma’s liver and onions and stewed tomatoes scrumptious?” Even at four, you knew the correct answer, “Yes, I love them, Grandma.”
We learn early that good boys and girls give the right answer even when the wrong answer more adequately describes our feelings.
In today’s gospel reading, Jesus meets up with Jerusalem’s temple leaders. You have got to believe that the chief priests and elders are in leadership positions because they, too, learned early on when to say the appropriate “yes” and the appropriate “no.” Perhaps that’s why Jesus drives them batty.
The battle of wits between Jesus and the religious hierarchy follows quickly upon the heels of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the week of his death. Passions are running at a fevered pitch as visitors gather in God’s holiest city to celebrate the Passover and the religious officials are none too happy—they love the crowds but can stand the chaos. The shouts of “hosanna” for this backwoods carpenter’s son make the crowd feel out of control. And the mess of palm branches and coats littering the city streets disgusts their sense of decorum. To make matters worse, Jesus overturns the money-changers’ tables at the temple—such erratic behavior. Jesus even kills a perfectly healthy fruit-bearing fig tree—why come to town and perform such a malicious act? The leaders are in a dither. There is a right way and a wrong way to go about change; killing trees and turning God’s blessed city upside down is not the right way.
Jesus senses that the chief priest and elders are all about public perception when they engage in a little verbal jousting with him, asking who exactly he thinks he is. And, in the spirit of a red hot debate, Jesus asks them a baffling question about John the Baptist, whether he came from human or divine origins. The chief priests and elders are no dummies; the question about John the Baptist is similar to the question “Have you stopped beating your wife?” There is no good answer. Like good politicians, they seek the point of least resistance—or of the most votes—and simply say, “We do not know.”
Most of us are quick to judge the chief priests and elders. Our judgment comes, in no small part, because we have never been in their place of power and authority. We can opine on the economy, the wars in the Middle East, immigration, and health care because most of our futures do not depend on how we answer these perplexing questions. The religious leaders’ “yes” or “no” will affect their jobs and the people they are called to serve. And so they are careful how they answer Jesus’ question.
Jesus tells the chief priests and elders a remarkable parable about the brother who says “no” to his father’s request for him to work in the vineyard and the other brother who readily says “yes” to his request. The right answer, of course, is a liver and onions answer. Whenever dad asks us to do something, the correct answer is “Yes, sir. Immediately.”
And yet, in order to grow as individuals, there comes a time when we must move beyond liver and onion answers, when our “yes” and our “no” must be born in the crucible of our own faith struggle. I can think of no better example of this than young people who, the day they head off for college, quit going to church for years and years except on those Christmas Eves when they return home and humor their moms and dads and dress up for a trip to church with the family. Parents fret over their children’s lack of commitment to the church. I suppose we are afraid our kids will end up in hell. I wonder, though, if young people’s not going to church at this point in their lives is more profound than simply not doing what we expect of them.
Perhaps we should not get too alarmed when our twenty-something kids quit going to church. Like confirmation class, not going to church is a rite of passage for many young adults, something many of us must go through in order to get to the other side of grace. Maybe the “no” to going to church is part of our growing up and essential to the struggle of finally believing for ourselves, struggling the best we can to say, on our own, “I believe in God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
Of course, we pray for the day our dear young ones will return to God’s house and we hope it will be sooner rather than later, but, until that day, perhaps it is best to accept their “no” as their struggle of faith and their search for truth. Let us patiently await the day when their “yes” to Jesus Christ is their very own “yes.”
One of my professors of worship, Gordon Lathrop, in a lovely little book, The Pastor, writes these words: “Ah, dear believer, by all means, when you can, be side by side with your children, be a struggling believer, hands out for mercy….Be side by side with your beloved ones, kneeling at the holy table. Do not know all the answers.” While these words are directed toward pastors, they certainly should resonate with all of us. When dealing with our children, especially our older ones, we dare not have all the answers!
The chief priests and the elders do not seem to have the patience to wait for their children’s yes”—they must hear the “yes” immediately. This attitude is what gets Jesus all worked up and, of course, finally hung on a cross. Because the religious leaders always say “yes,” they think they are better—better, at least, than the tax collectors and prostitutes and, I’m sure Jesus meant to add, Sunday morning soccer players. But Jesus says, “Truly I tell you the tax collectors and prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.”
Never forget this about this morning’s parable, however—and read it again if you missed this point: Jesus does not say that the chief priests and elders are not going to get into the kingdom of God; he simply points out that they may not get there on their scheduled time of arrival or even ahead of the tax collectors and prostitutes. As we struggle with our “yes” and “no,” let us give thanks to God who welcomes tax collectors and prostitutes, chief priests and elders, liver detesters and Sunday morning soccer players, yes, and you and me, too. That good news is way better than grandma’s liver and onions and stewed tomatoes.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 18, 2011
The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Exodus 16: 2-15; Matthew 20: 1-16
"A Free Brunch for All"
Is there anyone here this morning who doesn’t grumble at least once in a while?
In the Bible and in our two readings this morning, we hear of people grumbling.
In our first reading from Exodus, the Israelites are grumbling in the wilderness, not long after God miraculously frees them from the brutality of Egyptian bondage and feeds them with manna from heaven. It is almost inconceivable that the Israelites can find any cause for grumbling. You would think they would celebrate with reckless abandon since God has finally freed them from slavery—but, my, how they grumble. They grumble about the food, mystery food in their mind, and they tell Moses they would much prefer going back to Egypt as slaves than to face the uncertainty of desert wandering—unimaginable but true.
Unimaginable perhaps but then again, how many of us grumble even when we have it so good. We start grumbling early, complaining about mom’s spinach and leftover zucchini casserole when can barely walk. When we head off to college, we complain about the abysmal cafeteria food and have gigantic food fights with the miserable stuff even though it is all we can eat. When we get married, we complain about our wife’s food—it isn’t nearly as good as mom’s home zucchini “mystery food” which, by the way, we complained about incessantly when we were living at home. When we are hospitalized, we complain about the flavorless fare even though we have experienced miracle upon miracle of modern medicine. When we move to the retirement community and no longer face the drudgery of preparing our own meals, we complain like little kids. Does the grumbling ever end?
Jesus’ parable about the laborers in the vineyard demonstrates yet again our proclivity toward grumbling. This time the grumbling is not about the food but who gets paid for what work. Whether the laborers start at seven or nine in the morning and work through the blazing midday sun or they start later, say at five o’clock, and miss the hottest part of the day, they are all paid the identical wage by the landowner. “How can this be?” we demand to know. How dare Jesus suggest that people be treated equally no matter how hard or how little they work.
There is a lot of grumbling going on in our nation these days. Much of it revolves around who deserves what. Who deserves health care? Who deserves to live in this country? Who deserves tax breaks? Grumble, grumble, grumble.
This grumbling is alive and well in the church too—in case you haven’t noticed. God must have some kind of ranking system, making distinctions between good and bad, hard-working and lazy, faithful and back-sliding, right and wrong. Even when we Lutherans insist, “You don’t have to do anything to receive God’s grace,” more than a few of us—yes, we Lutherans!--insist that if that grace business were actually for real, there would be no incentive to do the good. We say, “You at least have to accept God’s grace. Otherwise, what would it matter?” We find it next to impossible to believe that there is such a thing as a “free lunch.” We know there is fine print somewhere, placing a caveat on all this grace business. We who think of ourselves as good Christians—yes, we grumble, too.
This morning, we are invited to a free lunch or, I guess, more properly, a free brunch. There will be no pre-trial test before we receive Holy Communion to find out whether we have been naughty or nice, no evaluation to find out who has worked the hardest during the week, not even an examination of our giving records through the first eight months of 2011. Every last one of us, even the tiniest among us, will be invited to the table of our Lord. “How can this be?” a few of us grumble. “How can two year olds receive the Sacrament? They have not confessed their sins and they certainly don’t have a clue what they are receiving. I had to wait until I was fourteen, on my Confirmation day. Why can’t they wait, too?” Like at so many meals, it is easy to grumble at this one, too, about who is worthy and who is not even if it is heavenly fare we are talking about.
And yet as the little ones come forward this morning, watch their joy as they reach out for the bread of heaven. They do not for a second think they are deserving of this gift—they do not even know what deserving means. They are simply delighted to join their friends, their moms and dads, their brothers and sisters, and to celebrate a free brunch.
We are indeed very fortunate people here this morning. We receive this meal from heaven now, and, when we arrive home, few of us will wonder where our next meal will come from. There are, of course, people not quite so fortunate. This very morning, according to a recent letter from the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, over 13 million people in Kenya, Ethiopia, Somalia, and Djibouti suffer from famine and drought….Tens of thousands—predominantly children—have already died…Approximately 750,000 more people in Somalia are predicted to die in the next four months if governments around the world do not increase assistance to the region.” Why is it that almost everyone here this morning has never gone hungry, never faced a famine of such proportions? Why is it that can’t think of a single child close to us who has died of hunger? Is it because God thinks we are so good, so hard working. I doubt that even for a second. What you and I are is blessed, very blessed, yes, very lucky indeed.
Martin Luther urges us to pray before we eat our meals. As we bow our heads and fold our hands, we become mindful of how fortunate we are to sit down at any meal whether at church or at home. Perhaps you did not learn in Confirmation class that Luther also urges us to pray after we eat. I confess my family growing up didn’t do this, even once, nor has our family since then; I have visited few households—none that I can think of—where a prayer is offered at the end of the meal. Do you do this? What a wonderful idea it is. Frankly, many meals are occasions, forums, for grumbling. Grumbling seems as central to many a meal as meat and potatoes. Rather than ending a meal grumbling about the food that has been placed before us or about some other issue that might have consumed our dinner hour, what a splendid idea to pause to give thanks to God for how blessed we are, lucky really.
Please bow your heads now and join me in Luther’s prayer for the end of a meal….“O give thanks unto the Lord, for God is good; for God’s mercy endures forever. God gives food to all flesh; God gives to the beast his food, and to the young ravens which cry. God delights not in the strength of the horse; God takes no pleasure in the legs of humanity. The Lord takes pleasure in them that fear Him, in those that hope in God’s mercy…We thank you, Lord God, through Jesus Christ, our Lord, for all your benefits, who lives and reigns forever and ever. Amen.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 11, 2011
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Exodus 14: 19-31; Matthew 18: 21-35
"Remembering 9/11"
It was about one year after 9/11 that the parents of a beautiful young teenage girl asked to meet with me. No sooner had my office door shut behind us than the parents began to weep. Their precious daughter was the joy of their life, so spirited and fun-loving, with an ever present smile; and then, seemingly overnight, she became sullen and distant. Her teacher called the parents expressing her concern. Their daughter was becoming more and more isolated, inattentive in class and sorrowful looking. Then the parents’ world crumbled; they discovered that their daughter was addicted to the deadly prescription drug Oxycontin. They tried to figure out what could possibly have caused this startling spiral downward and they immediately zeroed in on 9/11. Since the day the towers fell, their daughter hadn’t been quite the same.
9/11 has changed us all in one way or another. This past Thursday afternoon, when the power outage brought San Diego to a grinding halt, what was your first thought once you realized you had not blown a fuse? We waited with bated breath, didn’t we, hoping that terror had not struck again.
In these ten years we have grown less trusting and angrier. Even now, in this place reserved for peace and holiness, we catch ourselves holding our breath, hoping our nation will make it safely through this day. Please Lord, we pray, please Lord, please.
How should we respond to the threat of terror hanging continually over our necks? We might look to this morning’s Bible readings for answers. And yet, you probably noticed that our readings from Exodus and Matthew, when placed side by side, do not exactly make for easy answers; in fact, they create a jarring dissonance.
The Exodus reading is one of those Old Testament readings that causes us to wonder how God can be so violent and bloodthirsty: “The Lord saved Israel that day from the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore.” There almost seems to be delight in the death of the Egyptians. This is the proof text some of us have been looking for: if God slaughtered the Egyptians, why not terrorists and wicked leaders in our own day?
God’s word, though, is rarely so simple. If Exodus suits our fancy on how to treat our enemies, let us not forget Matthew 18. Just when we are about to bang our tambourines and dance in the streets over the deaths of Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, Jesus bids us to forgive one another not seven times but seven times seventy. Now, I admit, these words are likely instruction on how early Christians should treat one another; however, once we hear Jesus’ passion for forgiveness and mercy, we dare not let our thirst for revenge be our final word in God’s name.
Apparently not even the Jewish people were entirely comfortable with Egyptian bodies washing up onto the seashore. Though they had felt the sting of Pharaoh’s whips, they still wondered whether God could be so vicious. The Jewish people are fond of telling an old Hasidic tale. The angels were rejoicing over the deliverance of Israel at the Red Sea. They were playing harps, singing and dancing up a storm when one of the angels said: ‘Wait. Look, the creator of the Universe is sitting there weeping!’ The angels approached God and asked, ‘Why are you weeping when Israel has been delivered by your power?’ ‘I am weeping,' said God, ‘because the dead Egyptians washed up on the shore are somebody’s sons, somebody’s husbands, somebody’s fathers.’” This Hasidic tale warns us not to celebrate even when our fiercest enemy has been killed for even that rotten apple is precious in God’s sight.
It seems to me that unless we are psychopathic maniacs, we understand that the use of violence has a ghastly way of boomeranging back toward us. Winston Churchill said, “The most frightful of all spectacles is strength of civilization without mercy.” When we resort to cruelty against the enemy, no matter how angry we may be or how just our cause is, our character is diminished and our finest traditions are tarnished.
As the towers came tumbling down in New York City ten years ago and the death toll rose, what we remember most of our nation’s people that day is not a vindictive desire to exact revenge on our enemies but rather a heroic longing to end the suffering of innocent people. As the ashes piled up, we were repeatedly moved to tears as fire-fighters and police officers and ordinary citizens risked their lives to usher complete strangers out of harm’s way. On that day, September 11, 2001, we beheld the noblest spirit this nation has to offer.
The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.”
One dragon waiting to be turned into a prince showed up at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Ardmore at our Service of Prayer and Remembrance the night after the towers fel1. The dragon hung up a hand-lettered sign that read, “ASSASINATE BIN LADEN,” right outside our sanctuary doors. The sign caused many of us to tremble. That Sunday, the dragon appeared at worship for the first time ever. He came and, in tears, confessed to hanging up the sign. Not long after his sign was but an embarrassing memory, he joined our church family; after that, he attended worship every Sunday, helped with our youth group, and regularly fed the homeless at 63d Street. The fire-breathing dragon turned into a prince because he had witnessed a community act with considerable beauty and courage.
It has been said that hatred is a failure of imagination. If that is the case, then love of our enemies is the triumph of imagination. Loving our enemies will never be easy this side of the kingdom come; perhaps that is why it is so rarely tried. And yet we dare not let hatred rob our nation or us of our highest ideals no matter how bitter we may be.
May the Lord inspire our nation to stand fast to its highest ideals and may we all, by God’s grace, become princesses and princes who pray for the day when God’s love will miraculously rise from the ashes of hatred and love will triumph forever in Christ’s name.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 4, 2011
Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 18: 15-20
"The Community Oozing Mercy"
Our family has had four wonderful dogs: an Airedale Terrier named Max, a Cocker Spaniel named Minor (as in Unaccompanied Minor—we found him abandoned on the streets of DC), a Golden Retriever named Blue, and currently a fuzzy Boykin Spaniel named Cisco (as in Saint Francis). Each dog has had the same surname: not Miller but Nein, as in Max Nein or Cisco Nein, or, more precisely, Max No or Cisco No. I have loved all these dogs.
One dog we have never owned but that I greatly admire is the Staffordshire Bull Terrier better known as the pit-bull. You have heard the grizzly accounts of pit-bulls mauling infants and being bred as ferocious fighting dogs. Some nations and states have outlawed owning pit-bulls and yet there are people who swear by them, claiming that if treated with both love and discipline, they can make adorable family pets.
The church is a pit-bull; it can be ferocious or it can be adorable.
Some of you, sadly, have experienced the church as a ferocious pit-bull. You served a dreadful stint on a bickering church council, had an atrocious encounter with a domineering pastor, or were told that you are not welcome in God’s house. Being near the church often feels as dangerous to you as cozying up to a snarling pit-bull.
Others of you find the church an adorable puppy. Church is where you have heard the finest music ever, where your heart has been stirred to care for a lonely senior citizen or advocate for the rights of homeless people, or where friendships have been created that have sustained you in life’s darkest hours. You cannot imagine a more comfortable place to be on Sunday morning than the comfortable lap of a church pew.
When I meet with couples getting married, I always ask them, “How do you fight?” I don’t ask if they fight but how they fight. Being human, the bride and groom will have good days and bad days or, as Lutherans say, days filled with a curious mixture of saint and sinner, or, as the wisdom of the church’s wedding liturgy claims in no uncertain terms, better days and worse days.
We will fight; the only question is how. Jesus knew this about church people and yet our kind often seems inept at fighting fairly. There is a cottage industry of authors and consultants making small fortunes catering to squabbling congregations. Bishops and their staffs are run ragged trying to keep parishioners and pastors from killing one another. Perhaps you have been part of a congregation that caused you to say, “I have to get out of here before I lose my soul.”
Today’s gospel reading provides instruction for Christian communities eager to live together more peacefully than a pack of brawling pit-bulls. Now be warned: if we only hear this morning’s gospel reading without putting it into a greater context of Matthew’s gospel, we might get the zany notion that Jesus wanted to equip Christians with weapons to toss out pesky alligators from the church’s swimming pool—and, to be fair, the reading from Matthew 18:15-20 feels a tad top heavy or, in today’s parlance, a bit ferocious. However, Jesus’ words are not intended as ammunition to toss people out of our congregational doors and to put them of their misery the moment they disagree.
When you go home today, get your Bible, turn to Matthew 18, and notice how this morning's reading is nestled amidst two other passages like a little child between two comfy blankets. Since we did not read the other two passages this morning, let me tell you about them. The preceding passage is about one sheep that strays from his 99 other pals. Common shepherding technique is to protect the 99 at all costs even if it means losing the lost one. Jesus offers a radically different approach: he urges us to risk everything for the sake of the lost one. The passage that follows today’s reading is Jesus’ answer to how many times we should forgive one another. You know the answer but, in case you prefer to forget it, Jesus suggests forgiving one another 490 times! Mercy, not nastiness, oozes from these texts like a Texas oil well gone berserk.
If we want to have a friendly pit-bull, we need to discipline it with love, not chain it to a fence and beat it its brains out. Yes, indeed, we, too, must ooze mercy.
Here’s Jesus’ counsel on how to train loveable church members in order to create a happy kennel. “If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.” Now here was a completely new understanding for me as I prepared for this morning: Jesus doesn't say, “If that member "agrees" with you;” rather he says that if that member “listens” to you--listening and agreeing are very different things. If listening doesn’t work, Jesus urges us to take one or two others to the person in question. This is not meant to gang up on the person but to give her or him a chance with two or four more listening ears added to the mix. I had one more astonishing learning preparing for this morning's sermon that had never struck me before: Jesus says, if one doesn’t listen to you, treat her or him like a Gentile and a tax collector. Sounds very harsh—at least to me—but do you remember how Jesus treated Gentiles and tax collectors--he was always hanging around with them and making others batty because of the company he kept. Yes, this all oozes mercy and a desire for brothers and sisters to live in peace.
How does First Lutheran Church fight? I must confess, after first six years here, I take great delight in how we do that together. Do we agree with one another? Hardly. Does your pastor drive you whacky at times? You answer that. My sense, though, is that this congregation, by the sheer grace of God, does a masterful job at living together in peace. We have not had to call in Bishop Finck to referee an out-of-control melee. It seems, more often than not, when we disagree, we go straight to the person, speaking what’s deep on our heart and listening to the other person’s concern, all the while praying and hoping for healing to occur. We do not seem to delight in watching one person viciously club another or gossip about someone. If that occurs, invariably I have found there is someone who suggests, lovingly, this is not how we treat our brothers and sisters here at First Lutheran Church.
Have you ever experienced a miracle? If you haven’t, following our prayers in a few moments, be attentive to how we share the Peace of Christ with one another. Visitors have told me that they delight in the sheer bedlam of it all as we run about this sanctuary, hugging and kissing one another in Christ’s name. We disagree on a number of matters but what we do seem to agree upon is that sharing the peace of Christ with one another is a far better idea than chewing each other's neck off.
We really are a bunch of pit-bulls. We do, in all honesty, have the frightening capacity to be vicious and deadly. And yet, because we have been treated so well by our master, Jesus Christ, our tails are already wagging and we can’t wait to scamper to our communal bowl, with our litter mates, where we will lap up a little bread and wine in Christ’s name.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 28, 2011
Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
Exodus 3: 1-15; Matthew 16: 21-28
"Who, Me? Yes You!"
You remember singing this ditty back and forth with your friends when you were a kid:
Moses gets involved in a similar routine with God. He is minding his own business, tending his father-in-law’s sheep when God appears to him, in a bush, in the midst of his distasteful drudgery. The dialogue between the two is comical. God tells Moses of the terrible situation the people of God are facing under the repressive regime of Egypt’s Pharaoh—as if Moses did not already know—after all, he had been there in Egypt and become so fed up that he killed one of Pharaoh’s crack troops. God delivers a moving testament for the need to end the king’s wicked ways. The misery, the injustice, the brutality—we expect God to snap His fingers any second, sending lightening or an earthquake or a hurricane to annihilate Pharaoh. What we don’t expect is God to ask the sheep-tender Moses to do the dirty work. Did we hear God correctly: “I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.”
It is then that the silly banter between Moses and God intensifies. Moses asks God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” “Who, me?” Moses seems to say and God relies, “Yes you!”
Moses is convinced he is not God’s man. Pharaoh will slam the door in his face if he comes knocking. Moses is certain his own people will do about the same thing—after all, they know who Moses is. If he starts masquerading as God’s spokesman, his closest friends will be so turned off by his arrogance that they will tell anyone within earshot how they watched Moses kill one of Pharaoh’s soldiers in cold blood.
More and more convinced he is not the one for the job, Moses continues to box with God, "What if they ask me your name?” God says, “Tell them I AM WHO I AM has sent you.” Moses scratches his head: “Did you say I AM WHO I AM? What will Pharaoh think when I say, ‘I AM WHO I AM sent me?’”
On and on it goes. Moses continues to look for an out. He even laments his speaking abilities. Like many of us, Moses’ worst nightmare is public speaking, especially on behalf of I AM WHO I AM. Moses would prefer stumbling in sheep droppings any day than speaking to Pharaoh. God assures Moses that his speaking skills will do just fine and, if they do, at times, seem a bit shabby and deficient, he can turn to his brother Aaron who has been known to deliver some stem-winding speeches.
I understand Moses. I am always looking for an out, too, especially when I am called to speak God’s truth to power. It has happened to me on a number of occasions as I have served as your pastor. First Lutheran is one of 25 member congregations of the San Diego Organizing Project, representing 41,000 people in the San Diego area. From time to time, I get a call from the SDOP organizing staff asking me to speak publicly on some issue facing our city, state, or nation. Typically—at least for my small mind—the issues are complex and lack simple solutions; they involve matters like health care, development downtown, education for our youth. Whenever I get the call, “Could you speak at San Diego City Council on Tuesday afternoon,” my knees start knocking instantly. Who am I to speak? When I finally get to the microphone at City Hall, before the powers, I want to scream, “What am I doing here?”
