Several people have asked for copies of Pastor Miller's sermons, and he has graciously agreed to prepare some of them for the web.
| June 29, 2008 | "Liar and Murderer, Saint and Sinner" |
| June 22, 2008 | "Are You Nevous?" |
| June 15, 2008 | "We're All God's Got" |
| June 8, 2008 | "Erring on the Side of Mercy" |
| June 1, 2008 | "Sensible Building Plans" |
| May 25, 2008 | "Do Not Worry" |
| May 18, 2008 | "Hold Your Head Up High" |
| May 11, 2008 | "What Got into Her?" |
| May 9, 2008 | "Memorial Service for Leonard Mischley" |
| May 4, 2008 | "Stay Here in the City" |
| April 27, 2008 | "Orphaned No more" |
| April 13, 2008 | "Sheep Talk" |
| April 12, 2008 | "Memorial Service for Jacob Umlauf" |
| April 6, 2008 | "Easter Eyes" |
| March 30, 2008 | "The Circuitous Journeys of Faith" |
| March 23, 2008 | "Groping for the Right Words" |
| March 22, 2008 | "My Dad is Stronger than Your Dad" |
| March 20, 2008 | "Few Words Indeed" |
| March 16, 2008 | "The Heart of Christ in the Heart of the City" |
| March 9, 2008 | "Questions at the Bone Yard" |
| February 24, 2008 | "An Uncommon Patience" |
| February 17, 2008 | "Words that Work" |
| February 10, 2008 | "Better or Best" |
| February 6, 2008 | "A Most Peculiar Practice" |
| February 3, 2008 | "Up and Down, Down and Up" |
| January 27, 2008 | "An Admirer or a Disciple?" |
| January 20, 2008 | "Chargers, Patriots, or Lamb?" |
| January 13, 2008 | "An Awkward Moment" |
| January 6, 2008 | "And They Worshiped Him" |
| older sermons |
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 29, 2008
Saints Peter and Paul, Martyrs
Acts 12: 1-11; 2 Timothy 4: 6-8, 17-18; John 21: 15-19
Liar and Murderer, Saint and Sinner
Every morning, for ten years straight, I drove by Washington, D.C.'s
National Cathedral as I took our boys, Caspar and Sebastian, to school.
Most people know this cathedral as the place where the funerals of such
dignitaries as Ronald Reagan and Gerald Ford were held and where Martin
Luther King, Jr. preached his final sermon before being gunned down in
Memphis. What you may not know, however, is that the church's official
name is the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. At first
blush, this seems an altogether fitting name. After all, Peter and Paul
were giants of the faith--Peter the rock and Paul the evangelist to the
Gentiles and they both spilled their blood for the sake of Jesus. That's
why today's color is red, red for the martyrs' blood. Both courageous men
put their lives on the line for their faith. While the accounts of their
deaths do not appear in the Bible, tradition holds that Peter was crucified
upside down and Paul was slain by a sword. Is it any wonder that the
second largest church in the United States (St. John the Divine in
Manhattan is the largest) is named after Peter and Paul?
And yet I must tell you, whenever I drove past the gigantic National Cathedral, I didn't think of Peter and Paul's martyrdom or of their greatness. I always thought how peculiar that this beautiful cathedral is named after a liar and a murderer. Remember? Peter denied knowing Jesus three times; he had three chances to tell the truth and every time he cowered. And Paul, remember how he stood by proudly as the very first Christian martyr Stephen was slaughtered by stoning? Isn't it strange that we remember this odd couple, Peter and Paul, liar and murder, as saints and martyrs?
The word "saint" makes most of us feel inferior. I am so unlike those giants of the faith, we think. The word "saint" conjures up visions of superstars of the faith. Just like the adoring crowds that swarmed around Tiger Woods at the U.S. Open at Torrey Pines, we are mesmerized by our saints. We learn their stories as children in Sunday school and embellish them as the years go by. We conveniently forget about their underbellies like Peter and Paul being a liar and murder. Of course, this part is what makes them so human and a whole lot like us. How sad that all we remember is the saint and martyr part.
We Lutherans love combinations of two: "Word and Sacrament" and "Law and Gospel." We have another favorite combination: "Saint and Sinner." One word should never be uttered without the other close in tow. Unfortunately, when most of us hear the word "saint," we point outward, toward others, to the so-called giants of the faith, people like Mother Theresa and Desmond Tutu, Dorothy Day and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. When we think of sinners, we point inward, toward ourselves, to measly little us. How could we possibly be on a par with the likes of Peter and Paul? And yet we Lutherans say "saint and sinner" in the very same breath. You can barely say one without saying the other.
Martin Luther said it this way, "To be a saint is to be a forgiven sinner." It is God who makes sinners saints, never saints who pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Even though we love to tell stories rich with bootstraps, that's never the way it happens with saints and sinners. Peter was the cowardly one, not just once but repeatedly: he walked a few short steps and sank into the lake; he claimed that he would follow Jesus wherever he led, but when the crowds shouted, "Crucify him," he slithered away and left his friend to die. Paul was no better: he took great pride in being persecuted Christians' "Public Enemy #1:" the more Christians that were killed the better, was Paul's motto.
Why do we lift up these two clowns on June 29 anyway? The answer, of course, is that God can transform creeps and cowards into saints and martyrs. With God, all things are possible. Or, in Luther's words, "God can carve the rotten wood and ride the lame horse."
We pastors see this all the time. We see lame horses become Triple Crown winners in a flash, all by the grace of God. We see stumbling drunks, notorious cheats, and hopeless womanizers suddenly realize that there is more to life than nursing one's selfish ambitions. We see scoundrels become ten times the people they ever imagined themselves to be in a flash. Suddenly, they care for widows and orphans, aliens and the poor. They share what little is theirs with others and they do it with joy. It happens over and over again, suddenly, doomed sinners becoming selfless saints, all by the grace of God.
These saints' days are really stories about God, God who uses misfits like Peter and Paul as building blocks for the kingdom. God can use us, too, for purposes beyond our imagination.
This morning, with the church decorated red, we journey to the river, to our baptismal pool. We who gather at water's edge are a motley lot. We drag all our old, stinking baggage with us, like a cast of carnival clowns; we stand at the water, helplessly waiting for God. It is here at the water where God miraculously carves saints out of rotten wood and fashions thoroughbreds out of lame horses. As Sherrie and Frida enter the water here today, one adult and one infant, we will get lumps in our throats as we hear the splashing water. This water, joined with God's words from heaven, "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," will make saints before our very eyes. So, let's go to the water and see saints made.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 22, 2008
Sixth Sunday after Pentecost
Jeremiah 20: 7-13
"Are You Nervous?
It has been my practice whenever supervising seminary interns to ask them, only moments before they preach their first sermon, if they are nervous. Their answer, almost always, has been "yes," to which I respond "great." I don't trust preachers who don't get nervous before uttering, "Thus saith the Lord."
The calling to proclaim God's word is a wonderful privilege and yet a frightening responsibility. How many people have the luxury of standing before a crowd of people every week and basically saying whatever is on their mind? You entrust me with this privilege hoping that I will utter at least a word or two from God. Sometimes I succeed, other times, I fail miserably. Given such a task, shouldn't we preachers be nervous?
You know as well as I that what I say from this pulpit can challenge you or bring you comfort, bore you to tears or, once and a while, lift you to new heights. We Lutherans have a name for that; we call it "law and gospel." That means that there will be words of judgment spoken here and words of mercy. If sermons don't offer both judgment and mercy, they may be a lot of things, but it is highly unlikely that they will bear God's gracious intentions for this assembly.
And therein is the preacher's challenge: how to love people enough to offer words both of correction and judgment and, almost simultaneously, words of freedom from our failings.
This was the challenge for the prophet Jeremiah. Jeremiah lived in a particularly vexing time of Judah's history. The people felt that they were sitting pretty; they were God's holy people, a chosen nation. In their minds, they were the greatest nation on earth and could do as they pleased no matter how unjustly they treated the poor or what corrupt nations they allied themselves with. God thrust Jeremiah into the thick of this situation. Like any good seminary intern, Jeremiah was nervous as could be. And, like almost all God's prophets, Jeremiah had an excuse as to why he couldn't speak on God's behalf: in his case, he was too young. God would have none of it. God told Jeremiah that the right words would be placed on his lips whenever necessary.
Now here's the rub: Jeremiah was called to speak words of "violence and destruction." He was to tell the very people he loved that the nation of Babylon was soon going to destroy them. Given such a job description, you can understand why Jeremiah's life was filled with agony. As any person should who dares mount a pulpit, Jeremiah loved the people to whom he preached. Why did he have to say that Babylon would conquer them? Weren't there nicer words? As he looked beyond the pulpit, peaking over his reading glasses, he saw his third grade Sunday School teacher, the old family butcher who always threw on a pound extra, and his trusted urologist. How dare he utter words of destruction and violence to the very people he loved?
Whenever honorable prophets give voice to harsh words, they must always make certain there are no other words available to them. The harsh words Jeremiah proclaimed were as difficult for him to announce as they were for his friends to hear.
My divinity school homiletics professor, Mr. William Muehl, was an astonishing preacher. I will never forget a series of three sermons he preached on three successive Sunday mornings at Yale's Battel Chapel. In the middle of every sermon, someone noisily stood up and stomped out of the chapel in absolute disgust. He had the wonderful ability to infuriate liberals and conservatives alike. I still remember those sermons thirty three years later; and yet what I remember even more so is how he gathered afterwards with worshipers who wished to discuss what he had said: he listened carefully to their opinions, and, together, preacher and people sought possibilities for common ground. He cherished the sacred nature of the task to which he was called.
Today, 2,600 years after the prophet Jeremiah and thirty-three years after Professor Muehl, we face a similar challenge. We are called to listen for God's Word in our midst, as a community, together. It is almost certain that we will disagree with one another. We will have a different slant on what exactly God has to say about a host of fundamental issues like gay marriage, the border between Mexico and the United States, our city's budget, and the war in Iraq. Sadly, for many in our day, disagreement simply means, "I'm heading off to find a new church that agrees with me." Rather than open ourselves to debate by probing what God would really have us say, there is a tendency to throw up our hands and run off in a huff when we disagree with others. The far greater grace is to discover God's presence in the midst of disagreements between brothers and sisters, to discover answers, not of our shallow making, but of God's lasting creation.
I preached a sermon here two years ago on the war in Iraq. One of you took strong exception to what I had to say-thankfully, you are still here! We met for lunch and discussed this pressing issue. I cherish the memory of that meeting with a brother in Christ. Together, we sought a word from God. I can tell you that, in the process, my good brother brought a word or two from God to me and I pray that I did likewise to him. Isn't that how the Spirit works?
So often we think that when there are disagreements that the church is on the brink of death. Why are we so uncomfortable with and threatened by varying and strong opinions of our brothers and sisters in Christ? The Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams, the leader of the Church of England writes: "The Spirit may work in debate at least as much as in consensus, and we all have done something if we have only initiated such a debate." It seems to me that the church is often at is most vital when tackling serious issues that have a myriad of opinions. Isn't this where trust and understanding and forgiveness are given birth?
I have often found that at those times where there seems to be the strongest disagreement in the church, these are precisely the times where I have studied God's word more deeply, prayed for a more profound understanding of what God's will might be, and realized the wonder of Christian community struggling for a higher truth, God's truth, in the midst of our confusion. I have learned what it means to live not in a perfect community, but in a community which finds its deepest meaning in God's forgiveness. I wonder if it is in our disagreements and misunderstandings when we finally understand most clearly what it means to live under the shadow of the cross. No matter how hard we try to get it right, we almost always fail. And yet there stands Jesus, ready to protect us, forgive us, and bring us together around this wonderful table of mercy. The very thought should make us nervous and delighted all at once.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 15, 2008
The Fifth Sunday After Pentecost
Matthew 9: 35-10:23
"We're All God's Got"
I worked on Herb and Carol Minch's dairy farm in high school and college. I was the worst possible physical specimen for the rigors of farming. I was a long haired, bean pole, weighing 145 pounds dripping wet. If you know anything about farming, you know such physical specifications do not bode well for a future in farming; in fact, weaklings need not apply for farming careers. Farming is for muscle bound people who sling hay bales with one hand, punish unruly Holsteins with swift kicks, and hurl beer- drinking teenagers out of cornfields with a snicker.
