Several people have asked for copies of Pastor Miller's sermons, and he has graciously agreed to prepare some of them for the web.
| December 30, 2007 | "What About the Other 364 Days?" |
| December 23, 2007 | "Almost Purebred" |
| December 16, 2007 | "Necessary Wonder" |
| December 9, 2007 | "Extravagant Imagination" |
| December 2, 2007 | "730,000 Days and Waiting" |
| November 25, 2007 | "Stuffed Animals and Books" |
| November 18, 2007 | "Those Wonderful Creative Hands" |
| November 11, 2007 | "It's All in the Context" |
| November 4, 2007 | "The Saints We Love" |
| October 28, 2007 | "The First Cannot Win the Day" |
| October 21, 2007 | "Wrestling Nights" |
| October 14, 2007 | "Our Right, Our Duty and Joy" |
| October 7, 2007 | "A Mustard Seed Kind of Place" |
| September 30, 2007 | "Where Lazarus is Poor No More" |
| September 23, 2007 | "In Praise of the Mob" |
| September 16, 2007 | "The Mind of God" |
| September 9, 2007 | "So Don, What Preaches Today?" |
| September 9, 2007 | "No Hidden Costs" |
| September 2, 2007 | "Elwood Rudner's Truck" |
| August 26, 2007 | "My Friend, Mr. Fruit" |
| August 19, 2007 | "Running with a Cloud of Witnesses" |
| August 12, 2007 | "God's Time or Yours?" |
| August 5, 2007 | "Bigger Barns" |
| July 29, 2007 | "Teach Us to Pray" |
| July 22, 2007 | "Saint Requirement" |
| July 15, 2007 | "Just Do It!" |
| July 8, 2007 | "No Stuff" |
| July 1, 2007 | "Help Wanted: Slick Marketing Representative" |
| June 24, 2007 | "The Importance of a Name" |
| June 23, 2007 | "Memorial Service for Stewart Dillahunt" |
| June 17, 2007 | "Pretty Woman" |
| June 10, 2007 | "Little Lightning Flashes" |
| June 3, 2007 | "The Greatest Mystery in Heaven and on Earth" |
| May 27, 2007 | "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" |
| May 13, 2007 | "Goodness Gracious" |
| April 29, 2007 | "What a Choir!" |
| April 22, 2007 | "Brushes and Paints" |
| April 15, 2007 | "Make Room for Thomas" |
| April 8, 2007 | "Pull Out the Stops and Let 'er Rip" |
| April 7, 2007 | "A-Splishing and A-Splashing" |
| April 5, 2007 | "Feet" |
| April 1, 2007 | "Irrational Humbug. An April Fool?" |
| March 25, 2007 | "Spring Training" |
| March 18, 2007 | "So Much for Tough Love" |
| March 11, 2007 | "Sixteen Days and Counting" |
| March 4, 2007 | "Forty Days in the Hen House" |
| February 21, 2007 | "Life is Short" |
| February 18, 2007 | "Mixing Up a Batch of TNT" |
| February 11, 2007 | "Just Words" |
| February 4, 2007 | "The Only Life We Have" |
| January 28, 2007 | "Spoken With Love" |
| January 21, 2007 | "Memorial service for Barney Piper" |
| January 21, 2007 | "What Part of the Body of Christ Are You?" |
| January 14, 2007 | "Exquisite Extravagance" |
| January 7, 2007 | "Secrets" |
| December 31, 2006 | "Think 'Confirmation Class'" |
| Christmas Eve, 2006 | "Six Miles Southwest of Jerusalem" |
| December 24, 2006 | "What a Mess" |
| December 17, 2006 | "Rejoice in the Lord Always" |
| December 10, 2006 | "No Slumber Party Theology Here" |
| December 3, 2006 | "A Strange Beginning" |
| November 26, 2006 | "So, You Are a King" |
| November 24, 2006 | "Vivian Dillahunt" |
| November 19, 2006 | "A La-Z-Boy and an Ottoman" |
| November 5, 2006 | "November Courage" |
| October 29, 2006 | "Who Would Have Thought It?" |
| October 22, 2006 | "Life in a Minor Key" |
| October 8, 2006 | "Mending Creation" |
| October 1, 2006 | "A House Where Love is Found" |
| July 9, 2006 | "Our Thorny Selves" |
| July 2, 2006 | "There May Yet Be Hope" |
| June 25, 2006 | "Job, Chap. 38" |
| June 18, 2006 | "Summertime and the Livin' Is Easy" |
| June 11, 2006 | "Not By My Reason" |
| June 4, 2006 | "Fired Up and Buckled Up" |
| May 14, 2006 | "Cooties Gone, Dancing Now" |
| May 7, 2006 | "From Cowardice to Courage" |
| April 30, 2006 | "Huddling in the Attic" |
| April 16, 2006 | "For...." |
| April 13, 2006 | "Maundy Thursday, 2006" |
| April 9, 2006 | "Palm Sunday, 2006" |
| March 27, 2006 | "Susan Miller Memorial Service" |
| March 12, 2006 | "Lamaze on Ash" |
| March 5, 2006 | "Spitting at Satan" |
| February 26, 2006 | "A Wink of Wonder" |
| February 12, 2006 | "The Burden of the Bells" |
| February 5, 2006 | "An Essential Balancing Act" |
| January 29, 2006 | "Miss Burns Said" |
| January 22, 2006 | "St. Zebedee the Mender of Nets and Floater of Boats" |
| January 15, 2006 | "What do you want to be when you grow up?" |
| January 8, 2006 | "What a gorgeous mess" |
| December 24, 2005 | "The best and worst of nights" |
| December 18, 2005 | "Mary sings the blues" |
| December 11, 2005 | "We need a poet" |
| December 4, 2005 | "Imagine" |
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 30, 2007
First Sunday of Christmas
Matthew 2: 13-23
"What About the Other 364 Days?"
The old rabbis claimed that there are certain texts in the Bible that should never be read in the presence of children. Today's Gospel would certainly seem to be one of those albeit that it is in the gospel of Matthew. It is a frightening text filled with an evil king and loads of brutality. The very hearing of this text feels like an act of violence.
These words from Matthew feel terribly out of place during these wondrous days of Christmas. Most of us would not have chosen the story of Herod's rage and barbarous slaughter of the holy innocents if we had been given the task of choosing readings for the First Sunday of Christmas. We would try to maintain the mood of Christmas: let the tree lights shine a little longer, let us sing our beloved carols a few more weeks, and let the poinsettias do their dance of beauty a few more days.
This is a numbingly brutal text. The words of Silent Night, "All is calm, all is bright," feel more appropriate to the day than the account of Herod butchering helpless little boys with the hope that one of them might be the Christ child.
For the past month or so, we have heard the constant advice, "Keep Christ in Christmas." When Christmas is over, Christ no longer seems to matter much. It is back to business as usual. The decorations come down, the carols stop, and the world goes on its merry way, doing almost everything and anything to keep Christ's reign of peace and love out of the world. Keeping Christ in Christmas for one day does not seem that difficult at all; even Herod would have likely been willing to let Jesus be king for a day-it was the next day that mattered for Herod!
The far bigger issue is how to keep Christ in the other 364 days of the year. How do we side with Jesus so that he is the king all the time and how do we keep from immediately returning to the ways of life that seek Jesus' ouster?
Most of us find it rather easy and in fact quite pleasing to set aside one day out of the year for some semblance of good cheer and peace good will toward all. Christmas is that day when the world stands still. The church is almost guaranteed to be packed on Christmas Eve as it was here as we had to set up chairs to accommodate the crowd. Acts of kindness are noticeable almost everywhere we look. From my perspective, almost everyone is willing to keep Christ in Christmas at least for a day or two.
You likely have heard the charming story of the truce that occurred on Christmas Eve in 1914 during World War I when British and German soldiers shared in the spirit of Christmas. They stopped their atrocious fighting and celebrated Christmas together. The British sang their beautiful English carols and the Germans sang their beloved Stille Nacht. Gifts were passed across "no man's land," the DMZ of the day, and the Germans even had a Christmas tree with candles. It is a moving and touching story how warring madness stopped for but a night and Christ was kept in Christmas. It wasn't impossible at all to have one night when all was calm and all was bright. The problem was that the truce lasted for only one holy evening and then, the next day, all hell broke loose once again and the slaughter resumed.
Rarely is it a problem to keep Christ in Christmas for at least a day. The next 364 days are what present the challenge. There is madness to Herod's violence as there is to all violence. Those in power never seem to have enough. Like all rulers who seek to justify their reigns, Herod went to any length possible to maintain his rule, including killing every little boy who might possibly be the one to usurp his throne.
And of course, throughout the world, this very morning, people go to excruciatingly brutal lengths to maintain their power. Torture, assassinations, and wars go on even as we speak. All is no longer calm or bright. Madness and self interest seem to be the rule.
This little child threatened the powerful by his peaceful presence because he ruled with love and understanding for 365 days of the year, for his entire life. This little baby refused to raise a finger in retaliation against the Herods of the world, refused to speak evil of those who hated him, refused to protect himself by taking the lives of others in the name of self defense. This way of living and dying announced the nature of the Christ Child's reign like nothing else possibly could.
I would urge us all to pray to God that somehow, by God's amazing grace, we might discover a way to keep Christ in the other 364 days of the year. We will not be able to do it on our own. It will require a change of heart and the enormity of God's grace. Wouldn't it be astonishing if every day were Christmas, if every moment was marked by good will, if every day we discovered some way to celebrate the Christ Child's presence in our own life and in the lives of our family and neighbors, the world and even our enemies? Let us pray that we will keep Christ in the entire year!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 23, 2007
Fourth Sunday in Advent
Matthew 1: 1-15
"Almost Purebred"
In every congregation I have served, I have always assumed that I have one shot and one shot only to read the insufferable genealogical text that you just heard from the gospel of Matthew 1: 1-17. Admit it, you hadn't heard me read much more than four verses and most of you were ready to do anything to shut me up, including shoot me. When you try to read through the Bible from Genesis to Revelation and you come to the so called "who begat whom" verses, you skip over them as if they are the crack that will break your mother's back. You want to get to the juicy stuff like when Joseph discovers that he is not the daddy of his fiancée Mary's baby. Now that is interesting!
Before you shoot me, however, please let me explain why I read those verses that caused you to fidget beyond belief and wonder if I have fallen completely off my rocker.
Believe it or not, these verses in Matthew are some of my favorite in all of Scripture--Scout's honor. You know as well as I that this is the time of year when we want everything to be picture perfect just like those commercials with stately Clydesdales prancing through the new-fallen snow on a gorgeous winter evening. We believe that our lives and families should be just as perfect. And even if they aren't, we do our best to keep up appearances. We shop for the ideal presents, hoping that expensive gifts will restore some semblance of perfection. We send out the annual Christmas letter to family and friends, reporting the astonishingly successful things that have happened to our kin: little Susie, who is only three, by the way, may be the next President of the United States--she certainly seems smarter than anyone currently running; Johnny, edging on eight, is a shoe-in to immediately start in center field for the San Diego Padres and, as far as we know, he hasn't used performance enhancing drugs. We polish up the veneer so that everything looks shiny and beautiful. After all, isn't that what Christmas is about-perfection?
