Sermons offered by the Rev. Wilk Miller
| December 26, 2010 | "O, Those Wonderful Carols and Stories" |
| December 24, 2010 | "The Long, Crooked Line of Christmas" |
| December 19, 2010 | "Joseph, the Righteous Man" |
| December 12, 2010 | "The Drip, Drip, Drip of God’s Mercy" |
| December 11, 2010 | "Just One Last Story" |
| December 5, 2010 | "People Get Ready, There's a Train A Comin'" |
| November 28, 2010 | "The Way of the Unanswered Question" |
| November 21, 2010 | "Christ the King, the Clown of Sorrows" |
| November 14, 2010 | "Those Contrarian Christians" |
| November 7, 2010 | "The Wal-Mart Saints" |
| October 31, 2010 | "A Tattooist Worthy of Tattooery" |
| October 24, 2010 | "Who Is Best?" |
| October 17, 2010 | "Jacob Jumped at the Jabbok" |
| October 3, 2010 | "Habakkukians" |
| September 26, 2010 | "Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet" |
| September 19, 2010 | "Razzle-Dazzle" |
| September 12, 2010 | "Love's Obsession" |
| September 11, 2010 | "Bread and Wine and Water and a Bible" |
| September 5, 2010 | "Why All the Shouting?" |
| August 29, 2010 | "Eating in the Smoking Section" |
| August 22, 2010 | "Bent Over No More" |
| August 15, 2010 | "The Gear and Tackle and Trim of Ministry" |
| August 8, 2010 | "Do Not Be Afraid" |
| August 1, 2010 | "How is Your Life?" |
| July 25, 2010 | "Chasing Real Rabbits" |
| July 18, 2010 | "Flipping the Tent Flap Open" |
| July 11, 2010 | "Are You All In?" |
| July 4, 2010 | "God Shed His Grace on Thee" |
| June 27, 2010 | "Jesus, You Must Be Kidding" |
| June 20, 2010 | "A Most Modern Story" |
| June 13, 2010 | "The Family Tree" |
| June 6, 2010 | "Do You Believe in Miracles?" |
| May 30, 2010 | "The Immensity of God" |
| May 23, 2010 | "S.D.G." |
| May 22, 2010 | "Remarks delivered at California Equality on Harvey Milk Day" |
| May 16, 2010 | "Jail House Rock" |
| May 9, 2010 | "Choosing Our Words Well" |
| May 2, 2010 | "No More Gated Communities" |
| April 25, 2010 | "Now, Was That So Hard?" |
| April 18, 2010 | "Do You Want to Get Away?" |
| April 11, 2010 | "Free to Doubt" |
| April 4, 2010 | "A Most Monstrous Story!" |
| April 3, 2010 | "That We May Be Exalted" |
| April 2, 2010 | "Twenty Degrees Darker than Total Darkness" |
| April 1, 2010 | "Let the Triduum Begin" |
| March 28, 2010 | "Did You Say, Crucify Him?" |
| March 21, 2010 | "Blessed Extravagance" |
| March 14, 2010 | "So Who is The Prodigal?" |
| March 7, 2010 | "A Free Lunch for All" |
| February 28, 2010 | "A Hen" |
| February 21, 2010 | "Save Us from the Time of Trial" |
| February 17, 2010 | "Keeping A Holy Lent" |
| February 14, 2010 | "Remember to Say Your Prayers" |
| February 7, 2010 | "In Search of Excellence?" |
| January 31, 2010 | "Words Chosen Well and with Love" |
| January 24, 2010 | "The Nine Word Sermon" |
| January 17, 2010 | "The Water Blushed" |
| January 10, 2010 | "Epiphany Glasses" |
| January 3, 2010 | "Opting for a Different Road" |
| December 27, 2009 | "Those Blessed Questions" |
| December 24, 2009 | "The Christ Child's Light" |
| December 20, 2009 | "Wonderment in the Air" |
| December 13, 2009 | "Wow!" |
| December 6, 2009 | "Rewriting Our Lives" |
| November 29, 2009 | "Raise Your Heads" |
| November 22, 2009 | "Our King on the Other Side of Brokenness" |
| November 15, 2009 | "Large Stone and Large Buildings" |
| November 8, 2009 | "Living Life on the Edge" |
| November 1, 2009 | "Jesus Wept" |
| October 25, 2009 | "Defining Grace" |
| October 19, 2009 | "My Broken Body for You" |
| October 18, 2009 | "Be Healed!" |
| October 11, 2009 | "Priceless" |
| October 4, 2009 | "The Creation Symphony" |
| September 27, 2009 | "What an Amazing Beauty Queen!" |
| September 20, 2009 | "Oh, Those Kids!" |
| September 13, 2009 | "Is There Anything Worth Dying For?" |
| September 6, 2009 | "Getting on with Ministry" |
| August 30, 2009 | "A Hugging and Kissing Love" |
| August 23, 2009 | "That God's Table May Be Open to All" |
| August 16, 2009 | "Consecrating All Life" |
| August 9, 2009 | "A Troubled Family" |
| August 2, 2009 | "All Bread is Holy" |
| July 26, 2009 | "Gorgeous Extravagance" |
| July 19, 2009 | "Rest Awhile" |
| July 12, 2009 | "The Dance of Life" |
| July 5, 2009 | "Oh Beautiful for Spacious Skies" |
| June 28, 2009 | "Kicking Down the Door" |
| June 21, 2009 | "Sailing on Stormy Seas" |
| June 14, 2009 | "Just a Shrub" |
| June 7, 2009 | "The Grandeur of God Draws Close" |
| May 31, 2009 | "No Longer L-O-U-D-E-R AND S-L-O-W-E-R" |
| May 24, 2009 | "Still Easter After All These Weeks" |
| May 17, 2009 | "Swoopings of the Spirit" |
| May 10, 2009 | "Words Chosen Carefully and Lovingly" |
| April 26, 2009 | "All Occasions Invite His Mercies" |
| April 19, 2009 | "Earth Day Sermon by the Rev. Bill Radatz" |
| April 12, 2009 | "Only God Can Resurrection" |
| April 9, 2009 | "Jesus' Hands" |
| April 5, 2009 | "A Harsh and Dreadful Love" |
| March 29, 2009 | "A Tattooed Heart" |
| March 22, 2009 | "Necessary Pain" |
| March 15, 2009 | "Accomplished at Saying No...And Even Yes" |
| March 8, 2009 | "Little Deaths" |
| March 1, 2009 | "Rainbow Love" |
| February 28, 2009 | "Memorial Service for Delores Praefke" |
| February 25, 2009 | "The Humpty Dumpty Dilemma" |
| February 22, 2009 | "Whistle While You Work" |
| February 15, 2009 | "Dipping in the Jordan" |
| February 8, 2009 | "Do Not Disturb" |
| February 1, 2009 | "Singing His Song" |
| January 25, 2009 | "Treasures in the Trash" |
| January 18, 2009 | "Just You and Me" |
| January 11, 2009 | "Not a Pretty Start" |
| January 4, 2009 | "When Love Comes to Town" |
| December 28, 2008 | "Dying a Good Death" |
| December 24, 2008 | "Beggars at the Manger" |
| December 21, 2008 | "A Perfectly Fine Tent" |
| December 14, 2008 | "Just Plain John" |
| December 7, 2008 | "O Comfort My People" |
| November 30, 2008 | "The Dark Bruise of Advent" |
| November 23, 2008 | "King Jesus' Friends" |
| November 16, 2008 | "Fighting the Fear of Scarcity" |
| November 9, 2008 | "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning" |
| November 2, 2008 | "God's Quotidian Saints" |
| October 19, 2008 | "God Grant Us Civility" |
| October 12, 2008 | "This Magic Moment" |
| October 5, 2008 | "Tending God's Vineyard at 3rd and Ash" |
| September 28, 2008 | "Just Say NO" |
| September 21, 2008 | "Free Lunch" |
| September 14, 2008 | "Christ's Body Broken For You" |
| August 31, 2008 | "Not So Neat and Tidy" |
| August 24, 2008 | "Life-Saving Words" |
| August 17, 2008 | "Jesus Changes His Mind" |
| August 10, 2008 | "Water-Walking or Elevators and Pew Cushions" |
| August 3, 2008 | "Drenched with Holiness" |
| July 27, 2008 | "A Mustard Seed Kind of Place" |
| July 20, 2008 | "Let the Weeds Grow" |
| July 13, 2008 | "An Extravagant Planting Style" |
| July 6, 2008 | "Godspeed to Paul Moorman" |
| June 29, 2008 | "Liar and Murderer, Saint and Sinner" |
| June 22, 2008 | "Are You Nevous?" |
| June 15, 2008 | "We're All God's Got" |
| June 8, 2008 | "Erring on the Side of Mercy" |
| June 1, 2008 | "Sensible Building Plans" |
| May 25, 2008 | "Do Not Worry" |
| May 18, 2008 | "Hold Your Head Up High" |
| May 11, 2008 | "What Got into Her?" |
| May 9, 2008 | "Memorial Service for Leonard Mischley" |
| May 4, 2008 | "Stay Here in the City" |
| April 27, 2008 | "Orphaned No more" |
| April 13, 2008 | "Sheep Talk" |
| April 12, 2008 | "Memorial Service for Jacob Umlauf" |
| April 6, 2008 | "Easter Eyes" |
| March 30, 2008 | "The Circuitous Journeys of Faith" |
| March 23, 2008 | "Groping for the Right Words" |
| March 22, 2008 | "My Dad is Stronger than Your Dad" |
| March 20, 2008 | "Few Words Indeed" |
| March 16, 2008 | "The Heart of Christ in the Heart of the City" |
| March 9, 2008 | "Questions at the Bone Yard" |
| February 24, 2008 | "An Uncommon Patience" |
| February 17, 2008 | "Words that Work" |
| February 10, 2008 | "Better or Best" |
| February 6, 2008 | "A Most Peculiar Practice" |
| February 3, 2008 | "Up and Down, Down and Up" |
| January 27, 2008 | "An Admirer or a Disciple?" |
| January 20, 2008 | "Chargers, Patriots, or Lamb?" |
| January 13, 2008 | "An Awkward Moment" |
| January 6, 2008 | "And They Worshiped Him" |
| 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 26, 2010
First Sunday after Christmas
"O, Those Wonderful Carols and Stories"
A very merry and happy Christmas to you all.
And, really, how merry and happy these days are. In spite of what happens in our personal lives, in the church, and around the world, we are given the treasure of lessons and carols to sustain us. Nestled amidst the lessons and carols are memories of God doing wondrous things in our midst.
Who can hear a Christmas carol and not be captured by some memory? I hope that the words “Silent Night” bring back a memory or two of some Christmases past.
And who can hear, “In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus,” and not remember the place where you heard those words for the first time?
Following the biblical readings in the Evening Prayer Vesper liturgy, these words are said: “In many and various ways God has spoken to his people of old by the prophets and now in these last days God has spoken to us through his son.”
Not only do we recall old memories but we believe that God speaks to us this morning and creates new memories for a lifetime.
In the past week, I have had two such memories created that I imagine I will treasure for a very long time. One of those memories was born when twenty of us from First Lutheran went Christmas caroling last Sunday evening to our homebound members. One of the visits we made was to beloved Marian Setmire who has served this congregation so well over the years (her first husband, Pastor Milus Bonker, was this congregation’s pastor from 1956-1967 until he died). Since a nasty fall in November, Marian has been living with her daughter Noreen. As we entered Noreen and Colleen’s home, it was as if we entered a nineteenth century Victorian Christmas wonderland. Christmas decorations adorned the house. We were ushered into the living room where a fire brightly burned, neighbors sat on the couch with the family dogs, Christmas goodies were spread out on the coffee table where the little singers quickly scampered, and Marian beamed with joy as we sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Joy to the Word.” She heard the Christmas Gospel read as she has for ninety years now. Marian wept tears of joy and expressed her deep love for her church, First Lutheran, before we left. I doubt any of us will forget that night so rich with Christmas blessing.
And then, this past Tuesday evening, I took Holy Communion to Dorothy Magdich who lost her husband of sixty-eight years only weeks ago on Thanksgiving night. When I was finished, I went out into the deluge—I should have read the story of Noah and not the Nativity story—got into my car, and realized I had forgotten to turn off the lights; the battery was dead. I didn’t want to alarm Dorothy so I went to a neighbor’s house. When she opened the door, she was very hesitant to help me. Even though I had my clerical collar on, I think she thought I was the Geezer Bandit Pastor: I was a stranger and it was so dark and rainy. After a little discussion and good Lutheran cajoling, she agreed to get her car, even though her husband wasn’t home, and to try to jump me but to no avail. Then, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a neighbor dressed in dirty overalls, Teva sandals, and no socks, bounding across a river flowing down Pomona Street. He said, “I’m a redneck and I love this sort of thing.” He ran back to his house, got his trusty powerful pick-up and returned with his trusty powerful jumper cables. As he jumped my car, the woman went back into her house, not to find safety, but rather to get each of us a beautiful plate of Christmas cookies…Here I had gone to tell the story of the Christ Child to a grieving widow and, as grace so often does, two people gave me a gift I will never forget.
We gather together this morning, to sing and share stories of grace that have sustained our loved ones for thousands of years. As we hear, “Once upon a time in the city of Bethlehem,” we will lean in a little closer; as we sing, “What Child Is This?” we will be filled with joy.
On these days of Christmas, God comes into our midst as a tiny baby and becomes the salvation of the world. Keep your eyes and ears open for surely God will come to you when you least expect it, as you sing a carol, as you get into a car with a dead battery on a rainy night, as you gather with good friends to sing “Silent Night.” In these occasions of telling stories and singing carols, your life will be changed. God has come to be with you this morning.
May you have a blessed and merry Christmas.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve
Matthew 1: 1-17; Luke 2: 1-20
"The Long, Crooked Line of Christmas"
You are wondering, I’m sure, “Why in the world did we had to endure that long, boring list of names from Matthew’s gospel on Christmas Eve?” You deserve an answer.
First of all, I honestly do love the list known as the genealogy of Jesus Christ and, being the preacher, I get to choose the readings. In all fairness, though, the church frowns on reading this list tonight for fear that none of you will ever return again; in fact, the church never appoints Matthew 1: 1-17 to be read at any of its worship services throughout the year.
Think of this list as Jesus’ family tree--it might make it less painful. I know, no matter how you think of it, it is still painful. I know that to be the case: I watched you as the names were read. You looked as if visions of sugar plums were dancing in your heads. One of you pulled out your iPhone and texted a friend, “Susie, you are totally not going to believe this wacko preacher. I so wish I were not here.”
Now, just in case you are looking for a speedy getaway, let me cut to the chase and tell you why I love this list of names.
Maybe you noticed that only five women are mentioned (Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba—actually called Uriah’s wife, and Mary—Jesus’ mother). This is family night so you’ve got to trust me on this: the five women all have questionable reputations, including a street walker, a much too young mommy, and a few women old enough to know better.
Most of you are clueless as to who these people are and certainly glad you don’t have to pronounce their names. Sure, you can identify and pronounce Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and David but Jehoshaphat, Eliakim, and Eliud? We don’t know them, can’t pronounce their names and, in all honesty, even if we could, we would still prefer not to have to endure the relentless barrage of weird names on Christmas Eve.
What amazes me about this long list of names is that, with the exception of Jesus, it includes a bunch of sad sacks, scoundrels, and bamboozlers, all who are Jesus’ great-great-great grandmas and grandpas.
It has been said that God writes the divine story with crooked lines. The crooked lines dizzily zigzag down through history, beginning with Father Abraham and extending all the way to the baby Jesus at Bethlehem.
You are still wondering: why this impenetrable group of liars, muggers and thieves on Christmas Eve? Wouldn’t July 17 be a better time to read it?
Let me give this one more shot. You are here tonight for a million and one reasons. Some of you hope that you will hear something about the Child of Bethlehem that will lift your spirits and even change your lives. Others have showed up because you love to sing the Christmas carols in candlelight and to hear the preferable reading from Luke’s gospel with shepherds and angels and little sheepies adoring the baby Jesus. Some of you wonder if you belong here at all and hope that no one knows your true story.
The gift of Christmas, my dear friends, is that God welcomes all of us, broken, mixed-up people that we are. God’s family tree is one old-fashioned dysfunctional family and we are invited to join the happy company this Christmas Eve.
If you think I am making this up, hearken back to that Bethlehem evening 2,000 years ago. Remember how Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem and Mary was, as the King James Version of the Bible charmingly puts it, “great with child.” Mary needed to get off her feet fast. You would think God would have set up the travel plans in advance, making certain that Mary and Joseph met the “good people” and received a choice suite in the Bethlehem Hilton. But no one seemed to be waiting when they arrived. We want to scream, “Open the door!” And yet, every door was slammed shut. Who were these people anyway?
Finally, so goes the story, Mary and Joseph ended up in a stable, ripe with the odors of manure and wet straw, cobwebs hanging from the rafters filled with dead flies, and little mice scampering under the manger. It was there, in the most unimaginable of places, with the most unlikely cast of characters, that God’s son was born.
One of the toughest things about Christmas Eve is that it rarely measures up to how we imagine that first Christmas to have been. That’s why we must tell the truth about Jesus’ family. The first Christmas was far from perfect and will never measure up to the lovely manger scenes on our mantles and the beautiful carols we so adore. And this Christmas is no different: we are not particularly churchy people; we are lonely; we seethe with anger; we wonder why everyone else seems so happy. And yet, surprise, surprise, yet again, God comes to us tonight, and says, “Join the family!”
That’s what’s so wonderful about the long, boring list of Jesus’ family tree: it tells the truth about God’s family on earth, not some idealized Christmas fantasy where “all the Christmases are bright and white.” If we listen to the story at all, we discover that in our own peculiar ways, we, too, are part of the long crooked line that leads to and from the manger in Bethlehem.
Christmas glory is that God comes to redneck shepherds and cantankerous innkeepers, a simple maiden and a befuddled carpenter, to you and me and those we love.
So, when you leave here tonight, please don’t badmouth me too badly. Say something kind like: “I went to this church where they read a bunch of l-o-n-g, b-o-r-i-n-g, b-i-z-a-r-r-e names. And then suddenly and surprisingly, it was if God had come to San Diego and there I was, standing at the manger, adoring the Christ Child, and singing with the angels, ‘Glory to God on high.’”
Maybe that’s why we should hear the genealogy of Jesus Christ read on Christmas Eve at least once in our lifetime--not more than once, oh please, please, but at least once. As we hear those weird and mysterious names, suddenly it strikes us, they are our names and we have been invited by God to adore the Christ Child on this Christmas Night.
A blessed and happy Christmas to you all. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fourth Sunday of Advent
December 19, 2010
"Joseph, the Righteous Man"
When Joseph got the news that Mary was having a baby and he wasn’t the daddy, well, you know how humiliated he was. No matter how delicately Matthew tries to tell the story, even we feel the agony of Joseph’s broken dreams and heartbreaking disgrace.
Poet Maya Angelou says that “you can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.'' She could add a fourth thing to her list: how a person handles the news that his fiancée is pregnant and he isn’t the daddy.
To be sure, Joseph had options how to deal with Mary’s pregnancy. He could have asked the guys at the Saturday morning Men’s Bible Study what they would do. You know that at least one pious gent would suggest, “Joseph, simply do what the Bible says.” You might even agree with his suggestion: after all, you were taught that the Bible offers all the answers to life’s deepest troubles. There is only one slight problem, however, with “the Bible told me so” solution. Deuteronomy, the biblical book that tells would-be daddies what to do if they actually aren’t the real daddies, instructs the men of the town to stone the fiancée to death if there is no proof of her virginity (Deuteronomy 22: 20,21).
Joseph chose not to follow Deuteronomy’s instructions and to have Mary killed; instead he decided to walk away quietly from the whole mess. He would spare Mary her life and allow the little Christ Child to be born. Thank God!
How many of you have faced similar embarrassment and shame in your life? How many of you have opted for Joseph’s solution of walking away quietly?
It happens more than we ever know. Every once-in-a-while, someone says to me, “I haven’t seen Joe Smith in ages. He used to come to worship every Sunday. Where’s he been?”
Earlier in my ministry, when someone asked me where Joe Smith was, I immediately judged myself. I figured I must have done something wrong and driven Joe away--maybe I preached a sermon that got his hackles up or maybe I asked him to read the Sunday lesson, forgetting to forewarn him that it included those maddening names of Shealtiel, Jeconiah, and Jehoshaphat.
Who knows why someone quits coming to church. I have discovered that when people leave a church, the deeper reasons can be pretty hard to discover. Sometimes people leave because they are like Joe; they leave so quietly that we never know what happened. Maybe Joe’s wife Mary was drinking herself to death and he didn’t want to embarrass us when we asked, “Where has Jane been lately?” Maybe John left when he received his 2011 pledge card and, though he desperately wanted to pledge as he had done for the past twenty years, he couldn’t bear write 45 cents a week on his card so he walked away quietly.
Joseph decided to do something similar. He didn’t want to embarrass Mary. Being a down-to-earth carpenter, he didn’t have the foggiest idea how to respond to the guys at Bible study who said he should stone Mary to death. All he knew was that he could never do what the Bible commanded and still love Mary and himself and God. So, being a righteous man, Joseph decided to walk away quietly.
You know the rest of the story. God would have none of Joseph’s walking away. As God does in these dreadful situations, he sent an angel to Joseph in a dream who said: “Do not be afraid to make Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”
I get a lump in my throat every time I hear the angel say, “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife;” you probably do too. Doesn’t it feel like the angel is talking to you? Countless people have come to my office, closed the door, begun to weep, and said, “Pastor, if you only knew.” I have said that a time or two myself, to a bishop or fellow pastor. We all need someone to tell us, “Do not be afraid.”
I suppose that’s why I so love children’s Christmas pageants. They would not be half as wonderful if they were perfect. I love the ornery shepherd picking his nose, the tiny angel wandering off midplay into grandma’s arms, the thrilled parents taking the hundredth picture, the cattle screaming, “I want Mommy.” God must love these pageants too for they are so similar to that first Christmas when Joseph and Mary had that little baby boy.
I have no idea what the coming days have in store for you. I imagine, though, that some of you will celebrate some recent success while others will lament a crushing failure; some of you will rejoice that your name is in lights, while others have never experienced that and only wish you could; some of you are too lonely to admit it to anyone while others wish you could simply be alone. Whatever these days hold, remember that God invites you to be on center stage. In a few moments, you will cup your hands, one over the other, and receive a chunk of bread as the words “Take and eat, this is the Christ Child given for you” are spoken to you. You, my friends, with Joseph and Mary, will be front and center with the Babe of Bethlehem. Knowing that news alone, may you experience great blessing in the coming days of Christmas.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Third Sunday of Advent
December 12, 2010
Matthew 11: 2-11
"The Drip, Drip, Drip of God’s Mercy"
This morning’s Bible reading is a little weird, especially when read two weeks before Christmas. We expect something that will lift our spirits during these magical days; we prefer not to have some bedraggled lunatic screaming his fool head off in prison, “Are you the one or should we wait for another?”
This weird question is John’s, of course it is, but it is ours too. You and I have invested considerably in Jesus being the Messiah, the one who can save the world and us. And yet, we are plagued by John’s nagging question, “Are you the one?” You have given generously of your hard earned money to the ministry of the church over the years; you calculate all that you have given to Christ’s ministry over the years and you do wonder from time-to-time, “Is it all worth it?” You offer your precious volunteer time in so many ways, preparing the altar for worship, singing in the choir, serving as an usher or greeter, attending Bible study, cleaning the property on Saturday morning, and you ask, “In the grand scheme of things, does it really make any difference?”
When John’s question arrived to Jesus, he said, “Go and tell John what you hear and see.” And what was it they saw and heard? Why, certainly, the blind received their sight, the lame walked, the lepers were cleansed, the deaf heard, the dead were raised, and the poor had good news brought to them.
This was all well and good, but why then was John stuck in jail waiting to die? You can imagine his frustration as he cried, “Are you the one?”
We, like John, expect stunning pyrotechnics from our Messiah not whimpering duds. We want the oppressors toppled from their thrones, the nighttime muggers locked up in jail, the terrorists stopped; and just for the fun of it, a few days free of aches and pains and worries of what will happen tomorrow.
When Jesus tells us that he is the one for whom we have waited, we expect a torrential downpour of goodness not a drip, drip of mercy going pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Some people see God’s mercy in the pitter-patter while others are, frankly, not amused. When John’s shout “The kingdom of heaven has come near” echoed through the desert, many seemed so hopeful. He called people to repent, to change their crooked lives, and the masses stood in line. And yet, the truth is, those who ended up following Jesus were a peculiar assortment of drunkards, crooks, kooks, and painted street walkers. Is it any wonder that John scratched his head and wondered, “Are you the one?”
I can never hear of John the Baptist in prison without thinking of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German martyr, who was hung in the final days of World War II for attempting to assassinate Adolph Hitler. Bonhoeffer did not need to be in prison. He had a cushy job at Union Theological Seminary in New York, one of the world’s finest seminaries. He could have remained in the ivory towers but he returned to his beloved Germany to bear Christ’s love amidst one of the most awful times in human history.
I have been reading the new 2010 edition of Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison, a gift from the book’s editor to our congregation, as my Advent devotions. In the book’s introduction, she writes: “I should add a special note of gratitude to First Lutheran Church, San Diego, who graciously provided room in their church for the translation team and editors to meet.” What an honor for our congregation to be honored in this great book even in this small way. I have always been stunned by Bonhoeffer’s dazzling hope in such dark days, particularly as expressed in a letter he wrote to his parents on December 17, 1943, only days before Christmas: “Most likely many of those here in this [prison] will celebrate a more meaningful and authentic Christmas than in places where it is celebrated in name only. That misery, sorrow, poverty, loneliness, helplessness, and guilt mean something quite different in the eyes of God than according to human judgment; that God turns toward the very places from which humans turn away; that Christ was born in a stable because there was no room for him in the inn--a prisoner grasps this better than others, and for him this is truly good news…On Christmas Eve I will have you all in my thoughts, and I want you to believe that I too will have a couple of truly beautiful hours and that the distress will certainly not overpower me” (Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison, Fortress Press, Minneapolis, 2010, pgs. 225, 226). Somehow, Bonhoeffer was able to celebrate the pitter-patter, the drip, drip, drip of God’s mercy with his fellow prisoners as he, like John the Baptist, waited to die.
There will be ample opportunity for us to discover God’s mercy in the days ahead if only we tune our ears to the pitter-patter. Next Sunday morning, our children will perform their Christmas pageant; I pray that you will see the Christ Child in their eager faces and nervous hearts. That same evening, we will gather with our homebound members and sing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” If you join us, you will have the opportunity to sing with the very angels who serenaded Jesus in the manger so long ago. And then on Christmas Eve morn, our homeless patio parishioners will gather here to receive their annual Christmas gifts from us. There is no better way to behold the wonder of Christmas than to watch these broken, lonely, bedraggled “shepherds of the street” come to Bethlehem’s manger right here at First Lutheran as they have come now for thirty-five years now. May we hear the pitter-patter of God’s mercy, drip, drip, drip, in all these occasions.
And, let us not stop there. Let us look deep into ourselves where melancholy can so often prevail and sadness become so magnified; may we see the Christ Child wrapped in swaddling clothes, nestled right in our hearts. That, my dear friends, is what it means to be Advent people.
As we gather at our congregational meeting today, let us give thanks for the many ways that God’s grace has dripped upon this place for 122 years and let us attune our ears to the countless opportunities to welcome the Christ Child here as we listen for the pitter-patter of God’s mercy…drip, drip, drip.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Memorial Service for Emil "Mac" Magdich
December 11, 2010
"Just One Last Story"
As soon as your dear husband and loving father breathed his last early in the morning of November 26, you were flooded with memories. A few days later, we planned for this afternoon. I scribbled furiously as you shared one story after another of Emil “Mac” Magdich.
In the face of death, we are blessed with the precious gift of story-telling. Thank God, you have those stories, stories created from a marriage of sixty-eight years, stories of a loving father who treated you like a princess.
There is a price to be paid for stories created from long-lasting love born in the rhythms of “sickness and health, joy and sorrow, for better and for worse, as long as you both shall live.” The price, of course, is that one of you will be left telling the stories when the other is gone. Is it any wonder there are tears and sleepless nights in these days? Think of your tears as a precious gift, beautiful reminders of those many years God gave you to live together.
So many memories, many before you, Dorothy, knew “Mac” or before you, Barbara, were born. There are memories of his growing up in Cuyuna, Minnesota, running free with his dog Jack, snowshoeing through the countryside, fishing and canoeing on the Mississippi just like Huck Finn.
There are stories of his brother getting him a ticket to come here to San Diego where he attended Ryan School of Aeronautics just next to Lindbergh Airport. “Mac” worked at Ryan for forty years as an aeronautical manufacturing engineer. He adored that vocation. He got together with his buddies from Ryan every month at the El Cajon Elks Club until he died.
Oh the memories…Dorothy arrived in “America’s Finest City” in 1942. Dorothy and “Mac” got reacquainted and married in 1943. To that union came two wonderful children, Barbara Jeanne and Barry Jacob.
For fifty years, at your home in La Mesa, memories were created and dreams crafted. “Mac” loved the outdoors, building walls and decks, tending to his garden. He was a terrific dancer, too, doing the jitterbug with his dear Dorothy and leading his little angel, Barbara Jeanne, around the living room as she danced on Daddy’s toes.
As memories almost always tend, there is at least one bad one. You put lots of dreams into your son, Barry. Daddy couldn’t wait to teach him to play baseball and football; he eagerly anticipated that day when the two of them would golf and bowl together. Those dreams were never fulfilled. Barry died tragically at the age of six from complications of appendicitis and his father’s world was rocked. This should never happen to any parent: Barry should be here today, with his sister and mother, giving thanks to God for his father’s life. Sadly, stories go like that, too.
On and on we could go. Stories of laughter, stories with tears.
Dorothy, I know you are getting antsy. When we talked about this morning, you asked me point blank: “Pastor, what kind of funeral sermon do you preach?” What could I say? Thank heavens, you spared me the embarrassment by asking me a leading question, “Do you preach one of those sermons where all you do is talk about Maggie or do you preach about Jesus and the resurrection?”
Every pastor dreams of that question and yet, in 33 ½ years of ministry, I can never remember anyone asking it until you did. Many people, when planning funerals, want to make certain that everyone gets a chance to tell their story and, if anything, just a tad about Jesus. Dorothy and Barbara, you have asked for something different. Deep in your souls, you know there must be another story told this afternoon.
It has been said that we crave for nothing less than the perfect story (Reynolds Price). We have craved for that story since childhood. “If you’ve ever told a child a bedtime story, you know that what you actually tell is a series of stories, usually in the same order. And as you begin to wind down as a storyteller, the child invariably asks, “Just one last story,” knowing that the last story will be the true story and the one that will secure [his] place in the [story].” (Richard Lischer, The End of Words, pg. 101)
We lean forward now for that one last story that will secure “Mac’s” place in God’s story. This story better be true and it better be a humdinger! This story better make our imaginations run wild.
Dorothy, you have invested a lifetime making certain this story is told. You worked at Bethesda Lutheran and First Lutheran and for Methodist Metro Ministries. Your life’s work has been to ensure that people down on their luck know that one last story that God will never forget them.
Pastor Lindquist (First Lutheran’s pastor from 1975-1983 and now the Canon for Biblical Studies at Saint Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral) just read stories that have been our refuge and hope in times like this.
Isaiah’s story tells of that day when a beautiful flowered garland will be placed on our shoulders, when we will be anointed with the perfume of gladness and dance the jitterbug in heaven forever. All this instead of crying and mourning!
Is there any vision more familiar than the 23rd Psalm? We pray Psalm 23 whenever we are down on our luck, whenever we toss and turn in the middle of the night, when we come here today. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil; for thou are with me.”
Then that astonishing story Jesus told the night before he died. It was his night of tears, the final time he gathered with his friends before he headed off to Calvary. It was a night of uncertainty like that Thanksgiving evening when “Mac” died. Oh, how we need one more story.
If this place, First Lutheran, is anything, it is the place that gets the honor of telling Jesus’ story today. It is the only story that must be told. It is the only reason this church has been here for122 years. “Do not be troubled. I go and prepare a place for you, and I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.” This story proclaims that though Jesus dies, death will be conquered by God and Jesus will return to bring us all to his Father’s house forever. Once we have heard this story, like little children, we can fall asleep in peace.
As you tell stories of your husband and father and friend, let the final story you tell be a confident story that goes something like this: “Receive him, O God, into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.”