I am always astonished by the men and women from SDOP congregations who heed God’s call and speak to the powers-that-be as if they do it every day. These folks have no fancy degrees nor are they paid to preach on Sunday, but they don’t miss a beat; they speak as if they are running the show. They understand that God has called them to speak at city hall just as God called Moses to speak in Egypt. These faithful people are empowered to speak because they know they are not speaking on their own behalf but on God’s.
It really is interesting how God comes into our midst. In Moses’ case, God comes in a scrubby piece of tumbleweed. If God can talk from a measly bush, what’s stopping God from talking through you, me, or Moses?
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was a giant of a man who certainly must have been called by God. His two books, The Prophets, are required reading in Jewish and Christian seminaries alike. If you have seen a picture of Rabbi Heschel, you know that you are looking at a man who knew God. He had a majestic white mane flying every which way and a six-inch goatee that made him look like a wizard from some enchanted land. He looked every bit the Old Testament prophet who was on daily and confidential speaking terms with God. If someone knew what to say on behalf of God, Rabbi Heschel must have been the one. The story is told how he once went with another rabbi to visit friends who had just lost a loved one. “When they arrived, Heschel hugged the grieving family members without uttering a word. Then he sat down and remained silent. After an hour passed, Heschel got up and hugged the mourners again; then the two rabbis departed.” Not a word was spoken but you sense that God was very much present even in Rabbi Heschel’s absolute silence.
God comes and calls you, too. You have visited someone who has just lost their spouse or, worse, their child. You remember what a nervous wreck you were before the visit. For an entire day, you fretted over the right words to say. You felt so insecure, so incapable of speaking on God’s behalf. And yet, you, like Moses and Rabbi Heschel, were called to speak for God. All that you remember of your visit is that you stumbled terribly, incapable of saying the right words or even the words you had planned to say And yet two weeks later you received a note from the grieving one who said that your presence made all the difference. They wrote, “You were an angel sent from God.”
Yes, Jesus calls each of us. He calls us to deny ourselves and take up our cross and to follow him. That denial, that cross-bearing, often makes us feel ill at ease like rhinoceroses in Antarctica. We may never feel quite adequate to do God’s work in this world but we are all God’s got. Over and over again God calls us and over and over again we utter to God, “Who, me?” And then, if we are lucky, we remember St. Paul’s reminder, “God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”
God certainly will come to you today or tomorrow and ask you to speak on Gus behalf. Your inclination will be to say, “Who, Me?” But listen to the tumbleweed and you will hear, “Yes you!”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 21, 2011
Tenth Sunday after Pentecost
Exodus 1: 8 – 2:10
"Set Free in the Bulrushes"
We hear of five women in this morning’s reading from Exodus. Two women are named Shiphrah and Puah. Could you have told what their role is before hearing this morning’s reading? Moses’ mother appears in the story, too, and yet her name does not appear. Do you know her name? It is Jochebed. And then there is Moses’ sister peaking from behind the bulrushes. We will learn her name, Miriam, later in Exodus as we continue to tell the story of the Hebrew people, but, for now, her name does not appear. And Pharaoh’s daughter is simply referred to as Pharaoh’s daughter. Five women whom the Bible does not seem to care enough about to get their names straight or to use them at all. And yet, what a story it is and what women these five are.
As I prepared this morning’s sermon, I realized this is the very first Bible story I remember hearing as a child. The picture that appears on this morning’s bulletin cover of baby Moses in the bulrushes is imprinted on my memory from the Sunday School handout I received as a four-year old—that’s why I use it today. And the basket drifting through the bulrushes filled with Moses (look at our astonishing flower arrangement this morning done by Dagmar Miller)—who can forget this story once hearing it?
I would imagine you are like me: you have remembered this story for years. Who can forget Moses’ mother courageously placing him into a basket, putting him into the
River Nile, trusting that God would protect her little boy from wicked Pharaoh? Who can forget his sister stealing a glance from behind the bulrushes? And who can forget
Pharaoh’s daughter courageously adopting this little one? These women are freedom fighters! They act against mighty and wicked Pharaoh’s orders and spare Moses’ life.
What I find so astonishing about the story of little Moses is the group of women who are never named and who, with perhaps the exception of Pharaoh’s daughter, seem so powerless. We would understand if these women would say, “There is nothing we can do.” But that’s not what they say. They stand up against the evil desires of the most powerful man in the world, Pharaoh.
The people who taught me this marvelous story in Sunday School were women not known by many either. Their names were Mrs. Little, Miss Bartels, Miss Bigler, Mrs. Keister. You had similar women teach you this story, I’m sure. Their names are not written large in the history of my home church or yours; their pictures do not hang prominently on the church social hall walls with all the pastors in their glory. They are obscure women whose names we may not remember this morning and yet who taught us the stories that give us courage to stand up against Pharaoh in our own lives. These women probably did not even know they were equipping us with such a powerful story; for them, it was simply Moses in the bulrushes.
What women. Imagine the image imprinted on a little child’s mind when he or she first hears this story. A tiny baby in a basket, in the great, big Nile River, and a group of heroic women who stand against the wicked king. Once this story is imprinted on our hearts, we will never forget it. In fact, hearing this story, we are changed and bolstered to try in our own ways to stand against all that would defy God.
The picture of Moses could just as easily be that of little Madelyn Storm who is baptized here this morning. Doug and Angie take their precious daughter and place her in the river here. Just like those women who protected Moses, Madelyn’s family and friends protect her against all the wicked plans the evil one might try to hatch as Madelyn grows older. Each of you will “promise to support Madelyn and pray for her in her new life in Christ;” in your promises, you all become freedom fighters, too.
We will stand in defiance of the devil and all the forces that defy God. We will renounce all the powers of this world that rebel against God. Do we realize what a courageous stand we are making? We will promise to “work for justice and peace.” Imagine! Who are we to take such a stand? The powers of this world could make mincemeat of us.
In the ancient baptismal liturgy, as the people stand at the water, the priest shouts to the evil one, “Be under ban!” Priest and theologian Alexander Schmemann says that when we defy Satan, “a war is declared!” To some these ancient liturgical words seem hopelessly quaint, outdated really. And yet, for those with hearts of faith, these words equip us to defy evil in our own day. Sometimes we do not realize the power we invoke and yet, when we hear of five no-named women standing against Pharaoh, we cannot help but have added courage.
Baptism is not only about defiance. It is also about life. After we declare war on Satan, we will turn East where Paradise was once planted. As the ancient liturgy directs us, we will lower our hands and stand in reverence. Alexander Schmemann says that as we stand at the baptismal pool, “we are standing before the water as if facing the whole cosmos on the day of creation.”
As Madelyn is placed in the river, she may cry for, in some way beyond our understanding, she will understand the battle that is about to be waged. Is it any wonder that the ancients anointed not only after baptism but also before? They understood the necessity of oiling down the baptismal candidates, of limbering up their muscles, in their epic battle against Satan. We will all trust that God will not forsake Madelyn and let her drown; rather, God will fill lift her from the waters and she will dance with joy throughout her life, confident that God did not and will never let her sink into the deep, deep river. As Madelyn comes up from the water dripping wet and shedding a few tears, we will sing Alleluia for, once again, God has been victorious for one of God’s little ones just as God was victorious for Moses.
In many ways we are so like those women whose names we have pretty much forgotten. We are not known by many and most of us feel pretty insignificant. But we are the ones who, once again, go to the river, searching for those who are too easily given up to Pharaoh and seeking ways to place them in a basket and spare their lives forever. We are the people claimed by God who take a beautiful little girl to the water, wage war against all that is evil, and trust that God will be with this child, Madelyn, and us forever.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 14, 2011
Nineth Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 45: 1-15; Matthew 15: 21-28
"In Praise of Mind Changers"
You have noticed that people these days seem certain of what they believe. The recent wrangling on Capitol Hill is Exhibit A. Democrat, Republican, and Tea Party alike appear to have lost the capacity to listen to differing opinions and to engage in constructive dialogue.
This inability to listen to differing beliefs is not an ailment peculiar to Capitol Hill, however. Watch television or listen to the radio and you are confronted with people who have all the answers to the day’s most difficult and complex questions. Television hosts dare not demonstrate an iota of doubt: they are paid big bucks to express conviction with bombasity and inflexibility regardless of how well informed they are on any given subject.
We admire the courageous ones who stand up for their convictions. The most scathing complaint of President Obama’s leadership of late has been his dreaded “compromising spirit.” We want decisiveness not wishy-washy opinions.
The church adores decisiveness. We love our martyrs who spilled their blood for the sake of their beliefs. We Lutherans are positively giddy about Martin Luther who once said, “Here I stand.” When the pope came for Luther’s neck, he didn’t budge and he certainly didn’t change his mind. We love it!
It should come as no surprise, then, how shocked we are by the behavior of two characters in today’s Bible readings. Each changed his mind, midstream, in how he thought about life.
One mind-changer was Joseph. Joseph had been betrayed by his brothers and given up for slavery and actually, worse yet, to death. He had every reason to want revenge on his brothers. It had been years since Joseph had last seen them. Time in Egypt had only have made his resentments seethe all the more, especially as he became more and more powerful. And yet, when he finally met his brothers, as they came searching for food in the midst of a terrible famine, rather than being hostile, he wept over his brothers who had done him wrong. He missed them. Joseph changed his mind and sought to forgive his brothers and restore the love tragically lost between them.
And then there is that other mind-changer Jesus. You know that Jesus had all the answers—after all, he was the Son of God. When one had a pressing question or a serious illness, all she had to do was go to Jesus and all would be better. Right?
The woman in today’s reading, an outsider and a woman, came screaming to Jesus, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”
Instead of helping her, Jesus snubbed the poor woman and didn’t say a word to her. The disciples were even worse: they had made up their minds long ago and taken sides. The disciples said to Jesus, “Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.” Jesus was of the same mind: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”
The Canaanite woman didn’t give up though. She didn’t simply sing “Jesus tells me so.” She knelt before Jesus and screamed even louder, “Lord, help me.” Somehow, she trusted Jesus just might change his mind about her being a woman and an outsider.
It was in the face of the Canaanite woman’s pitiable ranting that Jesus most resembled today’s politicians. He said, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Not in a million years do we expect Jesus to hurl such an ethnic slur at someone but he does…Think what dogs today have been labeled undeserving of governmental crumbs in our own day!
The woman, undeterred, screamed even louder at Jesus, “…even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.”
It was then that Jesus changed his mind. He answered the Canaanite woman, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And the Bible notes that her daughter “was healed instantly.”
While the Bible doesn’t refer to this confrontation with the Canaanite woman as a miracle, I believe it may be Jesus’ greatest miracle— not just because he healed the suffering daughter but because he changed his mind.
In these days when lines are drawn in concrete and everyone knows exactly what they believe, we do well to remember Jesus’ greatest miracle: he changed his mind.
This morning, Grandpa Radatz will baptize little Henry Lee Carter. This baptism is a lot of things: it is the welcoming of Henry into God’s royal commonwealth; it is giving him the new clothes of the righteousness; it is anointing him with the oil of prophets and kings of old; it is calling him to let his little light shine. Just as importantly, though, it is God saying to Henry’s parents, Leah and Doug, and to all Henry’s family and friends, “I reserve the right to change my mind.”
Henry is so cute, and given his cuteness, we hate to ponder Henry’s slipping up from time-to-time in years to come. But, the good news is that God tells us this morning that there will be occasions when God will say, “Henry, now you have done it and yet, because I love you so, I forgive you and love you all the more.” Henry’s parents, grandparents, and brothers and sisters in Christ are called this morning to remind him as he grows older of this astonishing God who changes His mind, siding with love, for him, over and over again.
Right before we receive Holy Communion this morning, we will pray what is known as the “Prayer of Humble Access” (“We are not worthy even to gather up the crumbs under you table, but it is your nature always to have mercy. So feed us with the body and blood of Jesus Christ, your Son.”). As we receive Christ’s blood and blood, we see God changing His mind toward us. Though we are all unworthy—dogs really—God loves us and embraces us.
God calls this community, you and me, to be a people who change our minds toward one another over and over again. May the character of our community be measured, not by how intransient our opinions are, but rather by how willing we are to change our minds toward one another.
Let us now go to the baptismal waters and behold God’s love for Henry Lee Carter. Let us be reminded that this God loves us so much that God dares to change His mind over and over and over again.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 7, 2011
Eighth Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 37: 1-28; Matthew 14; 22-33
"Schadenfruede"
We just heard about two of the Bible’s most outrageous characters, Joseph from the Old Testament and Peter from the New Testament. Joseph and Peter infuriated those closest to them and, at the same time, filled them with envy.
Joseph’s father, Jacob, who loved him more than all the rest of his boys and gave him a beautiful coat to prove it, nevertheless, criticized his son for his outlandish arrogance. Joseph’s older brothers were so envious of his flamboyant dress and grand dreams that they concocted a plot to kill him.
Peter was just as outrageous as Joseph and offended just as many. When he decided to walk on water in a raging storm, the disciples fumed, “How dare you try to walk on water?” In Peter’s defense, Jesus did invite him to walk by saying, “Come,” but, for two thousand years now, we have joined the disciples in mocking Peter: “You should have asked Jesus where the stones were before you tried to walk on water!”
Dreamers push most of us beyond our comfort level. We prefer business as usual—no elaborate dreams, no outrageous clothing—everything vanilla, please, and make certain everyone is in agreement. We love to take potshots at dreamers and risk-takers, especially when they fail. Those with excitement pumping through their veins and visions dancing in their heads make us envious.
Frederick Buechner defines “envy” as the “consuming desire to have everybody else as unsuccessful as you are.” If you don’t agree, look what happened to our nation’s greatest dreamer. Martin Luther King dreamed there would come a day when “little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.” The cautious and apprehensive, liberal and conservative alike, rained on Dr. King’s dream, calling him irresponsible and brash. Today, forty-eight years this month after that dreamy speech at the Lincoln Memorial, many of us pretend that we were there at Dr. King’s side, conveniently forgetting, of course, how cautions we were at the time, urging Martin Luther King to go slowly and not to expect too much, too quickly.
Dreamers always face criticism. The last century’s “Who’s Who List of Dreamers,” Martin King, Mahatma Gandhi, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador, Harvey Milk of San Francisco, were all killed in cold blood for daring to dream that God’s people, black and white, powerful and weak, rich and poor, Jewish and Christian, gay and straight, could live together in peace.
Do you resent those who take risky and controversial giant steps when you prefer careful and sensible baby steps? If you had been out on the sea with the disciples, would you have cheered on Peter or scolded him for being a show-boater and headline grabber? When he began to sink, would you have wept or giggled?
My favorite German word is schadenfruede. I define schadenfruede as “taking perverse delight in the misfortune of others.” I have recently come up with my best illustration of schadenfruede. While I am embarrassed to admit it, I have taken perverse delight in watching Robert Schuller’s Crystal Cathedral empire sink. I have always thought Dr. Schuller a bit big for his britches and found his remarkably successful Hour of Power a bit too shallow and trite for my tastes. And the Crystal Cathedral—how dare Reverend Schuller build something more extravagant than Joseph’s technicolor coat?
With that said, I cannot begin to tell you how many homebound, elderly members I have visited over the years who have spoken of Dr. Schuller in reverential tones. (Even after this sermon, a number of members spoke to me at the door, in awe of what Robert Schuller has meant to them.) I, ever the envious one, have been quick to judge: “Did Robert Schuller visit you when you were in the hospital? Is Dr. Schuller bringing you Holy Communion today?”
Now that the Crystal Cathedral seems on the verge of plummeting into the Pacific Ocean, I, like the eleven disciples, shout with glee, “That’s what you get, Dr. Schuller, for trying to walk on water!”
Envy—the “consuming desire to have everybody else as unsuccessful as you are.” One thing is for certain: Dr. Schuller has taken risks in his ministry. Lutherans, especially clergy and academics, who have taken potshots at Robert Schuller over the years could learn a thing or two from his daring spirit as we seek to do more effective ministry in the twenty-first century. If only we could harness that daring spirit in service to the lowly and downtrodden!
First Lutheran Church is not the Crystal Cathedral and you have figured out by now that I am not the Reverend Schuller. But, to be fair, we have taken our share of risks over the years. We have advocated for the outcasts whoever they may be. There have been those who have taken potshots at us, too. As most of you know, in recent months, a prosperous developer has threatened to sue us for damages, suggesting that our ministry to the homeless makes it impossible for him to rent his upscale Victorian apartments next door. Others have taken their jabs at us for welcoming our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters to the center of our life together. Two years ago when we held a forum with Congresswoman Susan Davis, urging her to champion some form of health care for all God’s children, I received one of the most hateful calls I have ever received from a woman from a neighboring Lutheran congregation; one of you that very night received harsh treatment from the media; and fuming picketers, including the Minutemen—I think it a badge of honor, by the way, to be picketed by the Minutemen—marched at the edge of your beloved church building. Every time we Christians take a risk, someone experiences schadenfruede, delighting in our misfortune and critiquing our arrogance. Better to be vanilla and boring, the majority seems to say, than to risk for the gospel’s sake and God’s little ones.
Joseph and Peter are two biblical figures worth emulating. Both had their detractors, including close friends, family, and colleagues; both slipped up from time-to-time; both were accused of arrogance. And yet, for some reason, God never gave up on them. In fact, you just heard about Jesus pulling Peter out of the turbulent sea as he began to sink. The other disciples were jeering so loudly at Peter’s misfortune that they almost failed to see Jesus pull him from the turbulent sea. It was actually a stroke of luck that, amidst their back-slapping glee, the other disciples were able to see what happened and to proclaim with Peter, “Truly you are the Son of God.”
I pray that you will never fear that part of you that is extraordinary. No matter what voices criticize you and are envious of you, may you dare to dream extravagantly. I pray that this congregation, by God’s grace, will always be a place where boldness and passion trump cowardice and boredom.
It was that beautiful dreamer Dietrich Bonhoeffer who urged us to “sin boldly” even if it means sinking into the drink from time-to-time. Never forget: for all the teasing that Peter has received over the years, other than Jesus, he holds the world record for taking two steps on top of the water. You must admit, taking even one step on the water and sinking beats a lifetime of sitting in the back of the boat moaning and groaning. Why not try a little water-walking in Jesus’ name. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 31, 2011
Seventh Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 32: 22-31
"2:43 a.m."
Jacob has captivated us with his outrageous exploits for weeks now. Dagmar and I went on vacation, came back, and you are still talking about Jacob. Seems we cannot get enough of the rascal.
And things have only gotten worse. Jacob is still on the run and he continues to be concerned only about himself.
Being on the run from people who hate your guts eventually gets to you. You know from experience that the longer some dirty deed goes unforgiven, the more miserable you become.
You have not talked with your brother since your mother’s funeral seven years ago. The two of you, right in front of the casket, fought like cats and dogs over your mother’s estate. You knew better but you couldn’t help yourself. Since that unruly and embarrassing morning, there have been no calls, no Christmas cards, not even an invitation to your favorite niece’s wedding. Rather than the wound healing, time has only made matters worse. Whenever you think of your brother, the venom seethes inside you like a rattlesnake. The next time you talk to him will be in court!
That’s how it was for Jacob. Twenty years since he last saw his brother, Esau. Twenty years on the run certain his brother was going to catch him and try to kill him.
Jacob and his family finally decided to come home after twenty years on the run. Jacob got his family as far as the river Jabbok, took them across, and then, for some strange reason, he went back to the other side for the night.
Something was nagging at Jacob. The night at the Jabbok was so still that he could hear the mosquitoes buzzing. Jacob’s mind ran wild like a gazelle on caffeine. It was then that it happened. The same thing has happened to you. You turned off the lights, went to bed, and hoped to fall asleep—but you couldn’t. You tossed and turned. At 2:43 a.m., you had enough and put on your clothes and went for a frenzied walk on the dark and lonely street. You hoped this would calm your jittery nerves. There was only darkness; demons lurked behind every tree. You were a wreck.
Jacob wrestled like that at the Jabbok. This morning’s reading from Genesis says Jacob wrestled with a “man.” Who was that “man?” Was it Jacob’s brother, Esau, who had finally caught up with him? Was it a pesky angel aggravating Jacob just for the sport of it? Was it a nightmare more real than real? Or was it God who jumped Jacob at the Jabbok and finally had God’s say?
Like Jacob, we keep trying to figure out who it was that jumped us in the darkness. As the ancient rabbis advise us, “A dream uninterpreted is like a letter unopened.” And so we try to make sense of that wild and crazy night at the Jabbok because, after all, we were there. Remember?
You awoke from the unsettling dream, heart pounding, sweating, and wondering, “Did that really happen to me?” The dream has stayed with you for years now; it has worked on you from the inside out. The dream has changed you for you believe that God was the one who wrestled with you that terrible night you took the walk on the lonely street.
Now here is what is so important: Jacob was no angel and I doubt you are either--nor am I. That didn’t stop Jacob and it shouldn’t stop you. Jacob was in the wrestling match of his life. He refused to let go of his assailant—God or not. He told the assailant his name but the assailant refused to return the favor. Jacob still would not let go.
I actually hope you have had a night when your prayers were more like wrestling matches, when you finally dared to get down and dirty with God. There is something redemptive about a night like that even though it is pure misery at the time. Your prayers typically are tamer, more mannerly, filled with pious pleasantries than that strange night. But that night was different: you got down and dirty with God just like Jacob did. You told God exactly how you wanted things to be. That, friends, is authentic prayer.
Pay attention to Jacob’s technique. Try it some night when a stranger has hold of you at two-forty three in the morning. Treat whatever is nagging you as if it is God. Don’t be kindly as your fourth grade Sunday School teacher taught you; rather do as Jacob teaches you and tell God exactly what is on your heart—and, by all means, wrestle to beat the band and hold on for dear life.
When Jacob was done wrestling with God, he went away a changed man; his name was no longer Jacob but Israel (he had wrestled with God). However—and note this well: he limped for the rest of his life.
If you have ever wrestled with God, day or night, you likely have a limp to prove it. You had just gone through a terribly messy squabble with someone you love and a good deal of the blame was on you. You kept pinching yourself, warning yourself not to say a word but your blood pressure rose to such dangerous levels that you lashed out and said things you never should have said. You were miserable afterwards. You knew better but you couldn’t help yourself. You sobbed uncontrollably that night. You jumped out of bed at 2:43 a.m. and slammed your fist into the wall. You still have the scars. And yet, even with the scars, you are better for it.
If you haven’t had such a night at the Jabbok, chances are you will—life is like that. When that night comes and you are certain you are losing your mind, for God’s sake, hold on for dear life and know that you are holding on to God because, my dear friends, you are. Limp or no limp, you will be better for it.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 17, 2011
Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 28: 10-19a
"Jacob on the Run"
Let’s get right to the point: Jacob was a double-crossing, lowlife scoundrel. Jacob ripped off his elderly father and his twin brother. To know Jacob was to be disgusted by his fraudulent ways!
Though ever the scoundrel, by all worldly standards, Jacob was an amazing success story. From the moment he was born, people said of him, “This kid is someone to be reckoned with!” He was fearless. He grabbed onto his brother’s heal at birth, driven to be #1 from the get-go; he traded his starving brother a bit of soup in exchange for the family birthright and ending up, yet again, on top; masquerading as his older brother, Jacob swindled his feeble and blind father into bestowing his treasured blessing upon him and not on Esau. His adoring mother, Rebekah, supported all this madness as Jacob walked over anyone and everyone who got in his way.