If you had only paid attention when I read the part of the Gospel reading that sounded like fingernails screeching down a school blackboard, you would realize that Jesus' family is a lot like yours. Those first verses of Matthew are God's Christmas card for you. They tell of Jesus' family whose exploits few of us would dare include in our Christmas letters. Take for instance the crooked Jacob who secured his position in the line that leads to Christ by lying and cheating his blind father; and David, ever the cold-blooded and highly successful bandit, united the tribes of Israel through intrigue and murder--and who, incidentally, was born in the same town as Jesus; and Rehoboam, the son of Solomon, lost most of David's gains through his arrogance and greed; and Ahaziah son of Ahab continued his father's ways as a sadistic mass murderer (cf. Stanley Haurewas's commentary on Matthew). And these, friends, were just the guys and they are all in Jesus' family line. We hear nothing of upstanding women like Sarah, Rebekah, and Rachel. Rather, Jesus' family Christmas card includes Tamar who disguised herself as a prostitute and seduced her husband to gain a son; we hear about Rahab of Canaan, the real prostitute, who helped protect the Israelites when they came to search out the Promised Land; and then there is Uriah's wife who, you may remember, had an adulterous affair with King David that led to the sickening death of her husband. This is not the kind of stuff you included in your Christmas letter this year, I'm sure, and yet it appears in the very first verses of the New Testament.
Don't you love receiving a Christmas letter that contains a bit of honesty? You know, feisty Buster just completed a six month stint at reform school for stealing a car albeit he used his head and tried to steal a Porsche; and our dear Mary flunked out of Shallow Creek Junction Junior College but has a gorgeous collection of fine tattoos; and I was fired from my job of thirty years after decking my obnoxious boss and am currently having the time of my life skipping church and going to NASCAR races every weekend. The sheer honesty of it all is the best gift you can receive. It makes you feel like your friends aren't too terribly different from you.
When our boys were little, one of them (who will remain unnamed to protect the innocent) said of the cat we had gotten from the pound, "She is almost purebred." And isn't that the truth about us all? We are alley cats whose only claim to pedigree is that we are loved by God. Fouled up sinners though we are, we are almost purebred simply because God created us in the heavenly image, baptized us in Jesus' name, and forgives us day after day for our failures and fool-ups. For some reason, God came down to earth to be part of this crazy, mixed up family of ours, and, in spite of it all, takes the greatest pride in each and every one of us.
And so, Christmas is almost here. I urge you, do yourself a favor, go back and read those first 17 verses in Matthew. This is God's Christmas card to you. And remember: you are part of the family story and God loves you as much as every ornery person in the Gospel of Matthew whose name is next to impossible to pronounce.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church
San Diego, California
December 16, 2007
Luke 1: 26-55
"Necessary Wonder"
I was a sophomore in college when I first heard Chuck Matthei speak. He had shoulder-length, curly blond hair and a bushy beard. The only clothes he owned were the plain khaki work ones on his back. He had no car, no money in the bank. He was a member of an organization called Peacemakers; this group tried to live what they advocated. Chuck opposed taking life in any form, including animals. He wore cheap canvas tennis shoes because they were not made from animal skins and he was in and out of jail repeatedly for his refusal to kill other human beings.
You can easily find loopholes in his thinking. You can accuse him of youthful naiveté--he was twenty-two years old at the time. And yet, thirty- six years after I first heard Chuck Matthei, I am still haunted by his vision of the simple life, a vision that invites us to share everything we have with our poor brothers and sisters and to break every sword into a plow.
I have a hunch that most people found young Jesus' mother Mary as hopelessly naïve as Chuck Matthei. Her vision haunts us to this day even though she sang her song 2,000 years ago.
Mary reported that the angel Gabriel had talked to her and told her that she would soon become the Mother of God. As she well should have, Mary wondered about this disturbing news: how could she, twelve years old and never having had relations with another man, become the mother of God? The angel told her not to worry; after all, nothing is impossible with God. With this promise, Mary took off straightaway to Elizabeth's house, skipping all the way. When Elizabeth opened the door and welcomed her, Mary started to sing the song we just sang. Let me repeat it, using Eugene Peterson's translation from The Message:
Mary sings of a reversal of fortune. Hers is a song of hope. Call it naïve if you must. Mary invites us to see a new tomorrow--today, a world where the mighty will be tossed from their thrones and the lowly will be elevated to royalty, where hungry people's bellies will be filled once and for all and the rich will be sent away with their tails between their legs.
It is hard to sing Mary's words with much seriousness. By the world's
standards, we might just be the rich and mighty ones Mary was singing
about, you know, the ones at the bottom of the heap. If Jesus' mother
hadn't sung this song, we likely would have tossed it from the Bible long
ago, treating it as just some reckless ranting of a lunatic intent on
upsetting the status quo. Most of us have long since surrendered our
youthful dreams to the humdrum of everyday reality; we prefer things the
way they are than to the way Mary envisioned them.
Is it possible though that deep down we long for a bit of Mary's youthful wonder? Down in the deepest recesses of our soul, those places where the unimaginable can still occur, is it possible that we wish we could be a bit more hopeful and a lot less cynical? Maybe our deepest prayer is that, even as we grow older, we might be able to recapture those dreams we had as children especially on these days leading up to Christmas.
Jim Lovell, our director of TACO (another long, curly haired blond), told
me of another song that was sung by another young girl only days ago. The
singer was Jim and Nance's daughter, Isabelle, a third-grader at the San
Diego's charter Museum School. Isabelle will be one of our Christmas story
narrators in a few moments. She joined her classmates in a presentation of
how our wasteful ways are causing untold damage to the ocean, how our
indiscriminate use of plastic bags that are eventually dumped into the sea
is killing fish and sea turtles and other precious forms of ocean life.
One child after another spoke about how they were going to save God's
creation by having adults quit using plastic bags at the grocery store and
instead having them use cloth sacks over and over again.
As Jim spoke of these children's hopes for their planet, I thought just how cynical I have become for the prospect of major change and I couldn't help but think of Mary who years earlier had a similar dream that God's planet could be changed for the better, this time by her tiny, helpless, baby boy. Could it be that God called someone as young as Mary to be the mother of God because she still had the necessary wonder to believe that all things are possible with God, including a little girl having God's baby?
Our children are about to reenact the Christmas story. As Mary and Joseph and shepherds and animals come into our midst, may we be filled with their wonder and once again, like Mary, believe that God can enter our world and change it for the better.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego, California
December 9, 2007
Second Sunday in Advent
Isaiah 11: 1-10; Matthew 3 1-12
Extravagant Imagination
The word has six letters and it turns our stomachs every time we hear it. R-E-P-E-N-T.
Every single year, in order to get to Christmas, we have to pass by John the Baptist in the wilderness, and, every single year, he is standing there, shouting the identical six letter word, R-E-P-E-N-T.
We hate that word R-E-P-E-N-T. There is something deeply disturbing about changing our calcified attitudes that have served us so well over the years. We are perfectly content just the way we are; it is the other people who need to do the repenting. If they change their ways, everything will be fine.
People steer clear of the church if the pastor uses this six letter word too often, especially if it is directed at us and not at those "other people." Don't judge me! we cry. Judge them!
I wonder, by chance, if our problem with John is that we don't quite understand what he is getting at when he calls us to repent. John is trying to get us to turn around. He is doing everything he can in order to get our attention and to point us in the right direction so that we can see the arrival of the kingdom of heaven. Repentance turns us around so that we can see the splendid Son coming up over the eastern mountains. If we are looking to the west for the rising Son, we are sure to be disappointed and will never see the brilliance of the light of dawn.
In this morning's first reading from Isaiah 11: 6-8, we hear the words of an extravagant poet who urges us to repent. Listen carefully:
This poetry doesn't sound like repentance at all to our ears but it is. It
urges us to turn around, to think differently than we have ever thought
before. Who among us can imagine a wolf and lamb living together? Who among
us has ever envisioned a child playing over the hole of a poisonous snake?
We look in an entirely different direction, a direction in which the lamb
spends a lifetime seeking protection from dangerous wolves, where calves
spend fortunes constructing gated communities, guarding against the
onslaught of ferocious leopards, and, yes, where nations offer up the lives
of their bravest youth protecting against the threats of puppet enemies.
Isaiah's poetry opens our minds to see a new Son rising in the east, a more
hopeful universe than we can ever imagine on our own. That is what
repentance is all about.
The imagery of Advent believes that swords can and will be broken into ploughshares, that there will come a day when there will be no more war and when children will waltz with rattlesnakes. Is it any wonder we need to repent? Who among us can imagine such stuff?
Incidentally, one of the reasons that you will rarely if ever hear a Lutheran pastor support a political party or candidate from the pulpit is not because we don't believe in the political process. We do; in fact, we are called as citizens to do our best to seek justice and mercy for all God's children. And yet, we never confuse political goings-on with the Gospel vision because inevitably such a vision is fatally flawed with necessary compromise and backroom shenanigans. When we envision the kingdom of heaven, we envision something far beyond what any political party, political platform, or political candidate can possibly offer our aching world. The church's mission, at least in the pulpit, is to paint a picture that, without God leading us, is simply unimaginable. Any compromise of such a glorious vision is like having an artificial tree when only a live Christmas tree will do.
When I was a boy, Reverend Myers always ended his Sunday sermons this way: "And now may the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus our Lord." Many of you remember those days. I honestly cannot remember another word that Reverend Myers ever preached, but the ending of every one of his sermons, "The peace of God which passes all understanding," has stuck with me until this day and continues to serve me well. Reverend Myers' was an invitation to envision a world beyond what my tiny little mind could understand or imagine, one that only God could create. Yes, he called me to repent, to turn around, to listen to the poetry of the Bible and to imagine unthinkable tomorrows.
Advent is a time when we limber up our minds and think extravagant thoughts that are never possible for us to attain on our own. Advent refuses to let us accept trite ideas that are easily accomplished by any of us and yet never change the fabric of the world for the better. For instance, Advent invites us to see a shoot springing forth from the dead stump of Jesse. Jesse was King David's father. The people of Israel longed to have a king. They wanted to be just like their neighbors even though such a political arrangement was shortsighted and lacked imagination. Finally a king Israel got in David. Surprisingly, this king was not what the people expected. Jesse had eight sons and one would think that the first if not the second would have become the king. Surprise, surprise, it was the eighth and last son, a runt at that, who became Israel's king. No sooner did they have a king than everything began to come tumbling down. Israel was destroyed a couple hundred years later and all their hopes were swallowed up in exile where there was no longer a king. Most people couldn't imagine a new tomorrow so they began to acquiesce to their neighbor's ways and religion. They simply accepted the way things were. The Bible says they forgot the songs they loved to sing and they hung their harps in the willows. There was no dancing, no poetry. The most imaginative thinkers had grown morose and despondent. It was only when God's prophets came along that daring poetry was once again uttered. These prophets had extravagant imaginations; they dared tell this sullen people that a fresh green shoot would come out of a rotten old stump (a sentiment similar to Luther's that God can carve from rotten wood and ride a lame horse); they announced that one day soon God's chosen ones would return to their beloved homeland. When everyone had long since forgotten how to hope, the prophets were just beginning to strike up the band.