Herb and Carol had no choice but hire me. I would like to claim I was suitable for the job but that would be a lie. The truth is that the harvest was plentiful and the laborers were few-actually, just me!
Running a 200 acre dairy farm in the West Virginia hills is a daunting task. With 1971 hourly farming wages at $2.40, able-bodied applicants were not aplenty. And so, the Minch family faced a painful choice: hire pathetic, little me or let the crops rot and the cows moo at the moon.
The worst job was building a 45 foot silo. I had seen many a silo and the
task didn't seem particularly daunting. Unfortunately, no one told me that
we would build the silo in a day. I will never forget carrying bulky slabs
of poured concrete, one-by-bloody one, thirty yards to the construction
site. By day's end, my t-shirt was shredded, my stomach bleeding, and I
could barely hold up my motorcycle for the eight mile ordeal home. That
night, when I laid down my head, I prayed the Lord my soul to keep if I
should die.
Back at the farm, Herb, my boss, returned to the barn after seeing me safely off and worked until midnight, feeding, milking, and mucking the stalls. I was clearly not the man he was but, frankly, he could only do the job with my help.
One cannot think of plentiful harvests and inferior labor pools without thinking of Jesus. Dietrich Bonhoeffer paints the dismal scene this way: "No one led the flock to fresh waters to quench their thirst, no one protected them from the wolf. They were harassed, wounded, and distraught under the dire rod of their shepherds.There were questions but no answers, distress but no relief, anguish of conscience but no deliverance, tears but no consolation, sin but no forgiveness.The prospect grips [Jesus'] heart, and his divine pity goes out to this erring flock, these multitudes who surge around him." (The Cost of Discipleship, Pgs. 224, 225)
The problem, of course, was that Jesus could not do the work alone either. So, he went searching for a handful of disciples. Would they be as compassionate and effective as Jesus? Of course not. But time was of the essence. So the motley crew of twelve was assembled. Egotists and scoundrels, thickheaded and turncoats--pathetic yes, but for some reason Jesus chose them.
I would guess every one of us has a reason or two why we can't work in God's harvest. We are terrible public speakers, afraid to invite even our closest friends to church, and, what if Jesus knew of our deepest sins? Jesus' call of the motley twelve is our call, too, making it clear as a cow bell in the West Virginia night that every excuse for opting out as God's laborers is simply unacceptable.
My former Bishop Harold Jansen, in Washington, DC, was fond of saying, "We are the only Lutherans Washington's got." In our case, at this little corner of God's creation, we are all that God has got. If you and I don't spread Christ's love, who will?
The motley twelve's job description called them to "cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons." You would think they would have needed a truckload of paraphernalia to do that work and yet here's how Jesus equipped them: "You received without payment; give without payment. Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag or your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff."
We tend to think so much is necessary for God's work. Aren't the best churches the big ones, with thousands of members, huge endowments, and powerful and influential people? Funny thing, Jesus never mentioned these as particularly useful attributes. Our Lutheran confessional documents say that only these things are necessary for effective ministry, "to rightly teach the Word of God and rightly administer the sacraments." Not much for the journey, just bread and wine, water and a Bible. That's all.
It was said to me a bit differently but basically the same way on my ordination day. One of the gifts I received was from my parents was a little, black box. In that box was a small container for bread, a diminutive chalice, and a tiny wine cruet. In a sense, my parents' words were, "Don't take yourself too seriously, sonny boy; all you need for ministry is contained in this little box; now go and proclaim the Gospel." There have been times in my ministry when I have yearned for so much more than my little box-more courage, a more magisterial preaching voice like Billy Graham's, a congenial personality to please every soul. So many times when I have gone out with my little box-to hospitals, court rooms, corporate board rooms-I have felt sheepishly insignificant and inadequate.
As we gather this morning, Jesus calls us to be his disciples. We are equipped with a message that can feel as insignificant as that other little box, the feedbox in Bethlehem. In that box was contained God's love for the world, royal poverty if you will, a baby named Jesus. Shouldn't there be so much more?
Our mouths are that feedbox, too, of course, small and stumbling, and yet filled with wonderful news of the Christ Child. Our mouths tell humiliated friends that God really does care for them; our mouths remind lonely people that God will never forget them. We usually have a million excuses why we can't bear that news, but, my dear friends, we are all God's got. We are the holy people invited to open these doors, to set this table, and to invite the world to God's banquet-the forgotten poor and shunned homeless, the hopeless alcoholics and the condemned drug addicts, the ridiculed gays and cheated-upon spouses, the mourning widows and confused adolescents, the middle-aged fathers who, on this Father's Day, wonder if this is all there is to life.
You may feel weak and insignificant but for some reason you have been called to tell the world of God's love. So go out now. You have more than enough for the journey.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 8, 2008
Fourth Sunday After Pentecost
Matthew 9: 9-13, 18-26
"Erring on the Side of Mercy"
The words come fast and furious: "As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man
called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, 'Follow me.'
And he got up and followed him." This is the kind of writing that would
have made Ernest Hemingway weep with envy: no useless adjectives or
cluttering adverbs to interrupt the hard-hitting nouns and verbs. Jesus
calls Matthew; Matthew follows.
Couldn't the pace slow down just a bit? We have so many questions. Why did Jesus call a hated tax collector as one of only twelve disciples? Did other more qualified candidates turn down Jesus and Matthew ended up the best Jesus could get? And what about Matthew: why did he drop his ledger book and mechanical pencil so quickly to work for Jesus? Was he tired of the local citizenry's harangue every time he levied a new tax on behalf of the hated occupying Roman forces? Or perhaps, had his therapist suggested a job change to help him fulfill his sense of calling as he navigated the throes of midlife crisis? All these questions are left unanswered.
What the gospel writer demonstrates instead is swift action and decisive decision-making. No sooner had Jesus called Matthew and had a quick bite to eat with the other tax collectors and sinners, than he was off and running to the synagogue leader's house where his was dead. On his way, out of the blue, a woman came up behind him with hopes of being healed from twelve years of continuous hemorrhaging. She knew that if she only touched Jesus' garment, everything would be better.
At this point in the story, the action could easily have gotten bogged down. There were questions that religious people wanted answered before Jesus went any further. Why was he, the chosen one of God, hanging out with the riff-raff? And any Bible-believing Jew knew that for Jesus to be touched by a hemorrhaging woman was a sinful thing. If you don't believe me, go to the "Cleanliness Codes" in Leviticus (15: 25ff.); there you will discover what an outrageous thing Jesus did by touching that hemorrhaging woman. Folks, it is in the Bible! You know as well as I that if Jesus had been a Lutheran pastor, at this point, he would have paused and reflected on the nature of the poor woman's request before he went any further. Healing someone is one thing; going against the Bible is quite another. Of course the woman had been bleeding for twelve years, but couldn't she wait a little longer until a study was done and a vote was taken? Jesus didn't wait. He turned to the woman who touched his cloak and said, "Take heart, daughter, your faith has made you well." Jesus erred on the side of mercy. There was ministry to be done and apparently Jesus deemed in depth studies on Levitical cleanliness codes unnecessary at this particular point. When Jesus faced the choice between study and healing, healing won out every time.
As I told you, the action is fast and furious. No sooner had Jesus healed the hemorrhaging woman than he was back on his way to that little girl's house. Of course, when he arrived, Jesus confronted another problem: a dead girl. Once again, perhaps a study was in order. Jesus certainly knew what God had told Moses about touching dead bodies: "Command the Israelites to put out of the camp everyone who is leprous, or has a discharge, and everyone who is unclean through contact with a corpse; you shall put out both male and female, putting them outside camp, where I dwell among them" (Deuteronomy 5: 2,3). Why did Jesus take the dead girl by the hand and bring her back to life? Every biblical injunction urged him not to mess with the dead girl's body and yet, when faced between a study and mercy, Jesus erred on the side of mercy.
Does today's Gospel reading help us at all as we struggle to live faithfully in this world of ours? We good people can be so careful that we never end up doing a thing, fearful to opt for mercy lest God condemn us. There is, of course, nothing wrong with trying to do the right thing. And yet, doesn't there come a time when we must dare to act, to err on the side of mercy? More importantly, doesn't there come a time when we need to trust that God will be merciful to us if we are trying our best to be merciful to someone else? If we make one or two mistakes along the way, don't you suspect that God will be merciful to us, especially if we have been trying to be merciful to someone else?
One of my favorite stories comes from Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn. There comes a point in the story when Huck realizes the claims of humanity. He is harboring an escaped slave. He knows full well that to harbor a slave is against the law. Huck has a choice to make: his conscience tells him that Jim is property and should be returned to his rightful owner; on the other hand, his feelings tell him that Jim is both a man and a beloved friend. He can turn his good friend Jim back to his rightful owner and be on the right side of the law or he can err on the side of mercy. Huck writes a letter to Jim's owner to tell her where Jim can be found and then he thinks about whether he should send the letter or not. After a bit of soul-searching, he tears up the letter. He chooses to err on the side of mercy. As he tears up the letter, Huck says, "All right then, I'll go to hell."
Each of us must make important decisions every day of our lives. As we go about ministry here at 3rd and Ash and in our personal lives. Claims are made upon us every step of the way. We can try to make certain that we get everything right before we act or, of course, we can err on the side of mercy. We can see suffering people and we can act. Unlike Huck, we can trust that if we have tried to be merciful to our brothers and sisters, God will be merciful to us and not condemn us to hell. I pray to God for the courage to act quickly and mercifully on behalf of my brothers and sisters. What about you?
-------------------------------------------------
"The Calling of Matthew", by Caravaggio: Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei
Francesi, Rome.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
June 1, 2008
The Third Sunday After Pentecost
Matthew 7: 21-28
"Sensible Building Plans"
In spite of all manner of dire warnings, people continue to build houses in the craziest places in these parts of California. Just drive around San Diego this afternoon if you don't believe me. Start at the ocean; look at the homes built like sandcastles on the sand. Even though experts warn that such houses will eventually be swallowed up by the ravenous Pacific, who can resist those million dollar views? Then drive east along the 8 and see houses hanging out over canyons. One bad mudslide and pow, but, hey, the views, wow! And anywhere else you drive these days, as the words attest, "It never rains in Southern California. " Things are drier than ever and our homes could be ignited by wildfires any moment. And, of course, we all roll the dice, hoping an earthquake will never do to us what it has done to China. People do build houses in the craziest places.
Jesus, being a carpenter's son, knew a thing or two about proper building sites and appropriate foundations. He urged people to build on rock, solid rock. I suppose such advice for us Christians seems rather common sensical. After all, here we are this morning, trying to get our lives straight up on solid foundations. And yet, Jesus even throws zingers at those of us who feel certain that our faith-building is pretty good. He says, "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven." Those words are easy enough to understand: words without actions are, well, just plain ol' sinking sand. You know people who use all kinds of pious words that sound mighty holy. All around they go, shouting "Jesus is Lord" and "Oh, sweet Jesus" and their lives are a disaster. Look no further than some of the television evangelists who preach all the right words and live sordid lifestyles and fleece their unsuspecting flocks. Words like "Lord, Lord" are just not enough.