Those who are driven to succeed know how voracious such appetites can be; they can never be satisfied—there is always one more conquest, one more triumph, one more accomplishment necessary. We can never get enough!
Jacob’s nasty stunts finally caught up with him though. His brother, Esau, had had enough. By hook or crook, Esau was going to catch his worthless brother and wring his stinkin’ neck.
Jacob ended up a rogue on the run, constantly looking over his back. His irate brother was on the warpath and catching up with him quickly. Jacob ran faster and faster and yet seemed stuck in quicksand. He was besieged by terror. No place felt safe, no sleep sound. Finally, he stop running because he could not go a step further. He could not keep up the madness a second longer. He was exhausted. He had to sleep and it did not matter where. He was between a rock and a hard place and he chose the rock for his pillow.
[Bil Wright comes near the altar to enact Jacob sleeping and dreaming and waking to a new day.]
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There comes a time for many of us when we can run no further. Some of us have achieved amazing success, others have had failures crashing down upon us. It doesn’t seem to matter which: when the time comes, like Jacob, we scream, “Enough!” This often happens at about midlife when the first half of life has been lived and the second half looms before us. We are miserable and we fall down on our rock. Perhaps exhaustion has stopped us, maybe depression, a sordid affair, a ferocious addiction; maybe we cannot find a job; or maybe we have a great job that gives us no pleasure. Whatever, we have been stopped dead in our tracks and we ask the age old questions: “Is this all there is to life? Has it all been worth it? Is there any hope?” We want the final years to be different. “Please, God, please,” we cry.
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This can be such a frightening time and yet it can also be a wonderful time filled with profound renewal. It is an opportunity to look back and realize that, left to our own devices, we were like hamsters spinning on the wheel of madness. Quite a few current theologians and psychologists say that unless we come to this point, unless we taste humiliation, unless we see the futility of our successes and failures, we may end up incapable of trying something new and exciting in our life, something, maybe, that we have always wanted to do but never quite had the courage to try.
The Franciscan priest Richard Rohr says that we should all pray for at least one good humiliation a day. Each humiliation presents a profound opportunity for something new. Each humiliation opens us to God. Each humiliation forces us to ask, “What would I like to do for the rest of my life?”
That’s how it happened to Jacob. He was humiliated when he fell asleep at the place called Bethel. He had success but his brother hated him. In his deep sleep, he was no longer in charge. It was then that his life was changed.
Finally, Jacob had stopped conniving, stopped running; he was forced to pause and in the pause God changed his life. As Jacob slept, God told him that his offspring would be like the dust of the earth, spreading east and west, north and south, and his family would experience great blessing. Not in a million years could Jacob have imagined such a thing! Because he had been stopped in his tracks and was humiliated, God finally had a chance. God sent a dream beyond what even Jacob’s crafty imagination could conjure up.
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When Jacob awoke from his deep sleep, he wondered, could it possibly be true. Could he be the changed man of his dreams? Could it really be that:
-His shoes, dusty and worn out from fleeing so many shenanigans—could these shoes really have diamonds on their soles, could he finally walk in the ways of God?
-His shirt, sweaty from fear, shredded by disgrace—could this shirt be transformed into a garment woven with God’s dignity?
-And his soul, stranded in his skin and bones—could it be possible that it would once again glow with the spirit of God upon those he had so recently insulted and offended?
-And his hands, clenched tight, grizzled and ugly, holding everything for himself—could these hands open freely and offer others the immense treasures God had promised to come through him?
-And his mouth, lying and slanderous--could it soon open joyously and proclaim to his children and grandchildren that God loved them?
-And the city, wracked by brutality and darkness—could this city once again shine with Eden’s light where the people of God might dance with joy forever?
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Jacob remembered that in his dreams, angels ascended and descended God’s heavenly ladder.
[The dance troupe, Twisted Movement enters and dances to U2’s Yahweh]…
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Take these shoes
Click clacking down some dead end street
Take these shoes
And make them fit
Take this shirt
Polyester white trash made in nowhere
Take this shirt
And make it clean, clean
Take this soul
Stranded in some skin and bones
Take this soul
And make it sing
Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, Yahweh
Still I'm waiting for the dawn
Take these hands
Teach them what to carry
Take these hands
Don't make a fist
Take this mouth
So quick to criticize
Take this mouth
Give it a kiss
Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, Yahweh
Still I'm waiting for the dawn
Still waiting for the dawn, the sun is coming up
The sun is coming up on the ocean
This love is like a drop in the ocean
This love is like a drop in the ocean
Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, tell me now
Why the dark before the dawn?
Take this city
A city should be shining on a hill
Take this city
If it be your will
What no man can own, no man can take
Take this heart
Take this heart
Take this heart
And make it break
[Pastor Miller concludes with dancers in place and bowing.]
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May we stop running.
May we lie down and rest our weary bones.
May we dream of angels.
May we hear the voice of God inviting us to dance in Christ today and forever. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 10, 2011
Fourth Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 25: 19-34
"Quite a Family!"
We have spent the past few weeks talking about the parents of our faith: Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah. We have spoken of 100 year old Abraham and 90 year old Sarah having their baby Isaac.
Today, we hear that Isaac is now married to Rebekah. Though they end up having children at an earlier age than Abraham and Sarah, even yet, Rebekah is barren and the future of God’s people is in jeopardy. Quite a family.
As invariably happens, Mommy and Daddy each have a favorite son. Dad (Isaac) is fond of Esau. Esau is the outdoorsy type, happy to traipse through the woods on an autumn day with a shotgun in hand, shooting pheasants and rabbits. Mom (Rebekah) is drawn to Jacob. Jacob is the quiet one, the stay-at-home sort who prefers computer games, books, and weird movies.
Why are Esau and Jacob so different? Same parents but such very different kids.
As the story of Esau and Jacob unfolds, things get worse and worse. With all God’s promises poured out so generously, Esau and Jacob are disasters. God did so much to make things right and yet so much goes wrong. After the barrenness of Sarah and Rebekah, there is a far worse barrenness: moral barrenness.
Every time I hear these Old Testament stories, I am reminded that even God’s family is dysfunctional—and here you thought dysfunction was a modern thing. Author Mary Karr notes, “A dysfunctional family is a family with more than one person in it.”
Most of us, especially those not terribly familiar with the biblical stories, harbor the belief that there are perfect families in the world, especially the ones tightly tied to God. You’ve read the road sign, “The family that prays together stays together.” There are families like that, right? In these families, all the kids, now adults, adore each other. The entire extended family loves to go to the lake in Minnesota, visiting grandma and grandpa. Everyone comes and there are no exceptions. And, yes, all the kids grow up to be successful, sober, and with no criminal records. You toss and turn at night, wondering what has gone wrong with your family. Were you such a terrible parent? And, oh by the way, that dream family—do you really think all is perfect there?
Please get to know the biblical story if you haven’t already. It will make you feel a lot better about yourself and your family. Find out about Isaac and Rebekah and their obnoxious sons, Jacob and Esau. These boys can’t stand each other. Esau could care less about his position in the family, throws away his family standing for a measly piece of bread and some stinking lentil soup. The other son, Jacob, is a conniving twerp; though he is the second born, he is always maneuvering to be #1—#2 just is not good enough. Even before he is born, he is wrangling with his brother in his mom’s womb. And when he finally leaves her belly, he is holding on to his older brother’s heel for dear life. He will be #1 by hook or crook.
Is your family just a little like Isaac and Rebekah’s? Are your kids like Esau and Jacob?
There is hope. Frederick Buechner writes in our Quote for the Day: “Luckily for Jacob, God doesn’t love people because of who they are but because of who he is. It’s on the house is one way of saying it and it’s by grace is another….”
This pathetic, screwed up family is God’s family, all by God’s grace. And, surprise, surprise, it is Jesus’ family, too.
For some reason, God chooses the devious and scoundrel-ridden to be part of God’s family. It is a far cry from “family values.” God never distances from the shenanigans and the failures. God chooses what we would never choose and fondly calls it “family.”
We are often amazed at whom God chooses to be part of the family. For a number of years I served on a synod’s Candidacy Committee which is the group that walks with prospective candidates for ministry and examines them when they have completed seminary and are seeking to become ordained pastors in the church. One of the people under my watch was definitely not the brightest bulb in the chandelier; in fact, at times, I was certain he was blown out! I first contacted him by letter. He wrote me back with oodles of grammatical errors and incomplete sentences; he even misspelled the name of his seminary. I asked the head of our committee what I should do. He said, “Write him and express your concern; tell him that all his letters go into his permanent file.” I did just that. The seminarian fired back a nasty letter and claimed that his internship supervisor thought I was being unusually harsh and excessively picky. Two years later, he handed in his final written exam to our committee and I must confess I was stunned: it was a surprisingly stellar paper. I might have to eat crow after all, I thought. With more careful reading, the entire committee realized the seminarian’s paper eerily resembled certain writings of one of the church’s most brilliant theologians. This seminarian, ever the buffoon, had plagiarized everything. I won’t go into the grizzly details but do you think our committee approved this fool for ordination? Of course we did! The bishop gave a commanding testimony in his support, claiming he could think of eight congregations right off the top of his head that would be delighted to have this harebrained soul leading their congregation, baptizing their children, burying their beloved, and visiting the sick in the hospital.
Amazing, isn’t it, whom God chooses to be part of his family.
What we find over and over again, from Esau and Jacob, to you and me, to our children, to our congregation….We muddle along. We have soaring moments and dismal lows. We have astonishing successes and almost immediately sickening failures. And yet this God of ours, the one who made his very own son part of this outrageous family tree, takes great delight in sticking with us through thick and thin. Never forget that God chooses you. Funny, really, when you think about it. You probably would never choose yourself but God does.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 3, 2011
Third Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 24: 34-38, 42-49, 58-67
"Celebrating the Ordinary"
“I am not religious but I am spiritual.” I hear this all the time and I am never quite certain what it means. I suspect it has something to do with finding God in the New York Times and a tasty cup of Starbuck’s cappuccino on Sunday morning. I also suspect those who say it don’t find God at worship on Sunday morning. I’ll give these folks the benefit of the doubt, however: maybe they long for God’s presence beyond Sunday morning, in the every day places and routines where they live their lives. Is that what they are talking about? If so, I am all for it.
With the exception of pastors and die-hard church junkies, most of you spend, by my inexpert estimation, about four hours a week at church. That means you devote 2˝% of your life to churchy events. The other 97˝% of your life is spent cleaning the house, preparing meals, tending to the yard, going the doctor’s, working, changing diapers. If being Christian only happens when you are at church, then most of your life is not particularly holy.
Is there another way, though? Is there a way that honors your ordinary routines as somehow imbued with holiness? I hope so—I would hate 97˝% of your life to be inconsequential in God’s eyes.
In today’s first reading, we hear of such a way. It is the story of a man and a woman searching for their life’s mate. It is the story of Abraham’s servant returning to the homeland in search of a wife for Isaac, Abraham and Sarah’s precious son. This is not a churchy story. No congregation is worshiping, no rabbi preaching, not even a congregational meeting in session—thank God!
This story involves an unnamed guy bearing a gold nose ring (amazing how modern those ancients were!) and two arm bracelets for the wife-to-be and he is searching for water for his ten thirsty camels.
If you know your Bible stories, you know that, whenever you hear of springs of water or wells, you should think of the ancient equivalent of our modern day singles bars. The unnamed servant—an ordinary guy—arrives at The Singles Bar and meets a young, available woman named Rebekah. She has a water jug and agrees to bear water for the visitor’s camels. In the course of watering the camels, the servant identifies the perfect bride for Isaac. He pops the question on everyone’s behalf: “Rebekah, will you accompany me to marry Isaac?”
Whoever wrote this story had the amazing capacity to see God’s hand at work in the ordinary occasions of life: watering animals, welcoming strangers, making marriage proposals.
We moderns prefer 4th of July fireworks to the ordinary. It if doesn’t explode into a myriad of colors and go bang in the night, it can’t be worth much. How can the ordinary be filled with whispers of the holy? we wonder.
What we do here this morning is terribly ordinary. In fact, we call these Sundays after Pentecost “Ordinary Time.” The majority of the church year is spent in “Ordinary Time!” Not until Reformation Sunday on October 30 and All Saints’ Sunday on November 6—four months away—will the ordinary color green give way to spectacular reds and dazzling whites.
Do you find “Ordinary Time” boring? Maybe you have complained that we use the same liturgy every week, confess the same boring creeds, have Communion over and over again. How about some pizzazz? The gigantic churches on television have bands that rival U2; the pastors wear Hawaiian shirts that outdo Lady Gaga’s outfits. Can’t we have spectacles like that?
I fear that we might be losing the capacity to discover God in the whispers of our ordinary routines. We are in trouble because most of can’t get tickets to U2 and our acquaintances surely don’t resemble Lady Gaga. Whether we are just religious or just spiritual, our lives are pretty darn ordinary.
We Lutherans claim that our most supreme moments with Jesus Christ occur in the midst of very ordinary things--camels, nose rings, and arm bracelets, oops, I mean bread and wine and water and the broken words of a blasé preacher. That’s why Garrison Keillor is so funny and why we Lutheran laugh at him. He has the ability to find charm and beauty in green Jell-O with mandarin oranges and white elephant sales with stuff most of us are afraid to touch.
Annie Dillard, in my favorite book, Holy the Firm, describes the challenge of finding God as she purchases the communion wine for her little country church. “There must be a rule for the purchase of communion wine,” she thinks. She goes to the corner store where she always buys her ordinary stuff—eggs, sandpaper, broccoli, wood screws and milk. Can she actually purchase the blood of Christ in the same store? Isn’t there a special consecrated site dedicated solely to the acquisition of sacred Communion wine? After making her purchase, she leaves the corner store with her “a backload of God…Christ with a cork” tucked away in her backpack. It sounds irreverent, I know, but Annie Dillard sees holiness, “Christ with a cork,” nestled amidst broccoli, wood screws, and milk.
Are you able to discover holiness amidst sandpaper and eggs?
Martin Luther King, Jr. offers instruction how to go about finding God in our ordinary routines: "If [you are] called to be a street sweeper, [you] should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven played music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. [You] should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well." That, my dear friends, is how the ordinary becomes holy.
What are doing this afternoon, tomorrow? When you take your children to the 4th of July parade in their little red wagon with patriotic bunting, act as if you are pulling along Jesus himself. When you throw the burgers on the grill, act as if you are the priest lifting the bread and saying, “This is my body, given for you.” When you write an email to a friend, make every word count as if you are St. Peter preaching to the throngs in Jerusalem on that great getting up morning of Pentecost. This is how the ordinary becomes holy.
When I was still very wet behind the ears, a seasoned pastor told me: “Wilk, every time you go the altar to preside at Holy Communion, treat that occasion as if you are celebrating High Mass at St. Peter’s in Rome. Whether there are twenty or three hundred, know that Christ is present.” Again, suddenly, all of life becomes holy.
Abraham and Rebekah and Isaac discovered God amidst nose rings, arm bracelets, camels, and marriage proposals.
Keep your eyes open the next few moments. Listen to Jesus say, “Drink you all of it. This cup in the New Covenant in my blood given for you.” So ordinary, but oh so breathtaking.
Come to think of it, maybe it is here where we gain the ability to see the New York Times and cups of cappuccinos as imbued with holiness. It really would be wonderful if the other 97˝% of our lives were holy.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 26, 2011
Second Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 22: 1-14
"A Ram in the Thicket"
I don’t like today’s first reading one bit. No matter how you cut it, the thought of father Abraham contemplating placing his son, Isaac, on a scorching sacrificial fire at God’s request is terrifying and appalling. (As the story of Abraham and his Son, Isaac, was read by a father at the first service on June 26, he broke down in tears numerous times—it proves a tough lesson for most of us!)
Bob Dylan gets us into the mood, as only dear Bob can, with Highway 61 Revisted:
As we hear of Abraham and his son, Isaac, traveling with a donkey loaded with fire wood, innumerable questions come to mind: What kind of God asks a father to sacrifice his son? Would Abraham really sacrifice his son on the blazing fire? What would you do in such a case?
I hate this passage and I imagine you do, too, and yet it is not the only troubling one in the Bible. I’m sure you can think of other equally disturbing ones. If none are coming to mind, let me suggest a few:
Which of these passages would you choose to erase from Holy Scripture? And if the thought proves presumptuous, remember that dear Martin Luther suggested excising the entire book of James from the Bible!
But back to Abraham and Isaac—and Isaac’s mother Sarah, too…Abraham and Sarah had obeyed God. They had left the land that was so familiar to them and headed to unknown regions, trusting only that God was leading them and guiding them. God pointed to the stars of the sky and told Abraham that his descendants would be more numerous than these. Unfortunately, it wasn’t turning out that way. Abraham and Sarah tried and tried to conceive a child and, for the life of them, they had no luck. You can imagine their prayers, their tears, but to no avail. Abraham did have a child but it was not with Sarah; rather he had Ishmael with Sarah’s servant Hagar. Ishmael proved problematic for Sarah: every time she looked at little Ishmael she was reminded of her inability to have a son.
And so, when Isaac finally was born it was astonishing. Even more astonishing is that Abraham was 100 and Sarah 90. Isaac was the miracle baby, proof that God does provide and proof that the family name would be passed from one generation to the next.
Most babies, whether miracle ones or not, are precious in our sight. Sometimes the biggest problem for parents is letting go of their dear children. We become, as they say, helicopter parents, hovering over them forever. Even when I was 46 and my father was dying, he was still advising me how to save my money, warning me to avoid silly mistakes, in more words or less, telling me not to do anything stupid. He couldn’t help himself—he loved me. I do the same with our two boys—I love them!
Isaac was just as precious to Abraham and Sarah. And, lest we forget, Isaac was precious to God: without Isaac, God’s promises for the Chosen People would come to an end. To take this child’s life was unthinkable.
There are occasions when the Bible makes no sense. The easiest thing to do at such times is to eliminate these troubling passages. We didn’t have to read the story of Abraham and Isaac this morning—but, if we hadn’t, that frankly would be sad. Considering the toughest passages of the Bible is rarely easy but it may be a most life-giving discipline. Our questions force us to travel through territory we would, otherwise, never visit. Tough biblical texts compel us to listen to those who hear things differently than we do, leading us beyond our narrow little self-selecting tribes.
Perhaps the ram in the thicket which appeared miraculously to Abraham is the same ram that appears to us if we dare look beyond ourselves, to others, and to God, for help in understanding Scripture. It’s not easy though. We grew up with Frank Sinatra as our chief theologian, drilling into us that we could do it “My way” and that that way is wonderful. But Ol’ Blue Eyes was wrong. For Christians, we can never go alone; in fact, as they say, it always takes at least two to Gospel, one to speak and one to listen; it takes at least to commune, one to say, “The body of Christ given for you,” and one to eat. There is no way to Gospel except by way of community; and it is this way that we invariably discover a ram in the thicket.
I can think of no better example of finding a ram in the thicket than our Evangelical Lutheran Church in America’s grappling with the troubling texts regarding homosexuality in recent years. It has not been easy. We have lost 598 ELCA congregations and counting in the process, five right here in San Diego County. And yet, as hard and befuddling as some of these discussions have been, at least from my perspective, no other issue has driven our church to more serious reflection on the Bible. We have studied the tough biblical texts together and we have often found that God provides a ram in the thicket in the midst of our messy discussions and heated disagreements.
The great German martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer in his gorgeous little book, Life Together, noted that every passage in Scripture surpasses our understanding. If he is correct—and I think he is—then it is also true that we cannot survive alone if we are to be Christian people. We must learn and dare to look beyond our individual whims and fancies and our own little interest groups. We must learn to listen to one another, to disagree in love, and to forgive one another. And finally, and most importantly, we must trust God to support us in the journey, to forgive us when we are wrong, give us courage when we are right, and dazzle us with the wisdom to know the difference
Like Abraham, may we trust that God will provide an answer or two when we come up empty-handed in the face of tough biblical texts. What a joy to look up—or over at another person—and to discover a ram in the thicket.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 19, 2011
The Holy Trinity
Genesis 1: 1a, 26-31a; 2 Corinthians 13: 11-13; Matthew 28: 16-20
"Standing on the Train Station Platform and Rendered Speechless"
This is the only day during the church year when we observe and celebrate a doctrine of the church. The doctrine is the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Some of you may be bored already by the thought of observing a doctrine; it may feel rigid, cob-webby, calling to mind inflexible words like dogma, creeds, and orthodoxy. Some of you might prefer to be free of such ancient beliefs that feel hopelessly antiquated and terribly restrictive.
You may have read Catcher in the Rye in high school. The reclusive author of that book, J. D. Salinger, died in January. I have been reading his books lately. One is Franny and Zooey. Franny and Zooey starts with a group of Yale students waiting at the New Haven railroad station for their weekend dates to arrive for the big Yale-Harvard game.
Sometimes, I fear, we moderns can be an awfully strident lot, like those Yalies--and I am told Yalies can be a pretty strident lot! We stand on the train station platform and our progressive minds have all the answers to the tough questions about God that, to our sophisticated way of thinking, the ancients bungled and never quite answered to our satisfaction. We will put an end to all their obsolete gibberish once and for all. Like those Yalies on the train station platform, we are the modern ones with clever and unique insights and we will finally decide for the history of the world who exactly God is.
It has not always been so easy for Christians to figure out God. The church through the centuries has struggled mightily with who exactly God is. The historic creeds (Nicene, Apostles’ and Athanasian) are attempts to create faithful thoughts about God in the midst of enormous struggles; they represent fierce dialogues formed in the hot crucible of controversy as people tussled with the sheer magnitude of God.
Believe it or not, the most noble and venerable church traditions are quite uncomfortable when it comes to knowing and explaining exactly who God is. In the historic Communion liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom, the priest proclaims these words:
You have perhaps noticed when we sing the “Holy, Holy, Holy” in our liturgy, I bow. This bowing is a way to give reverence to the wonder and incompressible nature of God. You can bow too if you like. Rather than being held hostage in iron tight manacles of obscure belief and modern day gibberish, the Holy Trinity urges us to let our imaginations run wild. When we think of God creating the heavens and the earth, we bow at the majesty and glory of it all which is far beyond our most scientific and sophisticated reasoning; when we think of the virgin birth of Jesus, we bow at the unfathomable wonder that not in a million years could or would we dream up if left to our own devices; when we think of Christ’s resurrection and our resurrection to come, we are flabbergasted at God’s creative power to bring life from death.
Is it any wonder that books (become movies) like Chronicles of Narnia, The Hobbit, and Harry Potter capture young people’s imaginations? Finally, something, someone, invites our young people—and older ones too!—to live and think in ways beyond our pedestrian and clichéd ways. Finally, life is rich and multivalent again.
When one of you says to me, “Pastor, I don’t understand the Holy Trinity,” I celebrate. I celebrate that God is greater than your small mind--and my small mind too. When you say that the church’s creeds seem incomprehensible, I am delighted that God is bigger than what you or I can possibly fathom. Praise God!
Artists, poets, and musicians have a stunning way of expanding how we think of God. Listen to a bit of the African American poet James Weldon Johnson poem, “The Creation,” from his book, God’s Trombones:
And then God creates you and me:
Poets and artists arouse our imaginations. They invite us to see God in bigger, more splendid ways.
When James Weldon Johnson describes God as being lonely, he describes God who longs for love, for companionship with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit and, oh yes, with you and me.