And here we are this morning, singing the vision of their extravagant poetry:
We sing this poetic plea, "O Come, strong branch of Jesse, come." We long for the king to come once again from the stump of Jesse into our midst. We need imagination that will open our minds to see God as a tiny vulnerable child. We need imagination to see Christ in the simple gifts of bread and wine. We need imagination that will open our hearts to see enemies talking together and longing for peace. We need imagination that believes that the rich will share their considerable fortunes with their poor brothers and sisters.
Advent is God's way of leading us by the hand so that we can think larger and imagine more extravagantly.
"And now may the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus our Lord."
-----------------------------------
Drawing by Fritz Eichenberg, see
http://www.vegetarianfriends.net/issue5.html
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Sunday of Advent
December 2, 2007
Matthew 24: 36-44
"730,000 Days and Waiting"
By my calculation, it has been 730,000 days since Jesus said that he would come again. 730,000 days is a long time and a lot of waiting. Is Jesus coming back or isn't he? Jesus said we don't know the day on which he will come or how he will return, but, really, 730,000 days?
Most of us are not good at waiting. We are bred to be eager. As children, we ask, how much longer: How much longer before we arrive at grandma and grandpa's house? How long do we have to wait to open our presents? As we grow older, we don't get any better at waiting, we just wait for different things: When will I get a better job? When will I receive news from the doctor? When will I get some peace and quiet?
We might prefer to forget about the whole deal of Jesus coming back, and yet there is that thorny little phrase in the Nicene Creed that keeps nagging at us as we say it and never lets us forget: "He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead."
The first Christians took Jesus at his word and planned for his imminent return. The apostle Paul even counseled against marriage, if possible, since Christ would be coming soon; why waste time with something as frivolous as marriage? Early Christians had witnessed God invading their world at Bethlehem; they had seen him die at Calvary; and they were astonished by his resurrection. They lived each moment filled with the afterglow of those events and expected that any time soon, eternity would once again invade their lives.
Matthew wrote his gospel 50 or 60 years after Jesus was gone, in part to bolster early Christians while they waited for Christ's return. (Incidentally, we will use Matthew's gospel for much of this church year which begins this morning.) Already, the eyewitnesses of Jesus life, death and resurrection were all but gone. Jesus said he would come again but when? The temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed; the empire was under Roman occupation. Where was Jesus when they needed him? The early Christians were getting impatient after only 30 or 40 years of waiting and so Matthew tried to comfort them in their waiting.
730,000 days later, it is more difficult than ever to maintain the breathless anticipation of those early Christians. What difference has all our hoping and waiting made? Where is the reign of justice, the kingdom of God on earth? Will things be any different the day after Christmas than they are now or will it be the same old thing one day after another?
Advent is that time when we rekindle our hope for Christ's return. Maybe it is nothing more than paying rapt attention at our meals as we pray, "Come Lord Jesus be our guest." Our family prays, dishes up the potatoes and meat, and then someone invariably asks, "Have we prayed yet?" Advent is an invitation for all our prayers to be more than just words. We look around the dinner table. Is Christ here? Might Jesus be sitting next to us--a wife, a sister, a brother, a husband, a friend? I trust that you will take time out of your busy days of Christmas preparation-even if for ten minutes-to sit quietly, praying, reading the Bible, watching and waiting for God to come sit by your side.
We will seek Christ in the anonymous people of our lives, the ones who long ago lost their names, those on the streets with ne'er an ounce of dignity left. We wonder, "Are you by chance the Christ for whom we have awaited?" We will accord every person dignity because they might be Jesus and, of course, because they are all God's children.
The Simon's Walk volunteers whom we will commission in a few moments will have as their special calling looking for Christ in those who are dying on the streets of San Diego. They will seek each person's name, offering dignity to every person they meet with the possibility that one dying homeless person might be the one for whom we have awaited for all these days.
Each of us is invited to stand on tiptoe during this season and help keep each other awake, alert. We encourage one another to look for Christ right around the corner, in a kind word spoken, in a bit of bread eaten, a sip of wine supped.
To lose hope is to be unhappy; it is to give up believing that Christ will come again. And so we come here this morning because we know it is almost impossible to stay awake alone. We need one another just like children need their parents to encourage them to wait. We urge each other to holy patience. We tell one another stories about how others waited for God and were ready when God called: stories like when God came to Noah and told him to take his family and the animals onto the Ark. Will we be ready like Noah when God comes?
We comfort each other when 730,000 days seem like forever and, together, we live each new day like it is the very hour when Christ will return.
May you have a blessed Advent and may you be patient as you eagerly await Christ's return.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 25, 2007
Christ the King Sunday
Luke 23: 33-43
"Stuffed Animals and Books"
Today is the crowning day of the church year, Christ the King Sunday. It is the finale of all that we have celebrated here during the past year as we have tried to make sense of our lives with Jesus leading and guiding us. We have spent the year doing our best to mark important events in our lives with Jesus as the King: we have baptized our babies and quite a few adults and we have told them that Jesus will be with them through life and death; people have gotten married and we have promised them that Christ will care for them in good times and bad times if they only let him; we have fed the homeless as if we were feeding Jesus himself; we have told our little ones about this amazing king with hopes that they will never forget him; we have lifted our voices against injustice, believing that if Jesus were here, he would do the same thing; we have buried our loved ones, announcing Jesus' name at their grave, trusting that is enough for whatever the future may hold. We have done our best to make certain that those who come by here know that Christ is King.
What Gospel reading would you choose for a day such as this? Jesus' resurrection from the dead works well, demonstrating that God has conquered death once and for all. Jesus talking with his disciples after his resurrection provides a personal touch for those who long for comfort during the trying times of life. What about the feeding of the 5,000--this shows that Jesus can turn a bad situation into a great party.
The church chose none of those rousing texts today; rather, it opted for Jesus' crucifixion as the centerpiece for the last Sunday in the church year.
This lesson portrays Jesus at his weakest. We, along with the crowds, shout, "Save yourself." We have seen what he can do so many times before so why can't he pull a rabbit out of the hat for his own good? We see a pathetic display of weakness and we long for a miracle. We see people jeering at him, soldiers jokingly offering him vinegar to drink, one of the criminals hanging at this side, yelling in disgust, "Save yourself and us," and we shake our fists and stomp our feet and scream, "Come down from there!" And he just hangs there, our king, hands outstretched and dying. What a disappointment.
By most generous estimates, the four Gospels cover about 100 days of Jesus' life. What is astonishing is how much the Gospels dedicate to the last two or three of Jesus' final days. They provide an almost hour-by-hour scenario of the events leading to his death. The early church must have been stunned by Jesus' grace under fire or they wouldn't have included so much in the Bible about his crucifixion; they must have been amazed at how God's son chose to rule not by violence and hate, but by love and gentleness and even by death.
Seeing the cross as our King Jesus' enthronement, we are invited to live differently. We no longer have to measure success by the power we hold over others; now we can measure life by how daring we are at lifting up those who are suffering and how decent we can be at giving what we have to those who have nothing. We no longer have to hold sway in every discussion, sulking and being vindictive when we don't get our way; now we measure life by our capacity to love those who are different from us and to find common ground with our bitterest enemies.
What does it really mean to follow Christ the King? We can lift up the martyrs as models of courage under fire, going to lions and being burnt at the stake for standing fast for King Jesus, but for most of us, we sense that's a far stretch--few of us will confront lions except at the San Diego Zoo-and they are caged ones at that. We can use as our models people like Mother Theresa and Martin Luther King, Jr. and yet I am afraid that can be problematic, too; we too easily dismiss these larger than life characters as having intellectual and charismatic gifts far beyond what ordinary people like us have. I invite you to look at another follower of Christ the King as a model, someone who follows Jesus in his ordinary daily routine. I invite you to look at Casey Mark Rothgeb.
On Monday afternoon, a large box arrived at the church office addressed simply to "Pastor Miller." I had no idea what was in the box. The return address was from Lake Stevens, Washington. When I opened the box, I discovered all kinds of children's books and toys and stuffed animals. There was also a letter and a picture. The letter reads:
Casey's mother writes: "One morning last week I was getting ready for work and noticed my 8-year old son was busy at work in his bedroom. After several minutes he called me in to tell me what he was doing. He explained that he had lots of toys and books and probably there are kids in California who don't have anything because of the big fires. He felt very bad for them and went to the garage for a box and packed these things up."
Little Casey Mark Rothgeb gets what it means to be a follower of Christ the
King. When he gives up his treasured stuffed animals to kids who have lost
theirs, he gives up part of himself, he dies a small death with Christ that
others might know life. What Casey has done may not seem earth-shattering,
but, for an eight year old, it is an astonishing sacrifice and a profound
understanding of who Christ the King is.
Each of us is called to follow the King. Who ever knows when the King will invite us to do something different, to be a blessing to the part of the world where we live and work and play? What we do may not seem earth- shattering either, but isn't that the point. Our king when he hung on the cross--that hardly seemed earth-shattering either--but it has made all the difference.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 18, 2007
Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 21: 5-19
"Those Wonderful Creative Hands"
You just heard Jesus predicting wars and earthquakes, famines and plagues. These words are every preacher's worst nightmare. I read these words a few months ago after I heard that some of our finest Lutheran theologians would be descending upon First Lutheran this week for the American Academy of Religion and the Society of Biblical Literature. Just this week, translators have been busy here at First working on a new English translation of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Letter and Papers from Prison, and on Friday evening, the Lutheran World Federation book, The Church in the Midst of Empire, was unveiled in our parish hall with many of the authors present. Let's just say I wanted to be prepared just in case some of these scholars showed up here this morning. Imagine my shock when I read this morning's Gospel reading. I bowed my head and prayed: "Lord, woe is me!"
Most of us are not particularly eager to hear that this world is crumbling and that time is running out for the powerful and privileged of the world. These words of Jesus are like an ice-cold Sunday morning shower; they challenge our confidence and threaten our security. We prefer to snicker at these words. We would rather avoid them altogether and simply not treat them as the very Word of God.
Whenever we hear these words, we think of street corner preachers ranting about the end of the world, certain as to who will be ushered into heaven and who will rot in hell.
Before Jesus' words disturb us up too much, let's remind ourselves of one thing: when God created the heavens and the earth and all humanity, God looked upon this divine artistic achievement and deemed it very good. In other words, my dear friends, whenever the words seem too harsh, dare not forget that God's got the whole world in those gentle and creative hands.
[Jared Jacob on piano and Robert Case on sax play "God's Got the Whole
World in His Hands."]