With that said, we feel pretty good, don't we? We Lutherans are not big on flashy, holy-roller words anyway. When we hear them, we think we smell a rat. We here at First Lutheran are quite proud when people refer to us as "The Social Justice Church"--we'll let our actions speak for themselves, thank you very much. And then, this from Jesus: "On that day many will say to me, 'Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast our demons in your name, and do many deeds of power in your name?' Then I will declare to them, "I never knew you; go away from me, you evil doer.'" Uh-oh! Is he talking about us?
Funny thing, in one small paragraph, Jesus delivers knock out punches to about every sort of religious person there is. No wonder we ask, "Who then will enter the kingdom of heaven?"
I have begun to wonder if Jesus was playing a little trick on us. As Paul warned, let us not boost in anything except in Jesus Christ our Lord. Jesus seemed to say, "All of you holy people, Jesus-loving people, you do- gooders--you are all in for a big surprise. You think you know who is going to heaven, guess again."
That's when Jesus tells us to build our house on God's word and to act on that very word. I wonder if this is another way of saying, it impossible for you to get in the kingdom of heaven, but with God, all things are possible. Build your foundation not on your words or your actions but on God's words and actions. Maybe a little humility will help, a little begging for forgiveness, yes, pathetic sinners turning to God, pleading, please, pour our foundation for us.
When I was growing up, one of my favorite places to explore in my home church was the men's restroom. There was something in there that intrigued me. Just to the left of the old porcelain urinal were a series of small marks up the side of the wall. The top mark, if my memory serves me correctly, measured 36 inches high from the floor, written in indelible ink. On a typed piece of paper in an old black frame was a paragraph about how the waters of the great 1936 flood came that high up in the men's room. Even after the flood swelled the riverbanks and wreaked disaster on homes along the banks of Big Wheeling Creek, Edgwood Lutheran Church still stands today. I can only imagine that it has a solid foundation.
I wonder if that's what Jesus is trying to teach us. Our lives are going to be battered by all manner of brutal forces that make us wonder if we will be able to survive. We simply cannot avoid such calamity. The winds will howl at night and scare us half to death. The waters will rise and make us weep for fear of drowning. The earth will rattle and we will wonder if we fall in. These disasters have names: cancer, pulmonary embolism, schizophrenia, alcoholism, divorce, bankruptcy, loneliness. At these times we do best if we are built on God's solid rock of love.
The Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy tells this story from "A Vision at Sea." An archbishop was traveling by a boat from Archange to Solovki and visited three holy hermits who lived on a deserted island. They were illiterate and ignorant of church doctrine. For some reason they didn't know the Lord's Prayer, so the archbishop spent all day teaching it to them. Late in the evening, back on his boat out at sea, the archbishop sat under the stars, feeling pleased with himself and congratulating himself for helping the simple old men. Then he saw a golden light in the distance. As the light approached the ship, he saw the three old men, toothless in their antiquated cassocks, running over the sea as if it were dry ground. They ran up next to the boat and addressed the bishop: "O servant of God, we have forgotten it all--it is all gone from us. None of it can we recall. Teach us thou it again." The archbishop crossed himself, bent over the bulwark to the old men, and said: 'Your prayer too, O ancient men of God, was profitable unto the Lord. It is not for me to teach you. Pray you rather for us sinners." (Told by Darcey Steinke in Easter Everywhere)
These old hermits lacked fancy prayers and flashy religious language; they knew nothing more than simply to trust in God's mercy. They didn't seem at all religious but they walked on water. As simple as they seemed, they made one very wise decision, to build their houses on solid rock of Jesus Christ.
My sisters and brothers in Christ, may your lives be built, too, upon the solid rock of Jesus Christ. As the winds and rains and quaking earth threaten your very soul, may you, like those old hermits, walk on water, with Jesus leading and guiding you, and may you know peace.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 25, 2008
Second Sunday after Pentecost
Matthew 6: 24-34
"Do Not Worry"
Jesus says, "Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear." Yesterday afternoon, I was worrying. I was on my weekly run to pick up my reserved books at the El Cajon Library. The cheapest gas I could find was $4.25 a gallon. I no longer jump into my car and drive to my heart's content. I consolidate my errands into one trip to save gas. It's scary. The price of milk is up, the price of videos is up, the price of medical bills is up. How much worse is it going to get? Are you worried?
Most of us--at least those of us who didn't grow up in the depression--are not used to such prices. Our way of living is changing.
How many of you have decided not to travel this summer due to the cost of gasoline? My sister and brother-in-law invited Dagmar and me to join them this September at their Hawaiian timeshare condominium. We have been looking forward to this trip for a year. My sister called last week to inform us that the cheapest roundtrip ticket she could find from San Diego to Hawaii is $1,000. We immediately started thinking about amending our travel plans, perhaps traveling in California or to Arizona or New Mexico.
Times like this force us to reexamine our priorities, to ask what is most important in our lives.
The San Diego Organizing Project, a faith-based community organizing group of which First Lutheran is a member, is fond of saying that city, state, and federal budgets are moral documents. That means: how governments choose to spend money speaks volumes about their priorities. Take for instance the city of San Diego: spending has increased monumentally for law enforcement and prisons in recent years. Clearly, we need police for our protection and, sadly, we need jails. But you have heard, I'm sure, that the city is laying off school teachers and, in the proposed city budget, drastic cuts are being made to our parks and recreation programs. What does our city's spending pattern say about its priority for our youth? It's scary.
This issue of a moral document works for individuals as well as governments and institutions. The evangelist Billy Graham is fond of saying that if you want to know about a person's faith, look at his or her check book. He is right. I have heard people say that they can't afford to give an offering to their church. They may be right. But the question is: how much do we spend on nonessentials like cigarettes, alcoholic beverages, junk food, cable television, higher speed internet service, and even gambling just to name a few items? If we are spending more on any of these items than what we are giving to our church, our priorities are confused and fouled up.
It's not just the San Diego Organizing Project and Billy Graham who suggest that our spending patterns speak volumes about our priorities. Jesus said, "You cannot serve God and wealth." Each one of us must decide about our priorities.
Is it possible that in these financially challenging times, God is inviting us to reexamine our priorities? What's most important as our finances get tight? Jesus urges us to look at the birds of the air: they do not have a care and yet God provides. Jesus points us to the lilies of the field that are more splendid than all King Solomon's glory. Take a walk this afternoon and gaze intently on nature: look at the hummingbirds flapping their wings for a little nectar; watch the hawks soar as they keep an eye out for their next meal. They don't seem to worry about tomorrow. Everywhere you look there are gorgeous flowers that really are more splendid than almost anything imaginable. Do these gorgeous flowers give thought to tomorrow?
Is it possible that we have lived so long in a culture of affluence that we have forgotten who provides our daily bread? Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes: "The birds and lilies need earthly goods only for their daily sustenance, and they do not lay up a store for the future. This is the way they glorify their Creator, not by their industry, toil or care, but by a daily unquestioning acceptance of [God's] gifts (Cost of Discipleship, pg. 199)."
Many of us have become so used to going where we want, when we want, and pretty much having what we want, when we want, that we have forgotten whether we worship God or wealth. Our wealth has become a narcotic. It numbs us and we forget what really matters in this world. Our wealth makes it easy to forget that all our gifts come from God.
I have often wondered whether our greatest blessing at First Lutheran Church comes from our homeless brothers and sisters. We watch you as you carry everything you own in a few plastic bags or a shopping cart. Where will you sleep tonight? Many of you know Sharon who has set up camp, every day, here at First Lutheran. I believe that Sharon has been sent to us by God. God sends us Sharon as a reminder that God provides for her--in the meals served here and a safe haven here in a sometimes frightening city. Does her presence invite us to ponder how richly God provides for us? I think so.
I have come to believe that Sharon is the most important religious work of art that First Lutheran has. She is a living work of art! She is the first person many of us see on our way to worship. If God provides for Sharon, what about for you and me? Oh, how richly God blesses us.
$4.25 a gallon. How many of you are worrying about this? Maybe it, too, is a sign from God. Look at the birds, the flowers. Think of the air we breathe, our health, those who love us, the clothes we wear. Perhaps God is inviting us to count our blessings.
Do not worry. God promises to be here with us, now. What could be better? In a few moments, God will feed us with the body and blood of Jesus. Every time we come here, we receive heavenly food. Really, what could be better? Why should we worry?
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 18, 2008
Holy Trinity
Genesis 1-2:4 a; Matthew 28: 16-20
"Hold Your Head Up High"
Today is the only day in the church year that we celebrate a doctrine. That doctrine is the Holy Trinity. Ask pastors and they will tell you that this is the toughest day of all to preach. We are called upon to make sense of an impossibly mysterious conundrum, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. You know as well as I how difficult the Holy Trinity is to understand. What in the world does this mean: ".eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father." If that is duck soup for you, what about this from the Athanasian Creed-the creed often appointed for this day: "Eternal is the Father; eternal is the Son; eternal is the Spirit: And yet there are not three eternal beings, but one who is eternal; as there are no three uncreated and unlimited beings, but one who is uncreated and unlimited." How would you like to preach on that?
I just finished reading the book, Beautiful Son, by David Sheff. It is a frightening account of a father's journey through his son's crystal methamphetamine addiction. Nic, the beautiful son, is brilliant, creative, and charming and yet bedeviled by a horrendous addiction. The father tries everything to connect with his son: he coddles him and screams at him, throws him out of the house and welcomes him back just as quickly, pays for inpatient drug treatment and refuses to pay for treatment. Anyone who has suffered through a child's addiction-or your own-knows how complicated and maddening it all can be.
What captivated me about Steff's book was the astonishing lengths the father went to try to get his son to realize how much he loved him. Even when throwing him out on the street, he was doing his best to show his son how deep his love for him was.
I wonder if, in some way, the creeds, which articulate the meaning of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, are one way the church tries to help us see God's love. Just as the father's actions toward his addicted son make little or no sense to some, God's actions, at times, may make no sense to some of us. And yet, that doesn't mean we should give up trying to understand and explain how much God loves us.
How much does God love us? Today's first lesson describes that love as God creates snails and hippopotamuses and orangutans and slugs and moon and stars and sun and yet God saves something special for us as God creates us in the divine image. Imagine such love, you and I in God's image!
How much does God love us? In our Gospel reading, Jesus commands his disciples to go to the nations and baptize in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Why do that? Because God wants people in places like Myanmar and China to know that God will never forget them. As God's children dig out from hellish devastation and ask the haunting question, "What kind of God allows this to happen?" God sends disciples to these places, perhaps even through our offerings here at First Lutheran, who will tell our brothers and sisters on the other side of the world that God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, loves them deeply.
Our church's creeds were created when people were losing sight of just how astonishing God's love is. The creeds were hammered out on an anvil of discord when people questioned how it was possible for God to come to earth and become human like us; the creeds were created when heresies abounded and people found it impossible to believe that God could possibly die on the cross for people like us; the creeds were painfully penned when some found the beliefs of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit to be poppy-cock. It was in those times of crises of faith that the church forged our creeds to proclaim loud and clear the amazing love of God.
Sister Catherine Steigerwalt was a humble and simple Deaconess in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. She grew up in North Carolina. She spent part of her ministry teaching the Bible in China. One time when I was visiting Sister Catherine, she told me about Mao Tse Tung's revolution and how his armed soldiers came to throw her and other missionaries out of the country in 1949. They asked her whether she really believed the stuff about God. She told me that she looked the soldiers straight in the eye and recited the Apostles' Creed. And then she said this to me, words I will never forget: "Whenever you recite the Creed, never look down. Always hold your head up high and say the Creed proudly and with confidence."
Brothers and sisters in Christ, the church's mysterious doctrine of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is entrusted to us for times when earthquakes, cyclones, and enemy soldiers come banging at our door and demand the last word. We will have none of it! Our creeds compel us to say something otherwise. This belief about God is our peculiar treasure, purchased by the blood of the martyrs down through the ages. Let us now hold up our heads high and sing the words of the Apostles' Creed with the martyrs and saints down through the ages. Perhaps in so doing, we will remind one another how much God loves us.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Pentecost
May 11, 2008
Acts 2: 1-21
"What Got into Her?"