Look at this morning’s bulletin cover of the beautiful icon of the Trinity by Russian monk Andrei Rublev and you will see this love through an iconographers eyes. Look at the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit’s love for one another as they sit around the table. Notice, too, that in the front of the table there is room for you and me. This icon invites us to imagination. As gorgeous and breath-taking as it is, this icon was “prayed” in about 1410 A.D. Is it any wonder that so many people, even non-Orthodox people, are purchasing icons for their homes? Once again we are seeking to be transported beyond our narrow and parochial ways.
Listen to Jared Jacobsen’s postlude this morning, J. S. Bach’s “Trinity,” Fugue in E-flat, S. 552. Again you will be overwhelmed by Bach’s imagination as he musically contemplates the wonder of the Holy Trinity.
Yes, indeed, the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—takes us to places we would never go on our own. Every time we say Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, we are struck yet again by the sheer splendor of God’s love for us. If you don’t quite get the Holy Trinity, be happy and rejoice; know that God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit remains greater and more wonderful than anything you or I can possibly imagine.
And so on this day of the Holy Trinity, we, too, stand on a train station platform of sorts and are struck speechless. All we can do is bow in awe at the wonder of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 12, 2011
The Day of Pentecost
Acts 2: 1-21
"Have You Ever Experienced Pentecost?"
The followers of Jesus were gathered together in Jerusalem. Jesus had appeared to them a time or two since his death and resurrection. He had now ascended into heaven, and, right before he did, he told them to wait in Jerusalem until their lives were turned upside down with power from on high.
The waiting, though only a few days, seemed to last forever.
The disciples were not the only ones in Jerusalem at Pentecost. Thousands of pilgrims had come to the city of King David with their families to celebrate the Jewish feast of Pentecost which falls fifty days after Passover. They had used up their savings for this trip of a lifetime.
But things got miserable quickly. They had gone to souvenir stands to purchase snow globes with the great Temple inside. They had tried to order lamb sandwiches and even cups of cold goat milk. But none of the concessionaires understood them; they grumbled that these foreigners should have learned the language before coming. Everyone spoke louder. Nasty gestures were the communication of the day. Fights broke out. Nerves were frayed. Ethnic slurs were hurled. Children were hot and screaming. Wives complained to their husbands that coming to the big city was a stupid idea.
It’s frustrating when you can’t communicate and no one cares about you.
I imagine you have had similar experiences—call them Babel experiences. You cannot understand other people and they could care less about you and won’t listen to a word you say.
Oh, how we long for someone to listen us. Teenagers are piercing unimaginable parts of their bodies and tattooing places once reserved for the tattoo man in the visiting carnival. You can hear these young people screaming, “Why won’t anyone take me seriously?”
Senior citizens are turning their hearing aids up until they buzz like little yellow finches. You can hear their silent agony: “Does anyone remember me? Do you even care that I exist?”
Overworked young mothers are numb by eight in the evening, crying themselves to sleep after grueling days at work and then coming home to clean the house, do the wash, cook supper, and put the kids to bed. You can hear their screams, “Please, someone help me.”
Pentecost so often occurs at moments like these when all seems fragile or falling apart. At least, that’s how it happened for Peter. Peter had fallen from grace like so many politicians and bankers seem falling these day. Only weeks earlier Peter had told the young servant girl, in the alleyway, that he had no idea who Jesus was, never met him—Peter claimed this not once but three times.
Jesus hung there on the cross and Peter watched his dearest friend die. Peter, the cowardly lion, sickened himself.
But then Pentecost changed Peter in a flash. A gale force wind began to blow, something like tongues of fire landed on his head and Peter immediately grabbed the other eleven disciples, ran into the streets, and began to preach like none had ever heard.
Cowardly lion Peter and his forlorn friends wondered what had gotten into them. How had they suddenly become so courageous? There were no words to describe the transformation. Whatever was in the air that day blew so strong and hot that Peter and his friends and the world were turned upside down and all for the better.
The Holy Spirit works like that. It comes unpredictably, toppling everything in its wake, sweeping like a wildfire through East County. People knocked down for the count suddenly bounce back to life and become followers of Jesus in ways that surprise even themselves. Is it any wonder that some shouted on that Pentecost in Jerusalem, “They are filled with new wine!” No one had ever seen such a thing.
What happened in Jerusalem on that Pentecost so long ago was the exact opposite of our experiences when we talk and talk and no one listens. On Pentecost, people finally started to listen to one another. Visitors understood the locals, and the locals understood people who had traveled from exotic places like Mesopotamia, Phrygia, and Pamphylia. Everyone felt as if God was speaking to them in a way that made them feel special and wanted. On that very day, thousands of lives were changed for the better because they knew that God was talking to them as if they mattered.
Have you ever experienced Pentecost? I know you have. You stayed away from the church for years because every time you mustered the courage to show up, all you heard was judgment and wrath rained down from the pulpit; you always felt like all that hatred was directed right at you. Disgusted, you just quit going to church. And then, one day, for some reason that you will never know why, you walked into church, maybe here, and it all seemed different. The first person you encountered cared about you, even asked you your name and where you are from. It frightened you in a way how nice the people were at the Passing of the Peace. Your life changed just like that! You felt different, better…My dear friends, that is Pentecost!
Have you ever experienced Pentecost? I know you have. Your life was spiraling out of control. You were living outrageously and then, out of the blue, you, too, were drawn to worship one Sunday morning. Actually, you came via a meeting held in the lounge here or one like it where coffee and cigarettes at the break are the rule of the day. You were working Step 3 of Alcoholics Anonymous (turning your will and your life over to God). You were pretty nervous as you sat here; the preacher seemed to be talking directly to you and for some reason you felt loved not hated. You have been coming here ever since and praying every morning and reading the Psalms before you go to bed. You have no idea what got into you but others tell you it was the Holy Spirit…My dear friends, that is Pentecost!
Pentecost is the church’s way of saying that God is listening to each one of us, searching out our hearts to discover a way to speak to us that will change our lives forever. Pentecost is for bored teenagers, frazzled young mothers, burnt out workers, isolated old people, lonely travelers, and hard livers. Pentecost is the day when God looks each of us in the eye and says a word or two that we are certain is gift wrapped just for us. We are overwhelmed. Pentecost makes us feel like we matter again.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 5, 2011
Ascension Sunday/Seventh Sunday of Easter
Acts 1: 1-11; Luke 24: 44-53
"Stay in the City"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
When you think of heaven, where do you look? Up, of course!
When Jesus ascended into heaven, his stunned disciples stood looking up just like we would have done. Two mysterious men dressed in white said to Jesus’ followers: “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” Even with the admonition not to look up into heaven, most of us, like the disciples, cannot help ourselves; we cannot imagine looking anywhere else but up if Jesus is rising into the sky before our very eyes. And, of course, as we look up, we have all those heavenly questions: where is Jesus going, what will heaven be like, and, of course, the biggie, who will end up there with Jesus.
Jesus’ final act before ascending into heaven was blessing his disciples. The amazing thing about Jesus’ blessing is that it was not to give his followers some kind of imaginative dreams about heaven up in the clouds, but rather to give them power to do ministry here on earth. Jesus blesses us in the exact same way: he empowers us to do ministry right here on earth with those who need us most.
I increasingly believe that our task as Christians is not so much to prepare one another for heaven in the sweet by-and-by as it is to help one another discover heavenly delight here on earth. After all, the prayer Jesus taught us says it this way, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as in heaven.” The Lord’s Prayer invites us to yearn for heaven here on earth, now— “on earth as it is in heaven.”
Christ came to live among us in order to bring heavenly splendor to earth, into our midst. Jesus loved telling stories with people, sharing meals with them, healing their illnesses, forgiving their sins. In these everyday occurrences, before their very eyes, here on earth, people began to catch a glimpse of what heaven is like.
Our worship here this morning is a heavenly training ground. We are gathered here, now, to learn how to detect heavenly sounds in the words we read and preach, pray and sing. We go to the baptismal river, right here, to see whether we can glimpse heaven touching down upon the waters as the words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” are proclaimed. We eat bread bought at Vonn’s and drink wine purchased at CVS and create palates capable of tasting heavenly food in this ordinary stuff. With Christ’s blessing resting upon us, we discover that ordinary words and water and bread and wine can be chockfull of heavenly grandeur. Imagine if we spent more time looking for heavenly grandeur in each person we meet and in every ordinary routine we perform. I’ll bet we would discover heaven is far closer to us than we ever imagined.
I have always thought that the traditional funeral mass helps us see heaven in our midst. I particularly love the part called In Paradisum which comes at the end of the funeral liturgy. Listen to the words:
I am astonished every time I hear these words. The glorious vision of entering heaven is exactly what we encounter here at First Lutheran every time we come by here. The heavenly vision points to a city like our city—not to a gated suburban community, not to an idyllic rural hideaway. The ones who welcome us into heaven are the ones who welcome us here at First Lutheran Church every day of the week, Lazarus and his poor, homeless friends. Surprise, surprise. Who ever imagined heaven is so near? Funny thing what Jesus told his followers, “Stay in the city”—who knows what you might see?
One inner-city pastor in Brooklyn was fond of saying that when we get to heaven, there will be a banner at the Pearly Gates that says, “Brought to you by the same people who brought you New York City.” We could, of course, say, “Brought to you by the same people who brought you 3rd and Ash.” Isn’t it amazing: if we have eyes blessed by the Ascended Lord, heaven is right before us, at our very grasp, here, in the city.
First Lutheran Church has stayed in the city now for 123 years. The people of this congregation have believed over the years that heavenly splendor can be discovered here. Many of you have joined this church recently—you had many other choices, you pass many churches to come here—some far bigger; others of you have been here for ages—you could have taken your families and gone to a place with a bigger Sunday School, nearer to your home, not so rough and tumble. But, each of you, for whatever reason, continue to hear Jesus saying to you, “Stay in the city.”
The beautiful blessing attributed to Saint Teresa of Avila of Spain might capture what the Ascended Lord had in mind for us in this place, in the heart of the city. Join me in praying this prayer of blessing.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 29, 2011
Sixth Sunday of Easter
Acts 17: 22-31
"Stop, Look, and Listen—And Only Then Speak"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
You are not exactly sure why but when someone knocks at your door and the minute you open it, he blurts out, “Are you saved?” you want to slam the door in his face.
As this well-meaning soul walks away, you wonder why you are so riled up. All he asked was “Are you saved?”
This morning’s first reading from the Acts of the Apostles might shed some light on why some of us get so riled up. It might also offer a better way to approach one another, especially when we think we have all the answers and know what is best for everyone.
Paul stands at the Areopagus in Athens, Greece, ready to speak. The great philosopher Socrates stood in the same place 450 years earlier. This is a place of culture, learning, and sophistication. The people’s juices run wild with the prospect of a little intellectual jousting with Paul. They smell red meat. They have called Paul a “babbler” even before he begins to speak—they are not amused by the nonsense he has been spouting all around town about some Jewish guy whom God raised from the dead.
Here is what is useful. Before Paul utters a word, he does his homework; he takes the time to know who the people of Athens are. He studies their culture, gazes at their art and architecture, listens to the songs they sing, hears their treasured stories. He knows that his beliefs are far different than theirs and yet he shares a common humanity with his audience and so he listens to the hopes and dreams they have for their children, to their religious yearnings. In short, Paul has the decency to honor the Athenian people before asking anything even remotely similar to “Are you saved?” or telling them the story he loves most of Christ’s resurrection from the dead.
Maybe that’s what makes us so irate when someone knocks at our door: we don’t even know their name and they don’t know ours. They don’t know a thing about us nor we about them and yet they immediately supply us with all the necessary answers for our life.
The first words out of Paul’s mouth are not an attack but rather an honoring of the Athenians’ religious desires and their robust urge to worship. Though they worship all manner of exotic gods and a plethora of bizarre idols litter their town, nevertheless, Paul plays to their strength, to their spiritual longings. He even quotes their finest poets.
We can learn a thing or two from Paul as we approach our neighbors. How many of us harbor deep suspicions, even resentments, of our Muslim neighbors? Their dress, accents, mosques--it makes us nervous. But have we taken the time to learn of our Muslim brothers’ and sisters’ deepest longings? Have we read even a bit of the Koran? Do we know that Muslims are a monotheistic religion, believing only in one God, and are actually our kin, children of Abraham?
In July, we will do what Paul did in Athens: we will learn about our neighbors. We will hold a series of classes here at First Lutheran Church to learn more about Islam. I hope you will attend these sessions.
Not for a minute will our study mean that we do not believe in Jesus Christ, the true Son of God, or that it doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you believe. What it will mean, I pray, is that we will listen before we speak and think before we judge. We might even end up honoring those who are different from us.
When I lived in Pennsylvania, I was an active member of the Ardmore Rotary Club. It was a bit like Athens, a lively and diverse group that I loved. We had agnostics and atheists, Christian Scientists and Presbyterians, Catholics and Jews. Often times, since I was the only clergy person in the club, I was asked to lead the Easter and Christmas programs. I always agreed with one stipulation. Since we lived in a predominately Jewish community, I insisted that if I were to talk about Easter then Mike Silver would talk about Passover; if I were to talk about Christmas then Mort Gearson would talk about Hanukkah. These were not neutered holiday affairs where the riches of our respective traditions were sacrificed on the altar of mediocrity as we sang insipid songs like “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer,” or “In Your Easter Bonnet.” Instead, we learned the best of each other’s tradition. Christians learned of Seders and full moons, of dreidels and Menorahs; Jews learned of Advent wreaths and Mary and her little baby, of 40 days of Lent and Paschal candles. At one meeting, right before High Holy Days, I asked Marty Phillips to blow the shofar before I offered the mealtime prayer. One fellow walked out of that meeting with tears in his eyes, put his arm around my shoulder, and said, “Wilk, I can’t believe you knew this week is Yom Kippur. Thank you for thinking of us Jews. So rarely does this happen to us.” We had listened to one another and we were all better for it.
Paul listens and, after listening, he speaks of what is most important to him. He tells of a God who cares enough to raise his son from the dead so that no one might fear death again. Notice the pattern: first listen to others share their deepest longings and only then share yours.
The French author and philosopher Albert Camus said, “Dialogue is only possible between people who remain what they are, and who speak the truth.”
Perhaps more than ever we need people who listen before they speak. Military arsenals and terrorist capabilities render our world a fragile place. Sharing our faith must be more than knocking at another’s doors with loaded guns and ultimatums decided well in advance. Our world longs, not for people with no convictions, but rather for people with convictions who are willing to listen. We may not agree with one another but God grant us the decency to honor one another as God’s children.
As we gather on this Memorial Day weekend, we are reminded that our cemeteries are crammed with brave and valiant soldiers who all too often went off to war because of leaders and citizens who refused to sit down and listen to one another. Perhaps, on this weekend, we do well to pledge to listen before we speak, pray before we act, and, most importantly, make decisions based not on prejudice, ignorance, and hatred but on love, mutual understanding, and our common humanity.
There will be time, of course there will, for us to proclaim, “Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!” If we listen carefully first, perhaps our shouts of “Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!” will resonate more clearly and ring more beautifully.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 22, 2011
Fifth Sunday of Easter
"You and I—Do Greater Works Than Jesus!?!?"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
Some words of Jesus seem impossible to believe. Take for instance these words: “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.” Greater works than Jesus? You have got to be kidding me! The very thought fells like heresy!
When I was a pastor in Washington, DC, our Lutheran Bishop Harold Jansen preached at the soaring National Cathedral. He remarked that we are the only Lutherans Washington, DC has. We could just as easily say that we are the only Lutherans downtown San Diego has. There are other churches here for sure—Saint Joseph’s Roman Catholic Cathedral catty-corner to us, First Presbyterian just a few blocks up the street. And, of course, many Christians live downtown. But, we are the only Lutherans called here to 3rd and Ash. First Lutheran is closer to the heart of downtown San Diego than any other congregation that I can think of.
If Jesus was right, “The one who believes in me will do greater works than these,” then we have tall marching orders and quite a bit to live up to here in the heart of the city.
Some of you are aware that a number of us have been consumed in recent weeks with the issue of urination and defecation. I apologize for not putting this more delicately but it is simply the case. We have been dealing with the developer of the Victorian properties next to First Lutheran who has threatened to take us to court if we do not build a fence to prohibit people from using the corner of our property on Ash Street as an unofficial public restroom. Not only has he threatened to take us to court, he has written these incredibly troubling and incendiary words to me: “I assure you that the unsanitary conditions being allowed to occur and constantly subsist on your property as a result of your activities of providing for the homeless is causing us great damage...” To accuse us of the problems of homelessness in downtown San Diego is a troubling accusation.
After all, this church has spent considerable amounts of time and money and energy through the years seeking solutions for homelessness in this city we love. First Lutheran Church has sought to be a good neighbor for 123 years. We are no more pleased with urination and defecation than anyone else. Our custodial staff’s worst job is cleaning up that area on a daily basis. I scream bloody murder every time I see someone relieving themselves on our premises. We keep our restrooms open whenever we are in operation and they are open to all, including to people who work downtown and to senior citizens who need a quick restroom break.
We have even invited our developer friend to join us in the fight to get more bathrooms downtown but, so far, to no avail. We have met with the San Diego police and we have even been to our councilman’s office, pleading for more restroom facilities downtown. Jim Lovell (First Lutheran member and Director of the Third Avenue Charitable Organization) has even organized a group of homeless people who are championing the cause of more bathrooms downtown—believe it or not, our homeless brothers and sisters would like a private, discrete place to go to the bathroom, too. We have placed a motion-detector light above the area in question. We have kept our property spotless and landscaped beautifully. Our Church Council, this past Tuesday evening, voted to purchase a fence for the corner in question at considerable expense to this congregation.
As we face a developer’s ire, we must also never forget that we have other neighbors for whom God holds us accountable. They are God’s dearest friends, the blessed poor. They are the ones with small voices, voices not often listened to because they have no money to wield influence. God calls us to speak words of hope to them and to stand up on their behalf in Christ’s name.
We dare not forget Jesus words, “Blessed are the poor for yours is the kingdom of God.” We must never fear standing up to the principalities and powers who dare to run roughshod over the poorest; we must protect the rights of the most vulnerable of our community. As my former Bishop Jansen would remind us, we are the only Lutherans 3rd and Ash has got.
And so we have prayed and we have struggled and, most of all, we have begged of God, “What would you have us do?” We worked diligently the past two weeks on a letter that we sent to our angry developer friend. I shared our proposed letter with a trusted friend of this congregation, and she wrote back: “I love your letter! I feel proud to know you!” She means you, my brothers and sisters in Christ. While she doesn’t live in our city, she is proud to see what you are doing on her behalf for God’s blessed little ones in this city. I spoke with this professional woman at our synod assembly and she is watching closely to see how we struggle to do what our Risen Savior would have us do.
Each of you, in your our life, faces similarly tough decisions where hardly any answer seems right, but where some answer must be offered. Whether with your children or aging parents or spouse, whether on the job or in your neighborhood, the Risen Savior calls you to bring God’s reign a bit closer to those you are called to love. As our Quote for the Day by John Vannorsdall says, “It is highly unlikely…that we will encounter the hidden God in our present unless we risk doing the things which God requires of us in those situations in which obedience is tested.”
Our obedience is being tested in these days. If our works are to be greater than Jesus’, if we are to risk love, let us not be mesmerized into believing that we will be universally loved and accepted and that our decisions will be neat and easy ones. If we are truly to be the heart of the Risen Christ in the heart of this city, let us not be surprised if the rich and powerful, at least some of the time, despise and reject us. This, according to Jesus, goes with the territory.
We will become battle hardened if we take Jesus seriously. But let us not lose heart and let us not cower: how much more exhilarating and grand life can be if we do more than simply attend to our own bank accounts and care for our own desires. Let us pray that God will always make us a community worthy of name, “the heart of Christ in the heart of the city.”
If God could raise up Jesus from the dead, God can raise us up, too, up from whatever obstacles we face as we seek to love and serve the city on behalf of the Risen Christ.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 15, 2011
Fourth Sunday of Easter
Psalm 23; John 10: 1-10
"Both Shepherd and Lamb"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
“One September evening after the nurse had gone out on an errand, I stood at George’s bedside alone. His face against the pillow had a strange pallor, and all the color was drained from his lips. I knew that the end was near. I felt his hands. They were cold, icy cold, and I held them to my breast, trying to warm them. ‘George, can you hear me, darling?’ I whispered, my lips close to his ear. His eyelids fluttered, and I knew he had heard me. ‘Shall I read to you, darling?’ I asked. I reached for the Bible on his night stand, turned to the Twenty-third Psalm, and began reading aloud, ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…’” (Donita Dyer, Pearl, p. 252).
How many of you have reached for your well worn family Bible, numbly thumbing somewhere in the middle? Your Bible automatically opens to Psalm 23. Your last resort!
You have heard that Psalm 23 was written by King David but it may as well have been written by you. You know how the calm ebbs up inside you every time you read, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
You are not the only one who finds this Psalm a precious treasure. The Jewish people have turned to it for thousands of years. Elie Wiesel, the Nobel Prize Laureate, says, “What makes a Jew a Jew is the inability to quit hoping.” And that hope comes from turning to places like Psalm 23.
Whenever we recite Psalm 23, it is as if the Jewish people have invited us onto holy ground. Whenever we say, “He leads me beside still waters,” we wonder in what occasions the Jews have recited these words to get through a tough stretch.
Our Jewish brothers and sisters present this Psalm to us as their gift to us. They are the experts, after all, at facing enemies and yet trusting that the Lord has prepared a table for them; they are the people who have been hounded all the day long, and yet have believed that they shall fear no evil.
When did you first hear the 23rd Psalm--when you were five or six? Is someone here this morning for whom this is the first time you have heard the wonderful words, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” Together, hand in hand, we hear God speak to us quite unlike any other way.
Every year, on this the Fourth Sunday of Easter, we recite the 23rd Psalm together on this Good Shepherd Sunday. There is no other biblical passage in our three year lectionary cycle used as often as Psalm 23—and this does not include funerals and weddings at which it is so often used.
Psalm 23 reaches deep into our soul. It gathers with us in good times and also in the worst of times. We trust that Psalm 23 will never let us down.
Today, through Easter eyes, we see Psalm 23 in a bit of a different light than do our Jewish brothers and sisters. We see a shepherd who dared to become a lamb. Amazing, really. This shepherd who had it all, God’s only son, risked it all by becoming a tender lamb and going to the slaughter house killing floor for you and me. You can imagine this little lamb named Jesus trudging to his death. You can hear Jesus bleating to himself, “fear no evil, fear no evil, the Lord is with you.”
We are a people who follow a shepherd who became a lamb. We follow this shepherd because we trust in Easter and Easter proclaims that goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our life. We dare go places where few others go because we trust that there will be a greener pasture and stiller water. We dare to befriend the poor and broken ones, the ones ridiculed by the rich and powerful; we stand up to the principalities and powers who too easily cast off the lowly and broken ones; we become the shepherds of the people here on our streets of San Diego because Jesus tells us to fear no evil. And, of course, in the process, sometimes we end up being the sheep.
Every Sunday morning as a kid I stared at the stained glass window at Edgwood Lutheran Church, just to the left of where I sat with my Grandma Miller. In brilliant colors, the shepherd stood with a little lamb over his shoulders--was the lamb the one that refused to follow the other ninety-nine, wandered off a cliff, and almost perished? After looking into Grandma’s paten leather pocket book, searching for wintergreen Lifesavers amidst her perfumed lace handkerchief, I almost always stared at that shepherd in the window who refused to let the one out of a hundred plunge to her death. I couldn’t take my eyes off that window. What kind of shepherd drops everything and goes running for me, you? What kind of shepherd invites us to go out and bring other suffering souls safely into the shepherd’s embrace?