Yes, God's got the world in those gentle and creative hands, and yet, let us make certain to take Jesus at his word: there will be many a death in our time. As people stood before the majestic Temple in Jerusalem, the place where God's presence seemed so palpable, Jesus warned that even this sacred place would be destroyed. It must have been impossible to fathom how this great temple, one of the wonders of the world, would be torn down, stone by stone, until it was nothing but a heap of rubble. And if God's house could be destroyed, what other smaller deaths were to follow?
Ponder the other deaths about which Jesus spoke-- wars and earthquakes, famines and plagues. We see so many of these deaths that we are almost immune to them. Old Josef Stalin once observed, "One death is a tragedy; a million deaths are a statistic." And yet those devastating disasters continue and are not far off. We of San Diego learned that three weeks ago as fires once again ravaged our community.
These deaths almost always come as a surprise. Here at First Lutheran, just this week, a number of you shared with me a host of little deaths of family and friends--a tiny child suspended from school for a temper tantrum, a mother's 17 year-old daughter running away with a boy friend with drugs in hand, a 40 year old man discovering a brain tumor in the prime of life, a beautiful child with the onset of mental illness--little deaths, all within earshot of these doors.
We can make believe, of course. We can pretend that the temple will not crumble, that our beloved church First Lutheran and churches like ours will stand forever; we can make believe that every family will have smooth sailing with not a single gale-force wind; we can haughtily pretend that our nation will be different from every other mighty nation in history and stand free and brave forever. Make believe or not, the deaths keep coming. Just when things seem so good, there are little deaths that almost always come as a shocking surprise.
Jesus invites honesty about these deaths. And yet, in the face of honesty, Jesus also offers hope: "But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls." We encourage each other in the face of all these little deaths with the hope that God's Got the Whole World in Those Wonderful Hands.
[Jared Jacobsen and Robert Case play "God's Got the Whole World in His Hands."]
Week after week, we gather here to imagine how it is possible that, in spite of the many deaths we face, not a hair of our head will perish. How is it possible that we will die and also be protected? we wonder. And then it strikes us: if Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, will God not lift us up in unimaginable new ways? Can we go out into the world and testify to God's amazing care for us and creation in spite of the man little deaths?
That is precisely the kind of confidence that moved the world a year ago when a man angry over his infant daughter's death entered an Amish schoolhouse in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, shooting ten little girls, killing five of them before he killed himself. It would have been easy for that little band of odd people with funny beards, peculiar dress, and horse and buggies to lose faith, to become bitter, to reject Jesus' promise-after all, their little girls were dead! But their faith did not wither. They surprised the world.
The night of the rampage, the elders of the Amish community went to the murderer's home, where they comforted his wife and her three little daughters. Dozens of Amish people attended the funeral, including some whose children had been murdered. In spite of those terrifying deaths, somehow, by the grace of God, the resurrection of forgiveness and love prevailed. Those odd little people, fools for Christ we might say, they must really believe the words of Jesus: "not a hair of your children's head will perish" or in other words, God's got your little Amish children in those great big heavenly hands.
[Jared Jacobsen and Robert Case play again.]
You and I are called to be fools for Christ, too, honest about the inevitability of death and yet supremely confident that God will never let death be the final word. We are called to testify to our friends and neighbors, to our world that God will not let a hair of people's head perish.
This morning, at the pinnacle of our worship, we will do something odd, too. We will lift a loaf of bread and a cup of wine, and we will announce that in some mysterious way, life arises from the ashes of death--this is my body and blood, given and shed for you, Jesus says. As we taste his death, we are invited to a far greater imagination that through this death of God's son, somehow we, too, will be raised up into God's hands forever.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 11, 2007
24th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 20: 27-38
"It's All in the Context"
I suppose there is a time for everything, at least that's what the author of Ecclesiastes says: "There is a time to keep silence and a time to speak." When the Sadducees interrogated Jesus with a question aimed at bringing him to his death, it was definitely a time for them to keep their mouths shut.
The Sadducees had no interest in Jesus' views of the resurrection because they didn't believe in the resurrection. You can tell that they are playing dangerous games with Jesus just the way they talked to him in this morning's Gospel reading. They asked Jesus a preposterous question: if a woman is married seven times, and her seven husbands are all brothers, whose wife will she be when she dies and goes to heaven? An idiotic question. One thing is for certain: the Sadducees wanted to trip Jesus up.
Whenever you read the Bible, it is a good idea to read it in context: note what comes before and after what you are reading. If you do this with this morning's Gospel, you will realize that Jesus was only days from his death. He had already entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Every footstep brought him closer to the cross. Already two questions had been asked of him to trip him up: one regarding the authority due to Caesar and the other regarding by what authority he spoke. This was not a time for games, for score debating points. This was a time of life and death. And yet the Sadducees were playing devil's advocate, delighting in their smart-alecky question, trying to win debating points with Jesus.
As people of God, just as we should understand the context in which a particular biblical passage is found, we should also understand our own context as well. When we are in a conversation with someone over an important matter like the resurrection to eternal life, it is essential that we understand with whom we are talking and what their life is like. If the person has just lost her beloved spouse after 50 years of marriage, it is not a particularly good time to wax eloquently about our new- fangled and far-out idea about the resurrection. In the face of death, people need hope and comfort not the world's most new fangled thoughts on religious doctrine.
The Sadducees had no interest in context. They were clueless that Jesus was about to give his life, not only for his brothers and sisters, but for them as well as they tried to trip him up. Jesus was giving his life so that others might know a comforting promise in the face of death. The Sadducees sole mission was to prove how clever they were and how wrong Jesus was. They could have cared less about offering people hope in their deepest hour of need. They were all about the cleverness of their argument. Sad.sad.
You and I are called to be the people of God in this world, especially when people need hope. That is our mission, folks, to tell people who walk by this little corner of God's creation that God cares for them FOREVER. In whatever ways we are able, we tell every broken soul and lonely heart that God watches over them. We do that in so many ways. We do it as we feed homeless people, letting down and out people know they are cared for with a cup of soup; we do it as a "Reconciling in Christ" congregation, welcoming all to the feast of God's table no matter what their sexual orientation; we do it as a member congregation of the San Diego Organizing Project, seeking how best to make policies that will lift up the lowly and fill them good things (something that Jeremy Kaercher has done in an exemplary fashion as a volunteer and is now doing as an SDOP staff member); we offer a comforting word to those with whom we rub elbows at worship after they have received a devastating diagnosis. In each instance, we practice resurrection with people in desperate need of hope.
There is a time to debate matters like the resurrection, but that time is to be avoided at all costs when there are more important things to be done. I know a pastor who seems to fancy himself as the authorized devil's advocate in our group. No matter what the issue, he is ready to debate and criticize and question. I always wonder: does he ever find time to practice resurrection, to preach good news to the poor, to lift up the lowly, to feed the hungry with good things.
I don't know about you, but I increasingly think life is far too short not to practice resurrection constantly.
I recently read a beautiful poem by Mary Oliver:
("Messenger," Thirst, Beacon Press, Boston, 2006, pg. 1)
That was Jesus' work and it is our work as well, keeping our minds on what matters "telling [all creation and those we love] over and over, how it is that we live forever."
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 4, 2007
All Saints' Sunday
Ephesians 1: 11-23; Luke 6: 20-31
"The Saints We Love"
Who exactly is a saint?
For whatever reason, when most of us think of saints, we think of big time Christians like Saint Paul, Saint Augustine, St. Francis, and St. Luke. There are also modern day saints who catch our attention; high on my list are Dorothy Day and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King, and William Sloane Coffin.
The title "saint" has an honorific feel to it similar to that of the Order of the British Empire bestowed on such British notables as Sir Elton John, Dame Judi Densch, Dame Julie Andrews, and, my favorite, our older son's namesake, Sir Sebastian Coe. As these people have made England proud, saints have made Christians proud.
We are enamored by titles and fame and great accomplishments. Who doesn't stand at the check- out counter, sneaking a peak at the tabloids to find out what has happened to the stars?
Today, when we talk about saints, I invite us to imagine a different kind of saint. The saints I am talking about are the ones whose names we wrote in "The Book of Memory" (a First Lutheran tradition is writing the names of those dear to us who have died in the past year in "The Book of Memory" during the playing of Faure's In Paradisum) this morning, the ones whose mention will bring a tear to our eyes during this morning's prayers. Beyond our family and circle of friends, these saints are not well known if known at all and yet they have meant the world to us. We have laughed and cried with these saints, argued with them and celebrated with them. We have seen these saints most every day of our lives. They have bounced us on their laps and we have fed them in nursing homes. They are the warp and woof of Christianity, the flesh and blood. They are the saints we love.
My favorite definition of a saint is Frederick Buechner's: "In his holy flirtation with the world, God occasionally drops a handkerchief. These handkerchiefs are called saints."
The saints we honor today are the ones that make us feel like we are flirting with God. Like handkerchiefs, they have a vast array of colors: some are plain, almost dull to the eye and yet, when we know them well, they are as bright as peacock; others make us turn our heads they are so flashy and rambunctious.
We tend to idolize the big time saints, the famous ones. We never get close enough to see their flaws. They have been airbrushed by history and veneered with all manner of mythology. The saints we know, the ones baptized in churches like here at First Lutheran, are composed of a multitude of complicated colors, complete with flaws and defects. The saints close to us, we know their brilliance and we know their imperfections. We know their tenderness and cussedness, their compassion and their arrogance, their rages and their hugs and kisses.
Who ever said saints didn't have flawed threads? We of the Lutheran handkerchief variety are found of using the terms "saint" and "sinner" in almost the identical breath. With the exception of Jesus, we believe that no one, NO ONE, is all saint. And so we shouldn't be particularly irritated by imperfections--it is par for the course. No matter how infuriating, most saints, if we have the patience and grace to look hard enough, will inevitably reveal a thread or two so stunningly vivid that we will feel as if we are staring at the divinity of heaven.
On All Saints' Sunday we pray for the eye of grace to see the beautiful threads in each handkerchief dropped into our hands from heaven. As we remember the saints who have died in the past year, we discover all manner of shapes and sizes, a plethora of colors and textures. In every saint, we find ourselves flirting with God's magnificence. Take for instance.
Each of these saints is unique. We sense God flirting with us in great delight as we remember each one.
What I most love about this day is that for a few precious moments we take the time to discover the beauty of each saint, every baptized person. Look to your left and right--another handkerchief, another saint. What a splendid day!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 28, 2007
Reformation Sunday
(The Week of the San Diego Wild Fires)
Isaiah 43: 1-3a
Matthew 6: 19-21, 25-34
The Fire Cannot Win the Day"
Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses on the church door in Wittenberg, Germany, 490 years ago, October 31, 1517. That's why we call today Reformation Sunday. Luther wanted to publicly discuss what, in his mind, were the appalling abuses of the church. He was irate that the church was charging people money to have their sins forgiven and to pave their way to salvation. In Luther's eyes, the church was functioning as an ecclesiastical con artist pedaling phony grace. Luther believed that the church's unique calling is to proclaim God's love free of charge. In his eyes, nothing we do or buy can possibly achieve forgiveness of sins. Any other message on the church's part is trafficking in counterfeit grace.