The disciples were as good as dead. Jesus was gone and they had lost every ounce of hope. They had failed to stand up for Jesus when he needed them most. They knew they should have acted differently, but they couldn't help themselves. They were cowards pure and simple.
Peter was their leader now that Jesus was gone. Jesus had said, "You are the rock;" in modern parlance, "You're the man." What a pathetic leader. Three times he failed to stand up for Jesus when everything was on the line. Three times his knees withered, not in the face of influential Pontius Pilate or mighty Caesar, but of some no-name servant girl in a back alley.
We pick the story up on Pentecost so long ago when thousands of Jews, as was their tradition, descended upon Jerusalem to celebrate the wheat harvest and God's giving of the law to Moses on Sinai. The last person anyone expected to hear speaking was Peter. Peter the loser, Peter the betrayer, Peter the coward. And yet, there he was, up at the podium, preaching up a storm. What had gotten into Peter?
In his book Prince of Peace, James Carroll describes the scene this way: "The eulogist was no orator, and he was no hero. Of all the disciples he had the least right to stand in the main street of Jerusalem and speak of the Lord because, like Judas, who'd had the decency to kill himself, this man had not merely abandoned Jesus, but had explicitly betrayed him. He was Peter."
Out of the blue, there he was risking his life and preaching the resurrection news for the very first time this side of Calvary. The other disciples muttered, "What's gotten into Peter?" Those in the crowd who had heard of Peter's cowardice whispered, "I can't believe it." How could this nincompoop stand up and deliver one of the most courageous speeches the world has ever heard?
Whenever we utter the words, "What has gotten into him?" there is a pretty good chance that the Holy Spirit is at work.
That's the way it was on that first Pentecost when Peter got filled with the Holy Ghost. No one knew what to make of him. Was he drunk? Was a blazing fire running through Jerusalem? Were gale force winds whipping up a storm in the streets?
You have seen such transformations in your own life. Out of the blue, you utter, "I can't believe I did that. I don't know what got into me." When that happens, think Holy Spirit.
Let me tell you of a time I saw the Holy Spirit blazing its way through a congregation of Christians. It happened right here towards the end of October this past year. You remember that we set a goal of increasing our giving by 18%. When I first suggested this goal to the church council, I felt a bit silly; when I preached about it from this pulpit, I felt like a fool. 18% in one year? Impossible! Did you know that your financial commitment to our ministry missed the mark of 18%? It ended up being 23%! Who would have thought it? What got into you? Of course, think Holy Spirit.
The Spirit's rushing wind and blazing fire stirred you up. Even today, as you put your envelope into the offering plate, will you wonder, "What ever got into me? The economy is bad, gas prices are up, and I upped my pledge?" Just like the early church that pooled everything they had to serve the poor, you, too, upped your giving to serve the poor in our ministry here at 3rd and Ash. What got into you?
When I presented our stewardship program at the synod assembly last weekend, people said, "If we tried a program like that in our church, there would be a revolt and the pastor would be dead meat." I should have suggested, "Pray for the Holy Spirit. It will make you ten times the people you never imagined you could be."
What ever got into him? Paul Moorman, First Lutheran member and cook extraordinaire for hundreds of people, met me at the door as I entered the church doors this morning. He told me that he had already been walking the streets, finding homeless people and offering them use of his cell phone to call home, to wish their mothers a happy Mother's Day. Those calls have surely changed more than a few lives today-what a Mother's Day gift. What ever got into Paul to do something like that? Think Holy Spirit.
As I look around this sanctuary on this Mother's Day, I am struck by many of you who, with no fanfare or accolades, care for your families and your neighbors. I could tell stories about you and so could your sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, your neighbors. Quietly and lovingly you wake up at three in the morning to calm your screaming little girl from a ferocious nightmare. You run all over God's creation, looking for your wayward grandson; he should know better, of course, but you can't help yourself-you love him and off you run, yet again, trying to save him from the demons of the streets. You do it for your neighbor who is so alone; no one visits her; you invite her over for coffee and cake every Thursday afternoon; you listen to the same stories over and over again and hear the same bitterness of years of rejection. She never says thanks, but she is thrilled; you say, "All in a day's work." Whatever gets into you to be like that? I think you know.
So many of you women--and men, too, of course--do such amazing things and very few people know. Little acts of kindness, no big deal. That's what Pentecost is about, that's how the Holy Spirit works its charm. It surprises you with its power. Is she drunk? Is that wind, fire?
You have no idea what got into you. You just had to do it. My dear friends think Holy Spirit.
Happy Mother's Day. Blessed Pentecost.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 9, 2008
Memorial Service for Leonard Victor Mischley
Isaiah 58: 1, 6-12; Luke 16: 19-31
Yesterday afternoon, more than 200 people gathered at War Memorial Hall to reminisce about Leonard Victor Mischley's life. Speaker after speaker lifted up Leonard's passion for those facing the challenges of mental illness and homelessness. More than a few of us, including his family, were astonished by the acclaim Leonard had received during his lifetime for his tireless championing of those facing the pitfalls of life.
What was just as remarkable about yesterday's remembrances was that every person, without exception, spoke of how Leonard drove them to distraction. He cajoled us; demanded of us; pointed an accusing finger at us; urged us to do something about the poor and struggling. In truth, Leonard was not always easy to be around. There were times when I saw Leonard coming, I went the other way. I knew that he would call me to higher ground, to a more imaginative vision, to constant attention to those in need. He could tire you out!
What struck me powerfully about yesterday's remembrances is that, if we had sugar-coated Leonard's life, made it all peaches and cream, we would have done a great disservice to him. We would have walked out asking, "Who in the world were they talking about? That is not the Leonard I knew."
Now that he has died, we can wax eloquent about how his begging for money, pointing fingers in our face, demanding a new program, urging yet another meal, was so endearing. The closer truth, however, is that these are the qualities of Leonard that drove us to distraction! And yet, upon reflection, these qualities of Leonard were perhaps his greatest gift.
God sent Leonard into our midst. God sent Leonard as our modern-day prophet. It is in the very nature of prophets to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted. God's prophets make many of us very uncomfortable. There is something about their behavior that is, well, socially unacceptable. The great Jewish rabbinic scholar of the twentieth century Abraham Joshua Heschel said that the prophets always speak in a pitch an octave too high for the rest of society. Leonard did just that. We wanted to hold our ears. We wanted to scream, "Leonard, shut up!"
But Leonard was our prophet, a messenger from God. He never stopped talking. Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel writes of the prophet Jeremiah: "Wherever he goes, he breathes misfortune, he shatters serenity. Like all prophets before him, he is constantly in the opposition, forever fighting the establishment, ridiculing power and those who hold it, emphasizing the fragility of the present, the uncertainty of the future. Listen to him and you will lose all desire to eat, drink, raise children." Doesn't Leonard sound a bit like Jeremiah?
Leonard's death has got me thinking. One of yesterday's speakers, using a psychological term, described Leonard as "culturally incompetent." These words have eaten away at me for the past twenty-four hours. "Culturally incompetent." Leonard was certainly that. He spoke in a pitch that sounded like finger nails scraping against a blackboard. And yet the more I have thought about Leonard's cultural incompetence, the more I have realized that those are words of judgment on me, not on Leonard. You see, I have learned how to be culturally competent. I wouldn't dare point a finger at a city or county official, demanding more for the homeless. I would couch my words more sweetly, in a way that would cause no discomfort, that would not offend. I, of course, want to be welcomed into the lap of the powerful and influential. Leonard had no time for such gamesmanship. When he saw his brothers and sisters sleeping on the streets, hungry for a warm breakfast, he never dreamed of being "cultural competent." Leonard called 'em as he saw 'em.
The Eastern Orthodox tradition of the Christian church has a place of high regard for people like Leonard; they call them "Holy Fools." These "Holy Fools" are completely lacking in social graces or cultural competence. They take Jesus at his word to sell all they have and give it to the poor. They are flat broke. Does this sound like anyone you know? Since the fool has no possessions and no apparent worldly status, he is free to tell the truth. The fool can never be exploited because he has no ambition save fearing God alone.
That was Leonard. He never had any money, he was always begging from us because he had done as Jesus had told him, "Sell all you have and give it to the poor."
In addition to a prophet, I think of Leonard as a saint in our midst. The people he met on the street--they were not "nobodies" to Leonard, they were "somebodies," they were the poor beggar Lazarus. Not in a million years would Leonard pass by a beggar and leave him tending to the crumbs. Leonard would demand that we prepare a feast for Lazarus. And of course, therein is the rub: "Leonard, we don't have food, we don't have the time, we can't drop everything for one poor beggar Lazarus. Leonard, I've got to go home." Leonard would have none of it. He would do exactly as the prophets of Hebrew scriptures did, prophets like Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos. He would call us to higher ground, to a ground that almost always made us uncomfortable and yet, in retrospect, made us ten times the people we ever imagined we could be until Leonard challenged us.
Leonard opened our eyes and forced us to lift our voices when we might have preferred to be silent. Leonard challenged us to be more than we ever could be without him.
As we conclude Leonard's memorial service, together, we will say these words:
Can you see Brother Leonard now? Can you see Lazarus at the Pearly Gates, welcoming him? See that old beggar taking Leonard by the hand-Leonard, by the way, dressed in an iridescent red and gray striped shirt with an ostentatious yellow tie to boot. Listen to Lazarus, "Leonard, look at this! God has invited us all to come higher." See Leonard searching for one poor person to come higher, to challenge God to get heaven a bit more in order. And God might say, "Oh, Leonard, it's no longer that way. Everyone is invited to this banquet table and everyone, all the poor and broken whom you so dearly loved, are here in heaven, at a banquet filled with rich food and well-aged wines." You just know that Leonard is pleased as punch. You can hear him now, can't you, saying to God, "Now this is the way it should be. Good job, God. Good job."
Oh Saint Leonard of San Diego, saint of the poor and broken of our city streets, well done, good and faithful servant. Well done.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
May 4, 2008
The Seventh Sunday of Easter
Luke 24: 44-53; Acts 1: 6-14
"Stay Here in the City"
I would imagine that there is not a single person here this morning who has not speculated on what heaven is like. Paintings that depict Jesus' ascension into heaven show his feet and nothing else as he goes higher and higher, up through the clouds into heaven. St. Luke's Ascension Gospel (read at the beginning of worship) speaks of Jesus being "carried up into heaven." No matter how much modern theology tells me that there is no such thing as a three-tiered universe as the ancients believed (hell way down below, earth right here, and heaven way up in the sky), when push comes to shove, heaven always seems to be up there for me.
Luke's account of the ascension, which continues in the first chapter of Acts, describes two men in white robes--angels, methinks--saying to the disciples: "Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven." Don't stand looking into heaven! And yet, how many times do we do just that? How many discussions have we been part of that search for the mystery of the resurrection and ascension? How many times have we sat in our living rooms pondering what heaven is like?
The San Diego free magazine, The Reader, rates a different church's worship service every week in the article, "Sheep and Goats." Using a one through four rating system, the article rates the band (organist in our case), the congregational singing, the sermon, the hospitality, the architecture, and, oh yes, the snacks, too. The writer's final paragraph is always a question to the pastor, "What do you think happens when you die?" If you have read these articles, you know that pastors' responses usually go something like this: "If you believe in Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior, you will go to heaven;" or "If you tend to the needs of the world and live the godly life, you will be with Jesus when you die." When the writer asked me this question, I told him that I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the hereafter. I went on to say that I am more concerned about discovering the Kingdom of Heaven right here on earth, among my neighbors than I am speculating about what is a mystery beyond my understanding. I will never know what heaven is like until God reveals the answer to me.