This shepherd, you see, calls each of us by name. We are, as the old hymn says, precious in God’s sight. Our shepherd comes running when he hears us whimpering no matter where we may be. This lamb, this shepherd, has journeyed to the very jaws of hell to free us from Satan’s grasp. If God has gone running there, rest assured that God will come running wherever we may be.
This is the good news of Easter: while the lamb was slain, that same lamb was triumphant. It is why we shout during communion, “Alleluia! Christ our Passover has been sacrificed for us. Therefore let us keep the feast! Alleluia!”
And so, I pray that you will commit this beloved Psalm 23 to memory and pray it with some regularity. Say it often so that it will be your companion when you end up in those harsh places where life will almost surely take you from time-to-time. As you pray the 23rd Psalm, imagine the Risen Savior carrying you on his shoulders wherever you may go.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 8, 2011
Third Sunday of Easter
Luke 24: 13-35
"Christ’s Presence Amidst the Odor of Melancholy"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
Joyce Carol Oates reflects on her husband’s death in her book A Widow’s Story. She recalls the “the odor of melancholy” that pervaded the hospital in those final agonizing hours as she sat at her husband’s side.
“The odor of melancholy” was in the air as Cleopas and his friend made that painful hike from Jerusalem to Emmaus following Jesus’ death. They had heard the women’s reports earlier in the day that Jesus’ body was no longer in the tomb and that he was alive and yet that information seemed too fanciful and did little to ease their pain.
Where exactly the town of Emmaus was, no one knows, other than it was about seven miles from Jerusalem. Who Cleopas and the other person were, we are also uncertain. What we do know is that a mysterious person, the resurrected Christ it turns out, was suddenly accompanying them on the wretched road to nowhere. The three of them talked and talked and talked as most of us do when there is no end in sight to our misery. Seven miles of walking means they likely talked, nonstop, for at least two and a half hours before they arrived at their destination.
Talking is critical when time stands still. We talk and talk and talk, not certain where our conversation is headed or even if it is making sense. We are certain of one thing, though, that if our conversation ever stops, we will suffocate.
This week, when I first heard of Osama bin Laden’s death, I needed someone to talk with. I was confused. Dagmar and I talked. Our younger son Caspar called and we talked. Everywhere I went, there was talk—in the church office, at our weekly pastors’ gathering, on the telephone--trying to make sense of what had happened. Thank heavens there were people willing to listen and to reflect.
Then a thought crossed my mind: we need to talk on Sunday morning, this morning. Just as Cleopas and his friend talked about what had happened to Jesus a few days earlier in Jerusalem, we feel the need to talk about this week’s events, pondering bin Laden’s death. If the church is to be anything, it needs to be that community that knows there is a world beyond our four walls. As Karl Barth once said, we do our theology with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. We trust that we do not live in a vacuum and that the Risen Christ will accompany us in all the challenges our world faces.
I at first wondered whether I should preach on Osama bin Laden’s death this morning. Upon reflection, I thought it a better idea that we talk together, between services. I feel as much a need to listen as I do to talk. I wonder what soldiers and veterans are thinking, you who have been in the line of fire, in the heart of darkness, for whom talk is a luxury. I wonder what young adults are thinking who have lived under the 9/11 ashes since childhood and whose futures seem inextricably linked to the startling shadows of terrorism. I want to listen to you, to hear your hopes and fears, anger and confusion, to see whether, somehow, someway, Christ might join our conversation.
Our Evangelical Lutheran Church in America invites communities like ours to conversation together whenever we face tough issues. Our church calls this “moral deliberation.” We have done that here before on thorny issues like health care and human sexuality. We have listened and I trust that we have learned from one another. Today, we will morally deliberate on Osama bin Laden’s death. I pray our conversation will prove a safe place to listen carefully and to speak without fear of reprisal or ridicule; I also pray that if we are attentive, we will discover Christ walking beside us in our conversation.
Cleopas and his friend had the presence of mind to invite their peculiar traveling companion to stay with them because it was almost evening and the day was almost over. Not in a million years did they expect this fellow to be Jesus. They sat down together at an ordinary meal, broke bread, poured wine, continued talking, and their eyes were opened and they saw the Risen Christ.
We are a peculiar people who believe that Christ will be present with us if we take the time to talk with one another and to gather around a meal together.
John Reid returned to the divinity school campus after his first year in ministry. He was thrilled to tell us, his classmates who had not yet graduated, of the thrills of being a parish pastor. He was serving a tiny congregation in a little village on the coast of Maine. John gathered in my dorm room one night with a number of us. He said: “Can you believe they pay me to do this job? Every morning, I am up at 5:30 a.m. and go to the Hideaway Diner for coffee and eggs with the guys before they head out to sea on their lobster boats. Can you imagine,” he said, “a job that pays you simply to talk?”
John was right: we are a community that places high value on talk. You, by the way, pay me to talk and to listen to talk. You ask if you can meet me in my office. I close the door and you start talking. Having someone listen to us is a rare gift, even rarer is to have someone listen and to expect that in our conversation, Christ will be present.
These moments with one another are precious indeed. Frederick Buechner writes: “Sacred moments, the moments of miracle, are often everyday moments, the moments which, if we do not look with more than our eyes or listen with more than our ears, reveal only… a garden, a stranger coming down the road behind us, a meal like any other meal. But if we look with our hearts, if we listen with our being and imagination . . . what we may see is Jesus himself” (The Magnificent Defeat, pp. 87-88).
We will talk and talk and talk with each other between services today and, I’m sure, in the days ahead. Our talk, I pray, will be drenched with holiness. Even with the odor of melancholy in the air, if we listen to one another, we might see Christ here with us.
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 1, 2011
Second Sunday of Easter
Acts 2: 4a, 22-32; John 20: 19-31
"Resurrection Heroes"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
Think for a moment who your favorite hero of the faith is. When you have a person in mind, turn to one or two people near you and share who that person is.
I would imagine one hero who almost certainly came up is Mother Theresa. She served the poorest of the poor in Calcutta with her order, the Missionaries of Charity. The world was quite surprised to learn recently that Mother Theresa had fierce doubts and ferocious struggles with her faith, not for a day or two, but for years and years on end. In a letter to a priest friend soon after she received the Nobel Peace Prize, Mother Theresa wrote: “Jesus has a very special love for you. As for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear.” What a surprise to learn that this giant of the faith had her doubts just like so many of us do.
We tend to think of the giants of faith, our heroes, as people who live life perfectly, with not a doubt in the world. And yet, if we know a thing or two about them, we discover that they were plagued by flaws and struggles similar to ours.
When I thought about my heroes this week, I was surprised that every one of them had a flaw or two that, if it were mine, would worry me to death, making me wonder what kind of Christian I am.
One giant who captivated me, especially during my college days, is the Trappist monk Thomas Merton. It is probably safe to say that Merton was the Godfather of Christian spirituality and prayer in America in the twentieth century. His autobiography, The Seven Story Mountain, is a contemporary spiritual classic. I did an independent study on Merton’s books in college, reading everything I could get my hands on. He made my prayer life come alive in my early twenties like no one else had. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that before entering the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, Merton fathered a child and he was not married. Go figure!
Another of my heroes that you have heard me speak often about is William Sloane Coffin. Coffin was the chaplain at Yale University when I was there. He packed the large chapel on Sunday mornings with Christians and Jews, atheists and agnostics. Many credit this compelling preacher and outspoken social activist as the person who brought them to the faith. You might be surprised to learn that Coffin was married three times.
Maybe there is hope for us after all, we who judge ourselves harshly, wondering if God will ever forgive our misdeeds and use us for higher purposes. In seeing whom God uses down through history, we discover that the giants walked in shoes much like ours.
And it isn’t just the modern heroes of the faith. Peter and Thomas who figure prominently in today’s readings had their own flaws and failures. Both were part of Jesus’ inner circle, his disciples, his confidants. In many ways they were sterling examples of faithfulness. We just heard Peter preach one of the most courageous sermons ever heard in our first reading, delivered in Jerusalem’s public square soon after Jesus death and resurrection. 3,000 people were baptized that day because of Peter’s stem-winding and faithful oratory.
And yet, this is the same Peter who, only weeks earlier, had denied ever knowing Jesus when Jesus was on trial and Peter was scared out of his wits. As he walked the dark streets of Jerusalem, demoralized and broken, a young servant girl asked Peter if he knew Jesus. Peter proved the coward and denied, not once, but three times, ever knowing Jesus-- a nauseating failure for sure.
Captivating highs, sickening lows. Heroes of the faith.
Thomas was not terribly different from Peter. So it happened, Thomas wasn’t there the night of the resurrection when Jesus appeared to the other ten disciples. The ten were so excited to tell Thomas that they had seen and heard the Risen Savior, but Thomas would have none of it; he rained on their parade, saying, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” Thomas’ response was a natural one really but disheartening nonetheless.
And yet, only a week later when Thomas sees Jesus, he makes the supreme confession of faith, “My Lord and my God.” While our bulletin cover painting, “Doubting Thomas,” by Caravaggio, shows Peter placing his finger into Jesus’ side, the gospel makes no mention of this. Thomas’ confession upon seeing Jesus was extraordinary and immediate!
Up and down, rising and falling, these giants of the faith go. Peter and Thomas are a lot like Mother Theresa and Thomas Merton and William Sloane Coffin. They demonstrate dismal lows and astonishing highs. Come to think of it, they are a lot like us.
To know the giants’ stories is to become a bit more secure in our own story. Suddenly we realize that there are other Christians like us who have fallen and also risen. We often worry ourselves sick with some pathetic collapse in our lives and then, suddenly, we perform some act of authentic wonder that surprises even us. That’s how the life of faith works.
As God raised Jesus from the dead, God will raise us too, raise us from our doubts and cowardice, our foibles and follies, and we will demonstrate an extraordinary fierceness of faith that could only happen by God’s miraculous working in us.
Easter is chock full of surprises. There is the empty tomb; there are Jesus’ amazing appearances to his disciples after his rising; there are those people who become ten times the people they ever were because Jesus rises from the dead and seems to raise them with him; there are you and I—we, too, full of resurrection surprises.
Oh, and by the way, look to your left and to your right; there you see another hero of the faith!
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 24, 2011
The Resurrection of Our Lord, Easter Morning
Matthew 28: 1-10
"Resurrection: Only God's Possibility"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
It has been a nerve-wracking week for me. We preachers are aware that you come here this morning, at least in part, to hear a compelling and entertaining explanation of the astonishing Easter event. Jaroslav Pelikan writes, “If Jesus Christ has been raised from the dead, nothing else matters. If Jesus Christ has not been raised from the dead, nothing else matters.” If your life’s meaning hedges on Jesus’ resurrection, doggonit then, I better explain it in a persuasive and winsome fashion.
Please know I have tried my best to be in top form this morning, studying Scripture’s resurrection accounts, pondering noted theologians’ musings, even cheating a bit and reading Easter sermons of preachers far better than I.
And yet, here’s the daunting problem: no one has ever seen a resurrection. Not one of the gospel writers pictures Jesus jumping up from his death bed, wrapping his grave cloths neatly in a little pile, and announcing with trumpet and timpani accompaniment, “Top of the morning! I am risen! Happy Easter to one and all!” Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are far more subdued, describing what happened only after God had raised Jesus from the dead.
The mystery of Christ’s empty tomb is an immense one. Preachers have grappled with it going on 2,000 years. Scholars have pored over ancient manuscripts. Archaeological digs of Jerusalem tombs have been done. Burial shrouds have been analyzed with sophisticated scientific equipment.
Many of you have tried to illuminate Jesus’ resurrection, too. You have colored Easter eggs which, to my understanding, have something to do with new life—but, admit it folks, that ain’t exactly the resurrection. You have created dazzling wicker baskets filled with miniature yellow chicks and fuzzy pink bunnies—cute, for sure, but hardly God raising his Son from the dead.
We have, one and all, ended up scratching our heads after we have given it our best shot: what really happened that first Easter morning?
Perhaps the problem is that we have been looking for resurrection answers in all the wrong places. My favorite theologian Douglas John Hall says, “As for death itself—our death, my death, death as universal phenomenon—its resolution is only God's possibility."
Only God’s possibility! Not in a million years could you or I imagine anything as fanciful as what happened that first Easter morning. Jesus’ resurrection is possible only with God’s astonishing imagination.
Is it any wonder then that the angel said to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, “Do not be afraid,” when they had come early in the morning and found the tomb empty? They had never seen such a thing—the earthquake, the rolling away of the stone, the empty tomb, the announcement, “He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said.” Is it any wonder the women ran from the tomb as fast as their feet could carry them with fear and great joy?
Whether we are church junkies who come to anything the church puts on, including pot luck suppers with green Jell-O and little white marshmallows or we typically only enter the church on days like this, we all are in search of the same thing, that one breathtaking story that only God can create and that will change our lives forever.
You have figured out by now, I’m sure, that if singing “Alleluia” once is a good thing, than singing “Alleluia” one hundred and fifty-three times is divine. And who can get enough of making ourselves fools for Christ by saying to one another, over and over again, “Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen indeed!”
We need an Easter story so astonishing that we are emboldened to go to life’s toughest places and shout with gusto, “Alleluia! Christ is Risen!”
I needed God’s resurrection story this past Thursday afternoon--God’s story, mind you, not my flimsy little one. I went to one of life’s tough places where the brightest and best have plied their most brilliant techniques and sometimes have been found wanting. I visited UCSD’s Thornton Hospital where one of our members, beautiful Michelle, is struggling with cancer that has spread to her brain. What words to say to her and her loved ones that are helpful and true? I didn’t go to Michelle to offer my ten cents worth of cheerleading and heart-warming clichés. I went to tell the only words worth her hearing: “Christ is Risen! Alleluia. Death has been destroyed!” And, by the way, I told her we would shout these identical words this morning, with an overflowing sanctuary, on her behalf.
Each of us is invited to take the exhilarating news of the Risen Christ to those places where the Risen Christ is needed most. Each of you knows where that place is and who those people are. Usually they are the people and places that most others shy away from because things feel so hopeless. But you have an ace up your sleeve, the resurrected Christ. God will stand with you and taunt, “Oh death where is your sting and raise his son from the dead.” If God can do it for Jesus, then God can do it for you and those you love.
There is one other place you must go and it might be the toughest place of all. That place is deep within your own soul where all too often there is venomous self-loathing for your failures and disappointments. Go deep down and sing to yourself that God has raised Jesus from the dead so that you might love yourself half as much as you love your neighbors.
Yes, we leave this place bearing a wondrous message, not of our making but of God’s. Nicolaus Steno, the father of geology, notes: “Beautiful is what we see. More beautiful is what we understand. Most beautiful is what we do not comprehend.” Jesus’ resurrection is most beautiful precisely because it is beyond our imagination and only possible with the mighty hands of God.
My dear friends, we are the only ones God has to send to those scary places, kicking up our heels, raising an explosion of joy, and singing, “Glory hallelujah. Christ is Risen.”
And so, I thank you for being here today, for being Easter people, celebrating what only God can do for us and for this world. And, I thank you for being Easter people who will soon leave this place, going to life’s toughest places where people need you most and singing “Glory hallelujah, Christ Is Risen.”
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 23, 2011
The Easter Vigil
"Tell Me One More Story"
There is nothing quite like a good yarn. “Once upon a time” causes us to lean forward a bit further. Like little children frightened by the dark, on this night, we snuggle into God’s arms and plead, “Tell me one more story.”
At no other worship service does the church tell quite so many stories as tonight.
The Easter Vigil has a bad reputation. People say, “That’s the one that lasts two hours!” Even those who come to anything thing the church puts on avoid this service. Of the twenty-four Lutheran congregations in this part of San Diego, I believe First Lutheran and Saint Peter’s gathered here tonight and one other congregation, All Saints, have this service.
Experts, who claim to know what makes churches grow, warn us of attempting services like this. They tell us no worship service should last longer than fifty-eight minutes—maybe you are agreeing with that wisdom about now! CBS, ABC, NBC are the arbiters when it comes to how long we are willing to sit before running to the refrigerator—or leaving a worship service. Fifty-eight minutes is our limit, they say, even when it comes to snuggling up to hear God’s stories.
And yet, you and I persist. Here we are telling God’s stories again.
“Have you heard the one about God creating the heavens and the earth?”
Or the one about Noah and his ark and the two giraffes, two moose, two snails, even two worms, two monkeys.
Such stories make us all big-eyed.
Or the one about Moses and the Israelites running from Pharaoh’s ground troops, the sea parting miraculously, the rag-tag group of slaves running dry shod through the sea, and wicked Pharaoh’s troops being sucked under to their death.
Or how about Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego? “Bring your best punch, you evil one! Fire up the furnace as hot as you can and we will survive!” One of you adults told me, “This is my favorite story.”
Oh, such stories!
And, now, we go to the water. Like those who have gone before us, we go to spit in Satan’s face; we scream, “So death, where is your sting now?!” We become part of the story as we splash in the water and remember our baptisms.
And then we gather at table and eat a heavenly meal.
Old, old stories and some very new ones, too.
Oh to sit in the lap of God and take the time to listen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 22, 2011
Good Friday
John 18: 1 – John 19: 31-42
"Oh, What Wondrous Love"
People often ask me, “When did you decide to become a pastor?” The answer is a bit murky for me though I do recall wanting to be the acolyte who got to extinguish one candle after another on Good Friday evening.
Pastor Leister did not choose me every year because I was an expert candle extinguisher. Unbeknownst to me at the time, he chose me because no other kid planned to be at worship on Good Friday.
I have always cherished this service, gathered with fellow pilgrims at the cross.
As an acolyte, I never paid attention to how many people worshipped on this hallowed night. I simply assumed the sanctuary was packed as Christians observed Jesus’ deepest love. It was not until later, when my salary was linked to how many showed up at worship that I realized how few come to honor Jesus on this day. I do not recall a Good Friday service with more than a handful present. Tonight does not change that.
I recall a Good Friday service with our Episcopalian and Baptist neighbors. We walked the Stations of the Cross through stately Saint Mary’s Church. We paused in front of the clear leaded glass windows, looking out onto a strip mall selling cheap shoes, organic food, and liquor. Father Horner said: “The world doesn’t much care what we do here today. People go their merry way, acquiring necessary supplies for their Easter celebrations.”
Melancholy, not judgment, a certain sadness in the air. Every year the hope, every year the let down.
We shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. When we look back through history, we tend to lift up the so-called “Golden Eras,” times that seemed better than all the rest. We might even recall such a time growing up when our home church was packed on Good Friday—maybe, almost certainly not.
What we do know is the crowd’s habits the day Jesus walked to Calvary--that was no “Golden Era.” Notice how those dearest to Jesus abandoned him, ran for their lives as the cross loomed larger. Notice how the crowds diminished as the nails were driven one-by-one.
I suppose we shouldn’t expect crowds tonight. Are we any different from Peter and James, John and Judas? Deep within our souls, deeper within our culture, we shy away from defeat and flee death. We prefer personal success and routs of our enemies.
And yet, it is death for which we come tonight, Jesus’ death. We come not because we are splendid Christians--far from it. We come because, by some strange grace, we are drawn by Jesus’ wondrous love. It is almost impossible to fathom why he loves us so. It is hard to comprehend why our tradition places so much stock on this dismal and pathetic event. And yet we come, puzzled, somber, melancholic.
We come, yet again, to the darkness, to behold the love of our brother Jesus who graciously takes the blows of our nonchalance, the ravages of our anger, the venom of our hatreds, the clamor of our arrogance. He simply hangs there, loving us until lifeless that we might not fear death and that we might taste life forever…Oh, what wondrous love!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 21, 2011
Maundy Thursday
1 Corinthians 11: 23-26; John 13: 1-17, 31b-35
"Shoes"
Next to Christmas, Holy Week was my favorite time growing up. Holy Week is when we got Easter shoes. I still remember getting my first pair of Bass Weejun penny loafers when I was thirteen. Those shoes were a stretch in our household where fine clothes and well-crafted shoes were not priority items. I had my eyes on the penny loafers since I was nine. Grandma Smith took me to Crone’s Men’s Store and bought me those special shoes.
There is something about shoes. They speak volumes about our taste and financial well-being. Inner-city kids are ridiculed for not wearing expensive and fashionable Nikes and Addidas. The worst thing a kid from the projects can do is wear $19 sneakers from Kmart--they are simply called “Bo-Bos!” like “Your mother wears Bo-Bos.”
Tonight, we are invited to a ritual involving shoes, this time taking off our shoes.
When Jared and I were planning this service, I suggested we might all leave our shoes outside the sanctuary like Muslims do when entering their mosques. We could show our reverence for God’s house by not coming in our dirty, dusty shoes. Jared steered me clear of this liturgical brainstorm—and you are happy he did!
And yet, in a few moments, we will have the opportunity to take off our shoes and have our feet washed. If you are like me, you have no problem washing other people’s feet; you would happily wash every foot in this house. It is getting your feet washed that is problematic.
We like to be in control--on the giving, not the receiving end. We do a lot of giving here at First Lutheran Church. We have given sacrificial offerings totaling $4,719 during Lent to purchase well pumps for poor communities, help with tsunami relief in Japan, and buy flocks of geese and ducks through the Heifer Project. We become ice-cold, though, when we have to receive. When a homeless person knocks at the church door and says, “Here’s ten dollars. Thanks for all you do here,” our automatic response is, “Oh, I couldn’t.” We are the givers, not the receivers. We want to be in control.
I found that out on my 60th birthday when you were so kind to me. My immediate reaction upon receiving your gifts was, “Oh no. You shouldn’t!” One of you said to me, “Pastor, let us show our appreciation to you. Please.”
Tonight we wash one another’s feet; more importantly, we have our feet washed. As someone washes your feet, know that Jesus is washing them.
So much is given to us tonight. In a few moments, we will confess our sins and God will forgive each and every one of them. Then our feet will be washed, every toe. We will then gather at table where Jesus will say, “Take and Eat…drink you all of it.” We have nothing to give in return—not our goodness, not a matching gift. We are on the receiving end tonight.
And it does not end tonight, for tomorrow we will gather again, and we will stare, speechless. “How could you?” we will ask as Jesus offers us his life.
Tonight, take off your shoes, have your sins forgiven, eat a supper prepared by Jesus. Be out of control and fall into God’s arms.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 17, 2011
Palm Sunday/Sunday of the Passion
Matthew 26: 14-27: 66
"Never Said A Mumblin' Word"
Notice how few words Jesus says as he draws nearer and nearer to death.
In some congregations I have served, it was customary to have different people read the parts of those involved in the passion of our Lord Jesus. I always found assigning readers a daunting task. Whom to assign the bit parts where the reader only gets to say a few words and not hurt feelings? Pontius Pilate was always a delicate choice: finding someone not easily offended and whom I could slap on the back and say, “How would you like to be Pontius Pilate for a day?” And the part of Jesus: I always wanted the very best reader to be Jesus; after all, he is the chief character in the story.
And then, every year, when we read Jesus’ passion, I was shocked by how few words Jesus says—we could assign his part to the worst reader and it wouldn’t much matter—so few words to utter.