May the final story we tell today be told on God’s behalf. And may it say “that because Christ has been raised from the dead, so shall Mac rise into God’s glory forever and ever and ever.”
My dear friends, stories don’t get any better. And yes, Dorothy, this is exactly what we should preach today.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 5, 2010
The Second Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 11: 1-10; Matthew 3: 1-12
"People Get Ready, There's a Train A Comin'"
John yelled out, “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near!”
Most of us can’t stand the word “repent.” We like it even less when preachers use it. The word feels so gloomy, so fuddy-duddy, so judgmental, so yesterday.
For those of you who hate the word “repent,” I am sorry to inform you that the church around the world is using it again today.
If you detest the word “repent,” I urge you to listen carefully to how John the Baptist uses it: “The kingdom of God is at hand: repent and believe the good news!”
“Good news,” he says. We usually don’t think of “repentance” as bearing good news. Perhaps the problem is that we don’t understand what it means.
For too long, we in the church have treated things like repentance as Cod Liver Oil: anything that tastes so bad must be very good for us.
The Mennonite theologian John Howard Yoder offers a better way to understand the word “repent”: “To repent is not to feel bad but to think differently.”
When “repent” is used in the Bible, its intent is not to make us feel bad or even guilty; rather, it is meant to turn us around, to make us think differently, to point us in God’s direction so that we can celebrate God’s presence in our lives
Singer/songwriter Curtis Mayfield came out with the hit Super Fly in 1972. He wrote another song that offers a superb definition of repentance:
People get ready for the train to Jordan
Picking up passengers from coast to coast.
Faith is the key, open the doors and board them
There's room for all among the loved the most.
The train is coming! If we are lolly-gagging around and don’t show an iota’s sense of urgency, we are likely to miss the train. Repentance is getting a move on it so we get to the station on time.
In our family, when we need to get to the station on time, the summons is as subtle as a jackhammer. Calm words of restraint simply will not do. The clarion call sounds like this, “Wilk, come quick…now…fast!” These words are shocking: is there a fire, has our cat Doesty escaped soon to become coyote chowder, has Dagmar’s garden mysteriously lost one plant, doth the toilet runneth over? I shout back, “What is it, Dagmar? What do you want? Calm down!” Dagmar remains ever urgent, “Just come! Quick! You are going to miss it!” No subtly, no nuance: now is the time to come running. When I get there, there it is through our picture window: a gorgeous full orange harvest moon rising over the eastern mountains. Thank God, Dagmar’s call was insistent.
John the Baptist knew what was at stake. He had not a second to worry about haberdashery habits or culinary delights. The Bible says, “Now John wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey.” “There’s a train a comin’,” John seemed to cry. “Now is the time to get on board.”
I fear we church people often miss the sense of urgency. We forget John’s words, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” We forget that the time is now. Jesus is nearing the station, here at 3rd and Ash, in our homes, and at our jobs.
We can be so afraid that our words are too forceful when we invite someone to meet Jesus at the station that we end up saying little or nothing at all. In our fear of offending, we easily err by not making our invitation bear the urgency that the kingdom is coming near on Sunday morning in the gifts of Word and Sacrament. “Come quick, now! You’re going to miss it!” can almost be lost entirely. Perhaps the ancient Greek philosopher Diogenes was on to something when he said, “He who never offended anyone, never did anyone any good.”
People often ask me how we are going to make our church grow. The experts tell us that the number one way, by far, is for you to invite someone to worship. When did you last do that? We can discuss ad infinitum ways for the church to grow, and yet the number one way, we are told, is for you and me to invite someone to church.
I have attended far too many meetings in my 33 ½ years of ministry that have either forgotten altogether or never heard that “the kingdom of heaven has come near.” You have been to those meetings. We have acted as if the kingdom is further away than distant planet Neptune. We have lolly-gagged to our heart’s content, discussing how the altar flowers should be arranged, what the choir robes should look like, whether the women’s restroom should be green or pink. All the while John the Baptist is screaming to get our attention, “Come quick! The kingdom of heaven has come near!”
John Lennon of Beatles fame reminds me of John the Baptist. Can you believe he was murdered thirty years ago this week, December 8, 1980? Lennon wrote a prophetic tour de force:
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace.
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one.
You may quibble with Lennon’s vision saying it’s naïve and silly but dreamers are used to that; that’s what distinguishes them from naysayers. Dreamers act on fanciful visions as others create task forces; dreamers risk as others ponder liability; dreamers move forward boldly as others take votes and wait until everyone is on board.
These days call for vigorous dreamers. They call for people who will try just about anything to get people to get to the train on time. The kingdom’s coming. The only question is whether we and our friends will be there when Jesus arrives.
My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we are called to run to the train station. That is repentance and it isn’t a bad word. It means, “Come quick, now, fast!” We may make a few mistakes along the way, our judgment may even be in error, but God is calling us, “Come now, come quickly, the train is arriving.” So let us pray fervently for God to stir us up to prepare the way for Jesus. “Let’s sound the trumpet! Tell the message: Christ, the savior King, is come!”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 28, 2010
First Sunday in Advent
Matthew 24: 36-44
"The Way of the Unanswered Question"
Once in a while, it is a good to run into some word of Jesus that bewilders us to the very core. It is good every so often not to have ready made answers to life’s toughest questions.
When we hear Jesus say something that totally bewilders us, we have a tendency to tame it like a cute little pussy cat. We shrink Jesus’ words to conform to our narrow insights and harebrained opinions and, in the process, sacrifice the power and glory of God in our lives.
Today’s Bible reading contains some of Jesus’ most bewildering words. Jesus talks about the end of time and how it will come. These words make no sense to most of us. What, for instance, does Jesus mean when he says, “Two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left behind” or “Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left behind?” While we are clueless what these words mean, most of us, at one time or another, have ventured some ludicrous thought about how and when the end will come. Few of us have the guts to say, “I don’t have a clue what Jesus is talking about.” Somewhere along the way we were taught that faithful people should offer answers to life’s tough questions.
After all, we expect answers from experts. If we suffer from a devastating illness, we want our doctor to cure us--she is the expert! We don’t want our doctor to say, “I have no clue what is going to happen to you. There is nothing more I can do.” There is no expertise in that.
We expect Jesus to have answers, too. We have seen it said on many bumper stickers, “Jesus is the answer.” If those bumper stickers are true, then we pray and pray and pray to Jesus. Why do young people get killed in war, why do two year olds get leukemia, why am I plagued with mental illness--Jesus, give me an answer now, I want to know and I know you know!
As you just listened to this morning’s gospel reading, you might have been thrown for a loop as was I when I read Jesus’ words while preparing for this sermon. Listen again: “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.”
Did we hear Jesus correctly? Did he really say that no one knows, not even the Son?
What is Jesus trying to tell us when he says, “No one knows, not even the Son.” Might he be urging us to be content to live in the midst of question marks, trusting that God will finally provide the answers?
Jesus’ honesty about not having all the answers seems to me, at least, a call for us to be more modest when it comes to offering preposterous answers to life’s thorniest questions. Maybe Jesus is telling us, “If I don’t have an answer, you certainly don’t have to have one either. Hush, my dear friends, hush.”
William Sloane Coffin once said, “The worst thing we can do with a dilemma is to resolve it prematurely because we haven’t the courage to live with uncertainty.”
Our modern age conditions us to leave no question unanswered. We fancy ourselves as being so very smart. Strange though, the last century, the one with the most brilliant answers and the most ingenious discoveries, was also the most violent in all of human history. One wonders if we should have been more content to live with question marks and less eager to offer solutions that ended up soaked in blood. Maybe we should have had the courage to live with the questions longer and forgotten, at least for a while, about the exclamation points of certainty.
The truth is that none of us is rarely as smart as we think. If you need proof of this, listen to talk radio. The commentators offer answers to the controversial issues of the day, answers to affordable health care, terrorism, abortion, and violent crime. Over and over again they play fast and lose with the facts; over and over again their conclusions are dead wrong. This doesn’t bridle their arrogance one bit. Their foolish opinions, racist rhetoric, and vicious lies continue to stir up the masses. Reckless answers seem preferable to letting some questions go unanswered—if nothing else, such rhetoric sells advertising time. Oh how our suffering world yearns for at least a few questions left unanswered.
Jesus calls us to the way of unanswered questions. He calls us to say “I don’t know” when we don’t know. I witnessed the way of the unanswered question at a pastors’ conference I recently attended. The presenter spoke about the numerical decline of every major church body in America. Whether Roman Catholic or California megachurch, Southern Baptist or Episcopalian, Methodist or Mormon, Evangelical Lutheran Church in America or Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, all are declining. He said, “No one has an answer to why every church body has been declining since the year 2000.” I expected him to provide an answer to the church’s decline--he was, after all, the expert. If we had an adult forum following this service and began with the question, “Why do you think churches are declining?” my hunch is that everyone would have an answer and we probably would have a tough time stopping the conversation. The presenter at that conference left me a gift by saying, “No one knows,” a gift, I say, because his honesty was refreshing and, if I might say so, felt very holy. The presenter directed us beyond his neat little opinions to God from whence comes all our strength and hope; he reminded me of Jesus’ words today, “Only the Father knows.”
Today is the First Sunday in Advent, the beginning of a new church year. Like children on the first day of school, we are filled with anticipation. We, the people of God, come with clean slates, sharp pencils, and clean notebooks.
The invitation Jesus extends to us at the beginning of this new church year is an invitation to modesty, modesty in our conversations with one another, modesty as we do ministry in our community, modesty as we wait hand-in-hand for heavenly answers in the face of heartache, rejection, and death. As we accept Jesus’ invitation to modesty, we pray, “O Come, O Come, Emanuel.” We pray for God to turn us from our worn out opinions and angry certainties and to point us toward God. When we wait for God to answer our deepest Advent question, “When are you coming?” our life together is filled with hope.
My hunch is that if we dare to be a community that does not have all the answers but rather waits patiently for God to enter into our midst, then others will say of this place, “Surely God is present there.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 21, 2010
Christ the King
Luke 23: 33-43
"Christ the King, the Clown of Sorrows"
As you stare at this morning’s bulletin cover, Albrecht Durer’s painting, Christ As the Man of Sorrows, don’t you wonder what you would have done if you had been there the day Jesus was nailed to the cross. I know what I wish I would have done; I imagine you do too. I wish I would have stood in the way of the government’s well-oiled killing machine, committing some valiant act of civil disobedience to bring Jesus down from the cross. At the very least, I wish I would have wept.
But who really knows? Courage, commitment, and compassion are not always our partners when injustice, cruelty, and scarcity cry out for us to act. Sometimes, we just stand there watching, perhaps hoping someone else will do something.
Martin Niemöller was a German Lutheran pastor during Hitler’s rise to power. Just after the conclusion of World War II, he spoke of the temptation to stand idly by doing nothing as evil did its dirty work:
That’s apparently what most of those basically good people did the afternoon Jesus died: they simply stood by watching.
There were those, of course, who did more than watch. Some cast lots to divide Jesus’ clothes.
The leaders, the powerful ones, hissed and booed: “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” They had had enough of the raucous parades, the stinking donkey manure in the streets, the rotting palms left behind, the discarded coats clogging the gutters. They grew exhausted from trying to control the filthy riff-raff who followed this “King of the Jews,” screaming, “Hosanna.”
And there were the soldiers. The heat of battle can cause decent people to do some pretty appalling things. The soldiers slapped their knees in glee as they offered thirsty, dying Jesus a sip of sour wine. Jesus claimed to be king and they had taken an oath of allegiance to stand up for the true king, Emperor Caesar. They were simply doing their duty.
Even one of the criminals hanging at Jesus’ side got into the act, deriding him: “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”
And, yes, there was that other thief hanging beside Jesus who somehow caught sight of his savior by twisting his head ever so slightly. He pleaded with Jesus for just one more chance, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
What do you think you would have done?
After 2,000 years, it is still all a bit embarrassing. The ministry we do here at First Lutheran is done in the name of this king who died such a shameful death. During these days of stewardship, each of us is asked to make a financial commitment so that King Jesus might be known in this place.
Making a pledge isn’t exactly a call to stand up against powerful authorities or to spill our blood like the martyrs did for Christ’s sake, but it is a call nonetheless, a call to do something so that Jesus’ love might be seen and heard here.
It is not always easy. This king, this man of sorrows, sometimes makes us wonder if it is at all worth it. He is unlike any other king or queen or ruler this world knows. He seems so weak, so pathetic. He reaches out to his enemies and embraces them even when they reject him or stand idly by watching. We do expect more bang for our buck. And, in truth, there are others with far more money than I; what do my fifty cents or dollar matter in the grand scheme of things; and, really, I have never pledged anyway—is it necessary?
The hymn we will sing following the sermon (words by Brian Wren) might capture some our feelings about this king:
A scarecrow lifted high, a clown of sorrows. If we are going to offer our hard earned money to make a serious commitment, we do expect a tad more. Sometimes Christ’s ministry in the world, in this church here at First Lutheran, feels like a clown of sorrows. We are such a little congregation in the grand scheme of things. How can what we—I?—make a difference?
The earliest followers of Jesus must have wondered that too. Was it worth it? After all, those in power knew that Emperor Caesar was king. And yet, in the face of the world’s power and insistence that Caesar was king, those vulnerable Christians insisted, “appearances to the contrary, the one who is really in charge of the course of this world is not the fantastically bedecked and exalted emperor, surrounded by all the symbols and weapons of power that the world can devise, but one whose sovereignty expresses itself in readiness to serve, to the point of laying down his life for his friends.” (Douglas John Hall, Professing the Faith: Christian Theology in a North American Context, pg. 438, 439).
There are sadly those times when we do not rise to the occasion. Our cowardice sickens us, our lack of commitment embarrasses us, and, of course, we hope no one will notice, and yet, we seem incapable of doing anything other than sitting by and watching.
In spite of it all, this peculiar king loves us. Maybe this is why he is the man of sorrows. Who else would give his life for us? No matter how noble or scrawny our commitment, whether we shout crucify him or stand up for Jesus, for some reason beyond our comprehension, he loves us all just the same.
Look at Albrecht Durer’s painting one more time. This time, do not ask what you would have done for Jesus the Man of Sorrows, but rather stand in awe at what he has done for you…And, that of course, is why we call him Christ the King.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 14, 2010
Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost
Isaiah 65: 17-25; Psalm 98; Luke 21: 5-19
"Those Contrarian Christians"
The first reading we heard this morning was from the book of Isaiah. It is a peculiar reading for these days of November when leaves are falling and darkness comes too early. This reading is also used on the springiest of all days, Easter morning.
It seems like a more somber reading should have been chosen for today. And yet, we haven’t done too well matching lessons with somber November. Even Psalm 98, which we just sang, has a spring in its step and feels out of place on these dark days as the shadows lengthen—“O sing to the Lord a new song, for he has done marvelous things.”
Some Christians choose chillier biblical passages than the ones we have opted for. They resort to scare tactics as the days grow darker, nations are at war, and natural disasters seem so prevalent. Pastors have sold millions of books scaring the pants off people, predicting that the final days are just around the corner. They warn that some of the lucky few will gloriously be swept into heaven while the other poor slobs will end up on the scrap heap of hell or left behind here on earth forever.
You might be surprised to know that Jesus frowns on such scare tactics. He says, “Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them.” He goes on: “When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately.”
Jesus doesn’t try to scare the pants off of people in the midst of melancholy; rather he offers words of comfort: “Not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.”
In my mind, Christians are at their best when declaring that “not a hair of your head will perish.” As others thirst for war, we long for peace. When others become stingier, we become more generous. When others are more hateful, we become more loving.
Warren Buffet, in addition to being one of the world’s wealthiest people, is also one of its most successful investors. He is called a contrarian investor. That means, if I understand it correctly, that when most investors think they have found tremendous deals in the rising stock market and are pouring in their fortunes to buy inflated stocks, Buffet is pulling his money out as fast as he can. And, when things look dreariest to investors and everyone is fleeing the stock market like rats from a sinking ship, Buffet is sinking in billions. It is called contrarian investing, doing what others are afraid to do.
Christians are called to a similar mindset. We are called to be contrarian Christians. When everyone else is crying that the world is going to hell in a hand basket, we are called to be imaginative and to quote Jesus even more, “Not a hair of your head will perish.” Conversely, when others fear losing their power and wealth, Christians, at the very same time, launch a full scale onslaught to comfort the fearful.
The prophet Isaiah was a contrarian prophet. When the people of his land had tasted humiliation and defeat from foreign powers for years and years, Isaiah could easily have jumped on the cranky bandwagon. He could have looked at the way things were and said, things are a mess. But he didn’t pile on. Isaiah was a contrarian. His message was one of the most uplifting in the entire Bible; it has offered solace to millions throughout the years. Isaiah talked of new heavens and a new earth when others wondered whether tomorrow would even come; he called people to rejoice and be glad when most were depressed beyond belief; he spoke of a day when there would be no more weeping, when stores were running out of Kleenex; he even envisioned a day when the gentle lamb and the vicious wolf would eat together when most everyone else was rattling their sabers and stock-piling weapons--talk about kooky.
Yes, most people thought Isaiah was nuts! Couldn’t he see what was happening? Didn’t he have an ounce of common sense? And yet, Isaiah dared imagine a new day that only God could achieve; he dared proclaim it to anyone who would listen. He was one of the contrarian ones. We are all called to be just like Isaiah, to trust that God can and will do a new thing and to shout it to from this city’s rooftops.
Our congregation, First Lutheran, is in the midst of our annual stewardship season. We are inviting one another to make a generous commitment to the ministry of this congregation for the upcoming year. This invitation is contrarian as Christian stewardship always is. It is an invitation that bids us share the gifts God has given us for the sake of Christ’s ministry in the world. Not only do we commit to sharing what is ours for Christ’s sake but we do it with joy. As the psalmist says, we sing a new song unto the Lord.
I am delighted to announce that thirty-five people have already made advanced pledges totaling nearly $116,000. This is amazing. These pledges are in advance of next Sunday’s offering of pledges which I hope each one of you will do.
I would like to share one other note of your contrarian Christian spirit. As I think you know, we had anticipated a deficit this year due to the economy. We figured and announced that at this point in the year we would likely be $31,000 in the hole. We even held a special congregational meeting in July to discuss our impending deficit. Now do you want to hear a new song? Not only do we not have a deficit of $31,000, more astonishingly, we actually have received $1,000 more than we have spent so far this year. Miraculous! My dear friends in Christ, yours is a contrarian spirit of generosity indeed.
We are contrarians because we have been touched by an astonishing message. It is a message of brilliant light in the darkest of days. It is a message of hope when so many are throwing in the towel to despair. It is the message that a small community of people, trusting in the Lord, can make a huge difference, striving to be the heart of Christ in the heart of the city.
Joyce Thompson (whom we remember at this morning’s 11 a.m. service) did a new thing throughout her life. She saw a lot as a youngster that could have made her bitter for a lifetime. When she was a little girl of seven, she hid behind a wash basin in their farmhouse near Brawley, California, as her father hauled away by the FBI and sheriff to a Japanese-American relocation camp. She recalled her mother walking after them a few steps and calling, “Papa, be a good American!” For some reason, Joyce was not bitter.
There was something about Joyce’s spirit that was contrarian. Maybe it was born on that dusty day as hope seemed to fade. Joyce always seemed the contrarian one, always able to discover joy, always with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, always that wonderful laugh. I would think if she were here this morning, she could help us find hope, help us trust that God will prevail like she did as a seven year old in Brawley so long ago.
At the end of this service, we will process to the chapel where we will commit Joyce Thompson’s ashes to their final resting place in our columbarium. The final words we will say over Joyce’s ashes are, “The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you, the Lord look upon you with favor and keep you peace.” These are contrarian words for sure. We will boldly announce that death will not be the final word for Joyce Thompson but rather God’s blessing. Even as Joyce’s beloved Rex sheds tears of loneliness and we do too, we will assure one another that there will come a day when death will be no more. In spite of what is seen, we will be contrarian and say, “Not a hair of Joyce’s head will perish.” We dare imagine, like Isaiah, that what God has in store for Joyce Thompson is far greater than we can even articulate.
As we entrust her ashes to its little niche in our chapel, we will pray the beloved prayer of the night: “O Lord, support us all the day long of this troubled life, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then, in your mercy, grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
This is a contrarian prayer. We pray that God will watch over us even as the shadows lengthen and the evening comes. Is it any wonder that this prayer is prayed at Compline, the final service of the day for Christians? We pray it as we close our eyes, knowing that one day we will close our eyes the final time and yet we trust that whenever we close our eyes that final time, God will bring us to a new day beyond our imagining.
That is our ministry here at First Lutheran Church. We go to those who shudder from the cold winter of the soul and the cold winter of these city streets, urging them to sing a new song to the Lord. If they can’t sing a new song by themselves, we will sing it for them or with them. Yes, we will lift up one another, urging one another to sing a new song, not any song mind you, but the Lord’s song. We will sing because we trust that the Lord will prevail. After all, you see, we are contrarians. How wonderful it is to announce to one another that God will watch over us, those we love, and this city, and not a hair of our heads will perish.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 7, 2010
All Saints' Sunday
Luke 6: 17-31
"The Wal-Mart Saints"
The gospel according to Luke, the sixth chapter…
Coming down off the mountain with them, he stood on a plain surrounded by disciples, and was soon joined by a huge congregation from all over Judea and Jerusalem, even from the seaside towns of Tyre and Sidon. They had come both to hear him and to be cured of their ailments. Those disturbed by evil spirits were healed. Everyone was trying to touch him—so much energy surging from him, so many people healed! Then he spoke:
"Count yourself blessed every time someone cuts you down or throws you out, every time someone smears or blackens your name to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and that that person is uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—skip like a lamb, if you like!—for even though they don't like it, I do . . . and all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company; my preachers and witnesses have always been treated like this.
"There's trouble ahead when you live only for the approval of others, saying what flatters them, doing what indulges them. Popularity contests are not truth contests—look how many scoundrel preachers were approved by your ancestors! Your task is to be true, not popular.
"To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, gift wrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.
"Here is a simple rule of thumb for behavior: Ask yourself what you want people to do for you; then grab the initiative and do it for them!” (from Eugene Peterson’s The Message)
You just heard Jesus’ beatitudes read from Eugene Peterson’s The Message translation of the Bible. The language is down to earth and certainly not highfalutin; it makes us smile. Jesus’ sermon is a street talking sermon. It is for people down on their luck, searching for a break and longing for a few words they can understand and that will change their lives.
How many of you call this text the Sermon on the Mount? Surprisingly, Jesus doesn’t speak what you just heard from a mountain. Now, don’t feel biblically ignorant: Jesus did speak his beatitudes from the mountain but that’s in Matthew’s gospel not in today’s gospel from Luke.
Whenever “mountain” appears in the Bible, prepare for something spectacular, often an intimate conversation between God and somebody. But, as I said, Jesus’ sermon today doesn’t come from a mountain; it occurs way down at ground level where ordinary folks congregate. The action is with the common people, the downtrodden, people like you and me, in a place just like this.
When Jesus starts identifying the blessed ones, we fall off our chairs. How can you be blessed if you are flat broke, crying buckets of tears, and having your name smeared in the mud? These are not qualities we associate with saints.
Say the word “saint” and qualities like confidence, boldness, compassion, piety, and eloquence come to mind. Whom do you immediately think of when you think of saints? I imagine people like Mother Theresa, Saint Paul, Saint Mary, Martin Luther King, and the other Martin Luther. Wonderful people, for sure, and yet we have never rubbed shoulders with a single one of them.
As you just listened to Jesus’ street-talking beatitudes, you might have thought, “Wait just a cotton-picking minute. I know these people and I never thought of them as saints.”
Today, we merge two religious festivals into one, All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. These days traditionally were separate festivals on the church calendar, All Saints’ on November 1 and All Souls’ on November 2. The saints historically lifted up on All Saints’ Day were an exclusive guild of Christian superstars, ones who appear in stained glass windows, who hold up bird baths, and whose plastic statues stand attention on Cadillac dashboards. These saints have always convinced us that we and most of the folks we have known are not saints.
And then there are the All Souls’ Day saints. They are the ones we know. They are the bowling alley variety Christians, the Wal-Mart saints if you will, the people we know like the back of our hands. They are the ones whose pictures we have lovingly placed at the altar this morning. We still cry when we look at their pictures. They are the saints who have held our hands and we theirs. They scurried to our bedrooms when we screamed in the night, courageously chasing away the dust-ball ghosts from under our beds; then, maybe the very next night, they came home stumbling drunk and turned our idyllic little worlds upside down. They are the ones who called us princess and then forgot our birthdays. They taught us to throw a baseball and yet told us, too, that we would never amount to a hill of beans. They did their best to love us, sometimes successfully, sometimes not so well. You know these saints, don’t you?
As we look at their pictures and remember them, there are so many stories. Sainthood mysteriously permeates these stories through and through.
Now here’s the deal: saints are not holier than anyone else. Sometimes, they are far less holy. Sainthood—at least in the Lutheran view of things—is conferred upon us not because we have accomplished three unbelievable and certifiable miracles but because we have been baptized at the river and God has said to us, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” That’s when we all became saints.
You know as well as I that the church’s detractors ridicule us for being nothing more than a bunch of sinners. Our detractors are right, of course they are, but only partially so. The part they probably don’t know is that, in addition to being a bunch of sinners, we are also a rag-tag bunch of saints, impossible as that may seem to them and as unlikely as at might seem to us.
Oh yes, we are insufferable quarrelers and cowardly lions, self-righteous prigs and decadent misfits and yet, remarkably, we are often generous to a fault and willing to do just about anything for anyone. Here, this morning, we are given godly eyes to discover this saintliness in those we know and love, people whom we miss more than we ever thought possible, people who, from time-to-time, made us angrier than hornets. All saints and, by the way, all of us.
This morning’s gathering is called “the communion of saints.” The “communion of saints” is you and I, those whose names we will chant in a bit, those we have loved and who have loved us, and many we have never known. This gathering is made holy not by what we have so heroically accomplished in our lives—we know better than that. This gathering is made holy because God invites us here and calls us all saints.
We who gather here this morning are invited to look at these pictures and to discover saintliness in ordinary people that only God can confer. That, my dear friends, is why Jesus came down from the mountain, so he could look at us face-to-face and call us and those we love “saints.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 31, 2010
Reformation Day
Jeremiah 31: 31-34; John 8: 31-36
"A Tattooist Worthy of Tattooery"
When I was eleven years old, I played third base for the Pike Cubs. My coach, Joe Wheeler, had an entire gallery of intriguing tattoos. The one that enthralled me most was the one of the scantily clad woman on the inside of his forearm. I’m sure the tattoo seemed a brilliant idea the night he got it. One wonders, though, what he thought of it on his wedding day, when he had children, and as little leaguers gawked at it.
Since those little league days, I have wondered whether I should get a tattoo. One of my Lutheran pastor colleagues just got a colorful one of the ELCA logo. And, of course, there are those stunning tattoos that cover the entire arm--sleeves, my sons tell me they are called—replete with scenes from the South American Rain Forest. Wouldn’t that look cool on your pastor as his alb crept slightly up his arms during Holy Communion?
But I do worry about getting a tattoo. I have more or less navigated past midlife crisis by now. What’s left of any muscle tone is pitiable; a colorful parrot might not look like much more than a blotch of runny colors. My biggest concern, though, is whether I would pick the right artist. What if my tattoo ended up off center or, worse yet, misspelled--“Lutheran” and “evangelical” can be tricky words. If I get a tattoo, I want it to stand the test of time.
I have found the prophet Jeremiah’s advice on indelible artistry most informative: “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.” Now there’s a tattoo worthy of tattooery--right on the heart, and forever!
I am afraid that when it comes to religion, our tattoos—not the ones on our arms and legs, but the ones on our hearts—don’t stand the test of time well. So often our beliefs fade or change or cause us embarrassment; rarely, are our beliefs on target or do they meet the test of time.
493 years ago today, thirty-four year old Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the Castle Church door in Wittenberg, Germany. Luther knew that the church would be jammed with worshippers the next day, All Saints’ Day, so he placed his debating points where all would see them. Luther thought the church’s vision had gone haywire. People were buying indulgences with hopes of purchasing their way into heaven. Luther was bent on reforming the church he loved so that its message would once again proclaim loud and clear that Jesus Christ died for our sins free of charge. Nothing else would do.
We Lutherans weep in our beer with glee over Luther‘s bravado. Here was a fellow who risked his life for Christ’s truth. Those in charge at the time viewed Luther’s complaints as the rants of a sniveling little twit. The Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire Charles V asked Luther to defend his case and Luther proclaimed: “It is neither safe nor honest to act against conscience. Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me.”
Now, for a moment, let’s get back to tattoos. We Lutherans would probably get a tattoo of Martin Luther like the one on our bulletin cover today where he is disguised as Junker Jorg so that he could spare his neck as his opponents tried to kill him.
Or, we might get a tattoo that proclaims, “Here I Stand,” especially if we trust our tattoo artist to spell it correctly. And yet, that really isn’t the message we are called to proclaim. We are called to proclaim Jesus Christ not Martin Luther.
Herein is the Reformation Day problem. We Lutherans have traditionally loved this day. We have painted our churches red with banners, flowers, and vestments. We have beaten our breasts, gleefully sung Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress” and even shed a few tears in the process. When I was growing up, the Lutherans of our city gathered every year to celebrate Reformation Day. Inevitably the preacher for the day was some revered Lutheran pastor from far off with booming voice and impressive white mane. To the congregation’s delight, the preacher almost always castigated our Roman Catholic neighbors as destined for hell; we Lutherans, by claiming the name “Lutheran” alone, simply assumed we were going to receive honorary seats in heaven just because we followed Martin Luther.
It would all be funny if it weren’t so darn sad. Think of the bloody wars that have been waged and the lives lost over who is right, Catholic or Protestant. Think of the families--perhaps yours included--ripped apart when the lovely Lutheran daughter, Hannah Jacobsen, announced her engagement to the handsome Catholic quarterback, Johnny O’Reilly, from St. Bartholomew’s. Families never worshipped together again; some never spoke to each other again. Sad!
We used to say that we celebrated Reformation Day. I hope such rhetoric has been permanently discarded on the scrap heap of deceitful phrases. How can we celebrate the division of Christ’s body? How can we take pride in Christ’s body rent asunder as if we are nailing him to the cross once again by our bloody divisions? At best, we should observe the Reformation. We might even consider repenting on this day. If anything, the Reformation demonstrates what a short distance we have come and what a far way we have to go, Lutheran and Catholic, in discovering the heart of Jesus Christ and his love for all people.
In our own family of Lutheranism here in the United States, we should grieve our own current division and confusion. The body of Christ is divided this time over human sexuality. Once again we are demonstrating our tragic inability to live together as brothers and sisters in Christ. Yet again, we want the wrong message tattooed on us for all the world to see. Rather than letting the world see that Christ’s loves us all, we have lifted up our own shoddy thoughts and opinions. Rather than lifting up sola scriptura, sola gratia, or sola fides, we have connived to lift up sola sexualia as the message on which the church rises or falls! We don’t seem close to replicating that tattoo of which Jeremiah spoke that would imprint God’s name on our hearts forever. In these days, we must pray that our divisions cease and that Christ will imprint his name on our hearts forever.
There is only one name that should be tattooed on our hearts; that is the name of Christ our Lord--not Lutheran, not Protestant, not liberal, not conservative, not even American. There is only one artist who can be trusted to do this correctly and that, of course, is God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This artist’s work will never fade. God’s glory will provide striking and vivid color for our lives forever. So, when seeking a tattoo for eternity, ask God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, to do your art work. Ask God to imprint his love on your heart forever. That tattoo will be just right and beautiful to boot.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 24, 2010
The Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 18: 9-14
"Who Is Best?"
As you listened to this morning’s Gospel reading, who did you like more, the Pharisee or the tax-collector? Be honest. I have a hunch that most of us gravitated toward the tax-collector, the guy sitting as far back in the sanctuary as possible without falling out the door. There is something about his cry, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” that feels so real. And, of course, we know we should like him best—we have been taught to do just that.
We know better than to side with the Pharisee. He is the smug one, the holier than thou bore. And yet, if truth be told, most churches would be dead ducks without him. He fasts twice a week, gives a tenth of his income to the church, and does anything the pastor asks him.
While I want to like the tax collector more than the Pharisee, I can guarantee which I would choose to serve on First Lutheran’s Church Council every, single time. I can put up with a little pious arrogance in exchange for generous weekly giving, hard work, and faithful worship attendance.
Whom do your prefer, the Pharisee or the tax-collector?