As we planned this morning's worship service, we sensed that most of you probably wouldn't be here this morning to celebrate or observe the Reformation. Luther and the Reformation are likely far from most your minds. While you will love singing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" with characteristic Lutheran gusto, wild fires are on your minds. Lives have been turned topsy-turvy: homes destroyed, beautiful landscape turned to rubble, and lives lost. If we are correct, all that you want to do this morning is sit quietly in this sanctuary, away from television and newspapers; you want to pray to God and be reminded that you and your loved ones and neighbors are in God's hands in spite of all that you have heard and seen that might indicate otherwise.
Our lungs are filled with ashes, our eyes with smoke and tears, our hearts with devastating loss. We have sat numbly in front of televisions. We have grown weary of the pictures and commentary and yet we can't keep from watching and listening.
We have slept poorly. Smoke makes bad dreams. Demonic flames on distant mountains create wicked nightmares. Friends and loved ones fleeing burning homes singe our souls. We wonder this morning whether we are safe even yet.
Our neighbor knocked on our door Tuesday morning and said that Rancho San Diego was preparing to evacuate and we might be next. New to raging wild fires and brutal Santa Ana winds, we heeded our neighbor's advice and started packing. What to pack? One of our families did evacuate their home in Rancho Bernardo. They took a few special belongings-pictures mostly, John said; they fed the chickens, corralled the German shepherds, and off they went. As we packed, I was struck by the few things we planned to take. Things that once seemed so valuable no longer carried as much significance. Aside from clean underwear and medication, financial records and a couple of Russian icons, and Caspar and Sebastian's baby books, we didn't plan on taking much else. Did you by chance think about what you would take?
If the Reformation has anything to say to us this morning, it might just be Luther's haunting words in "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God:"
These horrendous fires, no matter how devastating, cannot win the day. The prophet Isaiah said to people long ago similarly fearful of their futures: "...when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you."
Bill and Martha Radatz returned from their recent trip to Wittenberg, Germany and gave me the gorgeous red socks that I am wearing this morning. In German they read, "Hier Stehe ich. Ich kann nicht anders." In English, "Here I stand. I can do no other." Luther risked his life for days like this. He longed for people to know that God will prevail no matter how deadly the inferno. With God by our side, even the worst of days somehow ends up being the best of days. When God is with us, who or what can destroy us?
Perhaps you saw the television reporter standing before his home as it burnt to the ground. The next day, he was on television again, standing by the smoldering rubble with his wife and son. They spoke of things lost. The son spoke of his extensive baseball memorabilia collection now in ashes; he held up two charred tennis balls and said he would give them to their dog as a memory. And then the reporter said this: "The fires have removed all the clutter from our lives."
Jesus assessed the rubble this way: "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
I have been struck by people's perseverance as they bravely look beyond all that has been consumed by fire. What has taken on far more value for them than all the stuff are the intangible possessions, things like friends putting up friends for a night or two at a moment's notice and concerned calls from loved ones from afar. On Thursday morning, I got an email from the senior pastor of my former congregation in Ardmore, Pennsylvania; he told me that they are taking an offering this morning for the fire victims of San Diego. We have witnessed the precious gift of God's grace shown most clearly as people love one another in the midst of tragedy.
"Why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow, they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you-you of little faith?"
Like Solomon's temple burnt to the ground in Jerusalem so long ago, many of our precious temples have been burnt beyond recognition. In the face of it all, on this Reformation Sunday, let us cherish these words:
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 21, 2007
Twenty-First Sunday After Pentecost
Genesis 32: 22-31
"Wrestling Nights"
Good parents never let their sons wrestle. Our sons both wrestled. As a proud parent, I should tell you that our younger son attended Lower Merion High School in suburban Philadelphia. Lower Merion's other great athlete in addition to our son was-you may have heard of him-Kobe Bryant (for the time being, he plays for a team up north of here).
Caspar was on the junior varsity team when he achieved fame. Lower Merion's 112 pound varsity wrestler took sick and Caspar was called to duty. Caspar's opponent that night was the undefeated #1 ranked wrestler in all of Southeastern Pennsylvania.
When this highly touted wrestler saw his opponent, our son, he saw red meat- -that's why good parents don't let their sons wrestle. In no time, this brute got Caspar in an excruciating head lock, lifted him high above his head, and violently slammed him to the mat. Caspar was lifeless. The crowd was silent. Was he paralyzed for life? He eventually came to and was carried to the bench. When he was able to walk, the referee called our son to the middle of the mat and raised his hand in victory. He had just beaten the undefeated champ by way of an unsportsmanlike disqualification. Caspar, dazed, limped off in victory and became an instant folk hero. It was a brutal way to win, but nonetheless, it was victory.
Today's Old Testament reading is about another wounded wrestler, Jacob.
You probably know a bit about Jacob. He was a scoundrel from birth,
clutching his older twin brother's heal as he exited his mother's womb,
claiming all the rights and privileges of the first born that rightfully
belonged to his brother. Later in life, he connived with his crafty mother
Rebecca to get even more privilege, tricking his blind father Isaac into
giving him the invaluable family blessing by pretending to be his older
brother Esau.
When we come upon Jacob this morning, he has been away from home for twenty years. The minute he outwitted his brother for his father's blessing he knew it was best to flee his brother's rage. Jacob is now coming home and nervous. His brother might just kill him.
As he nears home, he sends his family ahead of him. For one night, the only thing that separates him from his beloved homeland is the river Jabbok. Physically exhausted, emotionally spent from fearing his brother's fury, and spiritually fatigued from his own nagging guilt, he falls asleep. Anyone who has been in Jacob's fix knows how hard it must be for him to sleep. As he finally falls asleep, he wrestles with an unknown assailant-- is it his brother, could it be his own guilt eating away at his insides, or is it God giving him a dressing down, letting Jacob know in no uncertain terms who runs the show?
Funny thing, isn't it? We feel like we have heard this story. Where have we heard it? And then it comes to us: Jacob's wrestling match at the Jabbok is our story.
You have wrestled at the Jabbok in the middle of the night, struggling for your very life. You have tossed and turned, looking at the clock and only fifteen minutes have passed since the last time you looked. You almost got to sleep when you jumped up straight, sweating and shaking, certain that your dreaded enemy was at your bedside. You were filled with terror. You have wrestled at the Jabbok.
At the Jabbok, Jacob finally realizes that he is not in control of his life and in fact never has been. He may be victorious and bear God's name for all the world to see, but never, never again will he prance around cocksure that he deserves everything that comes his way. Jacob's is a fierce blessing that lets him know who is in charge.
How many of you have learned Jacob's painful lesson? You thought you were in control until your husband left; you thought you were in control until you couldn't take only one simple drink without going over board and making a fool of yourself at the party; you thought you were in control until you spent a dark, depressive night trembling uncontrollably and morning never did come. You wondered whether you would make it to the other side or if you would drown in the Jabbok.
These wrestling matches are painful experiences. Quite a stir was created recently when Mother Theresa's diary was published. In her diary, she reported her wrestling matches with God. We always thought things were so easy for Mother Theresa, so painless. When we looked at her embracing those hungry children in Calcutta, we were tempted to say, "If only I could be like her and have her faith." And now we learn that hers was not a painless faith, that, in fact, she, too, like us, had dark nights of the soul, severe nights when she tossed and turned, questioning the very foundations of her faith. You have had the same nights as Mother Theresa. The life of faith is often excruciatingly painful.
This news about Mother Theresa has made me feel better about her and even better about myself. If Mother Theresa limped, shouldn't I? She discovered that living the Christian life is not easy and if it brings a blessing at all, inevitably it will be a fierce blessing.
Like our son Caspar who won his wrestling match and yet walked away with the wound of a lifetime, Jacob walked into God's country with a limp. He was victorious and yet the victory came with a price that told him that unless God was with him, he was utterly alone and as good as dead.
When Jesus walked out of that tomb on Easter morning announcing victory over death, he, too, walked with a limp-those wounds in his feet affected his stride. For those of us who follow Jesus, we will face those nights of wrestling, with questions and doubts, failures and foul-ups that make us wonder if we will survive. In spite of it all, God anoints us with a fierce blessing. God leads us home to the other side of the Jabbok, somewhat battered from the fight and most assuredly with a limp, but knowing that we have wrestled with God and somehow prevailed.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 14, 2007
Twentieth Sunday After Pentecost
Luke 17: 11-19
"Our Right, Our Duty and Joy"
The lepers were scared to death. Their skin was crumbling off their bones. The disease was killing them slowly. The only words that came close to expressing their agony were "Lord, have mercy."
They were forced to live in a no man's land between Samaria and Galilee, a death row kind of place. It was not dissimilar to the land left to Native Americans where no one dares tread unless, of course, there is a casino.
Religious people were scared to death of these lepers. The Bible establishes careful instructions to make sure that safe distance is kept between those waiting to die and those who are robustly alive. Leave it to the Bible to concoct such a God forsaken place (Leviticus 13: 45-46) for those who suffer: "The person with such an infectious disease must wear torn clothes, let his hair be unkempt, cover the lower part of this face, and cry out, 'Unclean! Unclean! As long as he has the infection he remains unclean. He must live alone; he must live outside the camp."
The lepers were so lonely.
You have been to that lonely territory, I am sure. Maybe your skin hasn't been rotting but your heart has. You live in a lonely land. They are crying times when your life is unraveling, you are heading to ruin, to a place you never imagined you would ever be. The only words you can cough up are, "Lord, have mercy on me."
It was in the face of such utter hopelessness that Jesus healed the ten lepers. Out of the blue, they looked at their arms and the sores were gone. Their skin was as smooth as a new born baby. They were so overcome with relief that they would do anything Jesus said. He told them, "Go and show yourselves to the priests." Off they ran, just as Jesus told them to do. Well, almost all went off running--nine did and one didn't. The one who didn't follow orders was--you guessed it--the only outsider--the hated Samaritan, the one who didn't know the insider's rules. Isn't it amazing that he's the one we remember? There is something about his disobedience, how he returned to give thanks to Jesus even though Jesus never told him to do so that moves us to tears.
Gratitude in its purest form has nothing to do with following orders. You have noticed, I'm sure. When you were a child and your mother said, "Tell Grandma, thank you," you smelled a rat--something was not quite right, this was not gratitude. True gratitude springs from the heart, not from "doing as we are told." Gratitude is running back to Jesus as fast as you can to say "thank you" even though all your sick mates are headed in the other direction.
Martin Luther defined worship as the tenth leper turning back to give thanks. We say it this way: "It is right, our duty and our joy, that we should at all times and in all places give thanks and praise to you, almighty and merciful God." Real worship is spontaneous, from the heart. Barbara Brown Taylor says it this way, "Ten behaved like good lepers, good Jews; only one, a double loser, behaved like a man in love."