The old African-American spiritual sings of Jesus’ final hours, “Jesus never said a mumblin’ word.” Never a mumblin’ word.
How many words would you utter—what with Judas betraying you, Peter getting all weak-kneed and cowardly and turning his back on you, Pontius Pilate being ever the spineless politician? Add to this cast of clowns, the macho soldiers, the jeering crowds, the nails and spear piercing hands and feet and side, the sour taste of vinegar. Could you remain silent or would you have volumes to say?
The monk John the Ladder of Mount Sinai wrote in the seventh century, “Jesus by his silence shamed Pilate.” Jesus’ few words shame us too, we of many words, many opinions, so easily offended, we who must have the last word on virtually everything.
There is soaring dignity in this man Jesus, especially given the few words he speaks. There is elegance in how he lets his actions speak for him.
During this week, we walk with Jesus yet again. Be attentive to how few words he says. Listen to the silence. Never a mumblin’ word but oh, so much love Jesus has for you.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 10, 2011
Fifth Sunday in Lent
John 11: 1-45
"Death Stinketh"
Our friend Sam suffered an agonizing death. He was 50 years old and lived alone. He had many dear friends, inside and outside the church. They spent hours sitting with him, holding his hand and helping him navigate the valley of the shadow of death. Dying did not come easy for Sam. In fact, he hated it.
Sam’s friends worried that he was not dealing well with his imminent death. I understood their worry. I, too, had read Elizabeth Kubler-Ross influential book, On Death and Dying, and found it enormously helpful. She carefully delineates the five stages we go through when dying; the fifth and final stage is “acceptance.” Sam never did accept death.
I quoted Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” at his funeral:
Oh no, Sam did not accept his death. He loved dressing up for Halloween and giving children loads of candy so he did not go gentle into the night. He loved elaborately decorating the church at Christmas and Easter so he raved at close of day; he loved summer picnics with his friends, with crystal stemware and linen napkins so he raged against the dying of the light. Sam cherished life.
Sam forced me to ponder whether there might be a biblical precedent for his revulsion of death. And it came to me, Saint Paul’s words, “The last enemy to be destroyed is death!” Death is not a friend according to Paul; death is not to be cuddled up to or domesticated. Death is not what God intends!
Russian Orthodox theologian Father Alexander Schmemann writes, “Christianity is not concerned about coming to terms with death, but rather with the victory over it” (Alexander Schmemann, O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?, pg. 28).
Sam’s struggles with death or, perhaps more correctly, his love of life, led me thumbing through Scripture to find an appropriate reading at his funeral; today’s Gospel reading was the one.
Lazarus had been dead for four days by the time Jesus finally arrived at the tomb. Jesus’ heart must have been broken—you know the agony when someone you love dies before you arrive to say your “farewell.” It had been four days since the sisters called Jesus to come quickly. Lazarus’ sister, Martha, said to Jesus, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” I much prefer the King James Version’s words: “Lord, by this time he stinketh.” My friend Sam would have liked King James too: death stinketh!
Death stinketh so bad that day that Jesus wept. These two words, “Jesus wept” (again King James Version), are incredibly important.
We pastors are exceedingly familiar with these two words, “Jesus wept.” Invariably, some confirmation student with raging hormones and backwards ball-cap chooses “Jesus wept” as his memory verse to be recited before mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, and the whole assembled multitude on his confirmation day. I always hope this boy will remember his verse years later. There will come a day when this tiniest of all biblical verses, “Jesus wept,” will be no laughing matter. Maybe recalling these tiny words and feeling as Jesus has given him permission, he will weep freely when his wife of fifty-five years breathes her last. Yes, death stinketh!
The Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams notes, “Christ will not wipe away our tears until we heave learnt to cry.” You know that. You know how painful it is to mourn a precious spouse, a tiny baby, a grown child, a special friend. You shed tears at the queerest moments: when you see the tulip blooming that your wife so adored; when you smell the trumpet flower whose fragrance always caused the two of you to stop and smell on your evening walks; when you hear Frank Sinatra singing Send in the Clowns that caused you to look happily into each other’s eyes. You loved life together and you still shed a tear or two at love lost even after so many years. These times make you certain that death is the last enemy to be destroyed. Death stinketh!
It would be dreadful, though, if our torrential tears never ebbed. Jesus understands this; that is why he enters our lives and the lives of Mary and Martha and Lazarus. You noticed, I’m sure, that in the midst of the crying, Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Jesus didn’t wait until his friends were in heaven to take away the stink of death. He brought the hope of the resurrection to them while they were living. And he brings it to us today, “Take and eat, my fair and lovely one.”
When I was in divinity school, a Benedictine monk, David Stendl-Rast, spoke words that I have not forgotten: “The beginning of resurrection is saying yes to death.” Brother David was not suggesting, I don’t think, that we should accept death; rather he was reminding us that Christ’s promise of resurrection can begin in our lives now, today, as a reminder that death has already been destroyed for us and those we love.
Maybe you are thinking that I am jumping the gun by talking about resurrection this morning, two weeks before Easter. Shouldn’t we wait until Easter morning to pull out the stops and let ‘er rip? Shouldn’t Jesus rise first? The Methodist bishop from Alabama William Willimon writes: “I know this story should have been saved until later…until after Easter, but no, whenever Jesus shows up, corpses rise, life breaks out, death is defeated, and people get unbound.” Even on the Fifth Sunday of Lent, even while we are weeping, we can rejoice.
Don’t wait until Easter to celebrate life. Don’t wait for heaven to celebrate resurrection. Do it now; do it every day of your life. I can assure you, Sam would be proud of you.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 3, 2011
Fourth Sunday in Lent
John 9: 1-41
"From Blaming to Healing"
Please close your eyes like the blind man, listening to this morning’s gospel and being present with Jesus…[John 9: 1-41 is read]
As I listened to the story of Jesus healing the man born blind, I was struck by how many people were blamed for the poor man’s blindness.
The blaming starts as Jesus and the disciples walk by the blind man. The disciples immediately ask Jesus, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Someone must be responsible for this man’s blindness.
The one who is not blamed—though I suspect the disciples thought about it—is God. There is that age old question: why do bad things happen to good people? And God is often blamed.
The blame game happens in our day, too. Following the tsunami in Japan, Tokyo Governor Shintaro Ishihara blamed the people, saying the tsunami was “divine punishment” for their egoism.
When something terrible happens, we rush to blame someone. The blame game is deep inside of our DNA.
CBS’s 60 Minutes recently had a segment about unemployed families unable to pay their mortgages and ending up homeless. Among those interviewed were a number of children from these families. These children blamed themselves for their families living in rundown motels. If it weren’t for their basic needs of food and clothing, they said, their parents wouldn’t be homeless; if they hadn’t been born, everything would be fine. These youngsters have already learned the world’s game of finding someone to blame when terrible things happen.
In the story of the man born blind, Jesus changes the focus and the energy from blaming to healing. Rather than expending enormous amounts of energy trying to figure out who is responsible for this man’s blindness, Jesus does his best to restore his eyesight. You would think there would be a celebration for this miraculous healing but not so. Now, the Pharisees blame Jesus. Hadn’t he learned the Ten Commandments while growing up, especially “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy?” How dare Jesus heal the blind man on the Sabbath? The Pharisees want to get everything perfectly right before they act. “Really, Jesus,” they seem to ask, “what would it hurt to wait just a little longer and heal this man on Monday morning. It’s only two days more. The poor guy has been blind all is life; what will another few days matter in the grand scheme of things if you end up obeying God’s commandment by doing no work on the Sabbath?”
The blame game works like that. Perhaps it has happened to you. It is often good religious people who are quick to blame us. You try to help an aging family member. You have no magic solutions but you know something must be done. You worry about your mother. Others provide you with all the “right answers,” but they aren’t willing to lift a finger. Moving your mother from her home breaks your heart, but the other options are far worse. You must act now.
Lent is the occasion when Jesus heals us just like the blind man and invites us to heal others. God errs on the side of mercy every time. I suppose God could withhold mercy from us— after all, it is 100% certain we will foul up again. But God is extravagant with heavenly love and risks letting us taste heavenly grace and mercy over and over again. Once we taste such love, one hopes we will run out and share that love with other suffering people. God willing, we will err on the side of mercy and not worry so much about making a few mistakes in the process. Our greatest desire will be to heal someone in Jesus’ name and to trust that God will look lovingly upon any mistakes we might make in the process.
At a training session here yesterday for those who work with the many ministries of TACO and First Lutheran Church, Jim Lovell reported the most recent statistics of homeless people living in the city of San Diego. The statistics are staggering. More than 3,000 people are currently living on our streets. As the blind man stood before Jesus, our homeless brothers and sisters stand before us. What will we do for them in Jesus’ name?
Let me assure you, there are those who would prefer we do nothing. In fact, some blame us for trying. We were blamed this past week. Two local developers came and blamed us for the urinating and defecating that is occurring around our building. Make no mistake: we are not in favor of public urinating or defecating and whenever we see it occurring, we pitch a fit. We told these developers that we want to be part of the solution. In fact, we have done just that: we have pled with our City Council in a private meeting to have more bathrooms downtown; I have spoken publicly on behalf of the San Diego Organizing Project at City Council meetings, begging city officials to care as much about creating a long-term solutions to chronic homelessness as about building a stadium for the San Diego Chargers. We even keep our bathrooms open to all who come by here at considerable cost to our congregation. And yet, because we dare to care, we are blamed.
Jesus’ healing the blind man is our personal invitation to get involved with suffering people in our own lives. When Jesus heals the blind man, he shows us the beauty of placing another person’s well-being higher than trying to get everything just right before we lift a finger.
I suspect that each of you has a blind person or two in your life waiting for you to come and heal them—maybe an aging parent, an addicted son, a mentally ill neighbor, a sick sister. I urge you to take the risk: go, care for them. If you make a mistake along the way and someone blames you for a wrong you have done, know that you join very good company with Jesus. So in Jesus name, I urge you, go heal somebody.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
March 27, 2011
Third Sunday in Lent
John 4: 5-42
"Its Beauty Is in Its Length"
Don’t even tell me: I know that was an incredibly long gospel reading. I hope you never forget how long it was. Never forget that it is the longest conversation Jesus had with anyone in the Bible. And one other thing I hope you never forget: this long reading was not with Jesus’ mother, Mary, or one of his disciples; it was with a Samaritan woman.
That Jesus talked with a Samaritan woman should shock you even more than the length of today’s reading. Samaritans were outsiders, impure as far as the Jews were concerned, enemies. Be shocked that Jesus even looked at this woman, let alone asked her for a drink of water. Jesus asking her for a drink of water was tantamount to his saying, “Do you want to go out on a date.”
Honorable women went to the well early in the morning, right after they had gotten their children off to school and swept the house. They gathered to fetch the daily water for their families and to share in a little town gossip. Only a dishonorable woman would come to the well at noon.
You probably are shocked by the woman’s reputation. She had been married five times and was working on husband number six. This promiscuous woman shocked everyone in the village and she has shocked the church for the past twenty one hundred years.
Maybe, though, we shouldn’t be shocked by all her marriages. Just this week, I read something about this woman that has changed how I have viewed her for most of my lifetime. I read an article by a woman biblical scholar (Karoline Lewis of Luther Seminary) who suggests that the Samaritan woman might not have been promiscuous at all; rather she may have been widowed or abandoned by her husbands or they divorced her. Women of her day had no rights and were treated like raw meat. This woman expected people to treat her terribly and this is what makes the length of this morning’s gospel astonishing. Jesus was different. Jesus cared enough for her that he was in no hurry to end their conversation. He could have said, “Have a nice day,” and rushed off with his busy life. Time was of the essence for Jesus: he had only three years to do his entire ministry, to tend to his miracles and all his healings--every minute counted. And yet Jesus took time to be with this woman and to listen to her. She and Jesus talked about her life, her brokenness, her shame, her rejection. They talked about who Jesus was and, believe it or not, she, an outsider and enemy, was the first to hear Jesus say that he was the Messiah and she was the first to tell the people of her village what she had seen and heard—an outsider, an enemy, becomes the first evangelist!
Imagine if we were all a little bit like Jesus--after all, we are his followers. Imagine if we took the time to listen to one another, to those we like, of course, but also to visitors and strangers and odd ducks. Imagine if we treated every occasion with another person as an opportunity to have a conversation on Jesus’ behalf.
We are told that first time visitors to our church will decide within ten minutes whether they will ever return here again. In those ten minutes, no organ has been played, no hymns sung, no lessons read, no sermon preached. How do the visitors decide so quickly? Of course, by whether they feel welcomed. Do we listen to where they are from, how they have come by here? Do we introduce them to one other person before running off and doing something else that seems so important? Do we make sure that no visitor ends up in the corner, alone, feeling out of place and awkward? Ten minutes and they know whether they have been listened to.
You know how edgy you feel when entering a room and not knowing a soul. Imagine if you haven’t been to church for twenty years—you got a divorce, arrested for a DUI, attempted suicide, your pastor discovered you are gay. You have stayed away for a long time and then you finally decide to enter again. It takes courage. You are certain the spotlight is shining directly on you. You are aware of every move you make, every word you speak. When someone talks with you longer than usual, you suddenly feel like matter again.
It must have been like that for the Samaritan woman when she talked with Jesus. She just knew that Jesus cared about her and she began to pour out her soul like she had never done with anyone else before. Suddenly, she felt as if she mattered.
Have you ever done that, poured out your soul, telling someone your deepest, most painful secrets? The ease of telling your story surprised you. There was something about how he looked into your eyes that told you he cared. It was how she listened to you, rephrasing a word here and there, letting you know that she was paying attention. When the conversation ended, you said, “Thank you for the conversation,” but, when you thought about it, what surprised you is that you had done all the talking and all she had done was listen. You felt like the Samaritan woman when she said, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” Could it be that Jesus knew all this about the woman, not by extra sensory perception, some unique miraculous power, or some direct message from heaven, but simply because he took the time to sit with her and listen for a very long time? Maybe a miracle is afoot every time we give one another the time to listen and to care.
I agree with you that today’s gospel reading was awfully long and yet its beauty is in its length. The length of the story is a testament to the dignity Jesus offered to this Samaritan woman.
When you leave here this morning, may you know that God promises to listen to you, too, as long as you wish—just as long as Jesus listened to the Samaritan woman.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Second Sunday in Lent
March 20, 2011
Genesis 12: 1-4a; John 3: 1-17
"That Look of Faith in Your Eyes"
Our congregation celebrated its 123rd birthday on Friday, March 18. Unlike Sarah and Abraham who traveled far from home to serve God, our congregation has never ventured farther than a few city blocks to be God’s servant. And yet, like Sarah and Abraham, over the years, First Lutheran Church has had to leave the security of what is familiar and venture into the unknown, trusting only that God is leading us and guiding us.
God promised Abraham and Sarah that they would become parents of a great nation. So off they went on a journey to a strange, new country. No sooner had they stopped at the first oasis to water the camels than they began to question their sanity. They were old and thirsty and the blazing sun was shriveling their ancient flesh.
Things didn’t go as God had promised. Frederick Buechner notes that instead of getting a Promised Land flowing with milk and honey, Abraham and Sarah ended up with scrub country around Dead Man’s Gulch. To make matters worse, far from being the parents of a great nation, Sarah couldn’t even have babies. And yet, as these strange journeys of faith so often do, as a special present from God on Abraham’s hundredth birthday, God surprised Abraham’s wife, Sarah, with the news that she was going to have a son.
Even at the end of his life when his family hadn’t, by a long shot, become a great nation, Abraham had that “look of faith in his eyes.” He sensed that God would keep the promises and his family would end up being winners--even the losers would be winners. And who knows when, some day, Abraham would talk proudly of his great-great- great grandson, Jesus, the Light of the World. (cf., Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who’s Who, pg. 3-5).
As we consider this congregation’s history, you could say it has had, by the grace of God, the “look of faith in its eyes” too. In my six years as your pastor, I have never heard one of you utter the old congregational killer, “We never have done it that way before.” The only times I have ever caught you looking backward is when you wanted to summons the courage to move courageously into the future. You looked backward a few years ago when celebrating thirty years of Bread Day--you looked backwards to motivate you into the future with even better service to the poor and homeless of this community. I caught you peaking backwards in 2009 as we celebrated twenty years as a Reconciling in Christ congregation--you looked back to boost your courage to keep opening our doors wider and wider to all kinds of God’s children.
I have seen that look of faith in your eyes, too, in your personal life. You may not notice that look but I can assure you it is there. You told me about being a stumbling drunk for years and years, losing jobs and alienating family until, out of the blue, you came to believe that a power greater than yourself could restore you to sanity and you haven’t had a drink since--that’s the look of faith in your eyes.
One of you fought like cats and dogs with the one you promised to love for better or worse. There hadn’t been decent word between you for a long time except on the occasion of friends visiting when you wanted to keep up appearances. There was that terrible day when you screamed, “I wish you were dead!” Your callous words scared you silly. You wept and you went to her and said, “We must talk.” That was a frightening step after months and months, years really, of incivility. In the awkward talking, festering wounds began to heal. You embraced and you both began to be made new. It was that look of faith in your eyes yet again.
It is always scary to go to a new land, a place you have never been before. Nicodemus was scared to death that night he went to Jesus in the darkness. Who knows how Nicodemus felt when Jesus invited him to be born again.
Anne Lamott, in her book Traveling Mercies, describes what that frightening feeling at baptism feels like: “Most of what we do in worldly life is geared toward staying dry, looking good, not going under. But in baptism, in lakes and rain and tanks and fonts, you agree to do something that’s a little sloppy because at the same time it is also holy, and absurd. It’s about surrender, giving in to all those things we can’t control; it’s a willingness to let go of balance and decorum and get drenched.”
It is a good idea to place our fingers deep into the baptismal waters whenever we arrive here and whenever we leave. Dripping wet, we are reminded that being a Christian is almost always scary stuff if we are doing it half right and yet it is also almost always exhilarating.
When I was eight years old, my father wanted me to jump off the high dive at Oglebay Park’s swimming pool. I climbed the twelve steps of the ladder with knocking knees. I tip-toed out to the edge of the board and looked way down below and saw my Dad dog-paddling. He yelled up, “Jump, Wilk, jump. I will get you.” Every bone in my skinny, little body told me that jumping was ill-advised, but, if you are lucky enough to have a daddy you trust, you just close your eyes and do it…What a thrill, jumping and knowing we will be in our heavenly Father’s arms in no time.
It’s hard to know how and where God is calling each of us to jump, and yet we can be certain if we heed God’s call, it will make all the difference in our life and in the world’s. Only you will discover where God calls you to jump. Abraham and Sarah went to an unknown country; Nicodemus only went a few blocks but was so scared it seemed like a million miles; this congregation has jumped countless times and every jump has given new life on this corner of God’s universe; Jesus jumped up onto the cross and was raised from the dead. Every jump is different. And yet when God yells up to us, “I will not let your foot be moved,” we take the leap and, as we end up dripping wet in God’s arms, we all have that “look of faith in our eyes.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
March 13, 2011
First Sunday in Lent
Genesis 2: 15-17; 3: 1-7 Matthew 4: 1-11
"The Church's Middle Passage"
E. L. Doctorow, in his heartbreaking novel, Homer and Langley, writes of two wealthy bachelor brothers who lived in a stately New York mansion on Fifth Avenue. The novel is part fiction and part fact. What is fact is that the Collyer brothers’ bodies were discovered in March 1947 amidst tons of debris, treasure, and trash that they had hoarded inside their home. The police found dozens of pianos, their doctor father's jars of human specimen parts, tens of thousands of newspapers stacked from floor to ceiling, eight feral cats, sewing machine parts, a baby carriage, and, believe it or not, a Model T Ford in the living room, and much, much more. These brothers sadly never felt they had enough.
Even in the Garden of Eden, the most perfect place ever, Adam and Eve felt like Homer and Langley. They simply did not have enough. God had told them, “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat.” As so often happens when there are restrictions, Adam and Eve forgot about all the other trees in Paradise that were theirs for the taking and instead obsessed over the one tree that belonged to God and not to them.
Jesus faced a similar temptation. After fasting in the desert for forty days and forty nights, he was hungry and weak, susceptible to the devil’s trickery. The devil came to Jesus and told him that he could make the world a far better place if he only bowed ever so slightly in the devil’s direction. Satan always works that way, offering the option of better or best. In exchange for that little bow, Jesus could have everything in the world he wanted, making it a far better place and feeding every hungry person to boot. The question the devil posed to Jesus in three different ways was whether Jesus had enough fame, authority and power to accomplish his ministry.
The devil is crafty. He places the identical question before us that he placed before Homer and Langley, Adam and Eve, and Jesus, “Are you sure you have enough?”
How much is enough? Lack of safe water and sanitation is the world’s single largest cause of illness. 42 per cent of households have no toilets; one in six people have no access to safe water. About 4,500 children die each day from unsafe water and lack of basic sanitation facilities.
You would think people living in such miserable conditions would be susceptible to the devil’s trickery and I’m sure some are. After all, they certainly don’t have enough. What is astonishing is that Christianity is on the rise in places where water is as precious as gold. Lutheranism is growing fastest, not in Germany or Sweden or here in America but in Africa where 700,000 joined the church last year. In contrast, Lutheran churches in Europe declined by 400,000 members and by 84,000 in America.
Foreign visitors often return from poor places of Central America and Africa raving about the vibrancy of worship. They are astonished that people stay in church all day, praying and singing songs to God. These people seem to realize through excruciating hunger and thirst--there own desert trial--that the bread of heaven is far more life-giving than what we depend upon in rich nations.
(Please beware however: do not say that poor people are “so happy” as if their so called “happiness” makes up for the misery set before them. I often hear people say how “happy” poor Mexicans seem. We dare not glamorize being hungry unless we first walk in these people’s shoes. A culture’s uplifting worship and happiness with the simple things of life is never a pardon of richer brothers and sisters from assisting to relieve the misery of poverty.)
I have found over in over again in our land that people will only stay in church for so long. I had one person once tell me that it was an offense that worship lasted longer than an hour, even 15 minutes longer. The church growth gurus understand these desires for short worship and counsel that worship never last longer than 55 minutes, the amount of time we typically give to Hawaii 500 or NCIS Los Angeles. How sad that we spend less time with God than we are willing to commit to nonsense like American Idol and Dancing with the Stars.
There comes a time in many of our lives when we realize that what we have been eating is sucking the life out of our very souls. Many of us have discovered a gapping hole in our heart around midlife. We have spent a lifetime trying to feed that demanding hole with diligent study, hard work, prudent saving, and hard drinking. We are successful by every imaginable standard and yet we are miserable. We are plagued by the haunting question, “Is this all there is to life?”
The psychologist James Hollis refers to this time of life not with the pejorative term “midlife crisis” but rather with the more positive twist of “middle passage.” He believes this frightening time in our lives when we wonder, “Is this all there is?” is also filled with marvelous possibilities of new meaning and discovery if we only quit our terrible habits and devastating ways.
Lent is the church’s middle passage. Lent is the forty days when we repent, when we turn from our ravenous appetites and incessant desires to see whether there might be a more salutary way. Is it any wonder life feels so meaningless when our finest hours are spent watching Charlie Sheen’s life unravel? The seven o’clock hour devoted to television is one of our worst and fiercest addictions. As PBS twists in the gallows, so should ABC, NBC, and CBS for the incessant rubbish they send over our airwaves. Let us fast, if not totally at least some, from the compulsive surfing of “57 channels and nothing on.” Every time we see Charlie Sheen’s face, let us turn off the television and reach for our Bibles and read a Psalm or two. Perhaps when you are tossing and turning at night, turn on the light, reach for your Bible on your bed stand and flip to any Psalm and for the first time perhaps discover someone who knows exactly what you are going through; you will find a new friend--not on Facebook but in the Bible.