Now that you have chosen, let me simply say that this parable has nothing to do with who is the best. Oh, of course, we are programmed to decide who is best. We make such judgments almost daily. We judge ourselves, too, whether we are faithful enough, generous enough, moral enough. In our rush to decide who is best, we miss the entire point of this parable: God loves us all.
If you have ever watched good parents, you know they have the marvelous ability to love all their children equally, no matter how rambunctious, how conniving, how naughty. Good parents rarely get caught in the fatal trap of declaring which of their children is their favorite.
We spend a lot of time worrying about who is the favorite child. Am I the favorite? Are you? Is she? We do the same thing in the church. I bet each of us has a dream as to what kind of members we need to make this the best community it can be.
The great German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was hung at Hitler’s gallows only days before World War II ended, wrote a lovely little book, Life Together. In this book, Bonhoeffer reflects on how we might best live together as brothers and sisters in Christ. One thing Bonhoeffer warns against is creating dreams for what our community should be like. Listen to Bonhoeffer:
“Innumerable times a whole Christian community has broken down because it had sprung from a wish dream. The serious Christian, set down for the first time in a Christian community, is likely to bring with him a very definite idea of what Christian life together should be and to try to realize it. But God’s grace speedily shatters such dreams…
“A community which cannot bear and cannot survive such a crisis, which insists upon keeping its illusion when it should be shattered, permanently loses in that moment the promise of Christian community. Sooner or later it will collapse. Every human wish dream that is injected into the Christian community is a hindrance to genuine community and must be banished if genuine community is to survive…
“The [person] who fashions a visionary ideal of community demands that it be realized by God, by others, and by himself…When things do not go his way, he calls the effort a failure. When his ideal picture is destroyed, he sees the community going to smash. So he becomes, first an accuser of his brethren, then an accuser of God, and finally the despairing accuser of himself.”
Bonhoeffer urges us to be satisfied with our communities as they are, to live together as odd collections of Pharisees and tax-collectors, all embraced by God’s love. He urges us to surrender our scant visions of what our communities should be like and, instead, to frolic together amidst God’s grace just as we now are.
And yet, we all have our dreams of what our community should be. Some insist that everyone make a pledge for 2011 and become tithers to boot—I like that vision; others wish that every person here were committed to social justice; some urge that we let people come as they are and make no demands on anyone; others long for a place where all the members read their Bibles daily and pray unceasingly. Dreams for the community, all. What is your dream for First Lutheran Church?
It’s hard not to long for the perfect community. We all do it. The current confusion in our own Evangelical Lutheran Church in America as some congregations leave our denomination in search of pure truth is in no small part caused by a longing for communities where everyone will think, act, pray, and believe alike. Such utopian dreams are repeated over and over again in history and such dreams consistently are relegated to the scrap heap of Christian history and to tiny footnotes in church history tomes.
There is something quite wonderful about a community that has the poise and courage and gracefulness to let the good and bad, the saint and sinner, live together in God’s lap of love.
In our Quote of the Day, Sara Miles paints this picture of her Christian community, Saint Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Francisco (from her book Jesus Freak): “But Jesus is right here with me and the crazy guy—the lowly and unprepared, as the prophets foretold. Among the weak, faithless, and doubting, as his disciples proved, then and now. He doesn’t look for the most religious, the most doctrinally correct, or, for that matter, the smartest of his beloved people to build his kingdom, but hands over authority to anyone willing to suspend self-doubt and simply trust Jesus’ faith in us.”
Jesus is here with you and me, the Pharisee and tax collector. It is hard to believe, I know, but God loves us all and refuses to judge who is the best among us.
I am glad this parable is about a God who loves us all, whether we sit way in the back of the church or in the very front row. At least for me, as one who stumbles and bumbles through most of my days, this is very good news indeed. I hope it is good news for you too.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 17, 2010
The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 32: 22-31
"Jacob Jumped at the Jabbok"
We have been there with Jacob, almost safely home but not quite. All he had to do was cross the rascally Jabbok River. He had fled from home twenty years ago after his brother Esau had had enough of his shenanigans and wanted his neck. Now he was returning.
While he was away, he had gotten married, become a successful business owner, and had a wonderful family. Nevertheless, Jacob had a ton of skeletons in his closet.
He started accumulating skeletons the moment he came out of his mother’s womb. Trailing his twin brother Esau by a tad, he grabbed onto his heel for all he was worth and ended up appearing to be the first born. It was Jacob’s first of many scams. He wasn’t named Jacob for nothing: his name meant trickster, over-reacher, supplanter. He was a fraud.
As Jacob grew older, he continued the trickery. He forced his starving brother to give him his birthright for a bit of porridge just to keep him alive. Later on, Jacob tricked his blind and ailing father into blessing him instead of the rightful recipient, the older brother Esau. Not only did he con his father and brother, he conned his father-in-law, using every trick in the book to increase his flock at his father-in-law’s expense.
Jacob was all smoke and mirrors, a sneak, a cheat, a scoundrel.
As he stood on the bank of the Jabbok, his life finally caught up with him. Like a Wall Street billionaire whose financial schemes come home to roost, Jacob was on the brink of disaster. He received reports that his brother, Esau, was on his way to get him with 400 men at his side.
Jacob sent his family across the Jabbok to safety. For some strange reason, he decided to spend the night alone on the wrong side of the river.
And then it happened. Jacob was jumped at the Jabbok by a mysterious assailant. Was it his brother, the devil, God? Jacob could not make out his assailant but was scared out of his wits. “What is your name?” he cried, but there was no answer.
Maybe he could hatch a clever plan like he had always done when in a pinch.
As Jacob wrestled at the Jabbok, you wonder whether it was all a nightmare. It could have been. You have had those nights, tossing and turning, a million thoughts racing through your mind. Were you awake or sleeping? Either way, dread and uncertainty flooded your soul and you couldn’t wait for the morning light to come.
As you tossed and turned, you wrestled with God knows whom and with what unsettling thoughts.
You prayed like you have never prayed before. Your life had finally caught up with you—the cowardly failures, the sickening lies told, the cheap hurts inflicted on others. Like Jacob wrestling at the Jabbok, you begged God to make things easier, to bring you to a new morning safe and sound. You promised to turn your life around if only the morning would come.
As the night wore on for Jacob, suddenly God spoke to him, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.” Jacob’s new name, Israel, meant God rules, God preserves, God protects. Jacob had taken God seriously enough to wrestle the night away and for that he received a new name, a name bestowed by God. You, too, have spent nights like that, hour after hour, wrestling with God. And, in spite of the misery, you have ended up feeling closer to God.
And yet, Jacob’s new name came with a price--as new names do. In the struggle, his hip was knocked out of the socket and Jacob never quite walked the same again. This time, he was formed, not by success, but by an assault from God. He limped for the rest of his life but, far more importantly, he was now God’s man.
It is a most puzzling and confusing story unless, of course, you, too, have battled the night and come away limping. It has been said that God comes to us through our wounds. I am sure you have noticed. When you are wounded by God, suddenly the rough edges of your arrogance are rubbed smooth—it hurts but somehow you are better for it; the cockiness turns to mellowness—it us painful and yet people like you more. People notice your limp; they comment that you are more graceful, more understanding, more relaxed, less quick to judge, not so bitter; no longer are you the one with all the answers to every thorny question. They say to you, “You seem better these days. What happened?” You have an aching limp but you smile because you have wrestled with God and are better for the skirmish.
I have discovered that the people who have helped me most in life are not the ones with all the answers to life’s most excruciating questions nor are they the ones who are always victorious no matter what the challenge. They certainly are not the ones who judge everyone but themselves. Rather, the people who have touched me inevitably have had a limp in their step. Sometimes they have been broken, but they have taught me to look for God’s grace. Sometimes they have had no answers—not a word, but they have taught me patience and how to listen for God. They have radiated perseverance and nobility as if a gift from heaven.
We all limp. We have all been jumped at the Jabbok at time or two. We have awakened teary eyed and restless, hearts pounding. And yet through that night, like no other night, we have clung to God. And that has made all the difference.
Jesus limped too, remember? He limped as the cross weighed heavy upon his shoulders; he limped as he rose from the tomb on Easter morning, the wounds still fresh in his hands and feet and side. Jesus, the resurrected limping one, now gathers us limpers. He walks with us safely into this morning, across the Jabbok, into the Promised Land.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 3, 2010
The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Habakkuk 1: 1-4, 2: 1-4
"Habakkukians"
Can you spell Habakkuk? Do you know where to find Habakkuk in the Bible? Just in case you don’t, it is the fifth to last book in the Old Testament, about 1,300 pages in from Genesis, give or take a few. Habakkuk’s message in its entirety is approximately four pages long.
I bet you know more about Habakkuk than you realize even though this so-called minor prophet lived 2,600 years ago. His question is your question: “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?”
The Message Bible translates Habakkuk’s question this way: “How many times do I have to yell, ‘Help! Murder! Police!’ before you come to my rescue? Why do you force me to look at evil, stare trouble in the face day after day?”
Habakkuk is sick and tired of being sick and tired. He tells God exactly that. He doesn’t say things the way he thinks God wants to hear them. He says exactly what’s on his mind.
Things are bad in Habakkuk’s day. A foreign enemy is about to trounce the royal city, Jerusalem. This is not just any enemy: this is, using recent political jargon, “the evil empire” (actually Babylon is modern day Iraq). Add insult to injury, God says to Habakkuk: “Something’s about to take place and you’re going to find it hard to believe. I’m about to raise up Babylonians to punish you, Babylonians, fierce and ferocious.” Yes, Babylon the enemy.
This is not how we like to think of God. We like our God to be loving, gentle, touchy-feely. And, as Bob Dylan sings, we definitely like God on our side. If God raises a cruel finger that finger better be raised against our hated enemy and certainly never against us. How dare God use the despicable enemy to destroy God’s country? Habakkuk is steamed!
I love Habakkuk. I love his honesty. I love his guts when asking hard questions of God. Said in a modern way, Habakkuk is not passive-aggressive. Only straight talk will do for him.
We can learn a lot from Habakkuk in how to shape our own prayers. When burdens weigh heavy on our hearts, when we are desperately ill and no remedies are in sight, when our lives are in a tailspin and we feel helpless, Habakkuk urges us to go straight to God and tell God exactly what we want God to do about it. Habakkuk insists we not hedge our bets.
Now there is a rub in Habakkuk’s prayer formula: once he registers his fiercest complaint to God, his prayer is only half complete. There is still an enormous part of his prayer remaining; now he must shut up and let God answer. T. S. Eliot asks God, “Teach us to sit still” (Ash Wednesday). This is the most grueling part of prayer. We like to tell God what to do. We want God to work on our time table. God should answer our prayers today, tomorrow, or, at the very latest, next week, and, most certainly, in our lifetime.
Princeton preaching professor Cleophus LaRue writes: “One of life’s most difficult lessons is learning how to wait on God through a dry and difficult season…Some people wait out a difficult season in a spirit of rebellion. They go through life angry and disheartened, and they make their displeasure known to any and all who will listen. Some wait out a difficult season in a spirit of resignation. Life for them loses all purpose and perspective, so they become cynical about life, and they trudge forward with a dull and listless spirit. Of God’s guiding hand and tender mercies they sarcastically proclaim, ‘What will be, will be.’”
LaRue goes on: “There is, however, a third way to wait on God through our own dry and difficult seasons, and it is the wait of anticipation. Habakkuk suggests that this is the way the righteous wait...Their stand is one of tip-toe anticipation. They wait in the fervent hope of a brighter tomorrow morning when night with all its shadows will be passed away.”
Is the guarantee that God will act enough for you? Are you willing to wait like Habakkuk did? Saint Paul loved Habakkuk’s announcement, “The righteous live by faith.” Martin Luther made this phrase, “The righteous live by faith,” the cornerstone of what it means to be a Christian. In fact, we Lutherans might consider a change to our name and call ourselves Habakkukians. The righteous wait, trusting that God will answer our prayers better than even we know how to ask. This is the essence of faith.
It is so hard to wait, though. The German biblical scholar Gerhard Von Rad writes: “God’s sovereignty in history is hidden; it mocks the most clever and profound human criteria and confronts humanity with impenetrable riddles…Much in history contradicts God’s will, but God comes to establish God’s kingdom.”
Habakkuk’s prayer does not go unanswered. It is not the answer he expects, but, far more importantly, it is God’s answer. God says this to Habakkuk: “Look at the nations, and see! Be astonished! Be astounded! For a work is being done in your days that you would not believe if you were told.” Eventually Habakkuk’s people will return to Jerusalem but on God’s clock, not Habakkuk’s.
Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador knew about waiting for the Lord. He was assassinated in 1980 while at the altar celebrating mass. His murder came only one day after he called on his country’s Salvadoran soldiers to obey God's higher order and to stop carrying out the government's repression and violations of basic human rights. Listen to part of his poem of waiting (“A Future Not Our Own”):
This, my dear friends, is a prayer of waiting faith, a prayer trusting that God will act. May our prayer be a similar one. Let us ask God for exactly what we want and then let us sit still and wait patiently for God’s answer our prayers. As Habakkuk trusted that God will come to town, may we trust too.
And, oh by the way, Habakkuk is spelled H-A-B-A-K-K-U-K.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 26, 2010
Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 16: 19-31
"Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet"
Honestly friends, what chance do I have of speaking an ounce of truth regarding this morning parable of the rich man and poor Lazarus? Really? I have never worried about where my next meal will come from and I have never been hungry—even for a day; I always went to the schools I wanted to attend; I have always had a roof over my head and a warm shower in the morning. Pure and simple, I am a person of privilege. How can I be trusted to deal with this parable with any sense of integrity and honesty? Take for instance Father Abraham’s words in heaven, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here and you are in agony”--do you think I have the guts to say what Jesus really meant by all this or even have the intellectual honesty to cut close to the bone?
What I know about this parable is quite simple: Jesus described two men who couldn’t have been more different. The rich man dressed in splendor, in purple and fine linen; every meal he ate was a delicious one. The poor man, Lazarus, lay at the city gate; he was covered with oozing sores and was satisfied to eat a few crumbs that had fallen from the rich man’s table.
You probably noticed that the rich man was in control of his life. Even when he was in hell, he thought that poor Lazarus should serve him by dipping his fingers into the water and cooling his tongue. The rich man, like many a preacher, me included by the way, thought that, in the end, he would be the one who would determine the good guys and bad guys, the saved and unsaved, who would end up in heaven and who would end up in hell.
As I said, I don’t think I am a good person to preach on this morning’s parable of poor Lazarus and the rich man (who, by the way, is traditionally named Dives which is not his name but simply the Latin word for rich man).
Rather than offering you my hopelessly biased opinion, I invite you to join me this morning in looking and listening to those who are far more qualified than I to tell us what this parable is all about.
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Look at the picture on this morning’s bulletin cover for instance. This shopping cart was photographed on the First Lutheran parking lot, only steps from this sanctuary. It belongs to one of our patio parishioners, Joe, and contains all his earthly possessions. What might Joe have to say about rich and poor? Look at the sign on his cart: GOD HASN’T GIVEN UP ON US. If you knew him, you might find his brief sermon rather far-fetched. Joe has had a tough life and yet he is preaching to us that GOD HASN’T GIVEN UP ON US. Maybe Joe is our modern day Lazarus.
As you receive the body and blood of Christ at Holy Communion this morning, listen as Jared Jacobsen plays the beautiful In Paradisum from Faure’s Requiem. In Paradisum is sung at the end of the funeral mass. It is a most amazing vision. Listen to the words:
I love this vision of heaven. In this vision, we pray that when we arrive in heaven, the angels will lead us through the pearly gates and the martyrs will lead us into the heavenly city Jerusalem. And then, what is even more incredible and surprising is that there waiting for us in heaven is Lazarus and, surprise, surprise, Lazarus is poor no more. Who would ever have imagined it—Lazarus on the heavenly greeting committee?
When you leave here this morning, pay attention to our little corner of God’s universe here at 3rd and Ash; look at the large encampment of people directly across the street. Are they a nuisance or are they the very people who will be welcoming us along with the martyrs and the angels when we arrive in heaven? Right here at First Lutheran, we are offered an astonishing glimpse of heaven as our homeless brothers and sisters train us to be ready for Lazarus welcoming us when we arrive at the gates of heaven. What a gift!
We need not glamorize Lazarus or his homeless brothers and sisters. Whether we live indoors or outdoors on city streets, we all have our shortfalls, our infuriating behavior, our addictions, our selfishness, our insecurities. And yet there was something about Lazarus that was special to Jesus. In fact, Lazarus was the only person Jesus called by name in any of his parables. Lazarus! I doubt whether it was because Lazarus was so much sweeter or so much more loving than anyone else--Jesus doesn’t say that about Lazarus. I wonder if Jesus is pointing us all to the sheer grace that awaits us all if only we have eyes to see it and open hands to receive it.
Yes, sometimes people like me should listen rather than pontificate. We all do better listening to voices that are hauntingly beautiful and that point us beyond ourselves to the sheer grace of God. The story of Lazarus teaches us to do that.
A number of years ago, a homeless man living on the streets of a very rough area of London was heard singing a simple song. That song was caught on tape. Ever since I first heard this song, I have been haunted by it. I imagine that if Lazarus liked to sing, this is how he sounded. I catch myself singing this little song often. Listen:
Perhaps you will be humming this song throughout the day, maybe even singing “Jesus blood never failed me yet.”
All that we hear are the simple, haunting, beautiful words, “Jesus blood never failed me yet.” I have a hunch that in some mysterious way this is exactly what the parable of the rich man and Lazarus is all about. We can have homes and cars and educations and yet completely miss out on the glorious message that Jesus’ blood will never fail us yet.
Maybe it is people like Lazarus and Joe who owns the shopping cart on our bulletin who do our best preaching this morning. All our stuff can so easily get in the way. But when you have nothing, like Lazarus and Joe and the singer under the bridge, you might be in the best position to realize that Jesus blood will never fail you yet.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 19, 2010
Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 16: 1-13
"Razzle-Dazzle"
So tell me: is today’s parable the most maddening one you have heard Jesus tell? Were your Christian sensibilities insulted as you listened to Jesus extolling the rotten scoundrel’s behavior?
Admit it: we are disgusted by such behavior, especially these days. The Ponzi schemer Bernie Madoff, the reckless subprime loaners, the mean-spirited BP Oil executives--how can Jesus commend someone almost identical to these jokers?
Let me assure you: you are not the first to be offended. Way back in the fourth century, Saint Augustine said, “I can’t believe that this story came from the lips of our Lord.”
When the boss receives word of his employee’s outrageous behavior, we expect an old fashioned tongue lashing, a reprimand regarding hard work, or, at the very minimum, a call for satisfactory accounting practices. After all, this good for nothing scoundrel has been cooking the books, trying to placate the boss by covering up his own irresponsibility. He has been lowering what people owe on their bills just to get something in return and, as a result, costing the firm a small fortune. Jesus doesn’t prettify this guy. He even has the rascal admit, “I am not strong enough to dig and I am ashamed to beg.” He’s a bum!
And yet, surprise, surprise, Jesus commends this shrewd operator, saying, “For the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.”
You have got to admit, this parable has gotten your brain percolating. At last week’s adult Bible study, we were at odds with one another about what this parable means. When I offered my own brilliant interpretation, one participant opined, “Pastor, you offer that cockamamie interpretation next Sunday and I will stand up and scream out loud in disagreement.”
Parables work that way: they get us thinking. You might tell someone after today’s sermon, “I didn’t agree with a word the pastor said.” If you do disagree, please let me know at the door… Let the conversation begin! That’s what parables are meant to do.
So, here I go. I am going to tell you what I think this parable is about. You, of course, will have the opportunity to agree or disagree with me. For my money, I believe Jesus is highlighting the steward’s shrewdness, not his dishonesty; he is praising his creativity, not his unreliability; he is commending his daring, not his crookedness. Give him his due: he is a clever scalawag. Time is short. He has to act quickly or else.
I often worry that we Christians do not sense the urgency of the conditions. Maybe that’s why we have so much trouble with this parable. We can be so afraid of making mistakes that we end up doing nothing at all. In the process of living life safely, we lose our zest for life. It has been said that there is little danger of Christians in the United States dying of martyrdom; our greatest danger is dying from boredom.
When I was growing up, one of my pastors proudly and repeatedly proclaimed, “We have no burning issues in our church.” I was eighteen or so at the time and longed for a church with a few burning issues. It took an amazing college chaplain to help me see that the church can be a place where people actually take risks for the sake of the Gospel. His risking-taking eventually got him canned by the college president--I have admired that chaplain ever since.
For my money, this morning’s parable is Jesus’ invitation to forget about business as usual and to put a little zest into our lives. The hymn we sang at the beginning of worship, “Earth and All Stars,” does exactly that. I remember the first time I heard Herb Brokering’s words. I thought them a tad nutty but my were they ever fun. Engines and steal, loud pounding hammers, classrooms and labs, loud boiling test tubes, athlete and band, loud cheering people—I loved the razzle-dazzle of that hymn. Everything we do in life is an opportunity to praise God with a new song! No boredom here.
The challenge for the church in every age is to muster the courage to sing a new song in praise of God. I believe First Lutheran Church is doing exactly that in these days. As you know, we have a structural deficit built into this year’s budget (to the tune of $37,000). We could moan and groan and easily find someone to blame. Instead, we have acted decisively. We have virtually stopped air-conditioning except on the hottest of days, when our clinics are operating, and while we are here at worship on Sunday morning. This is not a bad thing; it is a good thing! There is more money for ministry, it is good for the environment, and it decreases our deficit. We received word from SDGE this week that our bill for the past month is the lowest it has been in ages. (Thank your staff for putting up with a little extra heat!) Dagmar is arranging our flowers; look at how stunning they are. Yesterday, a group did the church’s landscaping. Our grounds are beautiful, we have saved a small fortune the past few years, and we are working together as brothers and sisters in Christ.
The wonderful news is that none of these changes has negatively affected our ministry; if anything, they have enhanced our ministry. Our worship attendance is currently the highest since 2002. Our benevolence giving to the Pacifica Synod and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America is the seventh highest of any congregation in our synod and we are certainly not the seventh largest congregation. We could easily say that we spend more than enough money here at 3rd and Ash serving God’s blessed poor and that is our fair share; instead, we have chosen to be a good partner in ministry beyond our doors. You are being incredibly generous, too: forty-one households have “Adopted a Bill” totaling over $9,000. We are creatively dealing with these painful economic times just like that scoundrel did whom Jesus commended so long ago.
A few days ago a friend sent me the Rosh Hashanah sermon of Rabbi Stuart Weinblatt of Congregation B’nai Tzedek in the Washington, D.C. suburbs. Reflecting on his on-going struggle with cancer, he told his congregation: “We allow things to slip away, or through our hands, thinking that we have all the time in the world to do what we intend to do rather than acting today to use our days wisely to do what we should do and to act on our dreams.”
Rabbi Weinblatt went on: “Whatever it may be--that trip to Israel you told me you are going to take one day, that course you have always thought about taking, the hobby you want to learn, spending more time with your children, setting aside time to study, learning a new skill, doing some volunteer work, or even the desire to start attending services more regularly one day, whatever it may be – don’t keep putting it off.”
I love the rabbi’s invitation-don’t keep putting it off, do it today. It is quite similar to another rabbi’s invitation so long ago, the rabbi who commended the shrewd scoundrel for acting decisively, now.
Jesus tells us that today is our time to act as a church, at work, and in our personal lives. Today. There is no guarantee that we will be around tomorrow. Do what you need to do and do it today.
Of course this parable drives us nuts; it is a little too messy for our refined sensibilities. But, God willing, it will prod us to ACT TODAY. It might even lead us to live lives filled with razzle- dazzle.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 12, 2010
Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 15: 1-10
"Love's Obsession"
Unless you have lost something very precious, you may not appreciate this morning’s gospel reading. If you have lost something precious, however, and then found it again, this story is unlike any other in the entire Bible.
I once feared that I had lost one of the most precious people in my life. It was our youngest son Caspar. He was five years old at the time and we were traveling from our home in Washington, D.C., to visit my parents in West Virginia. As we loved to do, we drove on Interstate 68 in Western Maryland. One stretch of that highway goes straight through a massive man made cut in the stunning Appalachian Mountains. There was a visitors’ center there that chronicled this engineering remarkable achievement and the geological history of the area. After we went through the visitors’ center, I hid behind a tree to play a little hide and seek with Caspar. Unfortunately, Caspar didn’t see Dagmar or me and got scared. He started running across a walking bridge spanning the interstate. When he got to the other side, he sped down the hill as fast as his little legs could carry him. The next thing we saw was our dear Caspar running across the six lanes of 70 mile an hour traffic zooming around a particularly wicked curve. Dagmar and I took off running, our hearts in our throats. Caspar, thank God, made it safely to the other side. You can imagine our joy when Caspar was safely in our embrace again.
Is there any part of the Bible more beloved than the fifteenth chapter of Luke? Other than the Good Samaritan and the Christmas Gospel, we know this chapter best. It includes the parable of the shepherd who leaves his flock of ninety-nine to find one measly lost sheep, the parable of the woman who drops everything to search frantically for her one lost silver coin out of ten; and, while we did not read it this morning, the grand finale is the Prodigal Son. At the heart of each of these parables is one person’s obsession for something cherished and lost and the joy that is felt when it has been found.
Obsession is the perfect word to describe all three parables. You do not have to be a sheep farmer to know that leaving ninety-nine sheep behind in search of one lost sheep is no way to run a sheep ranch. What if the other ninety-nine had gotten lost and wandered off a cliff? Then, ninety-nine would have been lost and only one found. Today’s parables make no sense in any way, unless, of course, you are in love.
I always believe the church is at its best when it is in love, when it drops everything and goes running for the lost, never even thinking to count the cost. Such actions make no sense, they are not rational in the least, they are certainly not cost effective. Shouldn’t we care for those who are committed, good, and holy, those who carry the load?
One group that is particularly good at welcoming the lost into the center of the fold is Alcoholics Anonymous. One person speaks fondly of coming late to an AA meeting and worrying that the group might judge him harshly. But, without exception, there was relief, even joy. The one who was feared lost was alive and sober, with them. This person laments the many churches which can be so judgmental when people arrive late at worship, not showing an iota of joy that the person is once again secure in God’s house. We have oodles to learn from our twelve step brothers and sisters who are all about welcoming the lost safely back home.
Sometimes we discover our love for the lost one when it is almost too late. This happens at funerals. No matter how rotten a person might have been, at funerals, we always seem capable of discovering God’s love for the hundredth sheep. I have never attended a funeral where the deceased was not spoken of with tenderness and esteem.
The African American writer James Baldwin writes of his father’s funeral: “The minister who preached my father’s funeral sermon was one of the few my father had still been seeing as he neared his end. He presented to us in his sermon a man whom none of us had ever seen—a man thoughtful, patient, and forbearing, a Christian inspiration to all who knew him, and a model for his children. And no doubt the children in their disturbed and guilty state, were almost ready to believe this….Every man in the chapel hoped that when his hour came he, too, would be eulogized, which is to say forgiven, and that all of his lapses, greeds, errors, and strayings from the truth would be invested with coherence and looked upon with charity. This was perhaps the last thing human beings could give each other and it was what they demanded, after all, of the Lord. Only the Lord saw the midnight tears…”
Don’t we all hope that, at the end, we will be remembered well? And isn’t that the churches task, to remember and honor people not only when they have died but while they are still living? I promise you, if you are buried from this church, you will be honored as one of God’s very special and cherished ones. No matter how lost you might feel, this church, God willing, will always risk leaving the ninety-nine in order to hunt for the hundredth tiny lamb.
We conclude every funeral with these words: “Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him/her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.”
What this means is that the church at its very best never gives up, even in death. Never! As the southern preacher Fred Craddock says, “There is no giving up in [these parables].” May God grant that there be no giving up in this community. May we risk everything to search for the lost one. After all, inevitably, that lost one is us.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 11, 2010
Bishop’s Gathering of West San Diego and Sonshine Conferences
“Bread and Wine and Water and a Bible”
“Sell everything you own and give it away to the poor. You will have riches in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
It sounds almost unbelievable, at least to me. Have you sold all that you have? Maybe not and then again maybe.
How many of us have had what we hold dear snatched from us? Our retirement savings plans have dropped precipitously in recent years, our homes have become worth less and less, some of us have lost our jobs.
Our churches, too, have been forced to reckon with Jesus’ words to sell all that we have whether we want to or not. Here at First Lutheran hardly a council meeting goes by—actually, none that I can recollect in recent months—that doesn’t talk about finances. And I know it is not just here. At every church meeting that I have attended in the past year, whether conference, synod, or national, there inevitably has been talk about financial struggles.
We cannot get away from it. Along with our morning coffee and cereal, we are bombarded in the paper and on the radio and television with our shaky economy. And then we come to our beloved church and hear about financial struggles in the place we love. Programs ended or cut back, plans for leaner ministry in the coming year—you know how it goes. Are you numb hearing and talking about economic hardship?
We don’t usually think of Jesus’ words, “Sell everything you own and give it away to the poor,” as Gospel or good news. In fact, Jesus’ words sound like the harshest of commands. And yet there is that little sentence that follows, “You will have riches in heaven.”
As we gather as leaders of our churches this morning, we may want to lament about how tough it is in the church today, to tell war stories about our struggles. But, perhaps Jesus is inviting us to tell a different story, to tell a story that discovers more to our ministries than our possessions.
We church people have a dangerous practice of measuring success by numbers and dollars. We pastors ask one another all the time, “How many did you have at worship on Sunday?” Lay people get into the act too, “How many members does your church have; how big is your budget?” Go the ELCA website and you will discover the answers to these questions for every one of our congregations.
I pray that somehow, by the grace of God, these tough and lean times will deliver us to what it truly means to be the church and to what is most essential for ministry.
Thirty four years ago or so, I attended the installation of a pastor on the Lower East Side of New York City. The congregation to which he had been called met in a decrepit row house in the middle of the block of other decrepit row houses. Their original church building had been condemned and torn down because they couldn’t afford the necessary repairs. The installation service was held in a neighboring Roman Catholic Church. The preacher looked at the new pastor and the members of Trinity Church and said, “My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, you have unimaginable riches for wonderful ministry here on the Lower East Side.” The new pastor grimaced, the people squirmed. They were dumbfounded and puzzled. “Unimaginable riches?” They knew better. Theirs was a hell hole. The preacher went on, “You don’t have a fancy physical plant or a gorgeous sanctuary, but you have more than you will ever need for ministry. As far as I can tell, there is no shortage of water, bread and wine, and a Bible in these parts. That’s all you need for vibrant ministry.”
Does your church have bread and wine and water and a Bible? That is all you need. Maybe this economy, in a bizarre way, calls us away from extravagance and fluff, to the very basics of our faith.
Jesus told us, “You will have riches in heaven.” And so, in these days that sometimes feel as if we are in the worst of times, perhaps, with bread and wine and water and the Bible we are actually in the best times imaginable.
Jesus said, “Sell everything you own and give it away to the poor. You will have riches in heaven.” Perhaps we should give it a try!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 5, 2010
Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 14: 25-33
"Why All the Shouting?"
I must immediately make a full disclosure: I did not choose this morning’s Gospel reading--nor did Jared Jacobsen our Director of Music. What we just heard is the appointed Gospel reading for the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost. With fourteen members joining the church this morning and the baptism of little Cole Huntley Munroe, if it had been up to us, we would have chosen far nicer readings. For instance—“Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barns, and yet God feels them. Of how much more value are you than the birds!” or “The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want.” or “Make a joyful noise to the Lord.” It wouldn’t have been hard to pick something more celebrative on this glorious day.
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Admit it: Jesus’ counsel to hate our family, to carry the cross, and to give up all our possessions puts a damper on our celebration. If Jesus’ demands were not so outrageous, they would likely bother us more, but we have grown use to them and simply smile and move on without paying them much mind. Hate of family, bearing the cross, giving away our possessions—we know this is no way to be a Christian and certainly no way to run a church.
I recently tried to read a book suggested by a Lutheran church official--not Bishop Finck, by the way. It is entitled Applebee’s America. I muddled through the first two chapters before succumbing to total nausea. The book’s thesis is that if you want to be successful in this world, you must understand your target audience. Bill Clinton and George Bush apparently shared this ability: they rose from political ashes by doing successful market analysis and both won second terms against fairly steep odds. According to the book, there is a pastor just a few miles up the road from here who is every bit as successful as our past two presidents. Before he started his church, he, too, did a market analysis. His church is purpose driven and booming because he has discovered what the people want.