It was at the height of the HIV-AIDS epidemic scare when fear was at its peak and the church I served in Washington, DC was burying far too many young men inflicted with this frightening illness. It was the weekend that the huge, gorgeous rainbow AIDS QUILT of a thousand colors stretched over the entire mall in Washington, DC, from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. As part of the weekend observances, our church hosted a Sunday morning healing service. The service, frankly, was not much different from anything we did any other Sunday with the exception that the entire congregation was overflowing, with the balcony jammed and the aisles filled. Hundreds came forward for healing, to be anointed with oil. People were pushed forward in wheel chairs by their partners; sons hobbling on canes were escorted to the altar by their mothers.
As people left that service, repeatedly I heard, "Thank you for doing this. I have never been part of anything like it. It means the world to me to be welcomed in church."
I was stopped dead in my tracks. What I and others took for granted was an astonishing act of healing for these people whose lives were touched by AIDS. Many of us, like the nine, were simply doing as we were told, coming to church, snoozing through the sermon, gulping down communion, and heading home. But that one leper-the happy fellow with AIDS-the one who had lived far too long between nowhere and nowhere, who had been told, "You aren't welcome in church," and by his parents, "You are no son of mine" -he was the one so in love with Jesus that those of us who saw him come to the altar were moved to tears and will never forget him.
Maybe that's why we remember that one leper, those people with AIDS: they show so much gratitude for what is so commonplace to us and such a rarity to them. These people of gratitude make us sit up and reexamine our lives.
This morning, here, now, as we cry out, Lord, have mercy, in the depths of our hearts, do we see what is happening to us?
A Celtic prayer says it this way:
Jesus gives you bread today. In your hands. You are healed. Be gentle when you touch the bread; give thanks. It is healing food from Jesus. Lord, have mercy.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 7, 2007
Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 17: 5-10
"A Mustard Seed Kind of Place"
Being little is scandalous. Have you noticed? People want to be big. We live in a steroid era. It's not just baseball players, Olympic track stars, and Tour de France bicyclers. The desire to be big permeates our society, even the church.
Get a group of pastors together and the subject will invariably steer to the ultimate question, "How big is your church?" Bigger seems to mean better, holier, more faithful. We call them mega-churches. No matter what they preach or teach--bigger usually is interpreted as "they must being doing something right."
There is a scandal in littleness. And the scandal must be avoided like the plague. That's why the disciples cried out to Jesus, "Increase our faith!" They were backwater hicks in a big time world. How could they make a difference in the world? Increase our faith! Make us bigger! How can we make it just as we are?
To the disciples' inferiority complexes, Jesus said, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you." In the original Greek, the phrase, "If you had the faith of a mustard seed," more correctly means, not "if you had," but rather, "since you have the faith of a mustard seed."
First Lutheran is pretty much a "mustard seed" congregation. We have about 200 members and average about 125 at worship on Sunday. A small, mustard seed kind of place. We might be tempted to look at the big boy churches with an envious eye, churches like "The Rock" and "The Crystal Cathedral" and Rick Warren's "Saddleback." We can be tempted just like the disciples, "Lord, increase our faith." We think we need more. The 10 commandments call it "coveting."
Jesus says to us, "You have enough faith."
I have heard Jesus say this to First Lutheran over and over again, no more powerfully than the way I heard it this past week. Just here yesterday, in the sanctuary, we had a gathering of people who will participate in Simon's Walk, a program in which people volunteer to accompany homeless people as they die. Larry Milligan, the well known San Diego homeless advocate and good friend of First Lutheran, spoke to this group about coming through the food line here at First on a Friday morning about thirty years ago. Larry spoke of an older, little lady who offered him a warm bowl of soup, gave him a piece of homemade bread, and tenderly put her hand on top of his hand. He talked about how that small touch changed his life--he was cared for in this little place. A mustard seed touch.
Right here, yesterday, before Larry spoke, two homeless people, Bob and Louise, spoke of their fondness for this place. They said it is the smallness here, the intimacy, that means so much to them. They shared how they are treated with decency and compassion by those who work and volunteer here. They are not looked down at. This is one of the few places they feel safe. They find a place of solace here, an oasis. A mustard seed kind of place.
This tiny mustard seed, the smallest of seeds, has got me thinking: we do have enough faith, we really do. I can't tell you how many times I hear people say, "I can't believe a church your size does so much. How can you possibly do it?" Pip squeak, mustard seed, First Lutheran Church.
Even those of us who love this place, sometimes think, "Wow, we are tiny." But who ever told us we should be big. Jesus reiterates, "You have enough faith." A mustard seed. You have enough, now.
Our little mustard seed of a place at 3rd and Ash is facing a financial challenge in the next couple of years. As you may know, through the generosity of a number of people who have left our church money when they died, we have money in reserve. Currently that amount of money in reserves is about $140,000. Because of that money in savings, we have been able to run on a deficit for quite a few years; that means we have been spending more than we have been receiving in offerings. This year we will spend about $70,000 more than we receive in offerings. We need to change this pattern over the next two years so that we can continue the ministry we love, the ministry which serves people like Larry and Bob and Louise. There is very good news: your giving has increased significantly this year-so far, by about 20%.
In the next two years we need to increase our giving by about 18% per year in order to "Own Our Ministry." To achieve this goal, each of us needs to give prayerful consideration to how much we will offer to Christ's ministry here over the next couple of years. Are you prepared to increase your giving so that we can "Own Our Ministry?" Some of you will be unable to increase as much as others, we know that; others will be able to give considerably more, perhaps increasing your giving by 50%. The important thing is a mustard seed is enough.
Let me tell you in advance: in the next month and a half you are going to hear about our financial picture and our giving. I pray that you will hear this talk about money not as religious hucksterism or money grabbing. Rather, I trust you will hear it as inspiration, how a mustard seed congregation, a pip squeak place at 3rd and Ash, is doing its very best, by faith, to continue our vibrant ministry that serves this little bit of God's good creation that has been entrusted to our generous care.
What Jesus said to his disciples, he says to us today: "You have enough faith." I pray that each of us will believe Jesus' words. And perhaps, by faith, small will seem very, very big. When Jesus says, you have enough faith, he could just as easily say, "Nothing is impossible for the people of First Lutheran Church."
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 30, 2007
Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 16: 19-21
"Where Lazarus Is Poor No More"
The parable of the rich man and the poor beggar Lazarus sounds a lot like
"Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," "Beauty and the Beat," and
"Rumpelstiltskin." The dramatic outcome of the poor beggar Lazarus ending
up in heaven and the rich man agonizing in hell, while sweet, seems as
unlikely as an ugly duckling becoming a beautiful swan.
We are taught early in life that people with lots of money are usually the ones who have worked hard to get where they are. We are intrigued with billionaires like Bill Gates and Warren Buffet--how they accumulated their wealth and how they use it. Like the Pharisees before us, we harbor a sentimental notion that God looks with special favor on the rich. Biblical passages can easily be found to support such notions, take for instance Deuteronomy 28: "If you will only obey the Lord your God, by diligently observing all his commandments.all these blessings shall come upon you."
If you haven't figured it out yet, any fool can build a biblical case to support any idiotic idea or cause. Slave masters quoted Bible verses to support the evil they perpetrated; German pastors-often Lutherans- blessed Hitler's monstrosities with an ingenious use of biblical texts; war- mongers have created twisted interpretations of the Bible to confirm all manner of barbarism, all the while calling them "just wars." Never be convinced of the justness of a cause simply because a biblical quote or two is attached to the rationale.
At almost every church gathering I have attended of late, someone has been on a tirade, almost always protesting that Christians have "thrown away the Bible." These tirades are most often launched against homosexuality and immigration. What astonishes me is that absolutely no discussion occurs about what the Bible has to say about the rich and poor. Have we thrown away the Bible and forgotten what Jesus said about this matter? "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of heaven; Woe to you who are rich for you have received your consolation; Sell all you have and give to the poor; you cannot serve God or wealth;" and today's parable about the rich man ending up in Hades-these are but a few of Jesus' choice thoughts on the rich and the poor. In our rush to be biblical on immigration and homosexuality, why have we conveniently forgotten Jesus' words about the dangers of wealth? Could it be that Jesus' words on wealth cut far too close to the bone for most of us?
My hunch is that today's parable rings in our ears more loudly than we care to admit. We know that there is something fundamentally wrong when Lazarus crawls under the table to eat the crumbs while we feast sumptuously. We know something is fundamentally wrong when children throughout the world are dying of starvation as we wonder how to lose weight. We know something is fundamentally wrong in our own nation-the world's richest-when poor children don't have adequate health care and rich children squabble over what designer clothes are the best to wear. Really, friends, what would Jesus say?
Maybe Jesus told today's parable of the beggar Lazarus and the rich man to help us see the world the way God sees it. Maybe Jesus offers this parable not so much to judge us as to let us see our world in a fresh new way.
We have all probably wondered from time to time what heaven is like. I often wonder if, when we get to heaven, it will be exactly like what we saw this morning as we walked across the First Lutheran patio on our way into the sanctuary. What if dirty, disheveled homeless people are the very ones who welcome us into heaven? Will we be surprised?
Perhaps today's parable, as much as it is a glimpse into what heaven will be like down the road, is an aid in helping us to see heaven here on earth, in our very midst. Rather than being dismayed, annoyed and angered by the poor, homeless people on our patio and in other places we travel, what if we start to see our patio parishioners as our invitation to heaven? What if we see the mentally ill and drug addicted and those down on their luck as angels, angels offering us a foretaste of the feast to come, not in the sweet by and by, but today, now, right here?
Jesus said something else, something biblical, something like "when I was hungry, you fed me.what you do to the least of these, you do for me."
In the requiem mass sung at funerals, the final words are called In Paradisium (we sang In Paradisium right before the sermon).
When we get to heaven, perhaps the banner over the entrance will read, "Welcome to You, from the First Lutheran Patio Parishioners."
I know it sounds like a fairy tale but it has a striking resemblance to what Jesus said heaven will be like. Perhaps today's parable is not a fairy tale at all. Maybe it opens our eyes wide and enables us to see heaven on earth.
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Illustration from the Codex Aureus of Echternacht (11th cent.)
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 23, 2007
Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 16: 1-13
"In Praise of the Mob"
Jesus said many priceless things. "The Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor," "Blessed are you who weep now for you will laugh," "Do not be afraid-you are worth more than many sparrows" are among his gems. He told priceless parables, too, ones like the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan.
Today's parable, known as "the Dishonest Manager," does not rank up there for inclusion on Jesus' "Greatest Hits" album. As you just heard, this parable involves a rich land owner who commends his manager for being a fraudulent scoundrel. The manager has done a terrible job of collecting fees from his boss's tenants and so, to place himself in a fiscally sound position when his boss finally fires him for laziness and insubordination, he involves himself in a number of shady business transactions. This is, of course, why you didn't learn this parable in Sunday school--Sunday schoolers are taught to be good little boys and girls, not conniving rascals.