Take a break from worrying about your relentless needs and experience the thrill of giving $150 to purchase a well pump in a poor community in Africa. Experience the sense of exhilaration of donating $20 this morning, on the spot, to the ELCA Disaster Relief Fund to help those suffering so badly in Japan. Suddenly life is larger and petty worries that once nagged us don’t seem nearly as consuming.
Homer and Langley Collyer found it impossible to do the necessary spring cleaning in their New York mansion and finally were tragically smothered to death by all their useless stuff. Lent is our rare opportunity to do some spring cleaning of our souls and to make room for the wondrous gifts of the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
March 9, 2011
Ash Wednesday
Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-21
"Embracing Our Failures As Our Lenten Discipline "
Every Ash Wednesday I make the identical exhortation to you on behalf of the church down through the ages. It begins this way: “As disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ we are called to struggle against everything that leads us away from love of God and neighbor. Repentance, fasting, prayer, and works of love—the discipline of Lent—helps us to wage spiritual warfare.”
Every year as I say these words, I wonder how many of us take them seriously at all. The words sound so pious and holy but will we repent, fast, pray, and perform works of love? Do we plan to do that?
Jesus gives us advice on how to go about our Lenten discipline. He speaks of giving alms and praying in a manner that does not draw attention to ourselves; he speaks of fasting with joy.
Every year I map out my own Lenten discipline. And every year, at about six or seven days into Lent, I start failing to keep my discipline. I have tried my best. I have tried to read four Psalms every day and I have discovered, even when I do, my mind wanders terribly and I simply read by rote. I have tried to fast once a week and give that money to help the poor and almost always the delicious aromas wafting from In and Out Burger grease get the better of me. This year, I hope to read through Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, a book recommended by a pastor friend for the Lenten journey. But I do wonder whether I will be able to stick to my guns and observe a holy Lent.
Have you been able to be more disciplined than I in your Lenten observance?
Maybe, before embarking on our Lenten journey, we should give serious consideration to those ashes soon to be smudged on our foreheads. Let us contemplate the words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” The words and ashes are reminders that, no matter how good our intentions, we will sooner or later fail. Said another way: we will all certainly die—remember that you are dust!
I have come to believe that failing to keep our Lenten discipline may not be a particularly bad thing; in fact, it might be a good thing. I am not suggesting that we not try to keep a holy Lent. Of course I hope we enhance our prayer life, increase our Bible reading, attend worship faithfully, and participate in our wonderful midweek Lenten program, “Wade in the Water.” I pray that we will skip a meal or two along the way and give that money to our Lutheran World Relief well project. If we come close to doing some of this, our Lent will almost certainly be a bright and joyful one.
And yet if we fail come day five or eight or fourteen days in, let us not be disheartened. That is all part of our dustness—remembering that we are dust. When our best intentions to keep a faithful Lent go awry, we shouldn’t throw up our hands in disgust; we may be on to something very good. Could it be that when we fail, we do better than we ever imagine in reminding ourselves, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
Perhaps we can all weave our Lenten failures into the fabric of our Lenten discipline. Every time we stumble—forgetting to pray, failing to fast, not showing mercy to a brother or sister in Christ—let us turn to the Lord our God yet again and be reminded of just how gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love our God is.
Whether we keep our Lenten discipline or fail miserably, remember: the point of Lent is not to prove how good we are but rather to return to the Lord our God. If we fail, let us realize how much we need God; if we succeed, let us give thanks that God is with us every step of the way.
And so, once again, my dear brothers and sisters in Christ, the Lenten Exhortation:
“Brothers and sisters: God created us to experience joy in communion with him, to love all humanity, and to live in harmony with all of his creation. But sin separates us from God, our neighbors, and creation, and so we do not enjoy the life our Creator intended for us. Also, by our sin we grieve our Father, who does not desire us to come under his judgment, but to turn to him and live.
“As disciples of the Lord Jesus we are called to struggle against everything that leads us away from love of God and neighbor. Repentance, fasting, prayer, and works of love—the discipline of Lent—help us to wage our spiritual warfare. I invite you, therefore, to commit yourselves to this struggle and confess your sins, asking our Father for strength to persevere in your Lenten discipline.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Transfiguration of Our Lord
March 6, 2011
Matthew 17: 1-9
"The Teeter-Totter of Life and Ministry"
“Jesus face shone like the sun and his clothes became dazzling white.” Add to that astonishing vision, Peter, James, and John seeing Jesus talk with Moses and Elijah on the mountaintop and you have quite a day. Call it Transfiguration Day.
If you had been there with Peter, James, and John, how would you tell the story once you came down from the mountain? I have a hunch I would have been tight-lipped. When someone knocks on the church door and claims to have seen Moses, Elijah, and Jesus out on 3rd Avenue, well….
I doubt Peter, James on John told a soul. I’ll bet, though, they wondered for a lifetime whether it really was God they had heard who said from heaven, “This is my Son, the Beloved.” It is these moments, crammed with mystery, that sustain us through some pretty tough times and yet rarely are there words to describe them.
Have you ever had such a moment? Even if you have words for it, you dare not tell a soul for fear of what they might think.
The deepest beliefs of our church are formed by these mysteries too deep for words. Take for instance God coming to Bethlehem as a baby—how to explain? Or God dying on the cross—you said God? Or Jesus being raised from the dead—whatever happened that day changed the world.
We tend to domesticate these impenetrable mysteries, taming their wonder, making them as sweet as little kitties and as toothless as elderly lions. We bring them down to our level of understanding and emasculate the wonder. We are suspicious of uncommon occurrences and yet it is these very rare moments, too marvelous for words, that sustain us when we come down from the mountain and the going gets tough.
I had one of those mountaintop moments right here, last Sunday morning. Never did I imagine you would honor me on my 60th birthday. When Pastor Jim Hallerberg came forward towards the end of worship with a little bag, I had no idea what was going on or that the bag was filled with your kind greetings and gifts. Jim’s thoughtful words, your singing of “Now Thank We All Our God,” the delicious cakes and delightful pińata--I was speechless.
When we got home, Dagmar handed me the bag of cards and said, “Why don’t you open them.” I slowly opened one card after another. Your generosity washed over me quite unlike anything I can remember.
It might sound strange, but in those hours, I beheld a mystery. It was such a rare occasion, a blessing from heaven really. I had no words for what occurred. I kept wondering about my emotions: had I demonstrated sufficient appreciation to you on Sunday morning? Whatever grace it was, please know how deeply you moved me and how grateful I am.
And yet, I must come down from that 60th birthday mountain. You might even be saying to yourself, “You are right, pastor: enough of the 60th birthday stuff; now, on with ministry.”
The disciples experienced life similarly. Only six days before climbing the mountain, Jesus had a memorable conversation with them. Like so many conversations, it was a teeter- tooter affair, up and down. Jesus asked the disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” Peter answered, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Jesus exclaimed, “You are Peter, and on this rock, I will build my church!” That was a mountaintop experience for Peter.
And yet, hardly any time had passed before Jesus shared the startling news of his impending death. Peter said to Jesus, “This shall never happen to you.” Jesus said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan!” That was a valley for Peter.
Peter’s life is our life, up and down, stirring exhilaration and untold heartache, joyous celebrations and crushing defeats.
The church year replicates these peaks and valleys. For the past two months we have celebrated the birth of Jesus and the surprising ways that God has been revealed through his son, Jesus, here on earth. We have had the wreath of lights up since Christmas, reminding us of the light of Christ. In a few days, the church will go down the hill to Ash Wednesday. For 40 days and 40 nights, we will not sing the word Alleluia even once. The colors of our worship will be subdued. For some, it will feel depressing. We will eagerly await Easter with the splendid flowers and the uplifting Alleluias. What we will face in weeks to come is the teeter-tottering of the church’s worship life, the up and down.
Our lives are like that the church year. Teeter-totter. We need to go to the mountain with Jesus, to have brilliant moments that are indescribable and that will bolster us. And yet we also must leave worship behind, to come back down to a world crying for our attention.
I love that about our church, First Lutheran. I told another pastor a few days ago that we worship the best we are able, with no apologies, and then we go out into the world and tackle the toughest issues that our world faces, all with considerable dignity and grace. Up and down--that’s what our ministry at First Lutheran Church is in a nutshell.
I pray that each of you will have a few of those inexplicable moments like the disciples had, high up on the mountain with Jesus. Those moments, though rare, will make your eyes go wide open. Who knows when and how those moments will come. One came for Bill and Martha Radatz this week as they celebrated the birth of their new grandson, Henry. Such a moment might come as you travel to the desert in the coming days and see springtime cacti blossoms arising from what seems death itself. One might come in a few moments when eight new members gather here at the river to join our church: you longtime members will be thrilled, trusting that your commitment to this place over the years has all been worth it; and you new members will be delighted as you have found a place like this. Rare moments and yet filled with grace. The Trappist monk Thomas Merton called these moments “kisses from God.”
May you all have a few kisses from God and may those kisses sustain you as you go down the mountain to embrace a suffering world.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
February 27, 2011
Eight Sunday after Epiphany
Matthew 6: 24-34
"What's A Care?"
“Do not worry about your life.” Hearing Jesus speak these words causes our tight muscles to relax, our clenched fists to open, and our labored breathing to lighten.
Worrying is second nature to most of us. Is there anyone here this morning not nagged by a worry?
I heard Adele Stiles Resmer, the then professor of preaching at the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, preach a sermon that has stuck with me for eleven years now. She told of swinging on her backyard hammock with her five year old nephew, Carson. She said it this way: “His arm was casually thrown up behind his head, a relaxed, summer look on his face. And I couldn’t help but say, ‘Carson, you look like you don’t have a care in the world.’ He looked at me rather quizzically for a moment and then he said, ‘Aunt Adele, what’s a care?’”
“Can you imagine?’ she went on. “Can you remember back far enough or was there ever a time in your life that you did not know what a care was? If there ever was such a time it is a distant memory for most of us. We are all too familiar with ‘what a care is.’”
We pastors could answer little Carson’s question. We worry about a myriad of things from disgruntled members to decreased offerings to shrinking memberships to leaky roofs. A recent study found that 69% of pastors in our Evangelical Lutheran Church in America are overweight, 64% have high blood pressure, 13% take antidepressants; not to mention failed marriages, addictions, and quitting the ministry. Oh, yes, we pastors know what a care is. And we are not the only ones.
Jesus had a care or two. From before he was born, angels were already propping up his mother and father. “Do not be afraid,” said the angels to Mary and Joseph. When the baby Jesus was born, things only got scarier. Loving enemies, siding with underdogs, calling the rich and powerful to treat the poor and oppressed with compassion, seeing the cross looming—a host of cares. When finally nailed to that cross, Jesus uttered the greatest of all cares, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
But I don’t need to tell you: you know what a care is.
Is it any wonder that Jesus tells us, “You cannot serve God and wealth.” He is trying to lighten our load, not make us more miserable.
You have noticed, I’m sure, how we worry about things that don’t amount to a hill of beans. We worry about our possessions--here today and gone tomorrow. We know we should not worry about such silly stuff, and yet it has a creepy way of getting under our skin and staying there. We worry about people stealing our stuff; we worry about losing our stuff; we worry about having enough stuff when we grow older; we worry about whether anyone will relish our stuff when we die. Oh yes, you understand cares.
When my mother moved from her country home to a smaller condominium after my father died, Dagmar and I told her we would come and help her pack with one condition: she would have to have a dumpster awaiting when we arrived. Our recommendation made my mom angrier than a hornet but, in her inimitable way, she tried not to show it. All the stuff destined for a dumpster was so precious to her. She had remembrances of nearly fifty years of marriage, beautiful things from her mother and father’s home, sentimental relics from the family business dating back to 1909. Mom cherished those treasures and my how she worried about them.
What should she save, what should she toss? The old musty camping equipment was easy—toss! The gigantic safe from the Wheeling Realty Company—sell— too colossal to toss! She had tenderly banded together every letter I had written dad and her when I was in college and divinity school—give them to me and I will secretly toss them when I get home. The beautiful antique vase—of course, Dagmar will find flowers for it.
You get the picture: you have done the merciless reckoning. You have saved and saved and then the awful moment arrives when letting go of dear memories makes your tummy churn as if on a roller-coaster ride gone bad.
What is a care?
Jesus wants us to clean the messy cabinets of our souls so we can once again sleep like a baby. He wants us to make room for the things that are truly priceless which moth and rust can never destroy. He wants us to make space for the precious keepsakes of the kingdom lavishly offered by God and which will be with us for eternity.
We gather here this morning to reassure one another that God will fill the recesses of our hearts with treasures from heaven. We come here week after week to tell one another about the time we lost everything and survived. Your house burnt down, you lost your marriage, your dear husband or wife died—all seemed lost. Remember? And yet, thankfully, Jesus was with you. You didn’t realize his presence immediately--that took time, maybe a month, even a year. You cried, you screamed, you drank too much, but, then, presto, Jesus touched your shoulder and, for the first time maybe ever, you felt like a bird soaring in the sky.
That’s how we share the gospel: do not be afraid, we tell one another. That’s what the Simon’s Walk volunteers do whom we commission this morning. Michelle Matson and Marge Hersom join a cadre of volunteers who accompany people who are dying on our streets. Imagine how our homeless brothers and sisters must feel in their final months. Does anyone care? Does God care? These wonderful volunteers assure these blessed dying ones that God, whose eye is on the sparrow, is certainly on them, precious children of God that they are.
The wonder of Christian communities like this is that someone sings the songs of Jesus’ love to us when we are filled with cares and are unable to sing ourselves. God willing, though, there will come a time when, finally, we will catch ourselves singing, too, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” This is God’s music, God’s treasure. With these words ringing in our ears, what’s a care—or even two?
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
February 20, 2011
Matthew 5: 38-48
"The Badwater 135"
Dagmar and I had a wonderful vacation this past week, celebrating my 60th birthday. I have a few traditions I observe before leaving for vacation: one is cleaning off my office desk and making it spotless—actually dumping everything into a central drawer; another is choosing the books I will read when away (this time around, My Reading Life by Pat Conroy and Barefoot Disciple by Stephen Cherry, a book on humility, recommended for Lent 2011 by the Archbishop of Canterbury).
Dagmar and I found solace in the fierce landscape of Death Valley. We hiked dramatic trails, swam in hot springs, explored a ghost town, and took a 27 mile off road journey in Dagmar’s truck.
My greatest joy, though, was seeing the Badwater ultramarathon course that I have dreamed of running for many years. Badwater is a 135 mile race run in the 120 degree heat of July. The race begins at the lowest point in the United States, Badwater Basin, 282 feet below sea level; it finishes near the highest point in continental U.S., the portal to Mount Whitney. I ran three of the 135 miles on the flattest part of the course with the temperature 50 degrees cooler than when the race is run. I wept the entire way out of sheer joy.
Unfortunately, I was unable to complete one of my other pre-vacation rituals before hitting the road. I had every intention of finishing this morning’s sermon before leaving for Death Valley; however, Jesus’ words from the Sermon on the Mount got the better of me and proved tougher than finishing the Badwater 135. “If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other as well” and “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” pounded me like the bright sun and blowing sand of Death Valley for our entire vacation.
I can honestly say that these words of Jesus have pounded me most of my life. I find no others in the Bible nearly as challenging or quite so haunting.
When I was in college, I minored in “Peace Studies.” My intention was to better understand Jesus’ command to love one’s enemies. I thought I could get it right with sufficient study. I studied the teachings of the historic peace churches like the Quakers and Mennonites who take Jesus at his word, refusing to bear arms in military service. I pondered Saint Augustine’s “Just War Theory” devised 1700 years ago which sets standards to determine whether a war will be just--one requirements is that innocent civilians’ lives not be endangered, another is that all war is lamentable. I contemplated Martin Luther’s Two Kingdoms Theory which states that it is legitimate to bear arms against an enemy only when our neighbor’s life is at risk. I studied different governments’ approaches to conflict down through history.
With all that studying, I ended up more baffled than ever by Jesus’ words. I discovered that faithful Christians have pretty much had opposing ideas about how best to love one’s enemies from the beginning. We need not look beyond this congregation to understand this: we have opposing views about our nation’s participation in Iraq and Afghanistan and I dare say we all feel our opinion is the most Christian.
Like so many matters that confront us Christians daily, simple answers are not readily available. We have to think and pray and discuss with one another to have any comprehension of what Jesus would have us do. Sometimes, we seem incapable of getting things right!
(Note by the way that this particular issue of war and peace and love of enemy about which Jesus had so much to say has not been nearly as divisive to our ELCA as have been issues of human sexuality. One wonders, actually, why those who want to take the Bible “seriously” do not begin with the words of Jesus on loving one’s enemy rather than with the issue of homosexuality about which Jesus said nothing. If one wishes to be literal about “what the Bible says,” such literalism, it seems to me, should start first with turning the other cheek and loving ones enemies. If one can be literal there, then move on. If not, at least admit how tough it is to take the Bible literally.)
We find it so hard to love our families, our church, and our nation let alone our enemies. For that reason alone, it is probably a good thing that we never get too comfortable with Jesus’ words. As Jesus’ words stayed with me throughout my vacation, maybe his words should stay with us until there is war no more and peace on earth.
Some of our greatest leaders have been pressed severely by the cost of hate for enemy. General Dwight Eisenhower, a month after victory in Europe in World War II said in London, “Humility must always be the portion of any man who receives acclaim earned in blood of his followers and sacrifices of his friends.” President Abraham Lincoln, when asked whether God was on the Union’s side against the Confederacy, said: “That is not the question. The question is whether we are on God’s side.” And one old veteran asked, “Was there ever a truly heroic veteran who liked to tell his war stories?”
Those who have tasted the bitterness of battle know the horror that accompanies the failure to love one’s enemies. Those brave ones have witnessed the butchery of innocent women and helpless children and the slaughter of courageous young warriors. Dare we ever not be hounded by Jesus’ invitation to love our enemies?
God blesses communities like ours here at First Lutheran with the opportunity to gather together and seek the mind of Christ in the face of monstrously difficult questions. When we seek answers to tough questions together as the people of God, we will almost certainly lose our tempers from time to time--that is the price of truth-seeking. The mark of the Christian community is not always getting things right or even never bickering with one another; rather the mark of the Christian community is learning the discipline of grappling with hard questions together, forgiving one another when our tempers get the better of us, and trying repeatedly to turn the other cheek and to love our enemies.
Maybe it is not so bad that Jesus’ words, “Love your enemies,” constantly disturb us. Until there is peace in our families, in our church, in our nation, and peace on earth, we do well to return to God over and over again, begging for forgiveness and longing for the grace to love one another better than we have before.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
February 6, 2011
Fifth Sunday after Epiphany
Matthew 5: 13-20
"Epiphany Light Boxes"
It’s getting lighter out in the evening and we San Diegans love it. Those of you who join us this morning from places like Minnesota and Indiana and Illinois and flee the ice and snow and wind, we pray that you will find a bit of warmth and light in our fair city and in this place this morning.
Farewell, deep dark days of December and January; welcome brighter days of February. The increasing light makes our spirits soar; surfing and gardening, jogging and barbecuing beckon us. It is good to be alive.
We crave the light. Studies indicate that people who live in northern countries where darkness lingers longest are far more prone to suffer depression than those living in brighter places. Perhaps you suffer from what is called seasonal affective disorder, those bouts of depression that come like clockwork each year during the dark days of fall and winter and magically disappear as soon as the light returns.
The Mayo Clinic recommends that people suffering from seasonal affective disorder get what is called a light box. This box gives off bright light and mimics natural outdoor light. If you sit near it, you begin to feel better.
The season of Epiphany is the church’s light box. We gather together during the winter darkness and bathe ourselves in Christ’s glorious light. We sing of it, celebrate it, tell stories about it--Christ our dear light and blessed salvation.
On the day we were baptized, we were handed a candle and our brothers and sisters in Christ urged us, “Let you light so shine before others that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” Watch closely at baptism; you will see the little baby reach for the light, instinctively celebrating the wonder of Christ’s light coming into her life. Deep down in each of our souls, just like the baby, we yearn for God’s light whether we know it or not.
Oh, how we yearn for the light. I called Dr. Pat Lindquist this week; she is a psychotherapist and the wife of First Lutheran’s former Pastor Jack Lindquist. I once heard that babies determine how the world will treat them by the time they are six weeks old. I found this a bit suspicious and asked Pat whether it is true. She stopped me midsentence: “No, no, no, Wilk. You are wrong.” I thought she was going to tell me there is no way babies know whether they are loved or neglected at such an early age. Instead, Pat told me babies are determining how the world will treat them the moment they come out of their mothers’ womb. They are smelling mommy’s milk and reaching for protection and comfort; neurons are being set off in their tiny brains, stimulated by mommy’s loving gaze. Pat told me that if children do not receive affection early on, and repeatedly, they begin to die emotionally.
How devastating when people are not loved. We have heard quite a bit lately about the disastrous consequences of bullying. The Center for Disease Control says that the third leading cause of death among young people is suicide. What is more frightening is that bully victims are far more likely to consider suicide than those who have not been bullied.
Someone recently asked me, “Pastor, why do you speak about homosexuality from the pulpit?” I told him one reason I do so is because the church has blood on its hands: far too many pastors have bullied gay and lesbian teens from pulpits like this, telling them how terrible they are.
And it is not just teens who are bullied by the church. I recently heard of a woman dying of cancer in a nearby San Diego hospital. The family called for a priest to anoint her. When the priest entered the hospital room and saw her loving partner gathered at her side, he refused to anoint her. He told her that because she was a lesbian, she was going to rot in hell.
Our Presiding Bishop Mark Hanson recently urged the church to speak out against bullying. He said, “Our silence causes pain.” We know that bullying is not reserved only for the GLBT community. African Americans and Mexicans, mentally and physically challenged people, poor people with no health care and sitting in the emergency room critically ill--all have been victims of devastating harassment for years and years.
First Lutheran is called to be an “Epiphany Light Box,” to tell all those who wonder whether anyone loves them that we do and God does. On Thursday, I had the honor of introducing Pastor Mark Trotter, the retired pastor of First United Methodist Church-- Mission Valley, who spoke at our synod’s “Day of Theological Education.” In his introductory remarks, Pastor Trotter commended this congregation’s decision to remain in the city as other congregations fled urban blight and moved to greener pastures. He called this congregation “a light in the city that cannot be hidden.” He said that First Lutheran’s ministry belongs to the entire church, to all Christians everywhere. I was moved to tears for I know how many of you stayed here over the years so that we might be a light box to all who come by here.
We are called to take our light boxes beyond these church walls, to our homes, our spouses, our children. We are called to take our light boxes to people who feel as if they can’t bear life another minute. We are called to take our light boxes to dark and scary places--intensive care units, prisons, homeless encampments, city hall meetings where issues are hot and controversial, cemeteries where tears prevail. We take our light boxes to those who fear the dark and tell them that Christ’s light will never be extinguished no matter how fiercely the winds blow.