Too often, we Christians end up being a debating society staring into heaven. Rather than waiting to be empowered by God to live heavenly lives here on earth, we spend our time in speculation about something, at least for now, that we will never know. Jesus is enthroned at God's right hand so that we can get on with resurrection life here on earth and not worry about the sweet by and by. Rather than spending our time worrying about heaven, we are invited to live our lives fully and to spread Christ's love here on earth while we are alive.
Isn't that why Jesus said, "Stay here in the city." Don't go climbing mountains and chasing rainbows, seeing how high up in the clouds you can get. Don't run away from the tug and pull, the ebb and flow, of ordinary life. "Stay here in the city," Jesus said.
And here we are in the city. This is where we have stayed. It is a fair analogy, I think, to suggest that many mainline congregations over the years have deserted our nation's cities and fled up, up and away to greener pastures where houses are new and not decaying, where they feel more secure and not bombarded by the problems of the city, where things seem, well, just heavenly. This congregation listened to Jesus and stayed in the city. And how blessed we are for listening to Jesus.
When we listen to Jesus and stay in the city, we better do as Jesus says and wait patiently until we are given power from on high. Staying in the city is not easy; in fact, it is impossible without the power from on high. You have noticed, I'm sure, as you walked across the patio on your way into church the past few weeks, the signs that voice our strong stand against the drug dealers who would threaten our urban oasis with the deadly scourge of drugs. Jim Lovell (director of TACA), Paul Moorman, and I have spent countless hours over the past few months seeking ways to make certain that this is a safe place for everyone. We have not discussed what heaven is like even once. Rather, we have met with policemen, the Homeless Hot Team, homeless advocates, a city council member, tossing a host of ideas around that will keep this place safe, dare I say, God's heaven on earth.
We could speculate over and over again about what heaven is like and, if truth be told, this side of the kingdom come, we will never know. We do know that Jesus has told us that, if we stay here in the city, we will be empowered by the Holy Spirit. And so here we are, this morning, waiting. We are a waiting people: we wait in the words we speak, in the meals we serve here in this sanctuary this morning and out on our patio on Mondays and Fridays. We wait on Jesus to come by here and bring us a moment of peace and quiet and safety, a slice of heaven.
For my money, our best bet, if we wonder what heaven is like, is to look around here in the city. What a surprise if, when we get to heaven, it will look just like 3rd and Ash. What a surprise if the beggar Lazarus welcomes us at the Pearly Gates and asks for a dime and everywhere we look, sitting around tables eating, are the people we have served day-after-day in this place for all these years. Could this be why Jesus told us to stay here in the city? Is heaven here this morning for us to see? Is this where we will catch a glimpse of heaven as we taste the bread and sip the cup? I think it is. Stay here in the city.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 27, 2008
Sixth Sunday of Easter
John 14: 15-21
"Orphaned No More"
"Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!"
I imagine that you remember the last words your loved one spoke to you. We almost always remember our loved ones' last words to us. Sometimes the memory of the words is uplifting; other times, it haunts us and we wish other words had been spoken the very last time.
We just heard a few of the final words Jesus spoke to his beloved disciples the night before he died. This was Jesus' final opportunity to tell the disciples what he most wanted them to remember about him. The words that I particularly remember from that night are, "I will not leave you orphaned."
Final words offer a glimpse into the depths of our hearts; they also tend to define who we are. The last time I visited with my father at the Ohio Valley General Hospital in Wheeling, West Virginia, his final words came as instructions as my father's words to me so often did. He wanted to make certain that I understood his carefully crafted financial plans for his family. Those words spoke volumes about how my father lived his life and also how he died. My father was a child of the depression and, as is the want of many such people, he saved and saved and saved. He far preferred to save for his family than to spend for himself. It is probably fair to say that my father's deepest desire was to insure that his loved ones would never face overwhelming financial challenges. As final words so often do, my father's have set the course for me as I have similarly planned for my family in the event of my death.
Jesus' final words, "I will not leave you orphaned," defined who he was. His deepest desire was for each of us to know that he would never desert us and that we would never be left completely alone. He wanted us to know that, even after his death, the Holy Spirit would come to comfort us.
Oh, how we fear loneliness. Mother Theresa once said, "Loneliness is the most terrible poverty." If the church is anything, it is about conveying Jesus' last promise, "I will not leave you orphaned," to one another. Over and over again, Sunday after Sunday, in more words or less, we proclaim this promise. We do everything in our power-in our greetings and conversations, our prayers and songs, our sermons and Holy Communion--to make certain that none of us will ever face that terrible poverty of utter loneliness. Easter is about God never abandoning us especially at the time of death when loneliness threatens for eternity. As the early Christians did at baptisms, so do we, too, spitting in the face of Satan, taunting the bearer of death, "Where is your sting? Death, where is your sting?"
It is so important for us to know that we will not be orphaned. Psychologists claim that from the moment we leave our mother's womb and are rudely thrust into the cold, noisy, and glaring world, we fear loneliness. We scream our bloody heads off for someone to please put us back inside mommy. We learn about loneliness quickly. Studies indicate that by six weeks, we have figured out how we will be treated by the world-loved, forgotten, or orphaned.
As we grow older, we continue to fear that no one will love us and that we will have no one to love in return. Is there any deeper pain than to be left utterly alone, without a parent or friend, spouse or partner, to love us? Make no mistake: little children are not the only ones left orphans. There is a term called "adult orphans." When our parents die, we become orphans. I was confronted by that painful realization only days ago. This was the first time that Dagmar had gone to visit her mother in Germany since my mother died two years ago. I cannot remember being so alone for a long time. Early one morning, I was taking our dog, Cisco, for a walk, when a coyote ran twenty feet in front of us. Since Dagmar wasn't here, I had the sudden urge to call my mom, to tell her the amazing thing that just had happened; that's what I had always done before. Of course, mom was not there to answer my call. I felt so lonely. I imagine that you have felt a similar piercing loneliness.
One of my favorite poems is "The Creation" by James Weldon Johnson. In this poem that we read at First Lutheran Church at our Easter Vigil, Johnson writes:
"I'm lonely." What a vision: God longing for companionship, for love.
Perhaps the most famous of all Russian Orthodox icons is by Andrei Rublev.
It paints a pictorial theme similar to Johnson's poem: God hates
loneliness. In this icon, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit gather around a
table, almost hand-in-hand, pointing to each other in an intimate circle of
love that is never interrupted. Three of the four spots at the table are
taken; the fourth spot, of course, is reserved for you and me. The icon
depicts by means of the Holy Trinity what Jesus assured: "I will not leave
you orphaned." Jesus' deepest desire was that we be linked to Father, Son,
and Holy Spirit forever and ever.
In a national survey, participants were asked to name the three things they most long to hear. What do you think they answered? "I love you," "You are forgiven," and "Supper is ready." All three things involve intimacy with others: to say "I love you" is to hope and risk that the one we love will feel similarly; to beg forgiveness is to hope that the other person will not say, "You've got to be kidding. No deal;" to hear the words, "Supper is ready," is to know that we will eat with someone and not alone.
Isn't it amazing: the church has intuitively responded to the world's deepest desires. Every time we gather here on Sunday morning, we hear Jesus tell us that he loves us, that he forgives us, and that he has prepared a table before us--dinner is ready.
Our mission is to tell all who enter our patio and come through these doors that Jesus will not leave them orphaned. Of course, another way to announce this is to sing of that most love divine, all love excelling. May you, too, know that you are loved and will never be forgotten.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
April 13, 2008
John 10: 1-10
"Sheep Talk"
Let me wax eloquent for a moment about my considerable academic achievements. I have studied countless foreign languages. Every attempt to master a language has resulted in an ugly ordeal. I have taken enough Latin to know better, enough Greek to have the professor suggest I drop out after one term, enough German to have achieved equal understanding with the family dog, and enough Spanish to preside at a Spanish liturgy and have the entire congregation snicker through the whole thing. It would be fair to say that the Lord has not blessed me munificently with extraordinary language skills.
There are two languages, however, for which I have an uncanny ability:
doggy talk and kitty talk. These are not easy languages to master. If you
are a cat or dog owner, you know that you must use particular nuances: dogs
think their owners are family; cats think them to be staff. To speak to
cats and dogs, you must use different speech patterns and a host of
different voice inflections. Our dog, Cisco, and our cats, Emma and Dusty,
require highly specialized linguistic skills in order to communicate with
them.
In today's Gospel, we hear Jesus say that the sheep know the shepherd because they know the shepherd's voice. I don't know much about sheep-most of my work has been with cows, dogs and cats. I assume though that sheep talk is similar to what I use with our dog and cats. The shepherd has got to get to know Floppy Ears and Spotty Face, and the sheep, in turn, must trust the shepherd. If there is no trust, forget it.
The great Shepherd, Jesus Christ, knows us well and has committed his life, even unto the cross, to speak to us in language that will convince us of his love. The language of divine love scolds and praises. This gentle Shepherd whispers kindness into our ears, rubs our little noses, and tells us how sweet we are. And yet, this same Shepherd at times uses a harsh voice. This voice can be unbearable for us to hear. We prefer an uncomplicated shepherd that can be summed up in a bumper sticker: GOD IS LOVE. The Shepherd is far more complicated, using the gruff voice, if necessary, in order to warn us: do not wander off lest you stray into a pack of wolves and get ripped apart or fall over a mountainside and tumble to your death.
About twenty-eight years ago, we talked with our pediatrician about how to teach our boys German as well as English. Sebastian and Caspar have been bilingual from the time they could talk, using both languages interchangeably. Our pediatrician warned us that under no circumstances should we scold with one language and praise with the other. He told us of a family that taught their children English, French, and Arabic. The parents always used Arabic to scold, and, wouldn't you know it, the children refused to speak Arabic. Praise and punishment must be equally distributed between German and English, he urged.
The Good Shepherd has entrusted the language of divine love to the church. This language is for our protection and for the protection of those we are called to serve. When a group of us from the church went to hear the author/pastor Walter Wangerin speak a few weeks ago, he spoke of the craft of writing and said that never should the writer intentionally hurt. The writer's craft is to give life. The church, like the writer, should never lift its voice simply to hurt. Whenever we become scolding, those words should be enormously difficult ones to speak and always have the aim of making others know of God's love.
Take for instance excommunication. We have a fanciful idea that excommunication has been used by the church down through the centuries to ban troublesome people from the life of the church and to shun them forever and ever. It seems, to some at least, a convenient way to get rid of problematic people and never have to worry about them again. Nothing could be further from the truth. Excommunication should only be used when the community's most fervent and prayerful hope is to bring disruptive people back to the center of the church's life. If ever a person is excommunicated from the church's Mercy Table-and one would pray this is never!--the community's most fervent prayer would be that they would return to the center of the fold very soon.
Under no circumstances should we, the people of God, let gruffness be our only or last voice. If we do, people will refuse to learn the language of the Gospel. You know how many people steer clear of the church because they have only heard preachers pound pulpits and point fingers! They sense that in such places there is no Gospel-and they might just be right. If the church truly longs to save helpless sheep, it will learn the nuances of the Shepherd's language, how to use which voice and in which circumstances.
I remember running Vacation Bible School in West Philadelphia. This was a yearly ordeal that lasted an entire month. The counselors were teenagers who actually needed counselors themselves. One day, we took the kids to Kingsessing Elementary School's playground. One of the kids, Stephen Davis, got the bright idea of scaling the school's fire escape which hung threateningly over the stairs leading down into the cellar. It was a three story drop. When I saw Stephen inching higher and higher, his impending death flashed before my eyes. Sweet talk was out of the question; in fact, I never even considered it. I screamed at him, using language that could have easily gotten me thrown out of the ministry and yet, to have sweet talked him with quiet words would have been both ridiculous and risked Stephen's very life. Stephen knew that I was furious; he got down quicker than an Olympic track star. My language was as gruff as could be, but, in truth, it was filled with love for little Stephen and Stephen knew it.