Jesus didn’t do a market analysis. In fact, when the adoring crowds came swarming around him, he had the audacity to talk about the cross, rearranging familial priorities in an ugly sort of way, and selling possessions. Jesus needed Meg Whitman and her $100 million to help him with his campaign.
We probably should have done a market analysis before we decided to use this morning’s Gospel reading as we welcome our new members and baptize Cole. He is so cute! His family has traveled here from Toronto and Minnesota. A crowd has gathered. A party is in the offing. There is considerable excitement in the air and we will soon throw water on the whole affair. We will take off Cole’s old clothes--diaper and all! We will thrust him into cold water--not heated water in case you are wondering; we will talk about his sins and we will wash them away. You can almost hear the proud grandparents grumbling, “Sin…not our precious Cole!”
And I’ll lay you 70-30 odds that Cole will scream his head off when his Grandpa lovingly puts him under the water. No matter how gentle Grandpa tries to be, a lot of cold water and a big crowd watching will not be a pretty picture for little Cole. Cole will figure out quickly that this is about life and death, a battle between Satan and God. Just listen to him scream his head off--oh yes, he knows what’s up.
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We have tried and tried to make the following of Jesus sweeter and prettier. We have tried to market him so that churches will grow and prosper. This week, Dagmar and I vacationed in Las Vegas. In addition to going to the Carlos Santana concert at The Joint at the Hark Rock Hotel and Casino, we did a lot of window shopping. We looked at Rolex watches and necklaces that made me keep asking Dagmar, “Where could you possibly wear something like that twice in a year without feeling a bit foolish?” What struck me, though, were the gold crosses made of exquisite diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Do you think Jesus ever imagined that his followers would wear such stuff in his honor when all he had to say about such things was, “None of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.” To this day, the church and even Vegas is trying to help Jesus market his message and make it better and brighter.
And yet, some of us persist with a damper message. Methodist Bishop William Willimon says: “When you join the Rotary they give you a handshake and a lapel pin. When you join the church we throw you in the water and half drown you. Ponder that. Whatever signing on with Jesus means, it means that we will not do just as we are, that change is demanded daily, sometimes painful turning that does not come naturally.”
When Cole comes up out of the water this morning, longing to get dry quick, the first thing he will see is the cross looming over him. The cross, my dear friends, not a mobile of giraffes and butterflies and teddy bears. As he gasps for air and gazes at the cross, we will sing with joy, “Alleluia.” Deep down, we will understand that this tiny fellow, with Jesus at his side, will have battled Satan and won. There is nothing that will come in his life that will be worse that this battle with the evil one. Nothing!
His parents, Stephen and Amy—you will tell him of this day for years to come. There will almost certainly be tough days in his life as there are tough days in all our lives. It will be up to you and to his grandparents, aunts and uncles, and brothers and sisters in Christ to tell him over and over again that God will not forget him and that God will prevail no matter how dark and deep the water might get. That’s what all the shouting is about this morning.
Every person here needs to know what Cole needs to know. At those times when we battle with Satan and wonder whether Jesus is on our side, we need friends to tell us that he indeed is on our side and that he certainly will prevail.
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Jesus knew that there was something much more important than family and possessions. Money cannot buy us the love of God. It all starts at the waters where God beats Satan in an epic battle. We all came up once, gasping for air, screaming, fists flailing. In those moments we were told that God is with us forever.
That’s why we shout today. This church simply tells the truth. Life will not always be easy for Cole or any of us if we follow Jesus, but life will be well worth living. We must tell that to one another over and over again.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 29, 2010
Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 14: 1, 7-14
"Eating in the Smoking Section"
Watch how people eat and you will learn a lot about them. Watch who they eat with and you will learn even more.
There was once an exclusive English men’s club that gathered regularly for fine cuisine and scholarly banter. The club maintained rigorous standards when it came to manners and intellect. They had a demanding selection process. The entire club dined with prospective candidates before voting. They gathered around a massive mahogany dining table. At the conclusion of the main course, the club members placed their linen napkins in sterling silver holders and lit up cigars. Then one of the waiters brought the nervous aspirant a bowl filled with cherries that had not been pitted; only the prospective member got the cherries. The members simply watched the candidate carefully to see how he would dispose of the pits.
As I said, you can learn a lot about a group of people by observing how they eat.
You can learn a lot about Jesus, too. As I think you know, Jesus was constantly in trouble when it came to how he ate. Jesus was crucified, in no small part, due to his shoddy eating practices and second-rate eating companions.
You heard some of Jesus’ thoughts on dinner etiquette in this morning’s gospel: “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place.’”
Jesus goes on with his instructions: “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid.” Who to invite? Jesus says, “When you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.”
We gather in this room every Sunday for a meal with Jesus. Who eats here speaks volumes about what kind of meal-keeping community we are.
Pastor Martin Copenhaver tells of his congregation’s meal-keeping habits. One of the people who attended worship at his church was a fellow by the name of Bernie. Bernie was well-educated and played beautiful Beethoven sonatas on the sanctuary piano. Bernie was homeless. Bernie had Tourette’s Syndrome, a rare disease that causes its sufferers to burst forth with involuntary exclamations, sometimes obscenities, and often at the most inopportune times. In Bernie’s case, he barked like a dog during worship. “…the first time you heard him, you might think, ‘Did he just bark?’”
The first time Bernie put on a choir robe and processed down the aisle, Pastor Copenhaver’s first thought was not, “Thank you, Jesus.” And yet, as time wore on, Copenhaver the pastor realized that Jesus had given their community ample tools for how to deal with Bernie, some of the same tools we heard Jesus discuss in today’s gospel reading.
Copenhaver tells of one Sunday when visitors came to worship and heard Bernie’s barking for the first time. They looked around at the congregation and noticed that the members didn’t seem the least bit bothered. The visitors had that look on their faces that said, “What kind of strange place is this I’ve wandered into?’” (Lillian Daniel and Martin B. Copenhaver, This Odd and Wondrous Calling, Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2009, pgs. 97-98).
I have always believed that if a community of Christians is worth its salt, then, almost necessarily, it will cause some to ask, “What kind of place is this I’ve wandered into?” In fact, such a question should be a medal of honor for all churches.
Gordon Lathrop writes that it is the work of the Christian community to welcome the unclean because, after all, we are all unclean and Jesus made himself unclean by eating with us. Lathrop writes, “The assembly should have an open door…an accessibility to the surrounding world, a marked hospitality.” Lathrop has had a profound influence on me. That’s why, on many a Sunday, I will tell our greeters and ushers to make sure that both doors are open to the patio. We cannot be miserly about how we welcome the world.
The church’s work, however, is more than just keeping our doors and tables open to all. Sara Miles, in her pesky book, Jesus Freak, writes: “We’ll be lonely if we think we can only share fellowship with the right people” (Sara Miles, Jesus Freak, Joseey-Bass, San Francisco, 2010, pg. 26). Not only do the doors have to be open, but they must be open to ALL! When any person feels unwelcome, the church, then, has failed miserably.
Whenever we try to get rid of the “Barking Bernies” of the world, while we may not realize it, we really are saying that we don’t belong either. I have often found those people who are the most judgmental of others in a community, are often the most judgmental of themselves, too.
I remember such a person. He became infuriated when kids entered the sanctuary with baseball caps on. He would rage at me almost every Sunday when leaving church, upset about some perceived impropriety that he deemed an inexcusable breach of etiquette. One Sunday he was spitting mad because a woman had brought her dog into the sanctuary—it didn’t matter to him that it was a seeing eye dog. He was so lonely, so impoverished, so drained of life’s joy.
A friend gave Sara Miles advice regarding how to deal with those people in her congregation that are so challenging to her: “Sara, if you want to see God, sometimes you have to sit in the smoking section.”
It always amazes me that one of the last things Jesus did on this earth was to eat a meal with his dear friends. He could easily have judged them unworthy of his company and thrown them from the table. You remember: the people who gathered for that last supper with Jesus would soon betray him and deny ever knowing him. What kind of eating club was Jesus operating anyway? Over and over again, he told us this is precisely the kind of dinner table we should operate.
Maybe Jesus knew that we all, in one way or another, are the folks in the smoking section. We are the ones who don’t deserve being here and yet, in a few moments, Jesus will invite us to come up higher to receive his body and blood.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 22, 2010
Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 13: 10-17
"Bent Over No More"
That woman had been bent over for eighteen long and painful years. Her body was as twisted as a pretzel.
The Bible doesn’t say why she was so bent over. Perhaps she had scrubbed floors on her hands and knees since she was a teenager. Maybe osteoporosis created endless and excruciating pain. She certainly carried herself like a victim of abuse, no longer able to stand straight with dignity, not bold enough to share her dreadful life’s story with another person. She seemed so terribly lonely. Who knows why she was so bent over?
One thing we do know: few adults wanted to bend down low enough to catch her gaze and she was too embarrassed to look up their way.
In spite of it all, she was at worship every week. People knew her only by sight; for the life of them, they couldn’t remember her name. Everyone simply called her “The Bent Over Woman;” no one took the time to know her better than that. She was so easy to pass by.
She sat in the same seat at every worship service, way back in the corner, as far back as she could go without falling out of the sanctuary. People rarely talked to her and when they did, the conversations were agonizingly awkward. The only thing the other person wanted to do was to get away from her as soon as possible. It wasn’t unusual for people to walk away from her in the middle of a conversation, rudely excusing themselves because they had someone more important to talk with. She came to expect this. She was so bent over. It was all so bad.
Think of who that bent over person is in your life…in this church…Are you bent over this morning?
While you may not sit way back in the corner, no matter where you sit, you feel out of the mix of things. You never really feel part of this community here at First Lutheran. You have tried but all your efforts seem to fail; you feel like a loner in the middle of nowhere. Oh sure, you smile real nice and pretty and you always dress up neat and clean. When someone asks, “How are you?” you always say, “I’m wonderful--couldn’t be better. Every day is perfect in San Diego.” But, if truth be told, your pain is almost too much to bear. You work hard to keep that smile on your face but the burdens of your world are crippling your soul: you aren’t sleeping at all and, when you do manage a wink or two, you inevitably wake up with sweat running down your spine and demons dancing at your side. If others only knew how life’s torments are crippling you. Sometimes, you just want to stand up in the middle of worship and scream!
Are you bent over? Isn’t that why you have come here this morning? No one will notice you before you quietly slink out at the end of today’s service, but you need to be here. You long for someone, just one person, to call you by name, to engage you in conversation. In spite of it all, you keep coming back because this place is a refuge in the midst of some horrific storms.
You are so frightened, so lonely, so depressed. You silently weep every Sunday during the prayers; one time, you almost cried out, “Oh Jesus, do not leave me alone.”
Bent over, almost all of us, if we dare admit it. Sometimes we hardly know why we are here and yet we heard someplace or another that if we come by here, our soul might be shielded from the tempest. And so here we are once again, pleading to Jesus, “Hide me, O my Savior, hide me, till the storm of life is past.”
[Soloist Arnessa Rickett sings the first part of “Jesus Lover of My Soul”.]
Oh, how that bent over woman wept. And then, out of the blue, Jesus called her over. How did he ever notice her since she was sitting so far back? And yet Jesus called her and she came up higher, step-by-painful step, stumbling a bit, scared out of her wits. But she came. And Jesus said, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” Just like that.
And then, the most amazing thing happened: Jesus touched her. Jesus touched her. She hadn’t dared ask him for healing; she never would have thought herself deserving of such attention. No one had touched her for the last eighteen years. When Jesus laid his hands on her, she shivered with joy and stood up straight. Not in her wildest dreams did she ever imagine a man, let alone Jesus, touching her so gently and lovingly. As Jesus touched her, he called her the most beautiful name she had ever heard or been called, “A Daughter of Abraham.” Abraham—the father of her people. And now she, “A Daughter of Abraham.” No longer “Bent Over Woman” but “A Daughter of Abraham.” Her precious Lord took her by the hand, he straightened her up, and she began to praise God.
She never sang in church, never--she didn’t think her voice pretty enough. No one in the synagogue had ever heard her sing either or, come to think of it, heard her say more than a few words. But that day, when Jesus touched her, she sang up a storm. Her beautiful voice stunned the congregation as if they were listening to a Metropolitan Opera diva.
Are you bent over by the burdens of the world? Do you come here, not expecting much, but, then again, hoping that someone, most especially Jesus, will touch you like you have never been touched before? Do you hope that Jesus will call you by name and tell you to stand up straight and proud?
Oh, how I hope you will sing today. In a few moments, if your bent over soul can look up just a bit, you will hear Jesus invite you forward, to the very heart of this sanctuary. As Jesus touched that daughter of Abraham, he will touch you: “Take and eat; this is my body given for you.” I pray that this will make you rise up. Like that woman, may you praise God, rejoicing in Jesus the lover of your soul.
[Arnessa Rickett concludes “Jesus Lover of My Soul.”]
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 15, 2010
Twelth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 1: 46-55
"The Gear and Tackle and Trim of Ministry"
On the Occasion of Welcoming
the Rev. James Hallerberg onto the
Clergy Roster of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America)
How many of you did a double take when you received your bulletin from the usher this morning? What’s the Virgin Mary doing on the cover? You thought this was a Lutheran church not a Roman Catholic church. And what is the business about Mary, Mother of Our Lord?
We Lutherans get fidgety when we see Mary at anytime except around Christmas. We have always been fearful of elevating her to the status of Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and Mary.
As you know, Mary was a teenage girl from Nazareth. For some reason, beyond our comprehension, God chose her to be the mother of his child, Jesus.
I suspect that all the fancy church dogma that some traditions have created regarding Mary--all the devotions to her, all the claims of her curative powers--have been the church’s way to make her more than she was: we have found it almost unfathomable over the years that a simple girl from Nazareth could possibly be the Mother of Jesus. Doesn’t there have to be more? And so we have given her all kinds of extraordinary qualities to make her more fitting for her part in God’s divine drama on earth.
I suppose we have similar questions about ourselves: who are we to bear God’s grace? Don’t we have to be someone very special, more than we are?
I am particularly fond of literature in which unsavory characters become the unlikely bearers of God’s grace. My favorite such character is the hapless whiskey priest in Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory. This good for nothing drunken priest trudges through pitiable, godforsaken villages in Mexico and almost unconsciously reveals God’s glory. He bears God’s gifts to poor peasants who, without him, would never taste God’s glory in the bread and wine nor see their children baptized. This priest does it all while as tipsy as a carnival ride and stinking like a Kentucky bourbon distillery. Such characters stir us from complacency, they expand what is possible with God.
We prefer our Christian heroes to be sweet and pious, however. While we have never met even one such holy character, we, nevertheless, hold the belief that, in the end, God only has dealings with the righteously squeaky clean to advance the plan of God’s kingdom.
We do the same thing with Mary. We want Mary to be more, too. We want her to be sinless, childless except for Jesus, even assumed bodily into heaven at the time of her death. I think it has something to do with our inferiority complex as human beings: who are we or Mary for that matter to have dealings with God?
We seem to have a similar inferiority complex when it comes to the church. Why does God have dealings with the church? We know the church--the sexual abuse among clergy, the embezzlement of millions by trusted lay people, the fire and brimstone righteous preachers caught slinking out of sleazy motels, the ugly squabbles in churches to which we have all belonged. We wonder whether God was having a bad hair day when concocting how salvation would come to earth. If it had been up to us, we would certainly have done a far better job.
When God selected teenage Mary to be the mother of his child, she sang that beloved song, “My soul proclaims the greatest of the Lord. You have looked with favor upon your lowly servant.” She knew what a big deal it was to be the Mother of God.
We all are lowly servants lifted by God. Most of us, beyond our families and coworkers, are virtually unknowns. And yet, God calls us to go to hospital rooms, cemeteries, and friends’ homes late at night to tell suffering people in the best way we can that God loves them. We are a band of “ordinary and needy people” (Gordon Lathrop, The Pastor) who bear ordinary gifts to a needy world.
Pastor Jim Hallerberg is one of that band, like Mary, called by God to proclaim love to a needy world. Today, Jim, at the ripe young age of 70, you are welcomed into the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America as a pastor of Word and Sacraments. Now, Jim, honestly, how many times over the years have you walked into a hospital with a little black box and a Bible? You have seen the doctors in their white lab coats, stethoscopes hanging around their necks, nurses and interns following them from room to room. Have you ever envied them and their adoring entourages just a little bit? All you have come with for forty-five years now is a little piece of bread and a tiny sip of wine and a few dusty stories of Jesus and his love. You have discovered, though, that when the doctors have done their best and left these blessed dying ones to their final wheezing breaths this side of the kingdom come, it has been up to you to say a final word that, God willing, will defy death and make all the difference in the world.
Jim, you like Mary, have been called to proclaim God’s love when the more powerful and the more respected have plied their bag of tricks and departed. Broken words and dusty stories are what you have come bearing. Tears and hugs have often been your best gift when appropriate words have seemed missing. Sometimes not even you have known what to say: you have felt abandoned, bereft, as if you were dying a small death yourself; you could only trust that, somehow, someway, God would make things better. Gerard Manley Hopkins called the things we bear in these times the “gear and tackle and trim” of ministry. A little bread, a sip of wine, a dab of water, a few broken words—that’s all you have ever had and all you will have here in the ELCA (cf. Gordon Lathrop’s The Pastor for a wonderful treatment of the pastoral craft).
Jim, you should know better. You are a big boy now. We who know you, know that you are a really smart guy—Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German. You know better than most, that this church, often called the Bride of Christ, is more often than not the whore of Babylon. And yet, there is something about her you love. There is something about her that your wife, Ginger, loves. Jim, you have persevered in this church you love, often goading her, often calling her to higher ground; you have been a thorn in your colleagues flesh at times, badgering them, calling them beyond certainty to faithfulness. You and your wife have faced some sleepless nights, all because of your love for your church, the very church loved for so long by those you have loved and who are now asleep in Jesus. But, Jim, you have always had a smile, always a bounce in your step. You know that God comes calling in the midst of it all, even now.
In his gorgeous book, A Dresser of Sycamore Trees, Garret Keizer writes of a man who could easily be you, dear Pastor Jim Halleberg. The man, with many years under his pastoral belt, said “that although his church was as corrupt as the Mafia, he would gladly die for that church.” Keizer adds, “I would die for [the church], too, not because I am so brave or the church is so needy, but because without it I could no longer say what living meant.”
Jim, you understand that. You understand that we are all God’s got and God is all we’ve got. And that’s why you refuse to throw in the towel. When quite a few pastors and congregations are currently leaving the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America because it has dared to open her doors wider, you come running to her through those doors. There is something about this church you adore, something about this crazy church that believes that God sees fit to have dealings with all sorts of people like Mary, something you love about this church that does not have all the thorny questions neatly wrapped and tied with a perfect theological bow and answer. Far from being pessimistic, Jim, you celebrate this day as one of the finest in your life. And, of course, your becoming one of us makes it one of our finest, too.
We are all such ordinary peasants, just like that young girl Mary. God turned the world upside down by calling her to be the Mother of God. God turns the world upside down by bringing you, Jim, onto the clergy roster of the ELCA. And all of you here today--God turns the world upside down by calling you to bear Christ’s light in this sometimes very dark world of ours. Let our souls proclaim the greatness of the Lord!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 8, 2010
Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12: 32-40
"Do Not Be Afraid"
I am embarrassed to tell you what my biggest worry was this past week. Given the immensity of the world’s problems, you will certainly think my worry a silly one indeed.
As I think you know, I attended a meeting on Thursday and Friday at our ELCA Churchwide offices in Chicago. This meeting was a gathering of fifty bishops, pastors, seminary and college professors, Churchwide staff, and administrators of social ministry organizations. I did not want to appear the country bumpkin so I worried considerably about how I should dress for this meeting. I know this seems awfully vain, but I thought my dress would give some indication of how seriously I took my invitation. I thought about wearing a black suit and clerical collar— this, by the way, is how I used to dress every, single day before moving to San Diego—but I thought this might seem too austere and even presumptuous. I could wear a suit and tie—this would make me look properly respectful without appearing too overtly priestly—but my lack of a good tie selection ruled this option out. I thought about wearing blue jeans, a Hawaiian shirt (I now own six), and flip-flops, demonstrating Southern California devotion and yet I feared this might make me appear quite the buffoon. Or—and this is what I chose—I could wear a button down shirt with nice pants—not too dressy and not too terribly self-important.
I am embarrassed to admit this dilemma to you. You would think I have more important things on my mind and to discuss this morning than my haberdashery worries.
And yet, please give me a bit of a break: Jesus talks repeatedly about things just as mundane as what clothes to wear in order to prove his points. He talks about how birds feed themselves during the day and how the lilies of the field are more beautiful than all King Solomon’s glory. Jesus gets it. He understands how ordinary things, like what we wear and what we eat, have an uncanny way of getting under our skin and causing us enormous worries and fears.
Over and over again, Jesus tells us, “Do not be afraid.” Jesus does his best to calm our fears. He knows that we are a bunch of worry-warts. “Do not worry,” he pleads with us. Our worries cause us to take anti-anxiety medication, to make frequent trips to the therapist’s office, and to drink way too much alcohol. Amazingly, when you think about it, some of our greatest worries are about some pretty insignificant things.
Think of your worries. How much time do you spend worrying about what others think of you? How many of you worry about how you look? I know some people who refuse to come to church because their clothes are not good enough—and I get that.
What is most amazing is that Jesus says, “Do not be afraid,” and then, in almost the same breath, urges us to sell our possessions and give alms. You would think doing this would make us worry more than ever. We cannot imagine selling our possessions. In fact, one of our biggest worries is not having enough possessions. We worry that we will not have enough when we retire, not enough even tomorrow morning.
Not only does Jesus tell us to sell our possessions and give alms, he adds, “for where your treasure is, there you heart will be also.” Where is your treasure, by the way? One way to think about your treasure—or at least where you would like your treasure to be—is to consider how you would like to be remembered at your funeral. Imagine that the best your eulogist could say of you is that you had a huge television in your den with a whopping cable television package with 100 channels and movies on demand to boot; or you had a marvelous collection of clothing that rivaled that of Imelda Marcos; or you had the most sophisticated cell phone anyone had ever seen and texted all day long. When thinking of your treasures this way, you quickly realize that there is more to life than what you eat or what you wear. You realize that when you get rid of your possessions, or at least some of them, and give alms, suddenly life becomes far richer and, interestingly, you stop worrying quite so much.
Many of you, by the grace of God, are doing your best to sell your possessions and to give alms. You may not even realize you are doing so. Already ten First Lutheran households have committed nearly $4,807.56 to our Adopt a Bill campaign. Those who have given are quite varied. One of our newest and youngest families has given $1,100 to help pay our mortgage. One of our oldest members on a fixed income has contributed $1,100. A number of you give amazingly generously throughout the year and, while you don’t make a big deal of it, I have watched you and I think I know how you afford to give so generously to the ministry of this church. You quite literally have sold your possessions; you have chosen to live more simply so that you can give more to Christ’s ministry in this place. You have no cable television precisely so you can give more to your church; one of you decided not to purchase a new car so you could give more to your church. I can tell just by watching you that such generosity, far from bringing anxiety and fear into your life, has actually brought increased calm and joy and fulfillment. You have made a place at your table so that when the master arrives in your house, your lamps will be lit.
Jesus says that true joy comes, not in worrying about a million and one little things, like what clothes to wear to meetings, but instead, by streamlining our lives to make room for the time when Jesus comes to us and wishes to serve us dinner. When you think of Jesus serving you dinner, you realize you have the greatest treasure you can ever imagine. So, oh dear little flock, do not be afraid.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
August 1, 2010
Tenth Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12: 13-21
"How is Your Life?"
“You fool!”…That woke you up, didn’t it? And when God shouts, “You fool,” it wakes you up even more.
Notice that it is actually Jesus who says, “You fool!” on behalf of God in today’s Gospel reading. He does this in the midst of telling his parable about the rich man. You know the parable but let me review it quickly. There is a rich man who has a magnificent farm with lots and lots of crops. He runs into problems when he runs out of room in his barns to store his banner harvest. So, what to do? Of course, he tears down his minuscule barns and builds gigantic ones.
With these mammoth edifices erected, he kicks back, pours three fingers of Jack Daniels on the rocks, lights a fine Cuban cigar, and gazes proudly onto his magnificent estate. So proud; so proud, in fact, that he starts talking to himself: “Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.” It is precisely when he kicks back, thinking all is well, savoring his hard work over the years, that Jesus quotes God to him, “You Fool!”
Why “you fool?” Maybe you grew up the way I did. My parents, who had watched their parents navigate the turbulent waters of the Great Depression, wanted to make certain that I lived a good life and faced no such obstacles. I was thirteen when I got a paper route that paid me two pennies for every paper I threw and banged against someone’s screen door and a nickel for every huge Sunday morning News Register I lugged through the snowy streets of Wheeling. Far from wanting me to be a fool, my dad taught me how to be astute when it came to money matters. He taught me how to keep accurate financial records in a ledger book of the money I collected and did not collect. He instructed me how to keep my money in order, making certain that all the dollar bills were facing the exact same direction. He even sent me, alone, to the stock broker to invest my first $132 in six shares of Pacific Gas and Electric Company stock. Dad was teaching me how to plan for the future so that when I got to be about sixty, I, like the guy with the big barns, could relax, eat, drink, and be merry.
How dare God say to me and my dear dad, “You fool!”
For almost every one of us here this morning, except for the few of us born prior to 1929, we have never quite experienced the tough financial times we are currently facing. Even if you are ninety, you were only about ten when the Great Depression hit. We have the skills and advanced degrees and are willing to work and still there are no jobs. I have heard a number of you say you feel down right poor. When God says, “You fool!” you resent that remark.
Even First Lutheran Church resents it. How dare God say, “You fool!” to us. We have stripped things to the bones here without sacrificing ministry. We continue to care for God’s blessed poor with no questions asked; our staff received no raises this year. We have tried hard to get our barn here at 3rd and Ash stored to the rafters. We even held a special congregational meeting last Sunday to look at our financial picture. We have asked the Church Council for a plan to get our deficit under control. Don’t you dare call us fools!
Many are struggling in this tough financial climate. This coming Wednesday, I will travel to our Evangelical Lutheran Church in America headquarters in Chicago where I will gather with fifty people from across our church to discuss how our church is doing. In preparation for that meeting, I have received three articles on giving patterns within our church and within charitable organizations in general. The articles discuss which churches are growing in giving and which are declining; said more concretely --and I have got to say it—which churches have the biggest barns and which have the tiniest barns.
Whether we are individuals, nations, congregations or national churches, we are wondering if we have enough stored up in our barns to survive. Deep down, we believe that faithful people are the ones who can kick back, relax, eat, drink, be merry.
When you say, “Life is good,” don’t you mean that you don’t have a care in the world, that, like the guy with the barns, you can relax, eat, drink, and be merry? When you say, “Life is good,” don’t you mean the mortgage is paid, the 401 K is stable, the kids are happy, and your church pledge is up to date? Conversely, when you feel really poor, aren’t you are convinced God is delivering you a rotten deal?
“You fool!” God says. And the very next words God says are ones to help us through these vicious times: “This very night your life is being demanded of you.”
This very night! Apparently, God is not concerned about how big our barns are or how much savings our congregation has in the bank. God says, “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.” Forget about the barns; get rich toward God.
Are you rich toward God? Is our church rich toward God? Funny, when we say, “Life is good,” rarely do we say, “I read my Bible every day and God’s word nourishes me and gives me great joy. I am able to attend worship every Sunday and taste the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.” And yet, according to God, that is precisely when life is good, in fact, at its best.
So, my dear friends, how is your life?
On Friday, Doris Shimizu, Barbara Hagen, Geri Engelke, and I visited a number of our homebound members. You could say that life has been stripped to the bare essentials for those we visited. You might even say that life is not so good for them as their health declines. Nevertheless, we gathered around little, dusty tables with a few wafers, a tiny cup of wine, and a little Bible. God says that when we do this, we are rich. Forget about the barns. We gathered around a little bread and a little wine and heard God invite us, “Lift up your eyes to the hills--from where you help comes. Your help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth.” Life doesn’t get any better than that.
So, my dear friends, how is your life? Rich or poor, do you know that heaven’s treasures are at your finger tips? Please, do a proper accounting the way God would have you do: count among your riches, bread and wine and God’s word. With these gifts, you are richer than you ever imagined, no longer fools but now blessed as angels serve you the gifts of heaven.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 25, 2010
Nineth Sunday after Pentecost
Genesis 18: 20-32
"Chasing Real Rabbits"
One of the disciples asked Jesus, “Lord, teach us to pray.” You have likely asked this question a time or two in your life. We all want to know how to pray. Prayer is what makes us human.
It is interesting how Jesus teaches the disciples to pray. He offers no intricate techniques; he assigns no books to read. Jesus simply gives the disciples a prayer and says, “Pray like this.”
Parents who teach their children how to ride bicycles use a similar method. They do not discuss the finer points of propulsion or the subtleties of balance. They simply push their children along until they are on their own. We all learned to ride bikes by, well, by riding bikes.
Prayer seems similar to learning to ride a bike, and yet we sense that there must be more to the craft of praying than simply praying. Perhaps you learned to pray using the “ACTS method” (adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication). Maybe you learned that prayer is not so much talking to God but listening to God talk to you. How many of you have read books with the hopes of learning the perfect prayer technique? Sometimes, the biggest problem in our prayer life is that we know an awfully lot about prayer and yet we hardly ever pray.
Most of us learned to pray the old fashioned way, by praying. If we were fortunate enough to grow up in a family that prayed at meals and bedtime, we prayed “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest” and “Now I lay me down to sleep” over and over again. There may be a better way to come to God but those of us hitting the autumn years of life, after all the Sunday School classes and books and sermons on prayer, we still do it just like when we were kids: we fold our hands, bow our heads, close our eyes, and pray those simple prayers our moms and dads taught us before we could barely walk.
Jesus said, “Pray like this,” and then said, “Our Father in heaven…” What a treasure to pray the prayer that crossed Jesus’ lips. No fancy techniques, merely a prayer.
When I was in college, I visited the home of a fraternity brother during Thanksgiving break. The home was a spectacular mansion. The “living room” had a gorgeous Oriental rug, an invaluable oil painting of an English hunt scene above the stone fireplace, and a breathtaking view onto the family’s own private lake. When I entered the living room, I thought this the perfect place for family get-togethers. I quickly learned that this stunning room was not the “living room.” This room was where people like me drooled over the family’s collection of the finer things of life but “living” in that room was strictly prohibited.
Our prayer life can easily resemble that room: showy but impractical. Our prayer life needs to be more than showy; it needs to be so livable that it bears the spills and stains and abuse of our daily lives. One example of such a livable prayer life is Abraham’s in this morning’s first reading. As Abraham pleads for the salvation of Sodom, he keeps lowering the standards: if there are only fifty righteous will you spare the village? he asks God. When God assents to this request, Abraham tries again: how about forty-five? Abraham never gives up and gets God down to sparing the village if there are ten righteous people. We usually think of this Bible reading as one of those terribly judgmental ones in the Bible; in fact, that is how it has been used quite a bit of late! And yet, far from calling for judgment and condemnation, Abraham badgers God for all he is worth to spare the people of Sodom. This is prayer that is lived in.
When Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he counseled, “Ask, knock, and seek.” Action verbs, powerful verbs. Now, this is down and dirty praying. This isn’t highfalutin praying that sounds dazzling and yet is only an inch deep and a mile wide; this is prayer that hits the ground running and hard!
Anne Lamott lists her best prayers. They are “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you” and “Help me, Help me, Help me.” Why not? These are down and dirty prayers. They are prayers that say exactly what’s on the pray-ers mind--no more, no less.
Lamott writes that her prayers became so pretentious and stilted that they were virtually worthless against the challenges of life. “[She] felt like a veteran greyhound at the race track who finally figures out that she’s been chasing mechanical bunnies: all that energy, and it’s not even a real rabbit” (Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies, pg. 266). Her prayers had to change.
In a few moments we will have our congregational meeting. We will look at our current financial picture through the first six months of 2010 and examine a possible long range plan to deal with our deficit. We need pray-ers and prayers that chase the real rabbit and not mechanical bunnies! I hope you have been praying to God for your congregation. I hope you have you been asking God to make you a more generous giver than you already are. That’s what it means to chase the real rabbit. Let your prayers get down and dirty. Ask, knock, and seek God to provide for the life of this church and its incredible ministry.
(I commend you for being a congregation with one of the highest per capita giving levels in the entire Pacifica Synod. I thank you for your generosity as we do ministry on this littler corner of God’s creation. Apparently, you have been praying hard.)
Annie Dillard writes these astonishing words about the church’s oft feeble prayer life: “On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does not one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.”