I love to come into our sanctuary late in the evening when all is dark and still. The beautiful stained glass windows are lifeless, almost nonexistent and yet I am reminded that in the morning when light shines through them, they will once again dance in splendor. We are identical to these windows. When Christ’s light does not shine through us, we become dreary and bitter and lose our saltiness; but when Christ’s light shines through us, our words become beautiful, our actions stunning, and our smiles radiant.
God invites us be the light of the world, to tell one and all, tiny babies and bullied teens, forgotten senior citizens and poor people trying to pay their bills, that God loves them and will never forget them. May God give us grace to let our little light boxes shine everywhere we go.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 30, 2011
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany
1 Corinthians 1: 18-31; Matthew 5: 1-12
"The Cross at the Intersection of 3rd and Ash"
I read a story this week that touched my heart deeply. It is about a brilliant student at the top of his seminary class. One of his professors urged him not to become a pastor but rather to get a doctorate in theology or biblical studies. The professor felt this student would end up squandering his God given talents if he ended up serving some struggling congregation in the middle of nowhere. The student did not heed his professor’s advice; instead, he answered the first call he received from a congregation to be its pastor. The professor describes the church this way: “From the airport I drove three hours through the countryside—and got lost more than once before I found the church address that MapQuest had overlooked.”
Why would such a gifted student go to such a forlorn place? The professor describes what he saw as he preached at his student’s ordination: “I looked out at the congregation of worried farmers, worn-out homemakers and bored teenagers. A yellowed fluorescent light hummed its way through the service. The microphone on the pulpit squealed when the speaker got to close. The radiators banged as the hot water rushed through them. It seemed as if even the laments of the building were part of a sacred conversation between congregation, God, and the new pastor.”
Many of you know such a congregation, a place that appears so foolish and so weak by the world’s standards, pathetic really, a place with boring sermons, plastic flowers collecting dust at the altar, an out of tune piano, and sparse attendance on the best of days. However, for many of you, it was in just such a place where you first heard that God loves you very, very much.
The church where that young pastor went seemed a dismal spot, a dead end, to so many people. And yet, the longer the professor spent there that ordination day, the deeper he fell in love with the pastor and the people as he detected God’s overwhelming presence in that tiny, forgotten place. The professor writes: “My former student has no strategic plan for ‘turning this church around.’ His only ambition is to be the next in a long line of faithfully anonymous pastors who never move on to prestigious positions.” But then he adds: “But he isn’t anonymous to these people who know his name…I saw how many of his parishioners just wanted to touch him… One man had tears in his eyes…A new pastor had come, and the congregation took it as a sign that God knew how to find them. The holiness of the room was so apparent that I almost took off my shoes. No one wanted to leave.” (M. Craig Barnes, “Clear Call,” The Christian Century, January 25, 2011)
In many ways, we here at First Lutheran aren’t terribly different from that country church except we are located here in downtown San Diego. We are pretty small but, surprisingly, we aren’t as small as we sometimes think: the majority of churches in the in the United States have fewer worshipers on Sunday morning that we do; in fact, 59% of congregations in our land average less than 100 at worship on Sunday morning. God knows, we face our challenges--almost every day. And yet, for most of us, the first moment we set foot on this place, we had an urge to take off our shoes; we sensed that this little corner of God’s universe is saturated with holiness and that a sacred bush might burst forth any moment.
Lest you or I get puffed up, the truth is we can only discover holiness here if God provides us with graceful eyes. Without God, we are sunk. There are days on my way to the church when my stomach churns. As I exit the 5 freeway and turn from 4th Avenue onto Ash Street, I sometimes feel like turning around and going home. The stench of urine often greets me and serves as the incense lifting my morning prayers to heaven. Some irate neighbor complaining of feces and toilet paper leads my morning devotions. And, the first person to announce to me, “The Lord be with you,” is inevitably a disheveled soul drinking his breakfast from a paper bag.
We who believe this congregation to be “the heart of Christ in the heart of the city” must turn to God repeatedly to discover holiness here. St. Paul’s words must accompany us and it will do us well to return to those words over and over again, like a mantra, “God chose what is foolish in this world to shame the wise…God chose what is foolish in this world to shame the wise…God chose what is foolish in this world to shame the wise.” We dare not forget these words for, if we do, we will quickly become disillusioned with this place and soon go in search for God in greener and grander pastures where things are bigger and brighter and all appears far more successful.
Only graceful eyes can possibly discover the truth of the gospel in this place. That truth can only be discovered in the cross of Christ where the odors of urine and feces prevail and where the human beings huddling around our doors have been too easily discarded by politer company.
On this day of our congregational meeting when we lift up our ministry and thank God for calling us here for the past 123 years, let us pray to God to fill us with an even deeper love for this place, with as much love as that young pastor had for his little country parish. God has placed us here to announce blessings upon the world’s foolish ones--the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek ones, the persecuted and reviled ones—and to behold them as God’s holy children.
If you look closely, you will notice as Ash Street intersects 3rd Avenue, the sign of the cross (+) is formed and First Lutheran Church is placed right in the center by God. This my dear friends is very holy ground; this is “the heart of Christ in the heart of the city;” this is where we God invites us to survey the wondrous cross and to taste and see his love.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 23, 2011
Third Sunday after Epiphany
Matthew 4: 12-23
"Twiterpated"
As you just listened to Jesus calling his first four disciples, did anything strike you as strange? What struck me as strange was how direct Jesus invitation was: “Follow me.” No subtle window dressing, no refinement, no gentle explanation. Simply, “Follow me.”
I was also struck by the disciples’ response. Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John followed Jesus immediately. No pondering the future, no counting the cost. They dropped their nets, left their boats bobbing in the Sea of Galilee, stranded their poor father to pick up the pieces, and followed immediately.
My parents taught me to make decisions differently. They taught me to make informed decisions. Before I bought a Duncan yo-yo at the corner drug store, I was taught to examine every, single yo-yo to make certain the one I bought was perfect for me. When buying a car, I learned to read Consumer Reports and then to confirm that information by consulting other automotive experts. Such research takes months and months and yet I learned early on that I would be far happier and my investment much safer if I made an informed decision.
I suppose that’s why Jesus’ call of the disciples puzzles me. Great professional football coaches never build teams the way Jesus did. Super Bowl contenders choose each player with the utmost care. Coaches spend sleepless nights evaluating prospects, watching college game films, measuring how high players can jump, how fast they can run, how much they can lift; they even test their intellectual abilities.
You would think Jesus would have done at least as much choosing his disciple as a football coach does choosing his players. After all, Jesus’ choices were about spreading the news of the kingdom of heaven not creating a competitive NFL football team. Jesus had twelve choices and each better count.
You noticed, I’m sure, that Jesus’ first four picks were fishermen. Not exactly the nucleus of a disciple dream team. They understood fishing conditions, mending nets, and choosing the right bait, but you would think they would have a tough time proclaiming that the kingdom of heaven with any degree of pizzazz.
In spite of their apparent pathetic qualifications, Jesus made a spur-of-the-moment decision and made the four fishermen his first disciples. Did you ever make a similar decision that made no sense to anyone but you? I was twenty-four years old and doing clinical training at the Lutheran Medical Center in Brooklyn as part of my required preparation to become a Lutheran pastor when I made such a decision. I was eating lunch one day in the hospital cafeteria when I spotted a beautiful woman sitting a few tables over from me. I quickly inquired as to who she was and discovered she was a German medical student. As those situations tend, one thing led to another: we had our first kiss under the Verrazano Bridge, spent an evening riding with New York’s finest patrolling the seedier areas of the Lower East Side— what a first date, and ate very hot spaghetti at an alleged Mafioso hangout.
Dagmar and I knew each other for a mere eight weeks when she returned back to Germany. We were not to be stopped. That Christmas, I went to her little village of Barnstorf and proposed. We had been together a total of seven-seven days when we were married.
You are sensing that I didn’t heed my father’s advice when it came to my future bride. Lest you think you are the only one scratching your head, you should have heard my future father-in-law when I did the gentlemanly and traditional thing of asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage after Dagmar pushed me into his wood-working shop, urged me to “ask him,” and slammed the door shut. After a bit of stuttering and stammering, I asked the big question. “I will have to think about it,” he muttered. He was not amused that his daughter was about to marry some long-haired Bible thumper from West Virginia that she hardly knew.
Whether this made sense was never the question for Dagmar and me. As Thumper said of Bambi, we were twiterpated. And as often is the case for twiterpated people, an informed decision made as much sense to us at the time as a dial telephone does to today’s teenagers.
Jesus’ calling of his first disciples was filled with twiterpation too. He said, “Follow me;” they followed immediately. It seemed like love at first sight.
And by the way, Jesus comes to you, too, and says, “Follow me.” You might question Jesus’ judgment. You know yourself better than anyone and perhaps judge yourself more harshly than anyone else—at least that’s what your therapist tells you. She keeps asking you, “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
You wonder, why me, Jesus? You say: I don’t know a thing about the Bible; I don’t pray too much and when I do I am clueless. Shouldn’t followers of Jesus be churchy types? Martin Luther said that answering Jesus invitation to “follow me” doesn’t necessarily mean becoming a pastor or making Jell-O salad with mandarin oranges for church banquets. For Luther, our ordination is our baptism as we all become priests of the kingdom of God. “Follow me” can mean bathing your aging and ailing father when it feels like both of you are losing your dignity fast; it can mean baking a pie for your neighbor who just lost her beloved husband of sixty years and needs a shoulder to cry on; “follow me” can mean cherishing the folks in your AA meeting and attending regularly; it can mean playing Scrabble with friends and laughing a whole lot; it can mean picking up the trash that litters your morning walk and beautifying God’s creation along the way. Sometimes our calls are doing very ordinary things as if they made all the difference in the world.
The story is told of a traveler who came from a great distance to study under a revered Hasidic rabbi in Poland. When he arrived in town, the people excitedly asked if he would like to hear their renowned rabbi read Torah or listen to him pray. The visitor said, no, he only wanted to watch the rabbi tie his shoes and cut his bread (Belden Lane, Landscapes of the Holy, pg. 68). This traveler knew a calling when he saw one—doing ordinary things that made all the difference in the world.
Imagine if our calling were loving the world so much that every word we spoke to one another was treated as if it would bring an end to all war; imagine if our calling was treating that person who drives us to distraction as if he were Jesus. Imagine if we treated everything and everyone as callings from God with whom we are in love. That is what it means to “follow me.”
Jesus calls each of us to be one of his disciples. His first four were fishermen. Now he chooses you. I hope you will follow him immediately; so does Jesus. You see, he is twiterpated with you.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Baptism of Our Lord (transferred)
January 16, 2011
Matthew 3: 13-17
"Let the Splish-Splashing Begin"
Perhaps you, like so many in the early church, wonder why Jesus had to be baptized by John the Baptist. You may even be embarrassed like the early church at his presence at the Jordan River. Wasn’t Jesus pure and spotless?
Sara Miles writes this of Jesus’ baptism: “The river Jordan was not even slightly picturesque: it was a muddy stream, right by the side of a public road, and John told people to walk into it, all kinds of men and women together, with no respect for order.
“This common water is where Jesus chooses to be baptized. This profane setting, outside the majestic temple doors, is where God chooses to reveal his love for his son and daughters” (Sara Miles, Jesus Freak, pgs 5,6).
You might also be wondering why God was so proud of his son for jumping in with the riff-raff. As soon as John dunked Jesus in the Jordan, God proclaimed, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” You would think our heavenly Father would have warned his son in advance, “Beware of the company you keep.” Instead, God was pleased as punch by what his son did. The Holy Spirit got in on the act too, dive bombing like a dove from heaven right into Jesus’ midst. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were celebrating together as God’s son joined the hoi-polloi here on earth.
Astonishing, really! This is not the kind of thing parents tend to be proud of. You got the Christmas cards this year; you know how parents brag about their children. All kinds of reports on soccer goals made, elite colleges gotten into, National Honor Society awards received. Not a peep about young Johnny getting caught in the men’s room smoking dope, about Mary’s disgusting string of D’s and F’s, or of that very embarrassing pregnancy. Apparently all our family and friends’ children are perfect angels--or maybe the cards you received were different than ours.
God seems so different than “normal” parents. As Jesus splish-splashed in the Jordan with all those lowlife losers like you and me, God slapped the Holy Spirit on the back and shouted for the entire universe to hear, “Hip-hip-hooray! That’s my boy!”
We could learn a thing or two from what happened that day at the Jordan. Once again, we are up to our dirty tricks in this nation, judging who is the most patriotic, who is the most Christian, who is the toughest on crime, who is the most civil and decent. In times like this, we forget that Jesus identified with all the people at the Jordan and in Tucson, with Congresswoman Gabby Giffords and Jared Loughner, with Christina Taylor Greene and the Glock pistol salesman, with President Barack Obama and Sarah Palin. We would love it if Jesus had taken sides--it would be so much easier to distinguish the good from the bad, the heroes from the villains; instead, Jesus jumps in with every last one of us and invites us all to let the splish-splashing begin.
But let us not stop there at the splish-splashing though. Let us not say that God joins the riff-raff as if our behavior no longer matters. Far from it. When Jesus dove into the Jordan, all God’s creation suddenly mattered anew: creation was restored as on those first wonderful days; water recaptured the splendor of creation; and every human regained the grandeur of Adam and Eve when they first walked in the Garden of Eden.
You understand, I know you do. I watch you every Sunday as you enter the sanctuary and gently dip your fingers into our river here at the baptismal pool. I love seeing you make the sign of the cross and remember your baptism. You, too, are suddenly refreshed, a renewed person. Senior citizens and tiny children alike splish-splash at the water; Jesus makes you pure and spotless yet again.
If only we could remember that Jesus joins us all at the water. Remembering that could make such a difference. If only we could remember that Jesus splish-splashes with all of us as we stand in line at the grocery store talking with a stranger. If only we could remember as a teenager cuts in front of us on the freeway in a low-riser. If only our nation could remember in these days.
This weekend our nation honors a man who believed that all God’s children can be restored to holiness. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. loved the racists who bombed his church, the angry policemen who turned fire hoses and snarling dogs on peaceful protestors, and the madmen who killed innocent little African-American girls. How could Reverend King love them so, knowing that almost surely bigots like them would kill him, too? Why of course, he believed that our Savior jumped into the Jordan River with murders and racists, Klansmen and vicious cops. Reverend King dreamed that holiness could actually sprout from evil. Remember? “I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.”
This nation, once again, needs to dream of holiness sprouting from evil, of disparate people walking hand-in-hand. Far more important than whether the Mount Soledad cross stands or comes down is whether this nation will dare to dream that God cherishes every human being. That cross on Mount Soledad, if it is anything, should be a reminder that Jesus loved his enemies and those who follow him are invited to do the same thing.
On this day, let us remember that our God congratulated his Son for getting into the muddy river, giving his life to love the wrong crowd. May we dream of the day when conservatives and liberals, Republicans, Democrats and Tea Partiers, Christians, Jews and Muslims, will join hands together and give thanks to God as we splish-splash away... After all, that’s exactly what Jesus did.
Let us now go to the river and begin the splish-splashing.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Epiphany of Our Lord (transferred)
January 9, 2011
Isaiah 60: 1-6; Matthew 2: 1-12
"Who Would You Have Been?"
The wonderful story of the wise men presents a varied cast of characters. I often wonder which of the characters I would have been if I had been there. Maybe you do too.
First there is King Herod. Before you say, “I would never have been him,” let’s give old Herod a fighting chance. Scholars say that it is almost impossible to evaluate King Herod’s reign. Original sources both vilify and extol him. He is described as a consummate politician by some and a clumsy and ineffective leader by others. Some viewed him as incredibly skillful in his use of power while others saw him as vicious and cruel. Herod’s personality and behavior are, for sure, a curious mixture of love and hate, strength and weakness, grandiose plans, and petty concerns. Like all politicians, and most of us for that matter, Herod was loved by some and detested by others. In all fairness to King Herod, his leadership and policies offered his Jewish brothers and sisters protection from the occupying Roman authorities, something that many leaders down through history have been unable to guarantee the often harassed Jewish people. He was able to rule with the Pax Romana, offering some semblance of peace to his constituency.
Admit it: no political figure is ever universally loved. Yesterday’s vicious murders and attempted murders in Arizona reveal just how tough elected leadership is. My favorite sports writer Tom Boswell of the Washington Post notes, “The higher the monkey climbs, the more the monkey exposes.” Almost all politicians are certain to have 45% of the people out for their necks the day they are elected. I often think that elected leadership is a lot like buying a new boat: the best days are the day you buy it and the day you sell it, the day you are elected and the day you step down from office. The price of leadership, whether in church, family, or nation, is that there will inevitably be supporters and there will most assuredly be detractors.
Herod had a tough go at it, especially when the followers of the baby Jesus proclaimed him king. Having two kings in one nation is not prudent government; in fact, having two kings is anarchy. Herod had to say, “There is only one king and I am the one, not Jesus.” This was the only way to maintain tranquility in Judea.
Would any of you have chosen to be Herod?
Then there are the chief priests and scribes. Down through history, religious leaders have often been afforded the opportunity to cozy up to the powerful. Whether at White House prayer breakfasts or offering invocations at civic affairs, clergy can speak a decisive word or two about issues which affect countless people. The chief priests and scribes had such an opportunity to draw close to Herod. They advised him on important religious matters, and, in the case of the Christ Child, where he might be found according to their sacred scriptures. Cozying up to political leaders has its negative consequences as well, but, if you want to make a difference in this world, sometimes, as a good friend of mine once reminded me, you must be willing to sacrifice your soul for the greater good.
Other than me, would any of you have chosen to be a chief priest or scribe?
And finally there are the Wise Men. If a poll were taken among us right now, it is highly likely that most of us would have liked to have been a wise man or wise woman. Tradition has given these mysterious and exotic characters from the East the wonderful names of Melchior, Caspar, and Baltazar. Who wouldn’t want to ride a camel into town, bearing exquisite gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh for God’s son?
Think again, though, whether you really would want to be a Wise Man. They were weirdoes of the first order. They followed stars to get their answers; they didn’t come with Bibles in hand in search for the truth—they left such theologically sound and orthodox approaches to the scribes and chief priests. They searched for the truth in tea leaves and Tarot cards and stars. They were seekers of sort who would seemingly blend in well today on our California beaches, at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, or at some fortune teller’s booth. These strange fellows seemed willing to try about anything in order to find the one who would change their lives forever.
Maybe we would like to be Wise Men and maybe not.
At least for me, there are days when I would prefer to nestle up to powerful figures at City Hall where real decisions are made; there are other days when all I want is to be a pastor offering you support and searching for answers to life’s toughest questions; and then there are frankly days when I would I would love more than anything to be free as a bird, open to the crazy winds of the Spirit, just like the Wise Men.
And you? Can’t you imagine, at one time or another, having been Herod or the religious leaders or the wise men?
The Christ Child comes to kings and priests and Magi, to people like you and me, conservatives and liberals, Republicans and Democrats and Tea Partiers, Baptists and Lutherans, Bible thumpers and those who are “spiritual and not religious.” The Holy Baby comes, not when all is perfect in our lives and when we all agree how governments should rule and churches should act. As Saint Matthew notes in his gospel, Jesus came not in a perfect golden era but in the time of King Herod.
We all have mixed up motives, imperfect politics, and flawed religious beliefs, and yet none of that stops the Christ Child from coming to us today. I pray that whoever we might be in the story, God will lead us to bow before the Christ Child, offering our gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 2, 2011
Second Sunday after Christmas
John 1: 10-18
"Stuttering Words Come Alive"
I have a movie recommendation for you in the New Year: The King’s Speech. This movie is about King George VI who became king of the United Kingdom when his brother, Edward, abdicated the throne because he wanted to marry American socialite Wallis Simpson who was twice divorced.
King George VI was painfully shy and stuttered terribly. As England moved closer to World War II, it needed a king who could lift the nation with spell-binging speeches, someone with rhetorical flair like Franklin Roosevelt or Winston Churchill or even vicious enemies Adolph Hitler or Josef Stalin. King George could barely get a word out of his mouth. Like many people who prefer death to public speaking, King George froze as he faced crowds eager to hear him speak. He struggled mightily to make the spoken word come alive for his nation.
Through the unorthodox techniques of an eccentric speech therapist from Australia, the King gradually became able to give flesh to spoken words. On September 3, 1939, when Britain declared war on Germany, King George addressed millions of people on a live radio broadcast aired around the world. His speech was a somber, yet stirring call to patriotism and courage; it was one of the best speeches he ever made.
As Dagmar and I watched The King’s Speech at the Hillcrest Cinema, as King George VI struggled to make his words come alive, I had chills running down my spine; I often found myself breathless and wiping away tears from my cheek.
As we gather on this Second Sunday after Christmas, the first Sunday of 2011, we have just heard perhaps the most stirring words in all sacred Scripture if not in all of literature. Saint John writes, “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”
God’s word was astonishing indeed. God’s word brought all creation into existence at the beginning; God’s word toppled fierce enemies and made strapping men cower; God’s word made the hummingbird’s wings flap fifty times a second and made the rose a thing of beauty. And yet, no matter how astonishing God’s word was, God somehow seemed incapable of getting it across to people like you and me. For some sad reason, we seem incapable of comprehending God’s love for us. But God never gave up trying nor does God up trying now.
The towering words, “The word became flesh and lived among us,” have a different meaning in Greek. In Greek, they mean something rather pedestrian like, “God pitched a tent in our midst.” A tent. How fitting that First Lutheran Church/TACO gave 250 tents away to our patio parishioners this Christmas Eve. If you look around the neighborhood, you will see the word made flesh, tents flapping in the wind.
God had the brilliant idea of pitching a tent in our midst and in that tent was a tiny, vulnerable baby who loved us so much that even when we turned our backs on him, he loved us to his death on the cross.
God not only pitched a tent at Bethlehem, God also pitches His tent among us today, inviting us to proclaim the heavenly, life-giving word to one another. If the truth be told, we are a lot like King George VI. We stutter, stammer, and sputter as we try to make our words come at all close to resembling God’s word; often times our words are ugly and vindictive, causing more harm than healing, more sadness than joy. And yet, God never tires of making his word come alive in our lives.
I saw this occur last week. I was putting the finishing touches on my Christmas Eve sermon when someone tapped on my office window and asked to have a few words with me. This person had some of the harshest words for me when I began my ministry here at First Lutheran and when he ate regularly on our patio.
He came into my office, sat down, and didn’t waste a second. He said: “Pastor, I know your church has struggled to make ends meet recently, and I know it hasn’t been easy. I want to thank you for everything your church has done for me.” There were no other words. He stood up to leave. I went to him and gave him a big hug—like a lot of guys, he is not a hugger--and he quickly headed for the door. I said to him, “Your words are a gift I will not forget. I know how hard they were for you to say.”
Whether he realized it or not, his words were birthed by God. It has taken time, like it took time for King George VI to quit stuttering; and yet with patience and prayer, with forgiveness and love, he now speaks words of grace time and time again to those of us who know him. Those words are “the word becoming flesh and dwelling among us.” Encouraging one another to speak such words is what our ministry here is all about.
God has pitched a tent here and has not grown tired of planting his word in our hearts and souls. We are God’s people. In this coming year, I pray that you and I will find ways to make God’s word become flesh in the words we use with one another. I pray that we will all choose our words well and carefully. May we take the time to craft emails and letters that thank others for a particular gift given. May we ask someone out for a cup of coffee and beg them for forgiveness or offer forgiveness to them. May our ministry rise above stammering and stuttering and sputtering and may all our words be Christ’s words.