We the followers of the Good Shepherd do well to listen to the Shepherd's voice. It is both his rod and staff that comfort us. We need to understand that and use it well in the church. There are times we must raise our voices to protect the vulnerable lambs in our midst. We must dare speak courageously and gruffly at times. However, we must exercise considerable caution.
If you listen to talk radio even for a second, you have heard the outrageous discussions about "sparing the rod and spoiling the child." Inevitably these discussions spare the rod and spoil the wrong child. Those who need the rod most are those who are rarely touched by its correction. Those who need the rod are those who prey on the helpless and who pounce on the poor, who violate the vulnerable and abuse the young. More often than not, it is those who have been so abused and mistreated who get the rod while the abusers and mistreaters win the staff. It is time such nonsense stops. The church must exercise great diligence in regards to how it uses the rod and the staff, who is spoken gruffly to and who is embraced with love and compassion.
May we listen for the Good Shepherd's voice, and somehow, by God's grace, learn to be that voice in the world. May we dare to be gruff when necessary and sensitive enough to know when to speak words of gentle kindness. May God grant us the grace to know which voice to use and when.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Memorial Service in Celebration
of the Life of Jacob Umlauf
April 12, 2008
I just knew there would be stories to tell this afternoon. We could be here til' midnight, telling one after another about Jacob Umlauf. I sensed there were stories to be told as we gathered at Jacob's bedside and you, Jan, and your family told stories nonstop. So many stories, so little time. As we sat at your lovely home on Orchard Avenue, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, I scribbled furiously, trying to get every word as you related countless stories from meeting Jacob in Saudi Arabia to listening to Yo Yo Ma and the Silk Road Ensemble on a starlit evening.
Jacob Umlauf cherished the life God gave him. That's why there are stories to be told here today. Whether as a doctor in Europe with his young family following World War II, standing up for children's rights as a pediatrician in Colorado, or traveling to Saudi Arabia where he met his bride-to-be Jan, he loved exploring new vistas. Whether pedaling to work on his bicycle or hiking up a mountain as far as his feet could carry him, Jacob sunk his teeth into life.
I must confess, when I asked you for Jacob's birth date for the bulletin, I thought my subtraction was playing tricks on me. Jacob, ninety? Even in his autumn years, he loved a new challenge, swimming in the ocean or learning to sail--every moment was precious and well worth living.
The great nature writer Annie Dillard claims that "you must go at life with a broadax." Isn't that what Jacob did? That's why there are so many stories to tell. Did he waste a single minute of those ninety years?
As your family talked about your beloved Jake's interests, I thought, now there is a classical man. Where did his interests stop? Whether reading James Michener's historical fiction books on Hawaii or the Middle East or a volume from Will Durant's The Story of Civilization, he was enthralled by the new and exciting.
There is a marvelous tale of man who traveled a great distance to study under the renowned Rabbi Shneur Zalman, the founder of Lubavitcher Hasidim in Poland. He was a spiritual giant who mesmerized many with his memorization and careful arguing of the Talmud. When the villagers heard that this visitor longed to sit at the master's feet, they asked him if he wanted to hear the great rabbi read Talmud and listen to him pray. "Neither," said the man. "I want to watch him cut bread and tie his shoes."
I suspect that those who knew and loved Jacob simply wanted to watch him tend his garden, teach the grandchildren to bake bread, and watch him do the daily crossword puzzle. We learned much by how Jacob celebrated the simple tasks of life.
On and on we could go. As you go about your story-telling of a life lived fully and well, let me invite you to another kind of story-telling. Now that Jacob's days on earth are complete, it would be easy to close the book and conclude that there are no more stories to be created. Easter faith, however, compels us to seek new stories, bolder stories that defy death. We believe that the God who spangles constellations across the sky is the very same God who can fashion a new creation in the face of death. That is what it means to go at life with a broadax, to dare tell a bold, new story when all the stuff for story-telling seems over.
I know your family is a group of superb story-tellers--I have heard your craft countless times in the past days! Now, I urge you to gather together and concoct new stories, ones that can only be true if the power of God is invoked. Imagine what this God can do, the same one who coaches the hummingbirds how to beat their tiny wings, conducts the dolphins in their majestic choruses and propels the snail inch-by-inch, imagine what that God can do in the face of Jacob's death.
My dear friends, that is why we gather here this afternoon. We are here as a community of people who believe that the story-telling does not conclude when a person breathes his last. We urge one another to tell new stories, ones that dare tell of life even in the face of death.
The church always saves its best for last. We gather together now that Jacob has breathed his last and tell this, our finest story: "Christ is risen! Alleluia!" We save our supreme song for that moment when most have hung their harps in the willows in despair. We resort to our most vibrant lyrics and appeal to our most life-giving melody when so many have stopped their music-making.
In a few moments we will commend Jacob to God's eternal care. This commendation will not be our final story. We will then sing a beautiful song in which we envision Jacob being welcomed into the Promised Land by the saints and martyrs; even that old beggar Lazarus, who is poor no more, takes Jacob by the hand and escorts him to that heavenly home.
Jacob Umlauf loved life. I rather suspect that, with the creative vision of story-tellers, we might just see him looking at us now with his huge smile; we might hear his hearty laugh, encouraging us to continue our story- telling. After all, you know, he would certainly say, life is for living.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Third Sunday of Easter
April 6, 2008
Luke 24: 13-35
"Easter Eyes"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
You know exactly the conservation Cleopas and his friend are having as they walk home following Jesus' crucifixion. We all have had that conversation when something has gone terribly wrong. We turn it over and over in our minds; we can't stop talking about it. We are consumed by our loss. It eats away at us like acid etching glass. Nothing gets better; matters only get worse.
Some of us might be feeling a bit of that this morning. Our hopes were so high on Easter morning and again last Sunday as Allena Slevcove was baptized. The church was packed. I, at least, hoped things would be different this year, that the throngs would return and our worship this morning would be filled again. Now things are back to normal: the lilies are gone, placed on loved-ones' graves; the crowds are strolling the beach this morning; the Easter clothes are wrinkled and hung away. A crowded sanctuary is apparently not to be this morning.
It is in the midst of such disappointment that we come upon Cleopas and his companion. Jesus is dead. The conversation focuses on what might have been. And then, suddenly, when every dream is dashed, out of the blue, there stands Jesus. His presence is so ordinary that they are clueless as to who he is for the longest time. All they are able to muster is to ask this stranger why he doesn't know what happened at Calvary three days ago. So ordinary, so sad.
The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein describes these situations this way, "The things that matter are so familiar to us that we fail to see them."
That is precisely the challenge of Easter, to discover the things that matter in the everyday occurrences of life. Now that the shouting has all but stopped and the crowds have gone home, we are invited to see Christ in the day-to-day events of life and still shout, "Christ Is Risen Indeed."
This past week, I spent almost every day at the San Diego Hospice. This facility, just up the street on 3rd Avenue, is where people come to die. Just the thought of such a place can make one tremble. When I visited Jacob Umlauf and his wife Jan and their family, something quite surprising happened. In this place where so many breathe their last, I experienced something I have rarely felt. As I entered the grounds, the gardens surrounding the building danced with color; the view down through the valley made me pause in wonder and awe; the hallways and rooms were so quiet and yet so peaceful. In a way beyond my understanding, the scent of hope was in the air. Perhaps the hope arose because I had no easy answers of my own. Life was stripped bare. Clichés were useless. Few words were spoken--lots of tears, lots of hugs, lots of waiting and listening. Could a place of dying give birth to the Risen Savior, the same one who spoke to Cleopas and his friend on the road to Emmaus?
As Jan and her family sat at Jacob's bedside, they leafed through their King James Bible, an old family one frayed by many similar occasions through the years. Each family member chose a favorite passage and read it aloud. Then, we prayed: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." It was in reading Scripture and praying a children's prayer that we knew that the Risen Savior was in our midst.
Isn't that what Easter is about, to be surprised by something new and life- giving when all that we expect is unending conversation and death? Of course, it doesn't always happen. More often than not, we face disappointments and failures, loss and despair. And yet Easter is the anticipation that the day will come when the Risen Savior will appear at our side at the strangest of times.
In today's Gospel that moment comes for Cleopas and his friend as they invite the stranger to join them for supper, late at night. They see the Risen One as they eat an ordinary meal. It sounds eerily similar to what we will do in a few moments: they took and blessed, broke and ate. If we have Easter eyes, we may just see the Risen One here this morning.
Do you perchance know how many sacraments Lutherans have? A friend of mine,
a seminary professor, is fond of saying, "Lutherans have not just two
sacraments but hundreds." To live with Easter eyes is to see the the Risen
Christ come alive in the sacraments of ordinary life, like at dinner with
family and friends as we plea, "Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest" or as we
walk with a dear friends and talk and talk and discover a conversation
soaked with holiness. The readings we hear from the Bible and the meal we
share this morning instruct us how to listen for holiness in our daily
conversations and to taste holiness in the meals we share with loved ones
through the week.
Nearly six months ago, a sacramental thing happened here as devastating fires devoured our San Diego County. We saw deadly flames dancing and breathed their oppressive smoke everywhere we went. We trembled like Cleopas and his friend after Jesus' death. And then a box arrived here at First Lutheran. When I opened it, there were books and stuffed animals for kids who had lost their toys in the fires. As I lifted those stuffed animals out of the box, I felt as if I were lifting Christ's body at Holy Communion. Something sacramental was in that box. I shared the story with you of the young boy, Casey Rothgeb, from Mill Creek, Washington, who had sacrificed his toys for others. Didn't we see the Risen Christ in his simple gesture of love? Guess what? Casey is with us this morning, visiting our city with his grandparents. If we have eyes of faith, we might see the Risen Christ.
My dear friends, that is what it means to live with Easter eyes, to discover the Risen Christ in the ordinary interactions of life--in the sharing of meals, giving of our most precious possessions, shedding of tears together, sitting hand-in-hand, in silence, when words fail.
May you have Easter eyes. Even when the crowds have gone home, may you continue to shout, "Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!"
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Second Sunday of Easter
March 30, 2008
John 20: 19-31
"The Circuitous Journeys of Faith"
This day has three different names in church lingo: the Second Sunday of Easter; "Low Sunday" since attendance in almost all churches is guaranteed to be two to three times lower than last week; the other name is "Doubting Thomas Sunday."
It is astonishing, at least to me, that the Bible never refers to Thomas as "Doubting Thomas." Is that a surprise to you, too? Didn't we always think he was the doubting one? And yet, no where in the Bible is Thomas called the "Doubting One."
How quickly we dub people with pejorative labels, especially if how they arrive at their faith is different from ours. He's a loopy agnostic, she's a wacky "fundie," he's a hot-headed conservative, she's a raving liberal. It is almost automatic for us to label followers of Jesus. And to arrive at these labels, one of our questions almost always is, "And what are you?"
We label churches, too. That's a "high church," that church is a megachurch, that one is evangelical, that church is rich and snooty, that one is a social justice church where anything goes. The labels we use almost always measure a church by our own particular likes and dislikes, our own limited vision of the Gospel.
What is remarkable about today's Gospel reading is that Jesus never labeled Thomas. Surprise, surprise. Thomas seemed so different from the others following the resurrection and yet there are no labels.
If you read John 20, you will discover a host of different avenues by which people arrived at faith. Mary Magdalene arrived at the tomb, saw the stone rolled away, and yet did not shout, "Christ is risen!" She mourned, "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him." Mary is not labeled "Non-believing Mary." When Simon Peter and the so called "other disciple" received word from Mary that the tomb was empty, they went running. The "other disciple" saw the linen wrappings that had been wrapped around Jesus' body and believed just seeing the grave clothes. Did this make him "Super Believer?" No person's faith was labeled as better than the other.