Folks, forget about those fancy, dancey prayers that are as innocuous as a toothless puppy. Demand, bang, and hound God for what you need most; insist, hammer, and badger God for the needs of those you love; command, pound, and harass God for First Lutheran Church’s life. Perhaps you will discover that those down and dirty prayers are the best kind because they are teeming with TNT and they chase real rabbits.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Eighth Sunday after Pentecost
July 18, 2010
Genesis 18: 1-10a
"Flipping the Tent Flap Open"
Listen again to the first verses of today’s reading from Genesis: “The Lord appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw three men standing near him.”
Who were those three men? There are a variety of answers that have been offered down through history. Some say those three men had something to do with God; perhaps one was God. Others suggest that they were angels, and, as angels are wont to do, they were delivering a message from God. The fifteenth century Russian monk Andrei Rublev paints the three men as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in his stunning icon.
Who do you think those three men were?
What if the three men who appeared to Abraham and Sarah were exactly who the Bible says they were, THREE MEN? What if Abraham went running into the heat of the day not to get a cup of water for God but just for three men? What if Sarah baked bread in the blazing heat not for angels but just for three men?
We can certainly understand Abraham and Sarah’s hoopla of flipping the flap of their tent open if those three were heavenly royalty but we are befuddled by their gracious hospitality if the visitors were simply human beings.
On Friday mornings here at First Lutheran, I often catch myself making believe that some of our guests who come through our food line are newspaper reporters doing undercover reporting or representatives from our national church evaluating our ministry or someone from a wealthy foundation with lots of money to give away. I like to think that we flip the flap of our tent open and treat all who come by here with dignity and love.
Such a surprise visitor showed up at the church I served in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. Right after I concluded my sermon and as we were singing “Beautiful Savior,” a bearded man caught my attention. He looked strikingly similar to our former presiding bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, H. George Anderson, except for one minor detail: he had a beard and as far as I knew, Bishop Anderson’s face was as clean shaven as a baby’s pumpkin. I kept looking out of the side of my eye. Bishop Anderson had served as our congregation’s intern years ago; I knew he was teaching a course at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia. He certainly would have called before coming. I decided not to introduce him at the announcements for fear of embarrassing the unsuspecting person who might not be Bishop Anderson. As soon as worship was over, I ran to the door to greet this mystery visitor but I missed him. I finally got downstairs for coffee hour and saw the bearded man mixing with the good people of Saint Paul’s. Lo and behold, it was Bishop Anderson. I was delighted that our congregation had flipped the tent flap open and welcomed him with great aplomb even though no one had a clue that he was our former presiding bishop. How nice that all visitors were treated with dignity and grace.
We should treat every person as if they are royalty because, of course, they are. Every person is one of God’s children. What more credentials does anyone need? One of my favorite Bible passages comes from the thirteenth chapter of Hebrew: “Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”
This morning, we will sing “One Bread, One Body.” It was the theme of our congregation’s float at yesterday’s San Diego Pride Parade (it is outside in the parking this morning lot for all to see). A large contingent from First Lutheran marched in that parade, attempting to flip the First Lutheran tent flap open a little wider and to entertain angels. Many Christians, including many Lutherans, have said some horrible things about gay, lesbian, transgender and bisexual people. I recently heard a group of Lutherans claim that people in the GLBT community are going to spend eternity in hell. I would like to think our participation in the parade was our attempt to extend a welcome to the GLBT community just as Abraham and Sarah welcomed those three men at Mamre. How amazing it was to hear the crowd say “thank you” over and over again and to hear the applause as we marched behind our beautiful float and invited people to come to church.
One of the thrills in many of our lives has been having a tent flap flipped open for us when we felt unwelcome in any church. We may have had a rocky time in our life and felt undeserving of God’s grace; we dared not set foot in a church for fear that it would come tumbling down if we entered. But we mustered the courage and one day entered a church and someone introduced themselves to us and called us by name. We suddenly felt different, worthwhile, loved. Someone flipped the tent flap open and it has made all the difference.
Groucho Marx once quipped, “I would never join any club that would have someone like me as a member.” I have a hunch that many of us might have felt like that when it came to churches. What kind of church would accept me? Well, this church, First Lutheran, struggles to accept all people in the name of Jesus Christ.
Just for the fun of it, we are going to “Share the Peace” right now. This might be painful for some of you: you are shy and prefer staying inside your own little tent. But look around now and find someone you don’t know—visitors, you are in luck, you don‘t know anyone! If you have been a member here for a while and are embarrassed that you might introduce yourself to someone who has been here forever, fear not, this is finally your chance. This is the point in worship when we have the opportunity to entertain angels without knowing it. Go now and engage in a little old-fashioned flipping the flap open. See if you can find an angel. You might just discover the Lord who has come by here for water and bread.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 11, 2010
The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 10: 25-37
"Are You All In?"
Jesus meets a religion scholar on his way to die in Jerusalem. The two engage in a bit of intellectual jousting. They ask each other questions and they provide each other answers. Then Jesus abruptly interrupts the banter. He tells a scandalous story of a priest, a Levite, and a Samaritan. Jesus’ story has a striking resemblance to those we love about rabbis, priests, and Protestant ministers walking into Irish pubs. As Jesus tells the story, the listeners lean forward, expecting Jesus to tell a story of a priest, a Levite, and a pious Jew. Surprisingly, Jesus upsets the apple cart and replaces the pious Jew with one of the most detested enemies of the Jewish people, a Samaritan. It is the Samaritan, the hated one, in Jesus’ story who tends to the needs of the beaten and half-dead man in the ditch. Who ever would have imagined it?
After telling the surprising story, Jesus asks the religion scholar the $64,000 question: “Who was the neighbor?” The religion scholar answers correctly, “The one who treated him kindly.” Jesus says, “Go and do the same.”
Suddenly what is at stake is not the correct answer to a speculative question. Now what is at stake is far more serious, whether the religion scholar will go be a neighbor or not.
Most of us are pretty good at debating with one another. We love to speculate about who will end up in heaven and who in hell, what the proper biblical interpretation of a particular passage is, and, of course, how the church should proceed in 2010. We are quite good at critiquing the actions of others and preserving our own purity. We are often not so good at risking our purity for the sake of our neighbors.
Jesus seems to say that we cannot follow him by constantly speculating about right and wrong and by maintaining our purity. We finally must act. The southern preacher Fred Craddock writes: “The goal of theological conversation is not to outwit another…Having right answers does not mean one knows God…Jesus did not say to the lawyer, “Great answer! You are my best pupil.” Rather, Jesus said, “Go and do” (Fred Craddock, Luke, Interpretation, John Knox Press, Louisville, 1990, pg. 150).
It is so hard to go and do. We prefer verbal jousting. Our family lived for many years in a rough and tumble inner-city neighborhood of Washington, D.C. We had our car stolen, our row house and car windows shot out, drugs repeatedly hidden in our front yard, and a 7 p.m. curfew instituted because a sniper had indiscriminately killed three of our neighbors. In the midst of all this, I had lunch at a synod assembly with a pastor who lived and worked in a posh Baltimore suburb. He spent the entire lunch trying to catch me in inconsistencies in my ministry and to prove that his ministry had more legitimacy than mine. He grilled me on a host of issues. The one I remember most was his asking whether our sons went to public schools—which they didn’t. He told me that if we really cared about the city, Dagmar and I would send our boys, Caspar and Sebastian, to inner-city public schools not private schools. Perhaps he was right but I told him that we refused to shine our “liberal credentials” on the backs of our children; when our boys were old enough, they could decide where to go to school; until then, Dagmar and I were in charge. I then asked him where his children went to school. He said, “My wife and I have no children.”
You have probably noticed that people who have nothing to lose are often the ones with the finest answers and who love to play the lofty game of who is right and who is wrong. Those in the heart of the battle have very little time for such diversion and simply must act and pray to God that what they do will be close to living the truth. They must trust that God will be merciful as they attempt to be the best neighbors they can be.
The Samaritan acts. He ignores the ritual restrictions of treating the wounds of the injured man; he takes him to an inn and pays the innkeeper for his rest and healing. The Samaritan doesn’t worry about his religious purity or his long term liability: he comes upon an injured man and immediately seeks how to tend to his wounds.
Sometimes, we religious people spend far too much time maintaining our purity as if doing so will get us a “get into heaven free card.” In Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, there comes a point when Huck must decide whether to turn in his friend and escaped slave Jim to his rightful owner. Huck knows that it is against the law to harbor an escaped slave. He mulls this over and writes a letter to Jim’s owner, Miss Watson, telling her where she can find Jim. He then considers their friendship and the time they have spent together. He looks at his note and says: “It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: All right, then, I’ll go to hell—and tore it up.’” (Wendell Berry, The Hidden Wound, North Point Press, San Francisco, 1989, pg. 95).
Huck is the Good Samaritan. He cares for his neighbor instead of trying to maintain his purity even if it means going straight to hell. Now, that is a good neighbor!
I have discovered that if we really want to live lives of significance, we will inevitably make tons of mistakes along the way. Someone will always be glad to judge our inconsistencies and mistakes--of which there will be many. I find this to be true here at First Lutheran almost daily. When we side with the poor instead of rich developers, someone criticizes us for speaking up; when we side with the gay and lesbian community instead of fire and brimstone Christians, someone pounds passages in their Bibles; when we care for the homeless and underserved instead of keeping our hands clean, others criticize us for creating a nuisance. We get dirty when we care for the beaten up on the side of the road. In fact, a friend of mine once said that if you want to care for the underdog, the first thing you sacrifice is your integrity.
Duke Divinity School theologian Stanley Hauerwas writes of his life: “The life into which I am drawn is a life without safeguards. I do not know how to hedge my bets. In the parlance of poker, ‘I am all in.’ (Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child, Eerdmans Publishing Company, Grand Rapids, 2010, pg. 234). The Good Samaritan is all in, too. Jesus asks us, “Are you all in?” He doesn’t tell us to be careful; he doesn’t condemn us for making mistakes. Instead, he says, “Go and do the same.” Love your neighbor--that is enough.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
July 4, 2010
Romans 13: 1-10; Mark 12: 13-17
"God Shed His Grace on Thee"
You are in the midst of a rarity. I can count on one hand the times during my ministry when I have changed the appointed lessons and the liturgy for the day—I have never done that here at First Lutheran until today, Independence Day.
These changes make me very nervous. Many special interest groups ask us to change the Sunday lessons and liturgy to observe their special days. World Hunger Sunday, AIDS Sunday, Lutheran Camps Sunday, Campus Ministry Sunday, Seminary Sunday--these are but a few of the requests. Father Aidan Kavanaugh, my seminary worship professor, warned us of such requests. “If you open worship to every group that comes your way,” he warned, “eventually you will end up observing ‘Goiter Sunday.’”
With warnings of “Goiter Sunday” dancing in my head, I have been my own worst critic as I have contemplated today’s Independence Day worship service. I have struggled all week picking appropriate hymns for us to sing and fitting prayers for us to pray. I have sought the counsel of a number of you. I have wondered whether you agree with me that some patriotic hymns are left best for the seventh inning stretch at a Padre’s game instead of Sunday worship at First Lutheran Church.
Let me warn you conservatives that as this sermon continues, you may get the sudden, uncontrollable urge to flog me. You deem the United States of America as God’s precious gift, a sort of handmaid of the Lord, called to execute justice against all manner of evil and to protect the precious liberties that are ours, including worshiping here this morning. You do not experience an iota of conflict in singing patriotic hymns with gusto and lifting up our nation in prayer.
You liberals, as you listen to my sermon, may get a hankering to cast me to the netherworld of outer darkness for even daring to lift up the United States in worship. You note that there are people here from places like Uganda and Brazil, Japan and Canada, Germany and Mexico; “How can they sing O Beautiful for Spacious Skies?” you ask. You warn that nationalism is the peskiest of idols as we risk rendering our highest allegiance to nation rather than God.
In spite of all this, I invite you this morning, conservative and liberal alike, to pray for our nation. If you are not a citizen of the United States, I invite you to pray for your own country. Saint Paul writes: “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except form God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God.”
Yes, in spite of what you may have heard on talk radio lately, Christians are called to pray for their leaders…oh yes, and to pay taxes too. Martin Luther, in his explanation of the Fourth Commandment (“Honor your father and your mother”) writes, “We are to fear and love God so that we do not despise or anger our parents and other authorities, but respect, obey, love, and serve them.” In a nation torn by fierce partisan loyalties and offensive rhetoric, we do well to pray regularly for those who lead us, most especially those for whom we did not vote and whose policies challenge us to the very core. We pray today for President Obama, Governor Schwarzenegger, Mayor Sanders, and all who lead us.
Nevertheless—and you just knew there was going to be a “nevertheless”—what we do here today must be done with caution. The First Commandments reminds us: “I am the Lord your God. You shall have not other gods.” This commandment was taken so seriously by early Christians that they refused to place even a pinch of incense at the emperor’s statue, knowing full well that such a refusal likely meant a martyr’s death. These martyrs heeded the words of Jesus: proper worship can only be rendered unto God and never to Caesar no matter what the nation.
As we pray, we understand, of course, that every nation is always in need of correction. The Reverend William Sloane Coffin wrote: “How do you love America? Don’t say, ‘My country, right or wrong.’ That’s like saying, ‘My grandmother, drunk or sober’; it doesn’t get you anywhere. Don’t just salute the flag, and don’t burn it either. Wash it. Make it clean.”
If citizens and nations are to remain great, they must always be open to correction in order to be made clean. On Friday, on the Capitol steps of the great state of West Virginia, President Barack Obama said of Senator Robert C. Byrd, this nation’s longest-serving member of Congress: “He possessed that quintessential American quality. That is a capacity to change, a capacity to learn, a capacity to listen, to be made perfect.” Who would have imagined that this former Ku Klux Klan member would be eulogized by an African American president? Yes, true greatness comes not with inflexibility and arrogance but with the courage to change and the humility to be corrected. Such a spirit ensures that something greater can always be achieved.
It was such humility to be corrected, such courage to be changed that enabled this nation to adopt the Thirteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution; this amendment ended slavery on December 6, 1985. This nation, as you know, believed at its inception that all men are created equal. And yet, as we know, African Americans were not free in this land. In order to achieve the noble vision of the founding fathers, citizens and leaders alike had to be willing to be corrected so that something greater than what our founding fathers envisioned could become reality. Are we as a nation still capable of changing and correcting so that even more people might taste the glorious freedoms of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Let us pray for courage and humility.
Thirty-four years ago today, July 4, 1976, was the Bicentennial of our nation. I was living in Brooklyn at the time and doing clinical training at the Lutheran Medical Center. It was a splendid day as tall ships sailed up New York Harbor and fireworks lit the evening sky. I started that day off by worshiping at the venerable Riverside Church in New York City. I will never forget the preacher that morning inviting the congregation to sing “O Beautiful for Spacious Skies” at the conclusion of his sermon. I thought the invitation odd, it made me uncomfortable: I feared we might end up worshiping the United States instead of God. And yet, as the packed church began to sing, chills danced on my spine and tears welled up in my eyes. I saw people worshiping that day who most assuredly had opposing views of what their nation should be (remember: 1976 followed quick on the heals of the Viet Nam War which divided this nation beyond belief) and yet I also saw a people united, giving thanks to God for a nation that “hold these truths to be self evident....that all men are created equal.... and that they are endowed by their Creator .... with certain inalienable rights ....and among these, are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
We will do the exact same thing this morning and sing “Oh Beautiful for Spacious Skies.” As we sing, let us reflect on the words on the base of the Statue of Liberty:
Let us pray that this vision may never be forgotten or sacrificed for a lesser vision. Let us cherish this vision affixed to the entrance of our beautiful land. May this nation continue to welcome the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the homeless and tempest-tost. Gathered in prayer this day, let us beseech God to shine His grace on thee.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
June 27, 2010
Luke 9: 51-62
"Jesus, You Must Be Kidding"
The reading we just heard from Saint Luke’s gospel troubles me. And trouble may be too weak a word. If I had my druthers, I might delete today’s reading from Holy Scripture. There is a harsh demand that is almost too much to bear.
Let me refresh your memory. Jesus says, “Follow me.” The first person responds, “I will follow you wherever you go”—a faithful and pious answer to be sure. Jesus responds, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” A snotty reply, don’t you think?
The next person is willing to follow, too, with one minor qualification: “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” Jesus snaps, “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Tell the truth now: if someone would forbid you from burying your father or mother, what would you think of them?
The third person is ready to follow with an ever so slight addendum to the contract, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” A perfectly reasonable request to my ears. Jesus answers, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”
We might listen to this morning’s gospel reading with a smile and without fidgeting, but honestly, how many of us take it seriously when the rubber hits the road?
I have tried to take Jesus’ demands seriously during my ministry. I celebrated thirty-three years of ordained ministry on Friday. They have been wonderful years and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I think you know that the past five years here at First Lutheran have been beyond belief for me, a gift from heaven! And yet, as I look back over the years, I have some regrets. There have been failures on my part, failures due to a lack of nerve, failures caused by immaturity and arrogance, failures from taking myself far too seriously in the grand scheme of things, failures in delivering hopelessly boring sermons, failures in pastoral care when words were chosen carelessly and not particularly well. You know all these shortcomings by now.
After all these years, however, if I were to mention my biggest failure, it is that I have spent far too little time with Dagmar and with our boys Caspar and Sebastian as they were growing up. There were countless times when I was not at our boys’ baseball games or school events due to church commitments. There were times when I stayed at the church all hours of the night when I should have been home with Dagmar. I would like to think I did this because I wanted to be a faithful pastor--I was taught that the best pastors work the longest hours! In truth, though, I might have worked too hard for fear that people might think less of me—call it insecurity. So many times, sadly, I have been the one who didn’t go bury my family’s dead and say, farewell. I have tried to take Jesus’ invitation, “Follow me,” seriously, and in so doing, my family has paid an enormous price. I am not the least bit proud of that for, in the end, I know I have failed time and again. Perhaps that’s why I would leave today’s gospel reading out of Holy Scripture. If there are disappointments in my ministry, they have come in my attempts to meet the harsh demands of Jesus.
It seems, at least in my case, when I hear today’s reading, I hear only part of it. I hear Jesus’ harsh demands to follow him but forget almost entirely the other part. Do you remember the other part? Let me read it one more time: “When the days drew near for [Jesus] to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” The journey has begun; Jesus is on his way to die whether we follow him or he goes alone.
Thank heavens Jesus tells us where the journey will lead. If we hadn’t been forewarned, we might complain that we were given a rotten deal. Jesus makes going with him so demanding that we often say, “Jesus, I can’t go. I must go bury my father first.” Jesus understands.
If the truth be told, there is something quite wonderful about this reading. Most of us would not think twice about saying goodbye to those we love before leaving them and following Jesus; and we would always attend their funerals before hitting the road with Jesus. In spite of this, Jesus never says to us, “Forget it then, I’m not going to Jerusalem.” Jesus goes on his way on our behalf with or without us.
You love Jesus, I know you do. And yet, how many of you are willing to take Jesus’ harsh demands seriously? Are you willing to sell all you have and give it to the poor? A harsh demand. I know for most of you here this morning giving even 10% of your income to the work of Jesus is asking a lot in this economy. Or that business about loving your enemies, how many of you struggle with that one? A harsh demand. Jesus couldn’t have meant loving the Taliban or Osama bin Laden, could he? You want to follow Jesus, but there are limits: you aren’t religious fanatics in some crazy cult.
Jesus seems to know how you and I will react to his harsh demands for discipleship. We make all sorts of compromises and fail to measure up to his demands time and time again. In spite of our cowardice and lukewarm discipleship, his love for us never wavers. Never, not even this morning. Perhaps this morning’s reading has much more to do with Jesus and much less to do with us.
So, “Will you come and follow me,” Jesus asks. My hunch is that every one of us will try. And yet, at some point, we will waver and reply, “That’s far enough.” Then, all we can do is stand in awe as Jesus says, “That’s okay. I understand.” We will watch in adoration as Jesus trudges to Jerusalem, alone, to die for us.
Let us never forget today’s reading. NEVER!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fourth Sunday after Pentecost
June 20, 2010
Luke 8: 26-39
A Most Modern Story
The reading we just heard feels cobwebby to our modern ears. All the talk about demons, unclean spirits, chains and shackles, and swine jumping off cliffs--it as eerie as an old haunted house. We talk so much differently today when we speak of homeless people, the mentally ill, and the addicted.
Listen one more time, though, for a detection of the modern: “As Jesus stepped out on land, a man of the city who had demons met him…and shouted at the top of his voice, “What have you do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?” Rarely does a day go by here at First Lutheran without someone talking wildly to themselves, to others, or even to Jesus.
Note, too, how the gospel says that the demon possessed man “had worn no clothes, and he did not live in a house but in the tombs.” Walk outside this building after worship and you will see a similar sight with people camped out right across the street and, of course, people are knocking at our doors all the time in need of cloths.
Is the reading really antiquated? My hunch is that there isn’t a single person here this morning who hasn’t struggled with depression, alcohol, or drugs or known someone who has. We don’t have to leave this room to discover the demons. We understand that man who lived so long ago in the country of the Gerasenses better than we care to admit.
One of the top five books on my “desert island list” is William Styron’s Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness. Styron writes of how we moderns have smoothed over the rough edges when speaking of mental illness. He notes that we “banish the harsh old-fashioned words: madhouse, asylum, insanity, melancholia, lunatic, madness. But never let it be doubted that depression, in its extreme form, is madness” (pg. 46). Styron knows from personal experience: the demons hounded and chased him and it was madness!
If you have struggled with alcohol or drugs, you know the demons, too. The first step of Alcoholics Anonymous’ twelve steps is, “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.”
Remarkably, the Bible says that when Jesus freed the man of his demons, the villagers were “seized with great fear.” Why was that? Wouldn’t his freedom be cause for rejoicing? Such peculiar behavior would never occur in our sophisticated age…or would it?
Statistics indicate that between 20 to 25% of homeless people in the United States suffer from some form of severe mental illness, 38% are dependent on alcohol, and 26% on drugs. You would think that we would want to free these suffering people from the demons. And yet, we seem paralyzed by fear. Or, like those people who lost their swine jumping over the cliff, are we fearful of the costs? Programs that provide services to battle the demons are dreadfully under-funded in our city, county, and nation. Ask Jim Lovell, the director of TACO, how hard it is to get people into programs treating mental illness and alcohol and drug addiction. We are as seized by fear as they were way back when.
A number of us from First Lutheran attended a San Diego City Council meeting a few months ago. At that meeting, a program called “Housing First” was discussed. This program seeks to provide housing for chronic homeless people and has been remarkably successful in large cities, including the Times Square area of New York City. There, homeless people were given access to housing and only one chronic homeless person remained on the streets. Studies indicate that it is astronomically cheaper to house homeless people than to place them in jails, prisons, shelters, psychiatric, and other hospitals. Why are we seized by fear?
My dear brothers and sisters, Jesus calls you and me to tell others not to be afraid. Jesus calls us here at Third and Ash to cast out demons in his name.
And it is not just the homeless community to whom we are called to cast out demons. William Styron notes that what pulled him through his severe depression was family and friends. They were the people who called out to him, “Chin Up.” He notes that “if the encouragement [others provide] is dogged enough---and the support equally committed and passionate—the endangered one can nearly always be saved” (pg. 76). We are called, in Jesus’ name, to provide similar encouragement to those we love in the throes of depression and, almost always, the demons will eventually flee.
Speaking of demons, the second step of Alcoholics Anonymous is, “We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” Eight twelve step groups gather at First Lutheran during the week to struggle against a host of demons. Quite a few of you credit these groups with literally saving your lives. A number of you came here to worship by way of these groups—these groups are one of our best evangelism programs. I often describe First Lutheran to visitors and friends as a kind of Alcoholics Anonymous at worship--I say that positively and with a smile.
When we baptize people here at First Lutheran, we face the West where the sun sets and where ancients thought they might be seeing the setting sun for the final time as the world came to an end. At baptisms here, we hold up our hands to fend off the deadly assaults of the demons as we “renounce the devil and all the forces that defy God.” Another part of that ancient ritual of renouncing Satan that I would love to incorporate here is spitting in Satan’s face. And then, in the baptismal rite, we face East, with hands extended, as we welcome Christ, the Rising Son, into our lives. We urge one another out of the tombs that haunt us and to turn our lives over to God.
The story of the Gerasene madman is more modern than we care to admit. He is here this morning, crying out for freedom from the shackles and chains that hold us captive. He is here because he is you and I.
We gather here together and we cry out to Jesus to send out the demons from ourselves and from those we dearly love. And, yes, we spit in Satan’s face just to add an exclamation point. Sounds modern to me!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Third Sunday after Pentecost
June 13, 2010
2 Samuel 11: 26-12: 10, 115
The Family Tree
Manipulative, sly, brutal, adulterous, deceitful, conniving, murderous…Would you choose a leader with such traits? Much to our surprise, God did. His name was David and his life was, at least in part, a quagmire of sleaze.
We just heard the riveting story of David and Bathsheba. David spotted gorgeous Bathsheba sunning herself one beautiful summer afternoon. David had nothing better to do than look at bathing beauties from his palace balcony; at the same time, his troops were engaged in ferocious battle and losing their lives.
David met up with Bathsheba--he was the king after all--slept with her, and she became pregnant. Stuck in a most precarious predicament, David sent Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah, to the front line of battle with hopes Uriah would be killed. David was not disappointed. Uriah was tragically killed and David and Bathsheba had the baby. This baby died soon afterwards, the Bible says, because of his parents’ sin. As you might be aware, David and Bathsheba had another son eventually known as King Solomon.
A sordid story we know all too well as it seems repeated over and over again by national leaders down through history.
For some reason, despite his faults and frailties, we teach our children to revere King David. We tell them how he killed the giant Goliath with a simple sling, how he wrote our beloved Psalms in the Bible, how he became the king of God’s people Israel.
While we love the hero David, if he is to be at all helpful to our children as they grow older, we need to tell them his whole story. We need to tell of his peaks and valleys, his successes and failures, and yes, of his need for forgiveness and God’s showering him with redemption.
We tend to tell only part of the truth when speaking of the heroes we adore. While we villainize our opponents and attack them for the tiniest blunders, we airbrush our heroes, making them appear as perfect as perfect can be. If you don’t believe me, look at the political landscape of this nation in these days, particularly the politicians you like and those you detest. How do you tell their stories? Almost always, our heroes are painted in bright colors and we give them lots of slack; those we don’t care for are painted in dismal colors and we simply shout, “Throw the bums out!” If we are the least bit honest about those who lead us, whether Republican and Democrat, we will admit that they are much more complicated than we ever make them out to be.
What is remarkable about the story of David and Bathsheba is that it appears in the Bible at all. Writers of history—usually the victors, by the way—tidy up their heroes and nations and write only of the enemies’ atrocities and treachery. We teach our children of the despicable bombings of London and Pearl Harbor in World War II but conveniently forget to tell them of the fire-bombing of Dresden and the devastating atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Amazingly, in most cases, the Bible tells the whole truth about our biblical heroes, the atrocities as well as the achievements. It is quite frankly why some people have such a problem with the Bible--it is often so darn honest!
When you get home today, turn in your Bible to the first chapter of the Gospel of Matthew. There you will discover the family tree of Jesus Christ. It begins this way, “A record of the genealogy of Jesus Christ the son of David…” Who would think to begin the story of Jesus with David? When you examine Jesus’ family tree, you will note, “David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife.” The sleaze is there. On and on the genealogy goes until it arrives at “Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ.” Who would ever imagine that Jesus came from a family with such a sordid past?
And yet, if we tell the truth about King David, we are treated to a feast of grace. Amidst David’s sickening infidelity and murderous appetites comes Jesus Christ. What we see in all of this is God’s ability to work with imperfect people, whether David and Bathsheba or you and me. As Martin Luther once said, “God can carve the rotten wood and ride the lame horse.”
Almost every biblical hero with the exception of Jesus seems filled with ambiguity: there is astonishing greatness and there is sickening brokenness; there is towering success and there is heartbreaking failure. If we teach and learn the biblical stories correctly, we will learn that our heroes possess a deep humanity that, when imbued with God’s grace, can be used for mind-boggling purposes.
David and Bathsheba’s story, of course, is our story. Their fall from grace is our fall. Telling only of David and Bathsheba’s revolting failure is never enough. As we discussed in last Sunday’s 10-10 on Luther’s explanations of the Ten Commandments, the church’s full task is never simply to judge one another for our sins—that is the easy part. While it is essential to confess the truth about our failures, God calls us to so much more. Just as God redeemed David to become the great, great…grandfather of Jesus, God redeems us for greater purposes too. God lifts us up when we are down and our lives become part of the graceful story of God’s delicious redemption.
David and Bathsheba…who would have ever thought that these broken people would become the great, great, great…grandparents of Jesus? Maybe there is hope for us after all. Maybe our story, too, can surprise us and we can become part of God’s wonderful plan for all humanity.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Second Sunday after Pentecost
June 6, 2010
1 Kings 17: 17-24; Galatians 1: 11-24; Luke 7: 11-17
"Do You Believe in Miracles?"
You may remember the 1980 Winter Olympics. The overwhelming favorite to win the gold metal in ice-hockey was the Soviet Union. The U.S. team was made up of a rag-tag bunch of college players and amateurs. The Soviet skaters consisted of the pro-like mighty Red Army team. The U.S. beat the highly favored Soviets and sportscaster Al Michaels famously remarked with eleven seconds remaining, “Do you believe in miracles?”
In preparation for this sermon, I have searched high and low for what Lutherans believe about miracles; I have found precious little. What little I did find is that miracles are like little lightening flashes that point us to the far greater lightening flash of Christ’s resurrection. Other than that, nothing. I do not remember ever studying about miracles in seminary nor do I remember ever being asked what I thought about them when I was examined to become a Lutheran pastor.
I am frankly a bit embarrassed to talk about miracles this morning. Why? Because I am not sure what I believe about them. I have never had the least desire to join a church where a slick-haired evangelist makes a crippled woman throw down her crutches and walk. I have never wanted to travel to Oklahoma to see the face of Jesus in a Baskin Robbins ice cream cone. On the other hand, I have been reading of late about miracle working icons in monasteries at Mount Athos on a peninsula off the coast of Greece that are reported to have curative powers for all manner of illnesses. I frankly am intrigued by the idea of miracle working icons, but, as yet, I have not booked a flight to Greece.
So, do you believe in miracles?
Each of today’s readings contains a miracle. Elijah stretches himself over the body of the son of the widow of Zarapheth and that young man comes back to life. In the gospel reading from Luke, another widow, the widow of Nain, is on her way to the graveyard to bury her son when Jesus and his entourage pass the funeral procession. Jesus sees the weeping woman, has compassion on her, and brings her son back to life. Even in Galatians, a miracle is tucked in as the apostle Paul tells of violently persecuting the church and seeking to destroy it. He never gives one thought to changing his murderous ways and yet is converted by the sheer grace of God and becomes the greatest evangelist the church has ever known.
I think you would agree that each of these events is a miracle. Two young men are brought back from the dead and one man is saved from delivering loads of Christians to the dead.
No one expects or even thinks to ask for a miracle to occur in any of these readings. Because of severe grief, the widows cannot comprehend the possibility of their sons coming back from the dead. And for Paul, because of unbridled arrogance, he wouldn’t want a miracle if he could have one; he is pleased as punch as he does his best to annihilate the Christian Church from the face of the earth. In all three stories, God acts when there is not a trace of hope in sight and not even an inkling to ask for a miracle.
Have you ever thrown up your hands in defeat and said, “There is no hope.” I would imagine every one of us, at one time or another, has wept tears of resignation, moaning, “Things will never change.”
In this book, Broken, William Moyers, the son of PBS journalist Bill Moyers, writes of such resignation in his life. He tells of an intervention team coming for him in a rundown crack house in inner-city Atlanta, trying to rescue him from the sure death of addiction. Listen:
“My father was sitting in the front passenger seat. Turning to look at me, he saw a thirty-five-year-old crack addict who hadn’t shaved,
showered, or eaten in four days.
A man who walked out on his wife and two young children and ditched his promising career at CNN. A broken shell of a man, a pale
shadow of the human being he had raised to
be honest, loving, responsible. His firstborn son.
“Silence.
“‘You‘re angry,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.
“‘That’s hardly the word for it.’ His voice was harsh and cold, like the rain outside.
“More silence.
“‘There’s nothing more I can do,’ he said. ‘I’m finished.’
“All these years later, he tells me that’s where the conversation ended. But whether I imagine it or not, I heard him
say something else.
‘I hate you.’