This parable makes us scratch our heads. Who believes that Jesus would ever actually commend such blatant dishonesty? Sunday school teachers are not the only ones troubled by this parable. Scholars are befuddled too. Without exception, they rank this parable as the most difficult of all Jesus' parables to understand.
Let me ask you though: is there anything about the dishonest steward that tweaks your fancy? Be honest. Doesn't this parable tease your imagination as you see Jesus like never before? Rather than commending us little boys and girls to be squeaky clean and all prim and proper, Jesus invites us to take a risk or two for the sake of the Gospel. Jesus urges us to quit living lives that are, as a pastor friend of mine is fond of saying, "no hits, no runs, no errors" and he tantalizes us to be courageous and a tad ornery.
You have asked me if I miss anything about living back east. I do. I miss "The Mob." I can't get enough of the mob. Movies don't get any better than Good Fellas, The Godfather, and Donnie Brasco. The Philadelphia newspaper, The Inquirer, actually has a mob expert, George Anastasia. He wrote a book, The Last Gangster, about former Philly cop turned mobster turned FBI informant turned on-the-run Ron Previte. I love the book's characters: "Skinny Joey," "Little Nicky," "Tony Bananas," "Tommy Horsehead." These colorful fellows are murderous thugs, for sure, and yet one thing is certain: they risk life and limb to make fortunes for themselves and their families. They kind of remind me of the dishonest manager.
I often wonder if we Christians would be better off teaching our children less about being "nice little girls and boys" and more about living life with pizzazz. The great preacher and activist William Sloane Coffin said it this way: "I love the recklessness of faith. First you leap, and then you grow wings." Knowing that God is going to catch our children, shouldn't we teach them to trust grace more and to be more reckless?
Another question people often ask me is: how old were you when you decided to become a pastor. While I always wanted to be a pastor, the truth is that much of what I saw in the church growing up wasn't particularly exciting. Nice but not exciting. One of my pastors was fond of saying, "There are no burning issues here." I longed for a church with burning issues.
It was in college that I first discovered the possibility of pizzazz. The chaplain invited gutsy public figures to the chapel, people who preached about tough subjects like the Viet Nam War and racism. Not everyone agreed, but there was dialogue that stretched our minds and how we viewed the world and there was a recognizable pulse. During my seminary internship, I saw pizzazz, too, as pastors and their families lived in the toughest inner- city neighborhoods imaginable, walking through housing projects night and day. I sensed the excitement of being a Christian. Being Christian was no longer making certain that the church finances were in order, that the furnace registered 72 degrees on Sunday morning, and that the sanctuary paint scheme matched the carpet like a "Better Homes and Gardens" touch-up project. Suddenly there were burning issues to be addressed and downtrodden people to be lifted up.
So what might this courage, this pizzazz, look like? In my mind, our mayor did something pizzazzingly courageous this past week: he stood up for gay marriage. There was tenderness and courage to Mayor Jerry Sanders as he stood weeping and did what his heart implored him to do. He was no cowardly lion longing for courage or tin man searching for a heart. He was a city leader risking his political future and capital for love of his daughter. What might this politician's daring bravado say to us in the church, to us so-called "children of light?"
The old Texas adage says, "The only thing in the middle of the road are yellow lines and dead armadillos." Today's parable urges us Christians to be courageous. I see such courage here at First Lutheran. I see you feed homeless and hungry people even as city officials sometimes breathe down your necks. I see you stand up for children's health care, calling your representatives in Washington and urging them to do the right thing for our most vulnerable children. I see you march for the rights of undocumented people who live and work in this city even though this is not necessarily the most popular stand.
I suspect that Jesus intended this parable to do exactly what it is doing, to rouse us from complacency and indifference and to thrust us toward boldness and daring. This parable invites us all to leap and by God's grace to fly for the sake of the Gospel.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 16, 2007
Exodus 32: 7-14; 1 Timothy 1: 12-17; Luke 15: 1-10
"The Mind of God"
Have you ever lost something so valuable that it has rocked your world? You know how it goes: you reach into your back pocket or look into your purse and your wallet is missing. The world stops. You are like a hunting dog focused on a rabbit: everything is out of sight except for your search for your missing wallet.
When I was preparing for ordination thirty-two years ago, one of my responsibilities was to take our thirty-five member vacation Bible school choir to an all city choir rehearsal at a center-city Philadelphia church.
If you have ever chaperoned a group of kids, you know the drill: you constantly count to make certain that you always have thirty-five.
After our rehearsal at Holy Communion Church, I counted thirty-five kids. We decided to go and play at Rittenhouse Square until our bus came. When the bus arrived and the kids got aboard, I counted: thirty-four. My heart raced, my blood pressure soared, and I felt like what a chicken must feel like when the ol' head is cut off.
Very calmly, I screamed at our five high school counselors to go immediately and search for Tyrone. We looked everywhere but no Tyrone. At that point, Martians could have landed and I wouldn't have noticed. All that mattered was finding Tyrone.
I did find a policeman and asked if he might, perchance, have arrested a three year old. You know the answer. But, to be on the safe side, I urged him to call headquarters just in case. Yes, in fact, they did have a child in custody who didn't know his name. Guess who they had?
What a relief! What joy! I knew I would remember the moment for years to come and, someday, be able to laugh about it in a sermon that talked about the joy of finding something lost.
I dare not presume to conjecture what the mind of God is like but I have a hunch that Jesus tells this morning's parables to give us a clue. We hear of a shepherd who loses one sheep out of a hundred and risks everything to find that one lousy sheep. We hear of a woman who loses one coin out of ten and searches high and low until she finds the measly one. Jesus says that there will be more joy in heaven over finding one lost sinner than there will be over finding one lost sheep and one lost coin. The mind of God.
Jesus tells this parable, I'm almost certain, so that we can somehow see into the mind of God and sense God's joy two thousand years later over those of us who are lost and now are found. You may not recognize God's excitement. And perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps we forget how dear we are to God. As the old African-American adage goes, God does not create junk. Or as the old hymn sings it, we are all precious in God's sight.
Our stories are varied, I know, and yet I have a hunch that every single one of us has been lost a time or two. Maybe something is so wrong in your life that you feel as lost as Tyrone did that afternoon in center city Philadelphia. You are weeping inside, certain that no one cares to look for you let alone find you. It's a terrible feeling. The only worse feeling, I imagine, is God's when God fears that we will not be found.
The parables that Jesus tells today about the sheep and the coin are how Jesus chooses to tell us how dear we are to God. God will turn the universe upside down until we are found. God has sent his only son on a search party, risking his very life, to find us. God even goes hunting at the cross! Whether we are tax collectors or sinners, God will spare no effort in finding us. YOU matter to God.
If our worship this morning is anything, it is about God doing everything possible to let us know how much we are loved. That's why we sing hymns-- to celebrate God's joy that we were lost and now are found; that's why we read the Bible here, three lessons and a Psalm in fact--to hear to what crazy extent God goes to find us-how God even changes that great big Divine Mind for our sake; that's why we have sermons--to do our human best to describe how much God loves us..
I am not sure I am up to the task of describing God's mind nor should I dare try. What I can tell you is how much I long to be found when I am lost. And you? Today, this very moment, God uses everything in the heavenly realm to tell each of us how important we are. Whether we are tax collectors, sinners, or worse, God never gives up until we are found.
And so, right now, God is overwhelmed with joy. For we are gathered in God's house, safe and sound. Finally, God has found us and we are home in God's heavenly arms. If you listen, you probably can hear a great sigh of heavenly relief. That, my friends, is God's mind at work.At least I think it is.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
(First Lutheran Church, San Diego)
Sermon at the Memorial Service for the Rev. Donald Marohn
at St. Peter's by the Sea Lutheran Church, Point Loma, San Diego
September 9, 2007
Revelation 21:1-7; Philippians 1: 18-26; John 13: 1-20
"So, Don, What Preaches Today?"
I have spent most of this week staring into space, wondering what Pastor Don Marohn would preach if he were here this afternoon.
I shared Holy Communion with Don almost every week for the past few months. We created a tradition: I read the upcoming Sunday lessons and then asked, "So Don, what preaches?" Don would close his eyes, clasp his fingers behind his head, and astonish me with surprising insights into God's goodness.
If Don were preaching today, this we know: he would not offer a slickly veneered version of his life. Whether his sermons were three minutes or forty-five minutes-each a distinct possibility-they were always filled with his own broken humanity charged with God's amazing grace.
"So, Don, what preaches today?" If you listen, I think you can hear his response: "For God's sakes, Wilk, just preach the Gospel."
On Wednesday, March 21, Don preached the Gospel to the weekly gathering of San Diego Lutheran pastors. Karen, you were supposed to preach, and yet in your graceful way, you relinquished the pulpit to your beloved husband. You sensed that this was Don's final opportunity to preach this side of the kingdom come. Don looked like a wind blown scarecrow. I was certain that one of us pastors would have to catch him before he blew over. Karen, you looked at him adoringly and with confidence; you knew he wouldn't blow this opportunity in a million years: this was his chance to tell his colleagues how God was supporting him during his harrowing journey in cancerland.
Don leaned heavily on his cane that morning. God must have found everything just right. One of Don's fellow Benedictines Aidan Kavanagh describes the almost ideal situation this way: "One should engage in liturgy so that attention is called to [God] rather than to one's own virtuosity.The liturgical minister is not the poet but only the reciter of the poet's poem." St. Paul said it another way: "God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong."
That Wednesday morning, Don never got in the way of the poet's poem. He spoke of all the stuff in his life that once seemed so meaningful and now was.well.crap. Karen quickly corrected him, "Rubbish, honey, rubbish." He looked at you, Karen, and thanked you for your loving companionship during this arduous sojourn in the valley of the shadow. He spoke of another love affair, too, the one with Jesus. Ever the Benedictine mystic, he made that relationship sound gorgeously erotic. Over and over again, Don spoke of his deep love for Karen and for Jesus. They were his rock in a stormy sea and all that was necessary for the journey. All else was, well, simply rubbish.
Don understood that only four little things are ever necessary for vibrant
ministry: a Bible, a little water, some bread and wine. That's all-not
much really. The fluffy programs, the big buildings, the fancy rhetoric--
all that glitzy stuff pales in comparison to the stunning poetry of Jesus
Christ raised from the dead. As his body deteriorated, Don was in a
perfect position to preach. He had all that was necessary and only what
was necessary for ministry: God's promise of eternal life in words spoken
and bread broken and wine poured.
Karen asked Don in his final days, "What are your hobbies, Don?" He said, "Word and Sacrament, dear." "What else?" Karen asked. "Isn't that enough?" Don replied.
God's thumbprint was imprinted on little Don at his baptism; and from that moment onward, he went about searching for God's print on everyone and everything. As a priest of the one holy catholic and apostolic church, Father Don served sometimes challenging and tiny parishes in South and North Dakota, places with names like Turtle Mountain Indian Reservation, and Hosmer, Bowdle and Seneca. He discovered God's thumbprint in the humdrum of the pastoral craft, in the most surprising places, in emergency rooms and delivery rooms, drunk tanks and jail cells, in lives terrified and lives lost.