Jesus appeared to all the disciples with the exception of Thomas on the night of his resurrection and they all believed. When the disciples reported the news to Thomas, Thomas' response was not unbelief; rather, he said, "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." He needed a little more evidence in order to believe. No value judgments were made regarding how Thomas came to faith. Jesus simply did what was necessary to bring every person to belief. Some required more and some required less to arrive at belief.
Jesus had the sensitivity to relate to all people exactly where they were in their journey of faith. Jesus did what was necessary to draw them closer and closer to him. No value judgments were made on the peculiarities of each person's journey style-each was different and each was genuine.
I would suspect that each of us has a different belief about what happened at the tomb on Easter morning. Some of us may not believe in the resurrection at all though we desperately wish we did--it simply makes no sense to us; others of us believe beyond a shadow of doubt that God raised Jesus' body from the dead--we find no problem in this at all; others of us try to make sense of the resurrection in our own crazy way, a way far from traditional orthodoxy and confessional Lutheranism-and yet it is the journey we must take.
We can learn an enormous lesson from how Jesus helped Thomas come to believe in the resurrection. Jesus was gentle and sensitive as he nursed Thomas to faith. Jesus loved Thomas even as he struggled to believe. Jesus did what was necessary to make Thomas' faith come alive.
The church of our day is littered with harsh judgments of who is Christian and who is not. The church is too often intolerant of people as they struggle to come to grips with God's love. The church today, at times, seems hopelessly divided because of our own intolerant certainties of who is faithful and who is not.
This morning we will baptize Allena Joel Slevcove. (By the way, today is as
crowded as it was on Easter Morning-this is not Low Sunday!) Our baptizing
an eight month old baby is a peculiar practice indeed. What kind of faith
can Allena possibly have? How can she know what is happening here, to her,
this morning? The beauty and the challenge of what we do at Allena's
baptism is that we promise to rear her in the faith of Jesus Christ. Joe
and Beth, her parents, make promises to bring Allena to worship and to
teach her the Ten Commandments, the Lord's Prayer, and the Apostles' Creed;
her Godmother Libby promises to help nurture Allena in the faith; her
grandparents and aunts and uncles promise to tell Allena the stories of
God's love as she grows. AND WE, her brothers and sisters in faith,
promise to support Allena as she begins this remarkable journey. We all
prayed mightily for Allena's safe birth into this world; now we pray
mightily that she will grow in faith in the years to come. Allena is our
baby, too! She is our sister in the faith. If we are blessed in the
tradition of how Jesus treated Thomas, we will exercise enormous patience
with Allena and love her as she grows in faith. As her faith begins to
blossom, who knows what it will look like. We can be almost certain that it
will be different from ours; that is to say, her faith will be unique. And
what a gift she is and will be to our holy communion of faith.
Let us pray to God that we will be patient and loving toward Allena and to one another. May we help each other in the struggle of faith. May we be creative in how we help the miracle of faith take root in each other. May we celebrate the diverse ways in which we come to faith and may we find great grace in supporting one other in this wonderful journey of believing.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Easter Day/ The Resurrection of Our Lord
John 20: 1-18
"Groping for the Right Words"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
Let's get this out of the way right away. Why are you here this morning?
Are you here out of habit, as on every other Sunday, not expecting a life
change, but who ever knows? Are you here in honor of that venerable
tradition of worshiping on Easter whether you need it or not? Or did a
nagging parent disrupt your morning slumber, "OK, Buster, it's Easter; rise
and shine?" I am here, by the way, because I am paid to be.
Whatever our reason, I suspect, deep inside each us, there is some unfathomable stirring that leads us here. Might a story be told now that will change my life forever?
If you are in search of such a story, what I do in these minutes has profound implications. Every preacher understands that. We start preparing for Easter months in advance, praying that we might speak a word or two that will touch that deep part of your soul where lives are changed and worlds bettered. I sense that you are here to await that word. Quite a few of you have asked me about that during the week, "So, pastor, is your sermon written yet?" My neighbor, who never attends church, understands-- "This Sunday is your big day, Wilk! You better do good or else!" And my wife, Dagmar, simply says, "Just keep it short." It's a daunting task. No matter how often you show up here, on this morning, you expect a life- changing word. And well you should!
In preparation, I have read a host of books on resurrection by people like Rowan Williams the Archbishop of Canterbury, New Testament scholar and Bishop of Durham, England, N. T. Wright, and Eugene H. Peterson, a life- long parish pastor. I have searched for the perfect key to open up Christ's resurrection. I shouldn't admit this, but, the more I have read, the more confused I have become. Rather than discovering some word that unlocks the magical "resurrection box," I have trembled at the enormity of it all.
When you try to explain those words, "on the third day Jesus rose from the dead," do you struggle? Do you find that you sound a lot like NCAA basketball players being interviewed during March Madness: "Well, uh, you know..Jesus body was like uh..Jesus' body, uh, came alive..you know, like, he lives again."
I don't mean to make light of this groping language. If we are lucky, we will grope for a lifetime, trying to find suitable words that articulate our Easter faith. And yet, the uniqueness of what God did for us at the Easter tomb that morning long ago makes it a certainty that no word we speak will ever adequately describe our Savior's resurrection.
The briefest glance at the Bible's resurrection accounts reveals that the first witnesses of Jesus' empty grave struggled with a similar loss for words.. There was no previous language to describe what Mary Magdalene confronted when she saw the solitary stone that had mysteriously been rolled from the tomb. There was no garish neon sign monotonously blinking above the tomb, "Christ Is Risen. Christ Is Risen, Indeed! Alleluia." What those first women and men experienced as they gazed into the empty tomb was as varied as spring desert flowers: fear and joy, alarm and terror, confusion and doubt, astonishment and even sadness-this is what they felt. They were groping to make sense of it all. Perhaps the best they could say was, "Like, well uh, there was no body, you know, like, Jesus was not there."
Easter always leaves us groping for words. And yet, whenever we are speechless, we feel a bit thick-headed, stupid, even unchristian, don't we? Shouldn't faithful people have perfect answers to the mysteries of faith? Or could it be that God meant us to be speechless at Easter?
The Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams suggests: "Throughout the Gospel, Jesus holds back from revealing who he is because, it seems, he cannot believe that there are words that will tell the truth about him in the mouths of others..There is a kind of truth which, when it is said, becomes untrue." And isn't he right? Jesus knew that any answer we offer about this great day will likely appear as flimsy as a dime store wedding ring. That doesn't stop some. Conservatives provide slickly packaged answers that leave nothing to the imagination; while sounding quite profound, their answers grow stagnant and eventually feel slipperier than an eel in oil. Liberals debunk every shred of mystery in the resurrection stories, telling us, cocksuredly, that Easter isn't much more than a children's fairy tale; such arrogant shenanigans polish up liberal credentials but, in the process, Jesus' resurrection becomes as appealing as a banged up 1959 Edsel grill.
I hope that we never stop groping for better words to describe what happened on this wondrous day. On Easter, we do best when we await a word or two from God that will define this glorious day. And God promises to deliver that word and that word will always be surprising: it will come as we see a little girl wearing her first Easter bonnet to church and we will just know that Christ Is Risen; it will come as a grieving widow sniffs the sanctuary's Easter lilies and we will realize that in that scent comes God's triumph over death; it will come as a toughened teenager stands by grandpa's grave, listening to the preacher proclaim well-worn words that declare that death shall be no more and we will hear that kid utter, "Cool. Really cool!" That's Easter for you.
I am almost certain that is why we are here this morning. We long for a story that will change how we see this world. We long for a story that will finally comfort us as we go to bed tonight and pray, "And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." There is a story to be told here this morning and that story proclaims, "Do not be afraid." As we shut our eyes tonight and as our loved ones shut theirs for one final time, we will hear God's word, a word of comfort, a word of hope, a word that assures us that Christ has risen from the dead and we and those we love have nothing to fear.
After all my reading and thinking and preparing for this day, that's the best I can do this time around. For now, let us stand and sing in resurrection joy and Easter wonder. In our singing, maybe we will discover the very best words to describe this day. Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Easter Vigil
March 22, 2008
"My Dad Is Stronger than Your Dad!"
When I was seven, I constantly quarreled with my neighbors, Johnny and Michael Burns. We contested the central theological issue of the day, "The Immovability of Fatherhood." With taunts hurled and fists flying, we proclaimed, "My dad is stronger than your dad!"
Lest I be accused of sexism, be assured that this battle is waged over motherhood, too. When I was a pastor in inner-city Philadelphia, the supreme contests were waged over "your momma." These battles used reverse psychology: "Your momma's breath is worse than a hippopotamus;" "Your momma wears combat boots." The same end was achieved, "My momma can bust your momma."
The debate over "whose parent is the strongest" is as old as the hills. The ancient Jewish people engaged in this battle and inevitably it focused on: "My God can trouble the waters and your God.well don't even think about it."
(Jared Jacobsen, piano; Robert Case, saxophone: "Wade in the Water")
That is why we are here tonight. We have rehearsed the ancient stories which proclaim in no uncertain terms, "Your momma ain't nothin' compared to my God." Our God, after all, created an entire universe from chaos--let's see your god do that! Our God delivered a flood that just about ruined everything until, with a word, God gave Noah and his family and the animals a fresh start--don't mess with our God. Our God played with your god like a toy: your god tried to enslave our people in Egypt, but our God separated the sea, led our people dry-shod to freedom, and left your people swimming helplessly in the drink. Don't mess with our God, the Israelites sang, for if you do, our God's going to trouble the waters.
(Jared Jacobsen, piano; Robert Case, saxophone: "Wade in the Water")
We are about to write a new story tonight concerning "Don't mess with our God." We are going pray to God to trouble the waters at 3rd and Ash. We will pour lots of water on Tasha and we will tell her not to be afraid. We want to prove to her and to all of you that God will defend her every day of her life. You see, when God is with Tasha, the waters are in big trouble. Our God is so strong that even when you nail him to the cross, still, our God will destroy all that is bad and spring up from the water to new life. Don't mess with our God!
So, with Tasha and all who join our family tonight, let us go the water. Let us proclaim to the devil, "Our God is going to beat you to smithereens." Let's have a good old time, splashing and singing and playing. One thing we know, "You just don't mess with our God!" So let's get to it and wade in the water.
(Congregation sings "Wade in the Water.")
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Maundy Thursday
March 20, 2008
"Few Words Indeed"
Most of us have attended worship for a lifetime. We know what belongs in the service and where it belongs. The confession and absolution come first, a hymn is sung, lessons are read, a sermon is preached, prayers are prayed, and then comes Holy Communion. One thing we know for certain: the sermon never comes first.
Strangely, on this holy evening of Maundy Thursday, the night before our Savior died, the sermon comes first, before everything else. The placing of the sermon feels like we just want to get it out of the way! It is only after the sermon is concluded that the liturgy seems to unfold-confession, readings, washing of feet, Holy Communion. I would imagine that this arrangement strikes us all as a bit peculiar.
One of my favorite quotes attributed to Saint Francis might give us a glimpse into what is occurring tonight: "Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words." Listen again: "Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words." And in a sense, that's what we will do tonight. We will wash one another's feet and towel them dry, give and receive the gifts of Christ's body and blood.
My guess is that none of us would ever say that in all cases "actions speak louder than words" or "sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me." We know better than that; we know the power of words. Words created the heavens and earth, words bring healing and life, words bear hope when no hope is in sight. We believe that God comes to us with words and these words have astonishing power. And yet, tonight, we seem to follow Saint Francis' dictate: "Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words."
Tonight, we see God's love unfold before us as we wash and taste. Very few words indeed and yet we will be touched deeply by Jesus' love for us.
Maundy Thursday is a precious glimpse into Jesus' final moments with those he loved. If you remember, in the accounts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke of that last night, while the disciples bickered about which of them was the greatest, Jesus reframed their question of greatness by saying that those who would be great must be servant of all.