“And I remember looking in his eyes and speaking my deepest truth.
“‘I hate me, too.’” (William Cope Moyers, Broken, Viking Press, 2006, pg. 3,4)
Perhaps you have been there, too: you hated yourself or someone else and you considered hope all but dead.
Or maybe on a global scale, you look at Muslims, Christians, and Jews in the Middle East and say this mess can never be resolved so bombs away. Or you look at the horrendous pictures of oil-logged pelicans suffocating to death in the Gulf and you believe that our modern world can never gain sobriety from its oil binging appetites.
There is certainly something in each of our lives that causes us to throw up our hands in despair and cry, “What’s the use? Nothing short of a miracle can change things and I don’t believe in miracles.”
Whenever we feel there is no hope, we are navigating uncharted territory. When we are out of control, it is a good idea to stop the car, get out of the driver’s seat, and leave the driving to God. According to the Bible, God takes us places in our lives that we simply cannot go ourselves. It is precisely at these times when there seems so little hope where there actually is the possibility of new birth being given. Suddenly we stop trying to control things with our useless tricks and worn out schemes and, for the first time perhaps ever, we turn our lives over to God.
When we find ourselves saying things like, “There is no hope” and “They will never change” and “I am a hopeless mess,” we may be at a potentially wonderful time. We should be quiet and calm and entrust our broken dreams and dead end lives to God. We may be on the verge of a miracle.
If you ask me, “Do you understand how dead people are brought back to life?” I will tell you, “No.” If you ask me, “Do you believe in miracles?” the best I can say is, “I would like to.” But, if you ask me, “Do you believe God can make miracles happen?” I will tell you, “That’s why God is God and I am simply Wilk Miller. I have faith that God can do things I can’t.” I imagine you feel about the same way.
Let us pray…Dear God, we pray, make us bold to commend our bodies and souls and all that is ours into your hands and bring about miracles in our lives, in the lives of those we love, and into our groaning world. After all, God, that’s why we are here this morning: we have come to leave the driving to you. So, here God, take our lives and make a miracle happen. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Holy Trinity Sunday
May 30, 2010
"The Immensity of God"
In the name of the Father, and of the Son (+), and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Today is the only day in the church year when the church celebrates a doctrine. Today is Holy Trinity Sunday. We lift up God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Lest you think the name of God unimportant, let me remind you: 1. First Lutheran Church’s constitution begins this way: “This congregation confesses the Triune God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit;” 2. Every one of you, when joining this church, said, “I believe in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit”; 3. If you say, “I never said that,” well, then, someone said it for you--“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
When it comes to Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, we sense that we are in tricky territory. The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein cautioned, “What we cannot speak about, we must not speak about.” You might like his suggestion. If I stopped my sermon right now, you would remember it for a lifetime. But we are invited to something more challenging; we are invited on this day to grapple with the immensity of God if for no other reason than to realize that God is always greater than anything we can think or say.
There are two dangers when considering Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. One is thinking that we can explain the mystery of God by our own wisdom and cleverness. The other danger, equally hazardous, is checking our brains in with the ushers as we enter worship and saying, “It doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you believe.”
Let us give the Trinity a fair shot this morning, realizing that our shot will unavoidably fall far short of the glory of God. Let us start with what Martin Luther writes in his Small Catechism: “I believe that by my own reason or strength I cannot believe in Jesus Christ, my Lord, or come to him.” Theologian Timothy Wengert says it another way: “When it comes to God, we cannot get there from here; God must come to us.” (Timothy Wengert, Martin Luther’s Catechism, Fortress Press, Minneapolis, 2009, pg. 60).
These words should come as very good news to us. We can be so self-conscious when it comes to talking about God. We feel almost unchristian if we are unable too give some fancy-dancy expression to what we believe about God. We sense that we should be like Christians who have all the answers up their sleeves whenever a difficult question is asked of them about God.
I was involved in a meeting this week and was flabbergasted by the certainty most of the people had when talking about God. They seemed to know exactly what God’s thoughts are on a host of complex matters. They even knew who would end up in heaven and who in hell whether God wanted their opinion or not. I left the meeting with a sour taste of self-righteousness, judgmentalism, and arrogance. I spent the entire meeting wishing that these people were less certain about God. I wanted to say, “Folks, your God is way too small!”
I wish that every time we talked about God, especially with those who differ from us, we would begin with Luther’s humble reminder, “I believe that by my own reason or strength I cannot come to believe…”
I had college friend who taught me more about God than any theology course I have ever taken. Paul was one of the most caring people I have ever met. He dropped out of college our junior year, sold all his belongings, including his 650cc Yamaha motorcycle, gave away the money to the poor, and went to serve the needy in India. I will never forget him coming to my dorm room one night, closing the door, and weeping. I also will not forget his words: “I admire your belief so much, Wilk. I wish I could believe in God but I simply am unable to do so.” I left the conversation not feeling judgmental of Paul’s unbelief or arrogant because of mine but rather humbled and grateful to God that I was given the gift of belief. It was a nonbeliever who reminded me of what an astonishing gift God has given me.
We dare not let our beliefs cause us to be critical of others as so often happens. In the Holy Trinity, there is no hatred between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And there can be no hatred among God’s people. One old monk has even said, “If you hate another person, you do not comprehend God.” Herbert McCabe sums up the Holy Trinity this way: “The whole of faith is the belief that God loves us; I mean there isn’t anything else. Anything else that we say we believe is just a way of saying God loves us.”
If we understand the love of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, we also understand that we are called to love one another. In the ancient church, when people were about to be baptized, in addition to being asked whether they believed in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, just as you were asked, they were also asked, “Have you honored the widows? Have you visited the sick? Have you done every kind of good work?’ Caring for others was an essential part of believing in God.
In a few moments we will commission Kathy Burns as a Simon’s Walk volunteer. Kathy joins a group of people who have committed themselves to the truth of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They share God’s love with those dying on the streets of San Diego. Rarely, do we think of the works we do for others as our confession of faith. But according to the ancient church, what we do for others is perhaps our best testament of what we believe about God. Saint Francis said: “"Preach the Gospel at all times. Use words if necessary."
One word often used in an attempt to describe the relationship between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is a Greek word that basically means “to dance.” If you look at this morning’s bulletin cover, you see the dance of the Holy Trinity in Rublev’s famous icon. As you gaze upon this holy icon, you sense the love these three feel for one another. There is no attempt to outdo the other. They are one at the table. And note another thing: there is actually room at the table for you and me. That, thank God, is the nature of Trinity. Trinity invites us to the dance even though we cannot possibly grasp the splendor of those who will join our hands in the dance. How can we ever explain such love? I suppose the best way to explain God’s love is simply to blush…and to join the dance of Trinity.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Feast of Pentecost
May 23, 2010
Genesis 11: 1-9; Acts 2: 1-21
"S.D.G."
What Bible stories did you learn as a youngster? The Tower of Babel is likely one of the first you learned. If you weren’t scared off by the story, you tried to create your own Babel Towers--at least I did. I used Lincoln Logs; our boys used Lego blocks. I tried to build those little notched brown logs as high as I could without them crashing to disaster. When they got what, to my mind, was very high, I called my parents to adore my creation: “Look how high I have built my logs,” I proudly announced. “They are going to touch the ceiling!”
Babel or not, every child should be blessed with such dreams of grandeur. What little boy doesn’t get on the playground and drive to the basket, take a shot, and scream gloriously, “Kobe Bryant for two.” And what girl doesn’t dress up in a flowing bed sheet, make a crown of aluminum foil and a wand from a paper towel roll, and proclaim to all the world, “I am the Queen.” Pity the child who is told, “You won’t ever amount to anything.”
In today’s first reading, we hear of such a dream gone awry. It is the dream of Babel. It is a dream of human beings who think they can build a tower that will touch the heavens and allow them to rule the world. They believe that they can make a name for themselves that will rival God’s.
It is a dream of trying to rival God that creates trouble. It is a dream of people who have forgotten who they are. It is a dream of people who have forgotten whose they are. It is a dream God must shatter.
The stories told in the first eleven chapters of Genesis are stories that we all understand. They are stories of men and women who have become too big for their britches. Come to think of it, they are stories about you and me.
Now, don’t get me wrong. The Tower of Babel is not a call to mediocrity. God calls us to excellence, even to build soaring skyscrapers and majestic bridges. What God does not do, however, is call us to works of arrogance that cause us to forget to give God the glory.
When Dagmar and I go on a road trip, I am in charge of choosing the music. I pick Bob Dylan, Emmylou Harris for myself and a little Johnny Cash and Buena Vista Social Club for Dagmar; I always take Bach’s B Minor Mass. I adore Bach’s Gloria and Sanctus. Whenever the Sanctus (Holy, Holy, Holy) comes on, I turn up the volume and try to sing bass for all I am worth. Chills run up and down my spine; tears come to my eyes. Bach’s music, while astonishing, always points beyond the composer—Bach made sure of that. At the end of all Bach’s religious works are the initials S.D.G., the Latin words, Soli Deo Gloria, to the glory of God alone. Bach’s music must make God smile and whenever I hear that music, I smile, too, and start praying to God.
How wretched are we when we forget those three little letters, S.D.G., Soli Deo Gloria, to the glory of God alone.
Jesus’ disciples repeatedly forgot Soli Deo Gloria. They were often caught wondering which one of them was the greatest; it seemed their favorite pastime. Even though the Son of God was their traveling companion, they strutted like peacocks and made believe they were the greatest.
Their arrogance finally came crashing down on their heads during the days leading to Jesus’ crucifixion. The disciples lost whatever courage they ever had. They stopped strutting their stuff; they only cowered. Who can forget the pathetic scene when Peter denied knowing Jesus? Peter, the one who thought he was the greatest, lost his nerve when a teenage girl asked him if he knew Jesus. Cowards all and they knew it.
And then the most astonishing thing happened. Jesus rose from the dead and began to make the disciples’ dreams rise from the ashes. Just before he ascended into heaven, Jesus told the disciples to wait in Jerusalem until they were clothed with power on high.
The waiting wasn’t easy. The disciples were scared and disillusioned. And then 50 days after the Passover and Jesus’ death, when Jew’s from around the world gathered in Jerusalem to celebrate the grain harvest and the giving of the law to Moses at Sinai, a violent wind began to blow like a fierce Santa Ana wind and tongues of fire fell from heaven upon the disciples. The disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit and they began to speak in other languages that everyone understood as if they had been studying Berlitz.
Suddenly, rather than arrogance or cowardice being front and center, the power of God made those disciples ten times the men they ever imagined they could be. Peter the coward was preaching before thousands of people. His sermon that Pentecost—just about this time in the morning—was so amazing that 3,000 were baptized--a record that has put all future preachers to shame.
Pentecost changed these cowards and made God’s glory shine forth. Just as Jesus told them, the disciples started doing the unthinkable and performing works even greater than Jesus. Who would have imagined it? Barbara Brown Taylor writes: “When they opened their mouths to speak, they sounded like Jesus. When they laid their hands upon the sick, it was as if Jesus himself had touched them. In short order, they were doing things they had never seen anyone but him do, and there was no explanation for it, except that they had dared to inhale on the day of Pentecost.” (Barbara Brown Taylor, Home by Another Way, pg. 144)
For every age, there is a twofold danger for God’s people: one danger is being afraid to stand up for God’s way because we are afraid what others might say; the other danger is becoming so arrogant that, rather than pointing to God, we point to ourselves. Cowardice and arrogance have the same end result: they leave God out of the picture. Pentecost is about God clothing people with power, making them courageous and humble spokespeople for God’s ways in this suffering world of ours.
The story is told of Heinrich Heine and his friend as they stood before the Cathedral of Amiens in France. Heine’s friend asked him, “Why people can’t build cathedrals like this anymore?” Heine replied, “It’s easy. In those days people had convictions, we moderns have opinions and it takes more than an opinion to build a gothic cathedral.”
Each one of us faces countless opportunities, almost daily, to create more than opinions. Pentecost calls us to be people of courage and, when the opportunity arises, to speak out for the poor and suffering and oppressed in the name of God even when it is not popular and even when we shake at the knees. Pentecost calls us to take a stand for someone other than ourselves. Pentecost calls us to be clothed with the power of the Holy Spirit and to strive for excellence in the areas of life where we work and play and live. Pentecost calls us to S.D.G., to soli deo gloria, to give the glory to God alone. Pentecost makes us ten times the people we ever imagined we could be. And for that alone, we say, “Happy Birthday, church!”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Remarks delivered at California Equality on Harvey Milk Day
My name is Wilbert Miller. I am the pastor of First Lutheran Church at 3rd and Ash, downtown; I also represent California Faith for Equality. I have been a Lutheran pastor for thirty-three years. I just celebrated my thirty-third wedding anniversary two days ago. And, yes, I am straight and my wife and I have two wonderful sons.
So you are wondering, “Why is he here?” I am here because I believe that you and I are created in God’s image. I am here because I believe that God loves each of us, female and male, Jew and Greek, slave and free, and, of course, gay and lesbian, bisexual and transgender and straight. I am here because I believe the words of the old children’s Sunday school song, “We are all precious in God’s sight.”
I am here because I have witnessed your pain in the GLBT community for my entire ministry. You have endured preachers’ rants since you were children; some of you steer clear of churches altogether because you cannot bear the rage any longer. I am here to say, there is a more excellent way; that way is God’s way of love.
I am here because of two dear friends whose marriage I performed two years ago, Mike and Ron, two men who have been together as long as my wife and I, two men who, until two years ago, never had the opportunity to stand at God’s altar and say, “I do,” two men who have expressed their love for each other in the face of catastrophic illness, yes, “in sickness and in health.”
My national church body, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, made the courageous decision last summer to stand against hatred; it now seeks ways to enable those in same-gender monogamous relationships to make lifelong commitments.
I must confess: when it comes to marriage, I am an unabashed conservative. GLBT or straight--if you want to have your partnership blessed or get married at First Lutheran Church, you must commit yourselves to one another “until death do us part.” This is a call to fidelity, commitment, and love, not a call to promiscuity.
Why in the world do you want to be involved in this? You do know the statistics, don’t you? 50% of marriages end in divorce. I trust that you are here because you want to commit yourselves to the one you love for a lifetime, for all that life brings.
This nation and our faith communities need you. This afternoon, you will tell others of your dream. You will meet people who voted against your right to marry. What you do takes courage. What you do, my dear friends, is American! Abraham Lincoln once said, “I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.” And, my, oh my, how this nation needs mercy.
As you tell your story and of your wish to marry, let mercy prevail. You honor Harvey Milk’s memory on what would have been his 80th birthday. Harvey Milk would be proud of your courage. And yes, I believe God is proud of you, too.
My dear friends, most importantly, I am here because of you. You witness to me, as so many of your brothers and sisters have through the years, that, in the biblical writer’s words, “No waters can quench your love and neither can floods drown it.”
Let us never forget: history finally honors those whose deepest values are built, not on hatred and judgment, but on love and mercy. Gandhi, Jesus, King, and Milk—we remember these giants because they spilled their blood in the belief that love will finally triumph over hatred.
There will come a day when others will thank you, as we thank Harvey Milk this weekend, for making it possible to stand before God and the state and say, “I will love you for better or worse, for richer for poorer, until death do us part.”
May God bless you this afternoon in your courageous work of love.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Seventh Sunday of Easter
May 16, 2010
Acts 16: 16-34
"Jail House Rock"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
We have been screaming “Christ Is Risen indeed! Alleluia!” for forty-three days now. You have either enjoyed this routine or else you have been humoring me along the way and your vocal cords are shot. Whatever your feelings, I thank you for playing along. It has been quite an Easter.
In a few weeks, we will hit the long stretch called “Ordinary Time” or “Sundays after Pentecost.” “Ordinary Time” is the liturgical equivalent of driving through the San Joaquin Valley. We will put away the white celebration paraments and snuff out the Paschal Candle. We will resume confessing our sins at the beginning of worship (perhaps you have noticed that we have omitted the confession during Easter; one traditions proclaims that it is impossible to sin at Easter--while a quaint and naïve thought, it is lovely quite the same, don’t you think?). My dear friends, we will be back on the road to normalcy in just a few short weeks.
If you are at all like me, you appreciate a little normalcy in your life. Shouting “Christ Is Risen Indeed!” just to humor the pastor gets old. There is only so much celebrating a person can do. Like a good car that cannot go eighty miles an hour forever and survive for the long haul, neither can we pull out all the Easter stops and let ‘er rip for too long. Eventually, we need to catch our breath.
And yet, we have needed these Easter days, too. They have reminded us that God will always be victorious no matter how great the odds. We have stuck out our tongues at death and taunted, “Nanny, nanny, boo, boo!” We have stood toe-to-toe with the devil at the baptismal pool, splashing water in his ugly face and daring him to mess with our God. For 43 days and counting, we have sung our favorite word, “Alleluia!”
Such victory dances are nothing new. In today’s first reading, we hear of Paul and Silas who were thrown into jail for ordering an evil spirit to come out of a young girl. She was a fortuneteller working for the ancient Home Psychic Network. When Paul and Silas cast out the evil spirit from her, her pimps, as pimps are wont to do, were furious--how dare Paul and Silas interrupt the cash flow this poor girl was bringing in? Paul and Silas were dragged before the magistrate, stripped, beaten with rods, and thrown into jail.
You have got to believe that Paul and Silas were crestfallen as the stockades slammed shut and metal ripped into their ankles and wrists. Funny thing, though: no sooner were Paul and Silas tossed into the clinker than they started singing hymns to God. They sang up such a storm that an earthquake occurred and their chains fell off and a get out of jail free card feel into their hands straight from heaven.
Peculiarly, instead of running for freedom, Paul and Silas stayed in their cell. They didn’t want their poor jailer to kill himself for failing to do his job and keep his prisoners locked up. Paul and Silas just sat on the bench and sang a holy version of Jail House Rock which began, “My God is stronger than your God.”
That’s what weeks and weeks of singing “Alleluia” will do for us. Singing Easter songs goes so deep into our bones that we are equipped to walk through the darkest nights and face the fiercest enemies. When evil comes our way, rather than running scared, we will sing away, “Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!”
As you know, one of my heroes is William Sloane Coffin. He was the chaplain when I was in divinity school. He was locked up in jail, along with other anti-war protestors, for trespassing at the U.S. Capitol. One of the young protestors who was in jail with him was quaking in his boots. James Carroll was the son of a U.S. Navy Admiral. He tells of suddenly hearing a voice from another cell singing, “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people,” from Handel’s Messiah. He writes: “Coffin sang as if he were alone on the earth, and the old words rose through the dark as if Isaiah himself had returned to speak for you to God--to speak for God to you. Others in the cell block soon joined their voices to Coffin’s--‘The people who have walked in darkness have seen a great light’….He knew the words and he knew the music…You suddenly felt awash in an unexpected gratitude, for you realized that those words expressed your deepest faith, and that sung as they were, those words had an absolute integrity that far transcended your fearful hesitance.” (James Carroll in the foreword to Credo, William Sloane Coffin, 2004, Westminster John Knox Press, pg. x, 2004).
Oh, to hear such words. Oh, to sing such music. For seven weeks we have practiced such words and rehearsed such music. Over and over again we have sung, “Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!” We are ready now to go out into the world with resurrection music.
When I served Augustana Church in Washington, D.C., I began a tradition of taking the parish choir with me when visiting the dying. I will not forget gathering around the bed of a saint of the congregation and surrogate father to many. As we joined hands and wept, as was that parish’s tradition, we sang “Children of the Heavenly Father” in English and Swedish. Our singing dared death to do its dirty business. We knew, like you know, that God would get the final punch and with that punch, death would be knocked senseless and those we loved would live triumphantly forever.
The biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann notes that when we sing hymns, we are not only praising God, but we are also shaking our fist at evil. When we sing, ‘Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,’ we are also saying, “Down with the gods from whom no blessings flow.” (Leanne Van Dyk, Editor, A More Profound Alleluia, “The Opening of Worship,” John D. Witvliet, Eerdmans Publishing, Grand Rapids, 2005, pg. 12)
We do that here. People who visit here note that we are a singing congregation. We sing every verse of every hymn. I overheard a visitor a few weeks ago sigh disgustedly to his wife at the end of a hymn, “All six verses!” Yes, we love to sing together. We know we will need such songs because of the kind of ministry we dare to do. We praise God and defy the enemy to tread on 3rd and Ash and we do it all in one breath. We know that we cannot remain in this sanctuary for too long. Ministry on the city streets is calling us. The kind of ministry we do requires “alleluias” to be at our beckon call. Day-by-day, we stand toe-to-toe with some evil in our world and day-by-day we confidently proclaim that God will prevail.
Martin Luther said that those who believe that God conquered death cannot be quiet about it. He writes, “They must gladly and willingly sing and speak about it so that others also may come and hear it.” (Luther’s Works: Liturgy and Hymn, Vol. 53, Fortress Press, Philadelphia, 1965, pg. 333). That’s exactly what we have done during these days of Easter and that’s what we will do as the ordinary days come upon us.
And so, Easter now draws to a close--at least Easter in which I force you to shout, “Christ Is Risen Indeed! Alleluia!” When those tough times come in our lives, as they certainly will, when tears and sadness prevail, we will go deep to the well one more time and proclaim that our God can beat any measly god out there, and, oh yes, we will proclaim, too, “Alleluia! Christ is Risen!”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Sixth Sunday of Easter/Mother's Day
May 9, 2010
John 14: 23-29
"Choosing Our Words Well"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
It is so hard to say goodbye to those we love. When I was in elementary school, my mother and I played a game of sorts. I always came home for lunch. When we finished eating and it was time for me to return to Woodsdale School, I would give my mom a kiss, say “goodbye,” run around the house, come right back where I had started from, and say “goodbye” again. There were days we would do this four and five times before I finally headed off across the National Road. It is so hard to say “goodbye.” Even at a young age, I sensed that one day my mother and I would have to say our final goodbye.
In today’s reading Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say his final goodbye to his disciples. The way Jesus said goodbye was similar to how I used to say goodbye to my mother. Jesus’ goodbye on the final night was a long, drawn out affair. 20% of the entire Gospel of John is devoted to Jesus’ final night with his disciples, to his saying goodbye well. Jesus washed their feet, celebrated a final meal with them, entrusted them with his peace, and told them not to be afraid. Jesus simply could not stop the conversation. He hoped his words would give the disciples courage in the days ahead.
Our ministry together imitates Jesus’ final goodbye. Ministry, if it is anything, is treating every word we speak to another person as if it is the last one we will ever utter. Of course, there will come a time when one of those words will be our final word. Whether that word is spoken to our mother or father, our children, our spouse, our dearest friend, or people we have just met, every word we speak has the possibility of being our last. Don’t we hope that our last word to those we love will be a good word?
Our worship teaches us how to choose good words carefully. We Christians believe that words matter. That is the reason our worship has words that have been used for centuries: these words have stood the test of times; these words work.
Words brought creation into being, words turned water into wine, words made the lame walk, words brought the dead back to life. Words spoken here are no different. We begin our worship in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. These few words draw us into God’s embrace of love. Over and over again this morning, we will say to one another, “The Lord be with you.” It is as if we are saying, “Don’t forget that God loves you…Don’t forget.” Half way through our worship, we will stop everything and share God’s peace with one another: “The peace of the Lord be with you always.” We will go all over this room, making certain that we speak a good word to almost everyone.
It might surprise you that this “passing of the peace” has often been the most controversial change in worship for congregations that have never experienced it. When we share the peace with one another, it is no longer just me and Jesus. Things become more intimate and they also become a bit more threatening. Suddenly, worship involves those around us, those we might not particularly like, those with whom we hold grudges. Suddenly our love for God is determined by how we love our greatest enemy. If we do not love one another, we certainly do not love God.
One old Orthodox monk was asked, “Do you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?” He said, “Why of course not. I like to share Jesus with my friends.” That is what the peace is. It is sharing Christ’s love with one another, friend and foe alike. One theologian has said that the passing of the peace is “a sign of victory in the face of all that assaults the human community” (Timothy Radcliffe, Why Go to Church? pg. 174).
Just being here this morning is an indication of your eagerness to speak God’s language of love. You could have stayed home this morning, watched worship on television. But you have sensed that being at worship is living as Jesus lived on his final night. Gathering here is your opportunity to assure one another of your love and Christ’s love.
I have often heard people argue that bringing young children to worship is a waste of time; they say that children don’t understand what is being said or done. I beg to differ. It is here that children learn that God loves them. One of the women I fondly remember on this Mother’s Day is my Grandma Miller. Since my parents sang in the choir, I always sat with Grandma during worship. I often fell asleep in her lap and yet how wonderful to fall asleep in the lap of one who loved me and whom I loved. I honestly cannot remember a word that Reverend Myers, my childhood pastor, ever preached but I will never forget how he concluded all his sermons—some of you remember, too: “And now may the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” Just being there in Grandma’s lap assured me of God’s love and that assurance has remained with me for a lifetime.
Some people find Mother’s Day a difficult day. They have not experienced their mothers as loving. One of the sad truths is that abusers of children were often abused themselves. They never learned the language of love. We are told that children have determined how the world will treat them by the time that they are six weeks old. If this is true, then every word a mother speaks to her little girl matters, every hug she gives her little boy speaks volumes about love.
Do you do your best to make certain that every word matters when you talk with others? One pastor tells this story that “when he was a kid, his parents had always invited neighbors to Sunday dinner, and that they’d all sit around the table holding hands as they said grace. One of the loneliest guests, he said, had been an elderly widow, and one Sunday, after the prayer, she simply asked, ‘Can we hold hands a little longer?’” (Sara Miles, Jesus Freak, page. 103)
So many people want us to hold their hands a little longer.
On this Mother’s Day, we give thanks to God for those women who have held our hands and who have chosen their words carefully. We give thanks for those women who continue to choose their words well when they speak to us. Let us pray that we will all be moved by these women’s example. By the grace of the Risen Savior, may we, too, choose our words wisely and speak them lovingly to one another. We never know which word will be our last. Whatever that word ends up being, may God grant that it will be a beautiful one that will let a dear person in our life know that Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 2, 2010
Acts 11: 1-18
"No More Gated Communities"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
Gated communities are as old as the hills. There is something about human nature that longs for gatherings of like-minded people. In our first reading this morning, we hear of such a gated community. It is the first Christian community made up entirely of Jewish people. Never forget that the first Christians were Jews who went to synagogue services first and then, if they liked, went to a meal at someone’s home where they remembered the night in which Jesus was betrayed and took bread.
Peter, a good Jew, had an astonishing vision which turned his gated community upside down. He saw four-footed unclean animals, beasts of prey, reptiles, and birds as if coming down from heaven. There was a voice that said to him, not once but three times, “Get up, Peter; kill and eat.” Peter was horrified. How dare he, a good Jew, eat something so unclean?
God’s chosen people had a deep longing to remain pure and holy, to remain in a gated community if you will. There were 613 commandments in the Bible that instructed Jewish people how to maintain that purity. As far as I can tell, for most “Bible believing” people today, about only one of these 613 laws makes us squirm or sit up and pay attention. It is the law on homosexuality. The rest are quaint and precious and strike us like passing an Amish buggy on a country road. We simply do not take them seriously any longer.
Imagine Peter’s horror when he heard the heavenly voice telling him to eat unclean lizards and pork chops. This was unthinkable for a good Jew. What is astonishing is that Peter even gave this vision serious consideration. And so did the Bible: the Book of Acts mentions Peter’s experience not only in Acts 11 but also in Chapter 10—Luke was either asleep at the wheel or the early church deemed this experience incredibly important to its life together. Just as astonishing, suddenly, the vision was no longer about geckos and Alaskan king crabs; it was about baptizing an uncircumcised Gentile by the name of Cornelius and welcoming him into the emerging church’s life together.
Are you squirming yet? You are Gentiles! The Bible warned Peter about people like you. His brothers and sisters in the faith warned Peter about you, too. The problem centered on that one little detail, circumcision. Our problems in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America today pale in comparison to the biblical debates around welcoming uncircumcised people into the family of God. Peter’s vision commanded him to disregard over one thousand years of biblical tradition in order to open the doors for those on the outside who longed to be present with the Risen Christ on the inside. As so often happens when the fur is flying, a special convention was called in Jerusalem; God’s people fought like cats and dogs; and Peter was called upon to defend his case.
In whatever age, people long for gated communities, places where we can dress alike in pastels, eat lobster bisque, golf on membership only courses, talk in our special tribal lingo, and worship just like grandma and grandpa did.
In my hometown of Wheeling, West Virginia, high up on a hill above Chapline Street, stands--I assume it still stands--a majestic old building with the words “Lincoln School” elegantly formed in a concrete wall along the front of the school. Lincoln was where the African American students of Wheeling went to school from 1866 until desegregation came about in 1954. So many years of exclusion, so many. And who among us gave it much thought?
On and on it went in my hometown and I imagine in yours, too. They were, for many who were on the inside, the “good old days,” days when gates were slammed shut in outsiders’ faces and insiders felt pretty good about themselves.
I was part of such a gated community. When I was in second grade in Miss Johnson’s class, we had opening exercises every morning before reading, writing, and arithmetic. Some of you remember those opening exercise in the days when, as some claim, God was still in the classroom. We said the Pledge of Allegiance, sang “My Country Tis’ of Thee,” and prayed The Lord’s Prayer. Harmless enough, it would seem. And yet the sight of two of my seven year old Jewish classmates, Terry Sterling and Barbara Wiseman, still haunts me fifty-two years later. As twenty-eight of their little classmates prayed The Lord’s Prayer, Terry and Barbara remained seated, silent, and ostracized. We slammed the gate in their faces. I have always wondered what kind of “good old days God” would allow such brutality to two innocent children.
The recent immigration law passed in Arizona might cause us to ask whether we are still slamming the gate shut, whether we are hankering again for the gated communities of the good old days. I imagine some of you, maybe many of you, think this decision to tighten things up is a wise and courageous one on the part of Arizonan political leadership. You have heard the horrifying stories about brutal slayings carried out by drug cartels; you worry about increased health costs caused by undocumented people in this country. But, I wonder, if far deeper than wanting to protect this nation, is a pathological longing for gated communities and, in this case, for a gated nation. Never mind that people from Mexico do the bulk of our agricultural work in this state; never mind that you never go to a hotel without seeing a Mexican woman cleaning your room; never mind that it is almost always Mexican men you see chopping down weeds on steep banks. Building a gated nation from sea to shining sea scares me to death.
The Southern Poverty Law Center, a respected group which tracks hate crimes in our country, counted 932 active hate groups in the United States in 2009. 60 of these groups are in California alone; only Texas has more, only four more. All hate groups have beliefs or practices that attack or malign an entire class of people, typically for their immutable characteristics. These groups include Skinheads, White Nationalists, Neo-Nazis. These groups long for gated communities and will do about anything in their power to maintain such a vision. These groups reek of exclusion and nastiness.
I have been reading a pesky little book called Jesus Freak. The author, Sara Miles, is in charge of the food distribution program at Saint Gregory Episcopal Church in San Francisco (look it up on the web, it is an intriguing place). Her pastor Paul Fromberg says, “The surest sign of Jesus’ presence in the Eucharist is when there’s somebody completely inappropriate at the altar” (Sara Miles, Jesus Freak, pg. xv). Said another way, Jesus’ presence is most realized when the doors are open and the gates are obliterated and all are welcome at God’s table.
I hope that is the vision we strive for here at First Lutheran. By the grace of the Risen Christ, may this be a place where somebody completely inappropriate feels right at home. That’s precisely what God had in mind when calling Peter with lizards and oysters. The Resurrection God urged Peter to fight hard so that Gentiles like you and I might gather here this morning and proclaim together, Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fourth Sunday of Easter
April 25, 2010
Acts 9: 36-43
"Now, Was That So Hard?"
I received an email a few days ago from an old college fraternity brother. Call him Dave-O. He was one of my roommates at Phi Kappa Psi. I can’t remember when I last corresponded with him, maybe thirty-six years ago.
Dave was the picture of health and vitality. He was a strapping athlete who played on our college lacrosse team. We did things we shouldn’t have done back then, in part, I suppose, because, at twenty, we were certain we would never die.
It’s 40 years later now. Dave is my age, fifty-nine. He has Parkinson’s disease. When I received the news, I thought, not Dave my fun-loving fraternity brother.
I am getting to the age my mother warned me about. She told me there would come a day when the arrival of my college alumni magazine would bring a certain dread. She warned that I would go to the obituary section first. She was right. I turn to the obituaries before going to the accomplishments and accolades; I go there more often now because that’s where I find my friends.