Don even discovered God's thumbprint staring face-to-face with death himself. Karen notes that Don danced with death at the end. He was not angry. You can almost see the twinkle in his eye as he swished the words of Revelation in his mouth: "Death will be no more. Every tear will be wiped away." Yes, indeed, armed with such confidence what more to do but dance with death?
Don was a pastor to the end. Washed at death, Karen vested him yet one more time in his cherished alb and stole, the very symbols of his sacred office--the white alb reminiscent of the baptismal gown he wore when, as a baby, he was buried with Christ and raised to new life in Christ; and the stole, lovingly placed around his neck at ordination, called him to serve his brothers and sisters in life and even in death. Yes, even in death Don was preaching to us, "For to me, living is Christ and dying is gain."
Just as Jesus washed the disciples' feet and offered them hope the night before he died, Don offered many of us hope in his last days. Death fiercely stalked him, and all the while he invited us to delight, to Gospel, to proclaim and to hear of that glorious day when there will be no more mourning, no more crying, no more pain. Ever the pastor, Don bid us preach, one to another, the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.
If you listen carefully, you might just hear Don's voice echoing through this sanctuary. Listen for him.listen: "Ah, Karen my dear Karen, please sing Alleluia triumphantly at my grave.Oh, my trusted colleagues, you ministers of Word and Sacrament, sing melodies of hope to all who weep.Oh my blessed brothers and sisters in Christ, take down your harps from the willows and accompany one another in songs of joy."
Listen.Don urges us, "Be bold, be daring, my friends; announce these confident words over my ashes: 'The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you. The Lord look upon with you with favor and give you peace.'"
Let your imaginations soar. See Pastor Don right now with hands clasped behind his head; hear what he tells the saints and martyrs: "I hope they preach these words at my funeral: 'Behold, I make all things new.'"
Saint Don, well done, good and faithful servant, well done. Your life and even your death have preached the Gospel so very well.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 9, 2007
Luke 14: 25-33
"No Hidden Costs"
Today is so exciting. Twelve wonderful people are joining our congregation, including two adults at baptism. New members, you have spoken about how happy you are to find such a vibrant, welcoming community with uplifting worship and outreach to God's vulnerable ones. I also know it is an exciting day for members of First Lutheran Church. I have heard you say how alive our church is and what an exciting future we have as we welcome such an amazing group of people into this community.
In some ways, that's the way it was for the followers of Jesus, too. There was considerable excitement about his ministry. Large crowds followed Jesus. Who wouldn't want to follow someone who raised a man from the dead? Wouldn't you sign up after seeing 5,000 people fed miraculously with a few loaves and fish? And all those healings-if anything, one wonders how the disciples controlled the mobs.
The excitement can often die down pretty quickly. Jesus knew and we know too that being a Christian is not all that it is always cracked up to be. There are times when it is down right painful, discouraging, and maddening.
I attended a pastors' conference in Temecula on Wednesday. We heard of the Lutheran church's remarkable track record of resettling refugees from around the world since 1939 and how Lutherans are held in high regard for peacefully finding homes and work for Vietnamese refugees, Namibians, Angolans, and the Lost Boys of Sudan among others. The discussion then moved toward the immigration of people from Mexico. I frankly got very disturbed. I wanted to stand up and shout. One pastor in particular seemed worlds apart from my own position regarding undocumented people in this country. I thought, this crazy church of ours!
And then the presenter, the director of Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service, made a remarkable observation. He said that the beauty of our church in his mind is that we are able to disagree in love. Not that we don't get raving mad from time to time. And yet, he said, the church is that place where we can have lively discussions and still love one another without going to war.
Maybe that's why Jesus did something so astonishing when the crowds gathered around. Rather than celebrating and announcing the statistics of the overflow crowd, he issued a warning, a warning that drew the parameters, if you will, if what it would be necessary to follow him to Calvary.
There were no hidden costs in following Jesus. It wasn't going to be easy--nor is it easy--to follow Jesus. Jesus would soon die on a cross. As it has been noted, "If you want to be a Christian, you better look good on word."
This morning we will ask our new members and all of us whether we renounce the powers of this world that rebel against God. We will promise to work for justice and peace in all the world. Who ever said this struggle would be easy? We will promise, in more words or less, to love our enemies when we want to club them over the head-never easy, by the way, at least for me. Being part of a church when we don't get our way can be down right infuriating. And yet that it is exactly what we will all promise in a few moments as we reaffirm our baptisms and as two of you are baptized. Those who wish to follow Jesus are called to bear the cross and suffer for friend and foe alike.
The truth is that we will all stumble from time to time. We will need one other. On Wednesday, I needed to hear an expert on immigration say that there is some merit in a church that can disagree in love. I needed to hear his reminder of how rare it is for people in our culture to disagree in love-- conservative and liberal alike, by the way! It lowered my blood pressure considerably to hear his summons. From time to time, I need to be reminded that the Gospel message is not just about loving those who think and act like me-heck, anyone can do that. I need Jesus to teach me to love my enemies, to support me when I fail, and, somehow, someway, help me make a difference in this world.
And so, what an exciting day it is. The good news is that we do not go on this journey alone. When one is up, the other needs lifted up; when one is discouraged, another needs to offer hope; when one sees no tomorrow, the other proclaims God's bright promises.
And so there is hope for us all. On days like this, filled with celebration and enthusiasm, it is easy to follow Jesus and yet it is precisely these days that we need to buoy us up for those days when we grouse, "What's the use?" Whatever the day, Jesus is there with us in all that we face. Jesus continues his march to Jerusalem for our sakes even when we lose heart. So let's go to the waters of baptism and celebrate.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 2, 2007
Proverbs 25: 6-7; Hebrews 13: 1-3, 5-8, 15-16; Luke 14: 1, 7-16
"Elwood Rudner's Truck"
(Children's Sunday)
Today we are going to have a party.
Let's get in our party outfits right now. (Hats and blowers are given to the children.)
When you have a party, who all comes? (Children are invited to name the people who come to their parties.) It's fun to have friends and family come to your party, isn't it?
Jesus tells us to have a different kind of party. Jesus says that when we have a party, we shouldn't invite our friends and brothers and sisters and grandmas and grandpas who will bring us big presents. Jesus says when we have a party, we should invite people who are never invited to parties-- people who are poor and sick, people who aren't able to bring us presents.
Whenever I have a party, I think about the presents that people will bring me. Do you do that? Jesus says that we should invite people who will never be able to bring us a present. How does that make you feel? Kind of sad, huh?
I want to tell you about my birthday party when I was ten years old. My parents told me that my party was going to be at the Wheeling YMCA, a place with a gym, ping pong tables, and a swimming pool. I was so excited. It was a big place and that meant that lots of kids could come. Do you know what I was thinking when I thought of a lot of kids at my party? Lots of kids meant lots of PRESENTS!
Then my mom and dad said, "Let's talk about who you are going to invite to your birthday party." I named all my friends: Colin and Richard, John and Gary, Bip and Kim, Beth and Lisa, Robbie and Jimmy and Michael.
Then my parents said, "Why don't you invite a whole bunch of kids who never get invited to parties." There was a whole group of kids who lived in a big old scary looking house called the Woodsdale Children's Home. These kids didn't live with their parents. I remember that lots of my friends made fun of them because they didn't have very nice clothes. I remember some of their names: Steve and Jim were brothers and there was Elwood Rudner.
I will never forget the kids from the Children's Home coming to my party. They had never been invited to any party at least that I knew of. You could see how happy they were the minute they came through the doors. They were so excited. And they all had presents under their arms.
Many of the presents I got at the party had sparkly paper and pretty bows and came in big boxes. There was one present that I will never forget. It is the only present that I still have 47 years later. It was given to me by Elwood Rudner. I wrapped it up today, just for fun. You can help me open it. (We open the present and there is a very old, beat up, small green truck.)
This truck doesn't look very special, does it? Elwood had played with the
truck before he gave it to me and I imagine that other kids at the
children's home had played with it before Elwood did. It was beat up when I
got it but that didn't matter. This truck is one of the most special gifts
I have ever received.
I didn't expect a present from Donald. And yet, I got what might have been his only truck.
You have drawn wonderful pictures that appear in this morning's bulletin. Underneath one of the pictures, it says: "Some have entertained angels without knowing it." The day I received the truck, my whole life changed. I entertained one of God's angels at my birthday party and over the years I have realized just how special that day was. I learned how special it can be to invite people to parties who never can return the favor, people who rarely, if ever, get invited to a party. I give thanks always for my parents teaching me that special lesson.
Today, at church, we gather for a party. God invites us to this party and tells us to invite other people, too. God wants us to invite people like Elwood Rudner who gave me the truck and Steve and Jim, people who never get invited to parties. And then, God tells us to keep our eyes wide open. Always keep our eyes open. We might just see angels at our side.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 26, 2007
Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 13: 10-17
"My Friend, Mr. Fruit"
The Calvary Cavaliers. They won the 1980 Philadelphia Lutheran league basketball championship in convincing fashion. One of the players got a college basketball scholarship. I was the pastor and general manager of the high flying Cavaliers. I had one iron clad rule: players who wished to play on Sunday afternoon had to attend church on Sunday morning. There was no dress code, no rule about the size of Afros or what grades you got in school. You just had to worship on Sunday morning.
The Cavaliers tested my patience every Sunday. They showed up in all manner of slovenly attire and never on time. One Sunday in the middle of Communion, there was a low rumble resembling a plane landing at Lindberg Field. I guessed the plane in question to be you-know-who in the back row. I said, and I quote: "And Jesus said, take and eat, this is my body given for you.I will meet with every member of the Calvary Cavalier basketball team the minute this liturgy ends.And after supper, Jesus took the cup and after giving thanks."
The bent over woman that we just heard about in the Gospel sat in the back, near where the Cavaliers sat. She had been crippled for eighteen years. In spite of the nauseating pain that constantly shot up her back, she made it to the synagogue every Saturday morning for the Sabbath service-just like the Calvary Cavaliers. People never learned her name-- she wasn't important enough. As so often is the case when we don't care about someone, people simply said, "You know, the "Bent Over Woman."
Jesus was preaching up a storm when he just barely caught her eye-she rarely caught anyone's eyes. The minute he saw her, he stopped everything, called her to the front where he was teaching, touched her, and healed her on the spot.
How dare Jesus interrupt his Sabbath teaching in order to heal her. There were six other days for healing--wasn't Tuesday or Thursday good enough? Every good Jew knew that the third commandment was "Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy." The Sabbath was for worshiping God not for running a social service agency. What would you think if I walked out of here right now, in the middle of my sermon, to fix a bagged lunch for one of our patio parishioners? Someone almost certainly would mutter, "Now TACO has infiltrated worship!"
The first night I met with you