And then, Jesus preached the Gospel without words, to the disciples, to you and me. He took a towel and washed his disciples' dirty feet. If we know anything about that night, we know what occurred: no sooner had Jesus humbly stooped to wash Peter and Judas' dirty feet than they ran from him and sold him to death to the highest bidder and betrayed him to anyone in sight. Watch the Gospel tonight. Watch how Jesus loved them-and us-even as they-and we-turn our backs on him and run.
Tonight, we see God's word come alive in simple acts as we wash our friends' feet and share bread and wine. Love is alive because Jesus promised that it would be. As we do these simple actions, we live out the Gospel in this place and remember Jesus' great love for us.
And so, "Let us preach the Gospel and, if necessary, let us use words."
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Palm Sunday/ Passion of Our Lord
March 16, 2008
Matthew 26:1 - 27:66
"The Heart of Christ in the Heart of the City"
In just two days, on March 18, First Lutheran Church will celebrate its
120th birthday. We are the oldest Lutheran congregation in Southern
California. Throughout our considerable history, in more words or less, we
have announced that we are "the heart of Christ in the heart of the city."
This is a lofty aspiration, a bold claim. When the going is good, it is
exhilarating to be Christ's heart in "America's Finest City." It must feel
like it did for Peter and Judas as the crowds shouted "Hosanna" as Jesus
entered Jerusalem. When we welcome visitors on their way to cruises on the
Mexican Riviera, celebrate worship in our wonderfully lively and yet
traditional manner, and carry on our ministry of Word and Sacraments as one
of very few congregations in the very center of downtown San Diego-it
doesn't get much better than being a follower of Jesus in this beautiful
city.
However, my dear friends, as you well know, those emotional highs are not all there is to being "the heart of Christ in the heart of the city." When we dare make such an audacious assertion, we know that the crowds will eventually scream, "Crucify him." That is simply the nature of being a faithful follower of Jesus.
As we have cared for the downtrodden who gather on our peaceful patio for a tasty meal for more than thirty years now, the alarm of our citizenry hasn't changed much since San Diego's early days. In 1912, merchants petitioned City Council to stop unlawful assemblies in center city. The Evening Tribune noted: ".the laws which these lawbreakers flout prevent the citizens of San Diego from taking these impudent outlaws away from the police and hanging them or shooting them. This would end the trouble in an hour." We have heard some in our community voice similar sentiments toward some of our "patio parishioners." When we claim to be "Christ's heart in the city," we are called to a different way of life, to care for those others too easily reject.
It has been the character of First Lutheran ministers to speak out against those matters which they believe to be unjust. In 1918, Pastor Schueler compared City Council to a bunch of ragamuffins playing marbles in the back alley; in the 1970's Pastor Lindquist wrote the newspaper crying for a stop to gay witch-hunts against school teachers; and just recently, Pastor Estergren went to court to allow homeless people to sleep peacefully without being ticketed. Your pastors have sensed you and God calling them to follow Jesus and to stand up for the most vulnerable in society.
Has anything changed? Last Sunday, members of this congregation joined other congregations of the San Diego Organizing Project-more than 1,000 strong-to challenge our Mayor, and other elected city, county, and national leaders to care for our youth. To be "the heart of Christ in the heart of the city" is to call all people to climb to higher ground, to challenge us all to see Christ in the hungry and naked, imprisoned and sick.
We know how hard it can be. When the going got tough for Peter and Judas, Peter denied his good friend Jesus not once but three times and Judas stooped so low as to sell his good friend to death in exchange for thirty pieces of silver. We can ask, why did they ever do that, but I think we know. Being a follower of Jesus is demanding business. Eventually, we stumble, lose courage, get seduced by the wealthy and powerful, and catch ourselves, even if under our breath, crying, "Crucify him." You know as well as I that there is a little bit of Judas and Peter in every, single one of us. And at those points, when we fall so badly, being part of Christ's heart is to stand in awe of Jesus who loves us no matter how cowardly and selfish we may be.
Jesus was surprised at what happened to him. "O God, save me from this hour!" he cried. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Jesus would have preferred a different path, too, an easier way, if only it had been God's will. And yet, finally, Jesus' way was one of love. His heart was a big, compassionate heart that gave his life so that cowards and heroes, Hosanna shouters and Crucify him shouters, villains and saints, might be touched deeply by God's love.
As we proceed through this Holy Week and observe this congregation's 120th birthday, let us watch the wondrous love of Christ. As we watch, by his grace, may we be worthy of the words, "the heart of Christ in the heart of the city." Like Peter, whether we stumble to sickening lows of cowardice or rise to amazing heights of courageous ministry, may we, by God's grace, follow our Savior with great devotion.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 9, 2008
Ezekiel 37: 1-14
"Questions at the Bone Yard"
How eerie it must have been for Ezekiel. God, you will recall, took him by hand and led him down into the middle of a valley full of bones. Bones. Dry bones. Dead bones. Not only did God take Ezekiel deep into that valley, God led him all around, giving him a close look at death, letting him smell a little rotting flesh. There were thousands of bones. God let the picture of the bone yard sink deep into Ezekiel's own bones.
God then asked poor Ezekiel, "Mortal, can these bones live?" I suppose
each of us has been there, gaping at deadly bones of our life and
wondering, "Can these bones live?"
When I was in seminary, I took a pastoral counseling class in which the professor would present perplexing situations and then ask, "So, what do you do?" I remember thinking, that will never happen, these situations are outlandish seminary theatrics. I was right: those situations never did happen. What has happened in my ministry has been far worse, time and time again-a baby drowning in the family's backyard wading pool, an unsuspecting spouse arriving home from work and discovering the house completely empty and the wife gone, an angry husband with handgun waving in the air, screaming at me to come no closer or he would shoot. In these situations, I have just stood, wondering, "Can these bones live?"
Ezekiel was asked that very question as he gaped at the bones. "Can these bones live?" Whenever God asks such a question, I feel like I must offer an answer, any answer. Even if I am clueless, isn't better to offer some answer rather than none at all? What is amazing is that Ezekiel offered no answer to whether the bones could live. He simply said, "Only you know Lord." Ezekiel seemed destined to live with a question rather than to offer a sloppy answer.
Perhaps we need to learn to spend more time sitting patiently with the question, "Can these bones live?" The great Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy noted that "certain questions are put to us not so much that we should answer them as that we should spend a lifetime wrestling with them." I fear that many of us cannot bear living with such questions for a lifetime. We feel compelled to answer excruciatingly difficult questions with flimsy answers even if we know, deep down in our hearts, that what we say is a sham.
In a little book, The Pastor, Gordon Lathrop writes: "Be a struggling believer, hands out for mercy.be side by side with your loved ones, kneeling at the holy table. Do not know all the answers.There may be a little death in this, but God is the life-giver."[i] This is wise counsel for all God's people. We grow up learning and yearning to offer answers to every question, no matter how inane-"Give it a try, any answer is better than none at all," our teachers taught us. "Give it a stab even it is wrong."
When the great preacher William Sloane Coffin lost his son to a tragic automobile accident, he told his parishioners at Riverside Church in New York City how some of his "fellow reverends.were using comforting words of Scripture for self-protection, to pretty up a situation whose bleakness they simply couldn't face."[ii] He noted how, often times, the most helpful responses to the tragedy were from those who had no answers, they were those who simply brought flowers and food, or signed, "Your broken- hearted sister." These people lived with the question, "Can these bones live?" They had no satisfactory words. They helplessly held his hand or gave him a great big hug. You understand, I am sure. You have stood there, in the midst of dead bones.
Lathrop goes on to write: "Wise pastors are frequently face-to-face with their own limits, their own helplessness in the face of sorrow, sin, and loss. They must simply keep silence and be there."[iii] Each of us will face terrifying situations in which we must remain silent with no answers. We will feel helpless, useless. What we might learn from Ezekiel is that it is ok to wait on the Lord for an answer, sometimes waiting for a lifetime.
Yesterday, twenty First Lutheran members went to Tijuana, to the city dumb, to put up dry-wall in very simple two-room houses. As we looked out over the dump, we could only wonder, "Can these bones live? Can anyone possibly live here with decency?" That's what the women of the dump must have felt before they began their program of building very simple housing on top of a garbage heap. I can only assume they bowed their heads in prayer, asking, "Can these bones live?" Only God could provide an answer as to whether a community could spring up from a land of rubbish. We saw homes and children and mothers and fathers desperate to begin life anew, to own a little home. Who would have thought it?
It is not easy to stand in the middle of dry bones, numb and weeping and utterly helpless. But there is some wisdom in refraining from offering shallow answers to demanding questions; that wisdom comes by looking beyond ourselves to God, God who will offer answers so beyond our comprehension that, most of the time, we cannot imagine what God might do.
So, as you stand hand-in-hand with Ezekiel, looking out over all the bones of your life and hearing God ask, "Can these bones live?" wait, wait patiently on the Lord. The Lord promises to answer and that answer will always be filled with life.
-----------------------
[i] Lathrop, Gordon. The Pastor, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006, pg.
131.
[ii] Coffin, William Sloane. "Alex's Death," sermon preached at Riverside
Church, New York City, ten days after his son Alex's death.
[iii] Lathrop, Gordon. The Pastor, pg. 132.
Image: Third century fresco from Dura-Eurpoas Synagogue, Syria.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Second Sunday in Lent
February 24, 2008
John 4: 5-42
"An Uncommon Patience"
How many of you got antsy as today's Gospel was read? Did you wonder why the reading had to go on so interminably long? Couldn't it have been shortened just a bit; maybe one part read this morning and one part next Sunday. Long!
We are not used to taking time for long conversations to unfold. We like our talk fast. Church growth gurus claim that worship services must end under an hour, preferably fifty-eight minutes, or else worshipers get fed up and don't come back. We are used to fifty-eight minute television programs and church services should follow suit, they say. If they are correct, is it any wonder that we were fidgety with today's gospel reading? If you can't say it a sound byte, what's it worth in this day and age?
I would suggest that the length of today's Gospel lesson has enormous
ramifications for our church life today. Jesus' extended conversation with
the Samaritan woman demonstrates to what lengths he was willing to go in
order to save a person in need. His ministry was not a quick fix. Jesus
took time to understand the woman at the well and to teach her. Such a
ministry took enormous patience and, sometimes, a considerable amount of
time.
If you listened to even a few of the verses from John's gospel, you sense that few, if any people, were willing to have much to do with the desperate, lonely Samaritan woman. By tradition, most women gathered at Jacob's Well early in the morning; they drew water and enjoyed the camaraderie of neighbors sharing the latest village news. The Samaritan woman didn't fetch water when everyone else did. Others probably didn't want her there with them, given her abysmal marital history of five previous husbands and working on the sixth. She was likely the topic of many a conversation and almost certainly not welcome among the other women at the well.
It is amazing that Jesus was willing to have anything to do with this woman, especially since her own kind would have nothing to do with her. Jesus had the longest recorded conversation of his entire ministry with this out-and-out reject! This woman had three strikes against her: she was a hated Samaritan with whom good Jews were forbidden to have any contact; no law abiding Jewish man would be caught at the well alone with any woman let alone the woman in question; and, to make matters worse, her marriage record rated right up there with any Hollywood movie star.
Most of us, when we run into someone for whom we don't particularly care, find every reason in the world to keep the conversation short. "Good morning; how do you do?" is about as expansive as we get. Is it any wonder that we get squeamish as Jesus goes on and on and on with this Samaritan woman? He seemed so enthralled by her questions. He was so patient in trying to get her to understand what in the world he meant by "living water" and how that water could change her life forever. Time didn't seem to matter to Jesus in the least. He was willing to take as long as necessary to make this woman understand who he was and what it was he had to offer her. The Samaritan woman, to her credit, was in no hurry either: she took her time with Jesus, too.
I just read a wonderful essay about the civil rights movement in the 1950's and 60's. It speaks about how the leaders of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) were willing to take their time to achieve their vision of