Dagmar told me on Thursday evening that I was very quiet, that I wasn’t saying much. I had not noticed but I am sure she was right. I suppose, somehow, my mind reeked of illness and death. People my age aren’t supposed to get Parkinson’s. Or are they?
When the lives of those we love reek of frailty, more than ever, we are called to be resurrection people. We are called to enter rooms of dread and do exactly what Peter did over the dead body of Tabitha, boldly announce, “Tabitha, get up.”
Walking into these dread rooms is never easy. Who are we to announce life when frightening ills terrorize those we love? Most of us are not doctors. Maybe we should be quiet, stand clear, let nature take its course. Should we really expect miracles--that seems awfully strange, don’t you think?
I would like to share with you my old roommate’s thoughts on how one might enter a room wreaking of weakness and proclaim resurrection life. Listen…
In the months since my Parkinson’s diagnosis, I’ve bumped into too many old friends who are quick to apologize because they didn’t call me after hearing about my new challenge.
“I should have called but I didn’t know what to say,” is an all too common refrain.
The phrase “I didn’t know what to say” should be stricken from everyone’s vocabulary. You’ve known me for 5,10,15,20 years, you’re a smart person, you have a myriad of communication options, you must sense that I am, if not suffering physically, certainly experiencing some emotional pain, and you “Don’t know what to say?!”
Think how selfish those words sound. It might make you uncomfortable to make that call to a person facing the biggest challenge in their life. Does avoiding a little awkwardness take precedent over showing that you care? Do you want that on your tombstone?
So the next time you think, “I should call, but, golly gee, I don’t know what to say,” get a mirror and have a talk with the person staring back at you. And think about your first thought. When you get to, “I should have called, but”… STOP. Your initial instinct is right on. Of course you should call! And know this: if you call and babble, stammer, and generally butcher everything your English teachers ever taught you, I’ll only remember that you called. If you call, and say something totally stupid, I’ll only remember that you called. If you call and find it hard to go on, I’ll only remember that you called. At a time when I am just plain scared of my own mortality and feeling things I’ve never felt before, I don’t care what you say or how you say it.
A Wizard of Oz reference seems in order… have a heart, use your brain, and muster up some courage.
I recognize that no one has the ability to say the exact right thing at the exact right time to a friend in a tough spot. But remember: a friend in a tough spot is a friend first and foremost, not a grammarian. He values your friendship, not your use of syntax.
Role play with me: You: “Hey, I don’t know what to say.” Me: “You don’t have to say anything, the fact that you called speaks volumes.” There, was that so hard.
Walking into rooms filled with sickness is scary; words often fail us there. I imagine that is why so many of us avoid such places. We do not have the right words. Peter walked into such a room, Tabitha’s room. She was dead. What could he say that would make a difference? He said the unthinkable, “Tabitha, get up.” Were these the right words? He must have wondered, too. He said them because he had heard Jesus say something similar when Lazarus had died. So Peter said, “Get up, Tabitha.” After all, hadn’t Jesus told Peter, “Follow me” and didn’t “Follow me” mean that he should utter the unspeakable when everyone else was silent?
Easter is one story after another of God doing the unthinkable, announcing life in the face of death. The God who calls us to follow him stood before chaos and darkness and said, “Let there be light.” This God stood in slave camps and said to powerful and violent rulers, “Let my people go.” This God stood in a valley of rotting, rattling bones and said, “Let these bones live.” This God stood at an empty tomb and said, “My dear Son, Jesus, rise up.”
Now it is our turn. Jesus invites us to give it a try, to go to places stinking of death and boldly to announce life.
You come to me and ask about one of our members, “How is Hank? I haven’t seen him in a while. I miss him.” You care, I know you do. But why not call him yourself? The richness of Lutheran theology suggests that you can do that; we are all priests; we don’t have to wait for Pastor Miller before we care. It is scary, of course it is, but, as my friend says, “You don’t have to say anything. The fact that you call speaks volumes.”
I once asked a wise bishop whether I should visit a church member who was facing a particularly thorny situation: “Do you think I can visit him without calling first? Would I be butting in if I weren’t invited and simply barged in?” I will forget his Bishop Jansen’s words: “Wilk,” he said, “when you bear the resurrection, you never have to ask for permission.”
We are the bearers of resurrection life. Like Peter, we are the ones who must go to places of heartache and brokenness and say, “In the name of the Risen Savior, get up.” As my friend reminds us, throw grammar out the window. Go to your friends and say, “Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!” Now, was that so hard!?!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Third Sunday of Easter
April 18, 2010
John 21: 1-19
"Do You Want to Get Away?"
My favorite commercials of late are those of Southwest Airline. Having recently tried to stuff all our earthly belongings into two small carry-ons when we went to the Vancouver Olympics, I love the Southwest luggage guys out on the tarmac, bare-chested, claiming that you can check your luggage for free with Southwest. But the Southwest commercials I particularly love are the ones that present an embarrassing situation and then ask, “Do you want to get away?” There is the one where the guy asks a lovely woman to dance, whips up dancing frenzy, and then crashes into the DJ’s stand. The question: “Do you want to get away?”
Most of the resurrection appearances in the Bible are of the “do you want to get away?” variety. The disciples dropped everything to follow Jesus, including jobs and families. You have got to believe that some people thought they were nuts for giving up what security they had in order to follow an itinerant preacher whose only credentials were being a carpenter from Nazareth and being baptized by a raving lunatic in a muddy river. Imagine what fools they must have felt like when Jesus ended up nailed on the cross. This was the perfect time to ask the disciples, “Do you want to get away?”
Of course, we know they did want to get away. They hid in upper rooms with locked doors for fear that the authorities would come after them next. In today’s Gospel reading, Peter invited a few of the disciples to go fishing. At least for guys, when things are really bad, for some reason beyond my comprehension, they like to go fishing. Who knows whether the disciples figured this was the perfect way to forget about all that had recently happened to Jesus or if they were simply going back to what they knew best now that their dreams had been shattered and Jesus was gone? For whatever reason, they went fishing and caught nothing.
I would imagine that almost every person here this morning laughs at the Southwest Airline commercials. We laugh because we get them. We have had those moments, like the disciples, when we wanted to get away in the worst sort of way.
What do you do when you want to get away? Dagmar and I spent a few days camping this past week at William Heise County Park near Julian. We had the camp to ourselves and I almost completely forgot about church council meetings and balanced budgets as wild turkeys yakked away and woodpeckers pecked and we stared mindlessly into the camp fire under star-lit nights. Yesterday, we went to Santa Anita Race Track for 75th Anniversary Hat Day. I told Dagmar there was a moment when I forgot about all the cares of the world--including our income tax return--as my only concern was staring at the Daily Racing Form and deciding whether or not to pick Believe in Hope to win in the sixth race.
I imagine that every one of you has something in your life that enables you to forget, if but for a moment, the cares of the world.
Religious people, when they want to get away, go to church on Sunday morning. Others love to go to go on retreats at exotic secluded settings or monasteries to forget about the cares of the world for a while.
What is fascinating about today’s reading is that Jesus appeared to the disciples, not in those “want to get away places” but in the daily affairs of life of changing diapers, interacting with irascible office mates, and cooking another “Hamburger Helper” meal. Jesus appeared to Peter and his pals as they resumed the rough and tumble family fishing trade and had a barbecue on the beach. Note well: he appeared, not in a synagogue or on the Sabbath day or in some esoteric religious ritual, but in the humdrum of life on a perfectly ordinary day. He appeared as the disciples baited hooks and dug into a breakfast of fried fish and toast.
I suppose we tend to think that if the Risen Christ is going to show up in our lives, he is going to show up in “religious places” like at church on Sunday or in heaven when we die—and he certain does. And yet, I find Christians obsess about seeing Jesus when they die and spend so much time thinking about heaven that they almost forget about looking for him in the daily routines of life in the here and now. Isn’t it just as important to see Jesus now as it is in heaven, in the ordinary as well as the so-called sacred?
We so desperately want to get away to those holy places with holy things and holy people—and that is fine; and yet, we often miss Jesus when he appears to us in the routines of life. Imagine what our breakfasts would be like if we expected Jesus to show up around oat meal and orange juice. I know, at least in our family, from time to time, after we have prayed, “Come Lord Jesus,” and passed the eggs and bacon, we ask, “Have we prayed yet?” This sadly shows that not in a million years do we really expect Jesus to show up and be our guest, taking a seat for toast and jam.
I wonder if that is why so few families and friends ever gather around meals anymore. Maybe our slap-dash meals are indicative of the fact that we cannot imagine Jesus showing up to join us. The statistics are staggering of how few families eat the evening meal together let alone breakfast. And, if families do eat together, television is running and rarely is everyone present. One must at least ask whether Jesus would waste his time showing up while we watch reality television and catch the latest on the Tiger Wood saga.
I invite you all this week to be exceedingly attentive and look for the Risen Christ to join you at an ordinary meal with family and friends. Expect Christ to show up at your job--after all, that’s where he appeared to Peter and the boys--and treat every colleague as if she or he just might be the Risen Christ.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Second Sunday of Easter
April 11, 2010
Acts 5: 27-32; John 20: 19-31
"Free to Doubt"
You have noticed, I’m sure, that religion is getting a bad name these days and, sadly, in many cases, it is well deserved. Whether Christian, Jewish, or Muslim, religion demonstrates an inflexibility and judgmentalism that sickens kind-hearted people. Bombing buildings, occupying land forcibly, forming militia groups that create chaos and destruction--religious extremists are alive and well in our world.
One wonders where this rigidity and nastiness got its start. Such mean-spiritedness is certainly not condoned by Jesus. In the Gospel of John, we hear of Thomas who was not present with the other disciples when the Risen Jesus appeared to them that first Easter evening. Jesus could easily have judged him. Thomas was not there the night the Risen Savior appeared to the other disciples. He said he could not believe what the other disciples told him about the Risen Christ “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” You can hear strict Christians making harsh judgments: “What kind of follower of Jesus was Thomas?”
When Jesus came to Thomas a week after his appearance to the other disciples, he is anything but mean-spirited. He said, “Peace with you.” There is no criticism of Thomas’ desire to see the marks of Jesus’ crucifixion, no lambasting of his doubts. Jesus invites Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Rather than judgment, Jesus demonstrated enormous patience and compassion toward Thomas.
And then in our first reading from the Acts of the Apostles, we hear of Peter and the other apostles preaching up a storm in Jerusalem after the resurrection. These are the same guys who only recently had been sickening cowards and turned their backs on their friend, Jesus, in his time of need. But there Peter and his pals are preaching to beat the band. The religious authorities had to issue a cease and desist order and throw them into jail from time-to-time just to shut them up.
Who knows for sure why the Risen Savior showed such compassion toward Peter, just as he did to Thomas. Instead of judging Peter, Jesus empowered Peter with the greatest gift of all, the gift of the Holy Spirit. Instead of throwing him out of the fold, Jesus brought Peter deeper into the center of life and made him one of the most courageous people the church has ever known.
Jesus offered Peter and Thomas, a coward and a doubter, a second chance and amazing grace to boot.
If Jesus was so understanding of Peter‘s cowardliness and Thomas’ doubts, why is the church often so inflexible and unwilling to work gracefully with people’s doubts and struggles?
This morning, we receive fourteen new members into our community of faith, including Daniel Danger Diepholz who is to be baptized. Along with them, we will all be asked whether we believe in God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit? This is a big question. My guess is that many of us, dare I say all of us, will have our doubts about this question from time-to-time.
Frederick Buechner says that “Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith.” He is so right and yet why are we are so afraid to express our doubts in the church? How many times have you said, “I am sorry for asking such a stupid questions” or “I know a Christian should never ask a question like this.” Why do we see doubt as such a sinful thing?
I hope that First Lutheran is always a community that makes space for people to ask questions and express doubts to one another. I pray that, by the Spirit, we might be as graceful and compassionate toward one another as the Risen Savior was toward Peter and Thomas.
Now, not for a minute am I suggesting that we be wishy-washy about our faith. I am definitely not saying, “It doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you believe.” If that were the case, pity poor Jesus who died on the cross: what would his death have been worth if it doesn’t matter what we believe? Enough of that gimpy-kneed hogwash! And I am certainly not counseling parents and grandparents to let your children believe whatever they want and to decide for themselves whether they go to church on Sunday morning. Mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, stand up for Jesus and stand up for your children! Make them go to church! If your child decides she wants to use drugs, are you going to let her be free to do whatever she wants? Pity the thought! For God’s sake, likewise, teach your children to love Jesus Christ. Give them life not death.
Standing up for our faith, however, is a far cry from refusing to let one another express doubts and questions about our faith.
One of the books I was required to read before entering Wittenberg University as a freshmen was Paul Tillich’s Dynamics of Faith. Tillich was one of the theological giants of the twentieth century. In his book, he writes: “Many Christians…feel anxiety, guilt, and despair about what they call ‘loss of faith.’ But serious doubt is confirmation of faith” (Paul Tillich, Dynamics of Faith, pg. 22). I have always been grateful that my college made me read Tillich’s book before coming to college and taught me that doubts would make my faith stronger. The faculty knew that college religion courses would shake the foundations of our Sunday School faith just like last Sunday’s earthquake. They knew that if we were allowed to doubt and question, it was likely that we would mature in our faith and that our Christianity would become richer and deeper.
Which brings us to this morning. The fourteen people who join our congregation are joining a community that believes strongly in God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We confess our faith every Sunday morning in the words of the Apostles’ Creed or the Nicene Creed. And yet, as central as our confession is to all that we are and do here, let us pray that if cowardly Peter or doubting Thomas showed up here this morning, the first words we would utter are, “Peace be with you” and not “How dare you!”
May we grow strong together in faith. May we trust one another enough to express our doubts and ask our questions. May we be a community that loves one another into the answers that will finally help us proclaim, Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
The Resurrection of Our Lord, Easter Morning
April 4, 2010
Luke 24: 1-12
"A Most Monstrous Story!"
Alleluia! Christ Is Risen!
I spent the better part of this week staring into space. We preachers rarely get an opportunity to dazzle the crowds and so, when the opportunity arises like this morning, we get all shaky-kneed and blathery. I don’t think that explains my space-staring, however. My problem, as far as my expert self analysis reveals, is that I have found it a daunting task to make heads or tails of that Easter morning, two thousand years ago.
As you know, there are four accounts of Jesus rising from the dead (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John). Each has a different spin on what transpired and it is enough to drive one daffy. Matthew has two women going to the tomb; Mark has three; John only one; and this morning’s gospel from Luke has, as far as I can tell, about four (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, Joanna, and the so called “other women”).
There are other questions, as well: was it still dark or had the sun come up when the women arrived at the tomb; was it an angel, a young man in white, or two men in dazzling apparel who greeted them? And, doggonit, had the stone already been rolled away when the women arrived or did the angel wait for them before the grand finale boulder-rolling occurred? To cap off the confusion, according to Saint Luke, when Peter received the women’s news of the empty tomb, he went to see for himself and “walked away puzzled, shaking his head” (Eugene Peterson, The Message).
Are you shaking your head as to what happened that first Easter morning? If you are puzzled, take heart. Even scholars struggle to make sense of it all. Richard Lischer, Lutheran pastor and Duke Divinity School professor, notes: “The event suffers from certain verification problems.” I’ll say it does! Frederick Buechner, author and preacher extraordinaire, writes of the resurrection accounts: “The Gospels are far from clear as to just what happened” (Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark, pg. 45). Freddie, you’ve got that right!
Maybe puzzlement is par for the course. The old African-American Spiritual asks, “Were you there when God raised him from the tomb?” I hope that is not a trick question. According to the Bible, no one was there. And, by the way, I doubt any of you were either!
And so, how to make sense of the empty tomb? Poets always seem to say these things so much better. I love John Updike’s counsel in his poem, Seven Stanzas at Easter:
The four gospel writers did not make things “less monstrous.” They did not tell the story of Jesus rising from the dead with the same words or in some tame and domesticated manner. They unleashed the power of the resurrection story.
Whenever we stand at empty tombs, we end up tongue-tied. Staring into dark caves, we need a story unlike the shabby ones we usually tell if left to our own feeble devices. You have noticed this, I’m sure. You have been at the graveyard when the last clod of dirt hits the casket and everyone returns to their automobiles. What to say to the widow? Kay Redfield Jamison tells of standing at her husband’s grave, “I could not think of anything to say…at least nothing that was true. We mourners stood in silence” (Kay Redfield Jamison, Nothing Was the Same, pg 44).
Novelist Jim Harrison writes of a woman who confronts the pain of her old friend’s prostate cancer. She wonders “whether anyone had a religion to deal with this” (Jim Harrison, The Farmer’s Daughter, pg. 32).
The reason we make such a fuss this morning is because we proclaim that we have such a religion. Our religion has a dazzling story that will shake the foundations of the universe and be music to people’s ears who have lost the capacity to sing. Yes indeed, we have a “monstrous” story to tell.
You are at the tomb right now as sure as those women were there that first Easter morning. You have come here and found the tomb empty. You are being asked, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? Jesus is not here, but has risen?” How are you going to tell this story?
When you leave here, people will ask why you are so dressed up—and I must say you all have washed up real nice, especially for southern Californians. What they might really want to ask you is, “Tell me a story that won’t make me fear the dark any longer.” They will not ask you whether you understand the resurrection--really, who cares? The issue is far more serious! They will wonder: “Do you believe that God has the power to bring Jesus back from the dead?” Well, do you?
You need to believe that Christ rose from the dead if you are going to go where the world needs you most, where the lilies are wilting, the music is played on out-of-tune pianos if at all, and the crowds are long gone. The only person to tell the story will be you. Your knees will knock, of course they will, because, if you get the story right, you will unleash the power to make someone’s life better. You will take your Easter story to the intensive care unit where a friend is hanging on for dear life; it will be up to you sing “Alleluia! Christ is risen” to the only accompaniment there, beep, beep, beep. Your son is gay and has wondered for far too long whether life is worth living any longer. It will be up to you to tell him of those crazy Lutherans who are willing to sing alleluia with him just the way he is. Your sweet neighbor, God bless her soul, will invite you for tea and the moment she answers the door, she will fall into your arms, babbling that her husband has left her for the woman of his dreams. You will pause, flabbergasted; and then, miraculously, you will tell her how beautiful she is and that the Risen Savior is walking hand-in-hand with her into the sunset.
This is precisely why all four stories of Jesus’ resurrection are a tad different and sometimes drive us to distraction. Each account of the Risen Savior was tailor made for people who desperately needed to hear of God’s power nuanced in a way that touched their lives. That, by the way, is exactly what our ministry, your ministry, is about: it is our searching how best to touch suffering people’s lives with the joy of the resurrection in a way that they will cherish and never forget.
We are all little children who need to hear one more story that will promise us that we don’t need to be afraid of the dark anymore. We gather this morning because we believe that story is told here. The Easter story stretches the capacity of our language, especially this preacher’s; the story sometimes is almost impossible to grasp. But that is ok; in fact, that is wonderful. You see, God’s story trumps all our stories. God’s story has five aces up his sleeve when it comes to facing death: God will use every one of those aces and God always will win. Easter does to us what your bulletins do on the last page: Easter turns us upside down! We take this spectacular story to the dying world, not because we are better or holier and certainly not because we have all the answers. We simply are the people who believe that Jesus has risen from the dead and we are willing to shout our fool heads off, proclaiming to any and all who will listen, Alleluia. Christ is risen!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Easter Vigil
April 3, 2010
"That We May Be Exalted"
My wife, Dagmar, took an amazing picture of an old Orthodox Church when she visited Russia a few years ago. You must look twice to realize you are looking at a church. There is an Olympic size swimming pool where the majestic sanctuary used to be. A Ten meter diving platform rises to the ceiling where a mosaic of Christ the All-Powerful once loomed over worshipers.
Where did all the Christians go who worshipped there? Were they still telling the stories of God’s love under the communist regime? I read of one small community of believers that carried on and gathered in a dilapidated garage behind a ramshackle house. Cheap laminated icons hung on the walls; dusty plastic flowers in old vodka bottles lined the altar. Incense rose to a corrugated roof where Christ looked down from a ripped and faded, cardboard mosaic. This community continued to tell the stories of God’s love, for better or worse.
So it seems we never get the luxury of choosing the time when we will tell God’s stories. There will be occasions when the church is the biggest show in town. Other times, only a handful of faithful souls will persevere as the rest of the world goes its merry way.
In his little book, A Dresser of Sycamore Trees, Garrett Keizer writes of his church in rural Vermont. The tiny place can barely afford a pastor; in fact, he has not completed seminary. He decides that their congregation will observe the Great Vigil of Easter. This is the first time this has been attempted. Two people are with him as the service begins. He writes: “The candle sputters in the half darkness, like a voice too embarrassed or overwhelmed to proclaim the news: ‘Christ is risen.’ But it catches fire, and there we are three people and a flickering light--in an old church on a Saturday evening in spring, with the noise of the cars and their winter-rusted mufflers outside.” He notes: “The Lord is with us, or we are pathetic fools. I like it that way. I believe God likes it that way. My worry is always that others will be discouraged rather than exalted.”
Things are not altogether different here tonight. We, just a few in the grand scope of things, gather in Vigil, to tell the stories of God’s mighty acts down through history. I trust that we will be exalted and not discouraged.
Shouldn’t there be more people? Maybe from time to time, it is good practice that just a few tell of God’s wonder. Times will come when the telling of God’s story will rely on just one or two of us. You have been there, in a hospital room, just you and your daughter. Who to shout, “Christ Is Risen!” You have been there, at home, alone, depressed, tipsy, waiting, and someone knocked and told you of God’s love.
Maybe on nights like this it is important that a faithful remnant carries on. Tomorrow morning, our churches will be jammed wall-to-wall. It will be glorious. And yet, times like tonight ensure that tomorrows will come in all their glory. And so, let us now tell the stories of God’s astonishing love to one another. Let us carry on.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Good Friday
April 2, 2010
John 18:1-19:42
"Twenty Degrees Darker than Total Darkness"
The light has died. You have no bulletin, no words to read. You are at a loss for words. It is dark, very dark.
Two weeks ago, a group of us from First Lutheran went to the Timken Museum in Balboa Park to see an exhibit of Rembrandt prints. One of the prints we saw was “The Entombment.” From a distance, the print looked like a canvas filled entirely with black ink. Closer examination revealed a few figures in the tomb where Christ was buried, but it was hard to make out anything distinguishable.
The director of the Timken said of this print, “It doesn’t get any darker.” It was dark indeed.
And, of course, on this Good Friday evening, it doesn’t get any darker either.
We sit in darkness and we are at a loss for words. How could this happen to Jesus? Any words are inadequate. Perhaps that’s a good reason not to have a bulletin— words in the face of Jesus’ death just do not seem to work.
There is a cave in Kentucky called Mammoth. It is said that if you enter this cave, you experience 100% darkness. In fact, I read somewhere that this cave is twenty degrees darker than total darkness.
It is rare that we experience total darkness. The city lights blend into the evening sky. The stars do their dance of light. Total darkness—that is rare.
Perhaps this night is even more than twenty degrees darker than total darkness. Jesus died on this night. We know the ending of the story, of course, but can you grasp Jesus’ love for us? He died not knowing what was ahead for him. The words, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” are words uttered in darkness.
In a matter of hours we will celebrate light, but for now, let us sit in darkness. Let us be astonished at how much Christ loves us, enough to go where it doesn’t get any darker. Enough to love us to the end.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Maundy Thursday
April 1, 2010
1 Corinthians 11: 23-26; John 13: 1-17, 31b-35
"Let the Triduum Begin"
We have just begun Triduum, which, in Latin means, “the space of three days.” Tonight, tomorrow, and Saturday evening, we will experience one worship service stretching over three days. We will experience, in a grace-filled way, the betrayal, passion, death and resurrection of our Savior Jesus Christ. You will notice, as we near the close of this evening’s worship, there will be no benediction; that’s because this service resumes tomorrow where we left off this evening.
Lent-2010 is drawing to a close. We have joined together as brothers and sisters in Christ in our common struggle against sin, death, and the devil—all that keeps us from loving God and each other. I have been moved by the stories you have shared of your Lenten discipline. One of you inspired me to enhance my own Lenten journey. You told me of your daily reflections on the Psalms and your gratitude to God who has dramatically changed your life for the better.
We have been reminded again and again of our baptisms. In visits to the Timken Art Museum, at Holden Evening Prayer, in Wednesday evening classes, at yoga, on “art hikes” through our city, in trips to the desert, in Sunday morning presentations on the liturgy—all these occasions have drawn us closer to Jesus. It has been a marvelous Lent, don’t you think?
In a few moments we will wash one another’s feet. In this ritual, which some traditions deem sacramental, we will love one another as Christ has commanded us. We will take this love, actually Christ’s love, from here to the streets, as we clothe the homeless with coats, socks, and underwear that lined our aisle on Palm Sunday. We will take that love to countless places that only you know.
We will participate most intimately in Christ’s love, however, as we eat the bread and share the cup. In his recent novel, South of Broad, Pat Conroy writes of the Eucharist, “I felt the touch of God on my tongue, His taste on my palate” (pg. 21). Tonight, we will taste God on our palate. This banquet will call to mind the one we will share with all the faithful we have ever loved and with the Holy Trinity in the fullest way imaginable on that great rejoicing day when all things are made well forever and ever.
The church has often wondered what exactly happens to the bread and wine on this holy table. Entire denominations have been formed and split apart over what happens to the bread and wine when the words, “Our Lord Jesus Christ on the night in which he was betrayed…,” are spoken. I love what Kathleen Norris writes of Holy Communion: “The point of the Eucharist, after all, is not only to change the bread and wine into Christ, but to change me as well” (Kathleen Norris, Acedia and Me, pg. 208).
Tonight and in the nights to follow, Christ will move among us and change us in profound and moving ways.
May God bless you during this three day journey and may you be transformed by the love of Christ.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday
March 28, 2010
Luke 22: 14- 23: 47
"Did You Say, Crucify Him?"
Quite a few of my pastoral colleagues will not be preaching in their churches this morning. They believe that this morning’s worship service is filled with drama enough without their trying to add to it. Their sense is that words from the pulpit will only dilute this already emotionally packed morning.
We have cried out, “Hosanna to the Son of David;” we have waved our palm branches for all to see; we have moved past the coats in the aisle just like those spread before Jesus as he entered Jerusalem; we have sung the stirring “All Glory Laud and Honor.” We are now in the midst of the passion story and soon Jesus will be crucified and draw his final breath. My preacher friends rightly note, “More words will likely only clutter this day.”
I have chosen to say a few words, however, because of a few other words the crowd screamed so long ago, “Crucify, crucify him!” These words haunt me. If I had been there, would I have joined the frenzied shouting, “Crucify, crucify him!” I wonder. That is why I am preaching.
At the conclusion of this morning’s liturgy, you will be invited to take the small slip of paper stapled to your bulletin; on it, you will write “something in your life for which you feel Christ has given up his life.” You will then come forward and bang that slip of paper, with a hammer and nail, into the cross of Christ.
Jared and I struggled how exactly to write this invitation in this morning’s bulletin. Should we invite you to write something you do in your life that crucifies Jesus? That sounds unusually harsh, don’t you think? We opted for a nicer, kinder invitation, but I have wondered all week whether we chose the correct words: don’t you and I crucify Christ every day of our lives?
Of course, we are uncomfortable speaking so bluntly, dare I say, so truthfully. Crucify Christ? How barbaric! We would never do such a dastardly thing…Or would we?
I wonder if we soft peddle the words, “Crucify, crucify him,” because, deep down, we don’t believe we are worth dying for. We airbrush our sins, veneer over our imperfections. We make believe that we would never shout, “Crucify, crucify him!”
Richard Lischer, a Lutheran who teaches preaching at Duke Divinity School, says that there is no story in all Greco-Roman literature comparable to the ones written about Peter. The gospel writers tell of Peter’s cowardly encounter with the servant girl in the high priest’s courtyard. In that story, as you know, Peter denies having ever known Jesus. Peter will lead the early church immediately following Jesus’ death and resurrection, and yet the gospels, our most holy books, consistently portray Peter in a tawdry manner that it is deeply embarrassing (Richard Lischer, The End of Words, pg. 115). If Peter, our leader, was not airbrushed or veneered, why do we think we should be any different?
As this week unfolds, each of us will be reminded of our own cowardice and sickened by our unfaithfulness, our complicity in Jesus’ death. And yet, much more importantly, we will be struck by how much Jesus loves us in spite of ourselves.
As we hear the nails pounded into the cross, we will likely wish we loved Jesus more. If we discover anything in this morning’s service, it will be that, in spite of our own soaring highs and disgusting lows, Jesus continues to love us all the way to Calvary. Perhaps that is the surprise of it all: how Jesus loves us so.
I apologize if these words seem an interruption. But please, please, as the nails are driven, be astonished by Jesus’ love for you.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fifth Sunday in Lent
March 21, 2010
John 12: 1-8
"Blessed Extravagance"
I prepare my sermons by first prayerfully reading the appointed biblical texts well in advance of Sunday morning, sometimes reading them three and four times over. I take notes on what stands out to me and what I don’t understand. I try to get a sense of the smells, sounds, tastes, feels and sights that might accompany the readings. I then like to see what biblical scholars have to say about the texts. I also love to read sermons by great preachers to see how their minds play with the chosen texts.
Today, I confess, I skipped a lot of this process. I did read our reading from John a month ago. But, the minute I read it, a thought stuck in my mind that has refused to go away. I am not sure that thought has anything to do with today’s text. You will have to judge that. You may even say, “How in the world did he ever get that crazy idea?”
The story is about Jesus going to dinner at the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha. You can imagine the joy in the house when Jesus comes visiting—a very short time ago, Jesus brought Lazarus back from the dead.
As you just heard, Mary does the unthinkable. She takes a pound of costly perfume made of nard, probably worth about a year’s wages, anoints Jesus’ feet with it, and then lovingly caresses and dries his feet with her hair. We listeners know that in a week after Mary anoints Jesus’ feet, he will be dead. This is Mary’s final opportunity to adore the man she so deeply loves.
The disciple Judas is also present at the meal. The moment he sees Mary’s extravagant behavior, he goes ballistic: how dare she be so wasteful when there are poor people in the world waiting for just a bite to heat—imagine how many people this costly perfume could feed!
Judas is far from extravagant. Judas is the responsible one; you might even call him the ethical one. He is so concerned with the poor that he cannot enjoy a moment of Mary’s extravagance.
Judas took himself far too seriously. He really should have played more. In Judas’ mind, every second mattered and, as we know, finally, nothing mattered at all for Judas. He became so bitter and judgmental that he finally turned his back on his best friend, Jesus, and worse yet, he turned his back on himself.
If you care for your aging mother, your addicted daughter, your depressed brother, your unemployed friend, your brothers and sisters who live on the city streets, your nerves will eventually begin to fray; you will become exhausted and edgy. People like Judas will try to convince you that taking time to delight in the things you enjoy is somehow wrong when important matters press in on you.
The Trappist monk Thomas Merton wrote: “There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence which is activism and over-work. The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of innate violence. To allow oneself…to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of our activism…destroys our own inner capacity for peace.”
What I have found doing ministry in our nation’s cities, especially with the poor, is that we who exercise compassion day after day can easily lose our sense of joy; we can be become plagued with compassion fatigue. One of my colleagues once castigated me because our church kept our lawn and garden looking nice. His church’s lawn was a weed patch filled with litter and broken glass. He said to me, “We have too much ministry to do with the poor and disenfranchised to be concerned about how our grounds and building look.” Why couldn’t he have just a little fun?
When Jesus shows gratitude for Mary’s generosity, I sense him giving us all permission to celebrate life, to have fun. Jesus tells us to loosen up and to be passionate once-in-a-while about things that bring us joy.
I gave a Bible study on this text this past Tuesday at a luncheon of the pastors of the San Diego Organizing Project. The SDOP pastors care about issues of justice, especially issues affecting the poor. If a protest happens on our city streets or an action occurs at a council member’s office, you can expect to find SDOP pastors. I asked each pastor to tell what he or she is passionate about. I told them I didn’t want to hear a single word about their churches or about their commitments to the poor and issues of justice. I invited them to share the things that bring them joy.
One pastor said that he has visited every major league baseball stadium in America; another said he gets absolutely lost when he surfs; a few said they are golfing fanatics even though their scores do not indicate it; others shared their love for gardening, one saying he checked on his tomatoes when coming home for work before he checked on his kids; one naughty pastor spoke of his pleasure at watching the ponies run at Del Mar…I wonder who that was?
As these committed pastors shared their passions, smiles came to their faces. Suddenly I knew them like I had never known them before.
We all need to do things that bring us joy. There will inevitably come a time for all of us when we will be called to stand with Jesus at the foot of cross. When this occurs, our souls will be sorely tested. When we stand up for the underdogs, people will inevitably criticize us as Judas criticized Mary. If we are going to care about this world as Christ wishes us to do, we are entitled to a little extravagance.
So I ask you: what do you love doing? What makes you forget the challenges of life, but for a moment, and lose yourself in the joy of it all? Some of you love to read; others love hiking in the desert; some delight in cooking and finding a new recipe; others cannot wait for the newest movie; a few of you yell your heads silly when San Diego State makes the NCAA tournament. What do you love to do? Jesus insists that you do it!
People who care for others need a time to sing, a time to pray, a time to laugh, a time to play. We need to sit at Jesus feet, to eat a meal with him, and to take great delight in doing so. Like Mary, you are here this morning to be lost in your love for Jesus and to adore the Lamb of God who takes away your sins and the sins of the world. Savor these moments. Please enjoy.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 14, 2010
Luke 15: 1-3, 11-32
"So Who is The Prodigal?"
I imagine that many of us here this morning would say that being a Christian is about leading a good life, being a good person. We call people good Christians when they attend church regularly, give a portion of their earnings to the work of God, try to follow the Ten Commandments, and care for the poor.
I remember hearing Pastor Franklin Fry of Summit, New Jersey, describe Christians very differently. He said the greatest mistake we make in our Sunday Schools is teaching our children that Christians are good little girls and boys. He insisted that we teach our children differently, that we tell them that Christians are sinners and that God does everything possible to bring them back home.
We just heard the parable known as “The Prodigal Son.” The younger of the two sons asks his father to give him his inheritance. This is a heartbreaking request. Inheritances are given when parents die not while they are alive. The younger son is saying to his father, “You are as good as dead in my eyes. Now show me the money.”
We know this parable better than any other one with the exception perhaps of the Good Samaritan. The younger son goes off and squanders every cent his father has given him in riotous living. Things are so bad that the son is happy simply to eat with the pigs. Finally, the son has a change of heart. As we listen to the parable, we are uncertain whether the son’s change of heart comes because he feels so terrible about what a rotten life he has lived and how he has treated his father or because he longs for three square meals and a warm bed. Either way, the younger son decides to head home.
As the shattered and filthy son nears the family estate, the parable’s focus suddenly shifts to the father. The moment the father catches sight of his son, he takes off running as fast as his feet will carry him.
At this point, we might consider renaming the parable “The Prodigal Father.” My Webster’s defines “prodigal” as “one who spends or gives lavishly and foolishly.”
The parable of the father and his two sons is prefaced by these words: “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” The Pharisees and the scribes are infuriated that Jesus spends his time foolishly and lavishly with the riff-raff and not with the good people. They always thought there was some considerable dividend for those who are faithful to God. Now it seems their goodness doesn’t matter at all; in fact, Jesus appears to have a special place in his heart for miserable sinners.
Well, you know how it goes. The father is so excited that his lost son has been found that he orders the fatted calf barbecued, the best robe brought from moth balls, the finest ring retrieved from the jewelry box, and he proclaims, “Let the celebration begin.” This is prodigal behavior, lavish and foolish.
Remember, there is that one other son. He has stayed home and carried on the family business. He has worked hard and never taken a day off. He is the good boy. Robert Farrar Capon calls him, “Mr. Respectability.” When the older son sees what his father is doing for his good for nothing younger brother, “He gasps: Music! Dancing! Levity! Expense! And on a working day, yet!...He is not happy: Why this frivolity?…He rants: The fatted calf! Doesn’t the old fool know I’ve been saving that for next week’s sales promotion when we show our new line of turnips? How am I supposed to run a business when he blows the entertainment budget on that loser of a son….Someone has to exercise a little responsibility around here!” (Robert Farrar Capon, Kingdom, Grace, Judgment, Eerdmans Publishing, Grand Rapids, 1989, pg. 298).
How many of you sympathize with the older son? Whether we admit it or not, we church people are usually the ones who try our best to get things right. We want to be good boys and good girls so we will go to heaven. We were taught that the bad boys and bad girls will roast in the fires of hell for eternity. After all, there must be some advantage for those who are good and responsible.
We holy sorts are taken aback by this prodigal father…Grace often does that to good people: it angers us because we were taught by many a preacher and Sunday school teacher that God rewards good people and punishes bad ones.
It might strike you as strange that in this morning’s parable not a word is spoken about confessing sins and having them forgiven. We do hear the son rehearsing his confessional lines before he meets up with his father, perhaps thinking how best to break the ice in a very uncomfortable situation. We also hear him start some confessional words but the father doesn’t wait for all these words to come out of his son’s mouth. The father is too excited to wait for this; he is thrilled to have his son back home: the one he thought dead is alive, the one lost is now found. There is no time for confessing. Let the celebration begin!
Like most parents, the prodigal father’s greatest desire is to have his entire family back together for the celebration. The father will leave the harsh words and severe judgments for another day if at all. For now, he wants joy to fill the house where, until now, there has only been grief.
The prodigal father fondly remembers his son when he was a tiny little tyke dressed in Alice in Wonderland pajamas. He remembers tucking him under the covers and reading Goodnight Moon and the Velveteen Rabbit and searching together for Waldo. The father feared those days were done forever until he saw his bedraggled child limping up the dusty road home.
Yes, you and I have come home this morning. Our heavenly Father has dreamed of this moment when we might be together again. What delight there is in heaven.
Maybe, when this day is over and we put on our favorite pajamas, the ones with the funny feet in them, our heavenly Father will tuck us in once again and tell us a wonderful bedtime story, the one we love to hear, you know, the story about the Father who sent his beloved son out into the world to bring us back home safely and was killed while searching for us. That story, as I think you know, has a very happy ending, but for now, it is good enough that we are here, good boys and good girls, bad boys and bad girls, too.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Third Sunday in Lent
March 7, 2010
Isaiah 55: 1-9
"A Free Lunch for All"
We all know there is no such thing as a free lunch. Whenever we hear of such a thing, we immediately look for the fine print. We have received the personally addressed, gold-embossed invitation for two nights and three days in beautiful La Quinta, all expenses paid and $150 bonus money to enjoy the fine cuisine and the soul-refreshing spa. We have been tempted but we know better. There is no such thing as a free lunch.
Not only is there no free lunch, the thought of such a thing makes our blood boil. The health care debate and immigration reform have many going ballistic: they fear a free lunch might be served.
I suppose a person has to be hungry to appreciate Isaiah’s poetic imagination. A person has to be grabbing at straws to believe these biblical dreams of free food and wine. The people of God were just such a people. It was about 550 years before Jesus lived. They had been locked up in the jaws of the enemy, Babylon, long enough. They were hungry. A few remembered their beloved Jerusalem but barely; most had forgotten the Promised Land altogether. Those who remembered had hung up their harps in the willow branches long ago; they no longer whistled the Psalms of David they had once loved so much. Babylon was a miserable place for God’s people to be, it was filled with broken dreams and abandoned hopes.
Only a fool dared offer these people hope—or at least a person with astonishing imagination, a person like the prophet Isaiah. Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann writes: “The practice of poetic imagination is the most subversive, redemptive act that a leader of a faith community can undertake in the midst of exiles” (Walter Brueggemann, Hopeful Imagination, Pg. 96). That has always been the case. Prophets urge people to hold their heads up high and hope when the weight of the day makes them sag to the ground. The great Jewish rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who knew a thing or two about tough times, said of Isaiah’s words: “No words have ever gone further in offering comfort when the sick world cries” (Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Prophets, Vol. 1, pg. 145).
How many of you feel like you are in exile this morning? You are a college graduate, you are an expert in your trade, you have always been willing to work hard and do just about anything. You can find no work. You cannot pay down your credit cards or meet your mortgage payments. You have cut back about as far as you can. You know that your struggles are miniscule to the rest of the world’s but it hurts deeply.
These are times that test people’s souls. These are times that, sadly, can bring the worst out in people and make them as nasty as rattlesnakes in the noon sun. During such tough times, there are people who will prey on our worst fears. False prophets are always the ones who make people feel worse when they already feel. They ratchet up the emotions and create chaos.
In tough economic times, nations are often at their ugliest. Ethnic outsiders, the poor, the religiously different—they better watch out because they can quickly become scapegoats for the nation’s deep problems. When times are tough, people like Isaiah, the imaginative ones, are few and far between. Listen to the harangues of talk radio if you don’t believe me. When times are tough, false prophets point fingers and make the crowds hysterical with half-truths and flat out lies. The echoes of, “there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch,” grow louder and louder. If you need proof of this, study the rise of Adolph Hitler. The ugliness started following World War I when people were down on their luck. Who to blame, why of course, Jews and gypsies and gays. Sadly, as often is the case in such desperate times, prophetic imagination was left to a mad man.
True prophets have always exercised their craft when scapegoating and negativity have been at a peak. They have dared to offer a poetic vision of hope, an alternative vision, in the face of hysteria.
Entire communities, as well as individuals, are called to be prophets in tough times. I think of you as prophets in these days. It wasn’t too long ago that an earthquake rocked the poverty-stricken nation of Haiti. You have contributed $1,300 to help these suffering people. And then, out of the blue, at the beginning of Lent, you heard that the Church Council is challenging members to contribute to the Lutheran Malaria Initiative; every $10 offered will provide a mosquito net for countries where more than one million people die every year from this preventable scourge. You have offered $1,435 so far to the Lutheran Malaria Initiative. You could moan and groan, “Hey, First Lutheran is struggling to provide for needy people right here. We already give 10% of our offerings to our Pacifica Synod and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.” And yet today, again, you are invited to give to the ELCA Disaster Relief Fund to help those digging out from the earthquake disaster in Chile. Your offerings are prophetic poetry. You are keeping alive the proud tradition of Isaiah: “You that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.”
Communities of prophetic imagination always feel blessed. Such communities believe that God will provide even in the toughest of times. Such communities of astonishing generosity discover that God never lets them down. Such people discover amazing riches beyond belief.
We must never forget that we, too, are on the receiving end of wine without money and without price. At our Council retreat yesterday, there was talk of some Lutheran congregations dropping the name “Lutheran” from their title. It seems this word “Lutheran” is off-putting to some. I hope we never do such a thing. If Martin Luther stood for anything, it was the belief that we don’t deserve a single thing from God and yet are given everything, including a free lunch. The last words Luther wrote before he died were, “We are all beggars: this is true.” In fact, it has been said that evangelism is nothing more than one beggar telling another beggar where to find bread.
We are called to be a free lunch community, nothing more and nothing less. We are called to tell rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight, homeless and housed, that we are all beggars. We are called to announce from floor to rafter, right here, Sunday after Sunday, that a free lunch of bread and wine is served in this place for all and at no cost.
What is a Lutheran? Aren’t they the ones who believe that there is such a thing as a free lunch?
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Second Sunday in Lent
February 28, 2010
Genesis 15: 1-12, 17-18; Luke 13: 31-35
"A Hen"
I have attended two planning retreats the past two Saturdays and will attend another on Saturday. It is customary to have ice-breakers at these gatherings. These provide an opportunity to get to know one another better. If you are so fortunate not to have ever been involved in an ice-breaker, let me fill you in. Each participant is asked, “If you were an animal, what would you be?” Well, what animal would you be--a mountain goat, a thoroughbred race horse, a Brahma bull, a porpoise, a hummingbird?
Now, let’s change the game just a bit. If someone told you that a fox was coming after you, what animal would you be then?
In today’s gospel, the Pharisees come to Jesus and tell him precisely that, Herod is coming after him. Herod, of course, is the fox. Jesus instructs the Pharisees to tell Herod that he has work to do: he must cast out demons and perform cures. And then Jesus chooses his animal in the face of the fox’s deadly advances: “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.” Of all the animals to choose to guard against the ferocious assault of the fox, Jesus chooses to be a hen.
At yesterday’s TACO retreat, each of the forty participants was asked to choose a photograph from ones that Pastor Bill Radatz had taken and spread out on the lounge floor. A copy of the picture I chose is in your bulletin. As I looked at this tiny, vulnerable bird, all I could think of was Jesus choosing to be a hen as he weeps over Jerusalem. Jesus will eventually spread his fragile wings over Jerusalem and us, and he will protect us from all that will do us harm. You know that Herod, the fox, is going to rip Jesus apart. You know, too, that the only remains will be a mess of blood and feathers.
We are now less than two weeks into Lent, about ten days. We are already looking to Jerusalem. We begin to think of Jesus being nailed to the cross like a hen whose wings are brutally nailed to the barnyard fence.
Why does Jesus choose to be a hen? Why not an eagle or a wolf or a hippopotamus or even an aardvark?
Look at that poor, powerless bird in your bulletin. You know she will defend her tiny ones to the bitter end. She will puff herself up for all she’s worth and shed what little blood she has, trying her best to protect her little ones as the fox shreds her to bits.
Jesus spreads his wings over us this morning, too, right here in San Diego, as he did over the people of Jerusalem so long ago. Jesus loves this city just as he loved Jerusalem. Barbara Brown Taylor writes: “According to the Bible, there are three chief places where God reveals God’s self to us: on mountaintops, in the wilderness, and in the city. The air is thin in the first; there are wild beasts in the second; but the city may be the hardest place of all to recognize the presence and activity of God.”
It is sometimes hard to recognize God’s presence in this place. Sometimes God feels like a pathetic hen. Whenever I think of First Lutheran, I think of a community that has been called to model its life after a hen in the midst of foxes for 121 years. Those who have called this place home over the years have refused to leave this nesting place even when the fox has scared us out of our wits. We have remained here because we trust that God loves our city, San Diego, and has a special fondness for this little corner, Third and Ash. We have spread our wings wide as our babies have been baptized here, as our husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, have been buried here, as we have taught our children how much the mother hen loves them.
A number of my pastoral predecessors here at First Lutheran have told me that it is a miracle that this church has remained here over the years. They have told me there were times they were certain that this church would end up a mess of feathers and blood. Foxes have come after us, threatening us, scaring us half to death. We and our ancestors have tried our best to protect the helpless little birdies entrusted to our care. We have puffed up our bodies. We have stayed in the city for good. Sometimes we have ended up bleeding and frightened, but, thankfully, we have been sustained by our mother hen who feeds us with the tasty worms of Gospel comfort.
Our family tree extends way back beyond this place; it reaches back 4,000 years to Abraham and Sarah who trusted that God would bless them children and a land even when they were nearing 100 years old. They were people of hope who believed that God would keep God’s promises and do the impossible even when all that they saw was hopelessness and barrenness.
When I was training to be a pastor, it was fashionable for inner-city congregations in seemingly godforsaken places like Brooklyn and Philadelphia to say things like, “God loves Saint John the Evangelist” and “God loves Southwark.” These words appeared on signs and newsletters, in prayers and conversation. The children knew that God loved those housing projects. These places were filled with crime and poverty and violent death. The churches could not afford to fix leaky roofs or heat their sanctuaries. Nevertheless, pastors and their families and the people of those parishes dared to hope that Jesus loved them and wept over them enough to spread his wings over them and protect them from the mischievousness of the fox. There was such vibrancy and joy in those desperate places. By God’s grace, we were hopeful and audacious enough to believe that God loved those hell holes enough to make them like heaven.
We who gather here this morning are a people who believe that God loves this city, San Diego, and this little birdie place called First Lutheran Church. It is odd that you and I have chosen to nest here. It is odd that we offer our very best in the heart of this city, trusting that Jesus will spread his downy wings over us and those we love and protect us forever.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
First Sunday in Lent
February 21, 2010
Luke 4: 1-13
"Save Us from the Time of Trial"
Every Sunday morning and most other days for a lifetime, we have prayed to our heavenly Father, “Lead us not into temptation.” We will do the same thing in a few moments. This translation is unfortunate even though we love it. The King James Version of such things is majestic and yet the newer version of the Lord’s Prayer is immeasurably better: “Save us from the time of trial.” Hear this: God does not tempt us. As we heard in this morning’s Gospel, the tempting is left to Satan. God comes to save us from Satan’s tempting work.
How many of you were glued to the television or listened to your radio on Friday morning at 8:00 a.m.? Tiger Wood’s press conference rivaled the Vancouver Winter Olympics for top billing. Until a few months ago, Tiger was the most popular sports star in the world. And then suddenly chaos ruled and the bottom fell out of his life as allegations of multiple affairs began to come to light.
I do not believe for a moment that Tiger Woods woke up one morning and decided, “I’m think I would like to be a sex addict.” I would bet that the thought of such seamy actions was sickening to him. And yet, as Tiger admitted on Friday, money and fame brought seductions he could not resist. Said another way, Satan tempted Tiger.
I know it is not terribly popular to talk about Satan or the devil or Lucifer these days. We are a more civilized crowd and far less superstitious. And yet there must be an evil force at work in this world that causes us do things we otherwise could never imagine doing. Have you ever said, “I have no idea what got into me.” Maybe Satan is what got into you.
Satan tried to weave his clever spell on Jesus. Satan came knocking when Jesus was weak. Jesus had been in the wilderness for forty days and was starving from an extended fast.
You will notice in the Bible that Satan tries to weave his magical spell when people are down in the dumps. Whenever you hear forty in the Bible, know that people are tired and scared and weak. Moses was on the mountain for forty days; Noah rocked in that leaky and stinky ark for forty days and forty nights; Elijah ran from wicked Jezebel, scared out of his wits, for forty days; God’s people wandered in the wilderness and were sick of the food, not for forty days but for forty long years.
Whether forty days or forty years, fear and weakness rub us raw. We are easy prey for Satan’s crafty schemes.
Satan thought he had Jesus in the perfect pickle. He had offered him access to power, influence, and the ability to make a difference in the world. All Jesus had to do was bow ever so slightly in Satan’s direction and he could rule the world and change it…Not a bad deal, really. Who wouldn’t consider such a tradeoff? And really, with just a slight bow, who would ever notice anyway? Southern preacher Fred Craddock writes: “Give the tempter his due: the timing is perfect. Jesus has not preached a sermon, cast out a demon, or healed a sick person. He is alone and hungry in the desert, posed at the edge of his ministry. What will be its nature and shape?”
Satan said to Jesus, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here.” These are almost the identical words that the criminal on the cross said to Jesus: “Aren’t you the Christ? Save yourself and us!” Think of Jesus’ choice. He could have walked this earth far longer than his mere thirty-three years and done amazing ministry if he had only bowed slightly in Satan’s direction. We want to shout at Jesus: “Make some concessions. Don’t be so stubborn. Stick around and make things better for us all. Do it, Jesus!”
Think about forty years in your own life if you have reached that plateau. Forty years or so puts us at about midlife. This is the time when many dreams come crashing down. We wonder what life is about. We are tired and confused. The kids are ready to leave the house or have. The job is a dead end. Satan comes knocking. How many men opt for woman half their age--“she has changed my life and understands me perfectly and it all feels so good.” How many have fallen in love with a beautiful blue bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin just to numb the pain of another depressing night? How many get grumpy and blame everyone but themselves for the decisions they have made? People make rotten choices during these cruel years of wandering and uncertainty.
My favorite definition of “addiction” is this: “Addiction is anything we use to fill the empty place inside us that belongs to God alone.” Many of us search for just about anything that will fill that gaping hole. Satan works his magic, as if on cue, when we are afraid and vulnerable, grabbing at straws.
When Satan came courting Jesus, Jesus dug deep into his treasure chest and pulled out Holy Scripture. Notice how Jesus responded to the tempting proposals of Satan. Jesus had learned these Torah verses from Deuteronomy as a kid; they were entrusted to memory. Listen: “One does not live by bread alone;” “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him;” “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”
Some of us are being tempted mightily this very moment. We have a hole in our souls as deep and as wide as the Grand Canyon. Satan knows this. He is coming as he came to Tiger. He will offer to change our lives for just a small price. Remember, however, no matter how small the price, it always involves selling our souls.
Today, the First Sunday in Lent, God invites us to take a journey of forty days and forty nights. In this journey God calls us back to the sources. God invites us to taste the gifts of heaven right here this morning. God invites us to pray and talk “lovey-dovey” with God. God urges us to read our Bibles whose stories can be summed up in two words, “Fear not!” as Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann reminds us.
During these forty days and forty nights, God says to us, “Come to me all who are weary and I will fill that empty place in your soul with rest.”
Oh dear God, please save us from the time of trial and deliver us from the evil one. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Ash Wednesday
February 17, 2010
Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-21
"Keeping A Holy Lent"
You have probably been struck by the Ash Wednesday contradiction already. We just heard Jesus say, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them…” In a few moments, we will seem blatantly to disregard Jesus’ words. We will engage in the most public act of piety of the entire church year. We will receive a smudge of ashes on our foreheads for all the world to see.
This seeming contradiction bears some attention. Lent is tricky business. Throughout the Lenten journey, we will talk a lot about our piety. We are currently having an entire series of Sunday morning classes about our Lenten piety. These classes could easily be called, “What are you doing for Lent?”
During these initial days of Lent, we will probably ask ourselves and one another a series of Lenten questions. What are you giving up for Lent or taking up for Lent? Have you determined whether you will pray more regularly during these forty days? Will you be reading through all 150 Psalms or maybe the entire book of Luke? Will you fast, skipping a meal or two during the week? Will you give the money you have saved from your fasting to the Lutheran church’s malaria initiative? Do you plan on attending church more regularly, even on Wednesday evenings? My hunch is that most of us will try to keep a holy Lent by adopting some Lenten discipline.
If we try to keep a holy Lent, as time goes on, we might find that we are feeling pretty good about ourselves. We might even think we are pretty religious people. If we end up feeling this way, we will likely realize just how tricky Lent can be.
Jesus also said, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal.” Jesus warned us not to prance around telling everyone how pious we are, how prayerful we are, what generous givers we are. If that’s what we end up doing this Lent, frankly, our Lenten observance has been a pathetic failure.
In preparation for the Wednesday Lenten class I will be teaching, I have been reading a book on the ancient prayer called the Jesus Prayer (“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner”). The author warns against any piety that makes us feel superior to others. Said another way, there is a temptation in Lent to do the right thing for the wrong reason. If we stop to congratulate ourselves on what a successful Lent we are keeping, it is highly likely that we have not chosen the correct Lenten discipline or, at the very least, we are not doing it properly. The correct Lenten discipline always points us beyond ourselves to God who is at the center of our lives. The correct Lenten disciplines remind us that without God nothing is possible and that with God all things are possible.
Frankly, even a failure in our Lenten journey can, at times, be more beneficial than a success. Our failures will demonstrate that we are not the magnificent spiritual athletes we thought we were. Our failure will remind us just how much we need God in order to be faithful and holy people.
That is why we begin our Lenten journey with the haunting words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” These words point us to our mortality. They remind us that one day our bodies will fail us. These words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” point us beyond ourselves to God.
Ashes are the first exercise of Lent. They are a public display of our mortality. They are our proclamation to the world that we have tried to be faithful and have failed. We are dust and to dust we shall return. The final exercise of our life will be when someone announces over our remains, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” These final words are eerily similar to today’s Ash Wednesday words, “Remember that you are dust.” Whether on Ash Wednesday or at the grave, we are reminded that we must trust in God and not in ourselves if we are to have any hope at all.
Our Lenten journey is meant to point us to the real truth, the real victory. Our Lenten journey is an invitation to each of us to place our treasure and hope in Jesus Christ.
May you have a very blessed Lent and in the disciplines you choose, may you discover how much God loves you, even when you fail to keep your end of the bargain.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
Transfiguration of Our Lord
February 14, 2010
Luke 9: 28-36
"Remember to Say Your Prayers"
We have all had a day when our life was turned upside down, a day when our bellies feel like carved cantaloupes. I had such a day my first year of seminary. I was taking a course on the Danish philosopher/theologian Soren Kierkegaard. I had written a paper on Kierkegaard’s book, Works of Love. I waited nervously to get my paper back. The professor, Paul Holmer, had a reputation as a very tough grader. I still have that paper in my files. I pulled it out on Thursday afternoon, blew off the dust, and stared once again at the B-. As I do from time-to-time, I then turned to Mr. Holmer’s remarks to see how they affect me thirty-six years later. If you promise not to tell anybody, I will read them to you:
Those remarks convinced me that I was the dumbest person at Yale Divinity School. Those words hurt to this day.
You have had such a day when you cannot get home fast enough. All you want to do is slam the door shut behind you, run to your bed, and weep and weep.
Peter, James, and John must have felt similarly after Jesus told them that “[he] must suffer many things, and be rejected by the elders and chief priests and scribes and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” They had thought things were going to turn out differently, better actually. They wondered how it was possible for the Christ of God to be killed. Jesus then added the haunting words: “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it; and whoever loses his life for my sake, he will save it.”
Jesus’ painful words reverberated in the disciples’ ears for eight agonizing days. Finally, on the eighth day, Jesus invited Peter, James, and John to go up a mountain. If you have ever licked your wounds, you sense what a glorious treat it must have been for the disciples to go to a place far apart where they could forget about all that was gnawing at their insides.
We sense that going to some mountaintop can change us forever. People pay fortunes to risk their lives climbing Mount Everest with hopes of changing their lives. Others spend their vacations in sweat lodges and have lost their lives doing so. Some go to Zen Buddhist monasteries, searching for that esoteric thrill that is missing in their ordinary Lutheran congregation. Many people in our day yearn to get away from it all.
And yet, surprisingly, if today’s report of the disciples and Jesus on the mountain is any indication, life changing experiences inevitably come in the regular routines of our lives.
I have always loved Transfiguration Day. I know the story well as do you. Peter, James and John went up the mountain with Jesus and suddenly, before their eyes, Jesus’ clothes turned dazzling white; he stood there talking to the giants of the faith, Moses and Elijah. And then God boomed from heaven: “This is my Son, my Chosen. Listen to him!”
As I prepared this sermon and reread the Transfiguration account, I was surprised that I have missed one important detail over the years. The razzle-dazzle is easy to see, the sheer magnificence; it is, after all, what we long for. What completely escaped me was the reason the disciples went up the mountain in the first place: they went up with Jesus to pray. To pray! They did something as ordinary as praying, as saying, “Now I lay me down to sleep” and “Come Lord Jesus, be our guest.” The praying on that mountaintop was so ordinary, so taken for granted, that Peter, James, and John grew sleepy from the boredom. Who expects something extraordinary to occur when we just say our prayers?
I remember hearing a bishop tell of the advice his father, also a bishop, gave him the day of his ordination. He entrusted his son with this wisdom: never cross your arms when talking with another person; look at them face-to-face; never cross your legs during worship—my favorite; always be the last to leave the church and the last to leave the cemetery; and—this one surprised me—always say your prayers.
You would think saying one’s prayers common sense for a person about to be ordained but maybe not. The bishop’s father knew from experience how intoxicating and hectic ministry can be—baptizing beautiful babies, preaching to massive throngs in stately cathedrals, marching for peace and justice with famous people. The old bishop knew that his son would be easily tempted to forget to say his prayers when seemingly more important and exciting things beckoned him.
Each of you is no different. Do you say your prayers? Do you have an assigned time in the rush of life that is simply for you and God, yes, when you say your prayers? You might not rate your prayers at the top of the list when you think of mountaintop experiences. Prayers? you say. Isn’t there more to being a Christian than prayers? And yet this is the stuff that keeps you going when you are down in the dumps, facing the challenges of life, longing for a good word to help you make it through the day as one of God’s graceful people.
In a particularly challenging time in my ministry, I called my dear friend, Father Joseph, an Orthodox monk, and asked him for spiritual advice. I suppose what I hoped for was some miraculous tidbit that would dazzle me, maybe a great book that would change my life, some profound wisdom from a wizened old church father that would bolster me. Instead Father Joseph asked me, “Wilk, do you pray?” His question hit me like a ton of bricks. I was looking for something more esoteric and he asked, “Do you pray?”
Maybe you are looking for a mountaintop experience, one that will lift you up when you are knocked down. And yet, maybe you, too, are looking in all the wrong places. Perhaps your mountaintop experience can be found in the bishop’s advice to his son, “Remember to say your prayers.”
I have been preparing for my Lenten class on “Desert Spirituality.” I have been amazed by the prayer habits of some of the heroes of our faith. Over and over again, I have read of faithful leaders who begin their days with two and three hours of prayer. It was Martin Luther who said, “I’ve got so much to do that I’d never get it all done if I didn’t pray at least three hours a day.” If a giant like Luther needed to pray, why not us?
The great saints of the church tell us that it is a simple journey, day-by-day, that will make all the difference. The journey takes us to our bedroom, our living room couch, or our special corner with a candle and a picture of Jesus; there, we say our prayers. There, in an ordinary place, our lives are changed. So, by all means, climb a simple mountain and say your prayers.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
February 7, 2010
Fifth Sunday after Epiphany
Isaiah 6: 1-8; Luke 5: 1-11
"In Search of Excellence?"
If any day is about excellence, today is it. The Super Bowl has arrived and the best teams are ready to play. In addition to the game are the wonderful commercials from our nation’s finest companies. Today is about the very best.
In the face of Super Hoopla, how would you feel if someone said to you, “You are really ordinary.” You would likely feel sad, even angry. No one wants to be viewed as ordinary. We want to be seen as exceptional and important.
Our parents convinced us early on that we were far from ordinary. Remember how they bragged: “She is so brilliant. She was reading Good Night Moon at 18 months.” Or, “Athletic? Are you kidding me? He could play linebacker for the Indianapolis Colts right now and he is only eight.”
When Jesus set out to pick his disciples, he must have been looking for extraordinary. Jesus had twelve shots and each one counted just like those teams that draft twelve of the very best on defense and twelve on offense. Jesus better get the twelve best disciples possible if he wanted to be competitive.
I looked at the newspaper’s “Help Wanted” ads to see what qualities top companies are seeking in today’s tough job market to see whether I might get a clue as to what Jesus was looking for. Fortune 500 companies are looking for bright, personable, sound judgment, discrete, initiative, ability to follow through flawlessly on every project. One advertisement noted in bold type: Winners Only Apply. You get the point: if the firm is to prosper, Ordinary Need Not Apply.
As Jesus stood at seaside and looked out over the people who gathered to listen to him, he was sensing who best to choose as disciple number one. This first draft pick would set the standard. Jesus could easily have overlooked Simon Peter. Peter was way off to the side, mending nets, and not even paying attention to Jesus. He was the unsightly one with snuff juice drippings in his beard and the sweat stained ball cap. The odds of Peter getting chosen as numero uno were slim to none.
For some reason, though, Peter caught Jesus’ attention. Jesus went to him and asked him to do only one thing in his job interview: “Put out in the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” This was not a challenging request for a guy who had fished all his life. Strangely, Peter found the request a daunting one: “We have fished all night and we have caught nothing.” If Peter wanted the job, you would think he would have told Jesus a success story like the time he and his crew set the Sea of Galilee record for the most fish caught in a night. Accentuate the positive, Peter! Instead, Peter said, “We have tried and failed.” Why didn’t Jesus say, “Thanks so much, Peter. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
Even though Peter deemed the fishing conditions rotten, he obeyed Jesus’ order. And wouldn’t you know it, Peter and his crew caught so many fish that their nets began to break. Jesus hired Peter on the spot.
One gets the impression that Jesus chose disciples by closing his eyes, spinning around in a circle three times, pointing haphazardly, and saying, “I’ll take you.” His choice of disciples indicates that Jesus was not very good at selecting the cream of the crop. In Peter’s three years with Jesus, he had as many failures as successes, his work was marked more by cowardice than courageousness; at times he drove Jesus to distraction. Peter was ordinary at best.
When you think of Peter, do you ever think of yourself? When you are asked to help out at church, do you dread that someone might ask you to pray with no advanced warning? Do you avoid attending adult Bible study because you don’t know anything about the Bible and fear looking the fool?
When I was in seminary, my classmates and I thought we were top-notch religious property. After all, as kids, we were the acolytes who got every candle lit and chosen to read on Christmas Eve to a packed house. I took Introduction to the Old Testament in my first semester of divinity school. During the second week of classes, Mr. McBride asked us to turn to Obadiah. The class trembled as if an earthquake had struck. We knew that Obadiah was in the Bible but where was another question. We figured it was somewhere in the Old Testament because we were in the introductory Old Testament class. We casually flipped through our Bibles, hoping that Obadiah would magically appear and we would look like biblical scholars, but this miracle didn’t transpire. Some of us put our Bibles under our desks and secretively searched for Obadiah’s page number in the table of contents, something, by the way, that my sixth grade Bible school teacher forbid us to do. These, my dear friends, were the future pastoral leaders of your church…terribly ordinary, a lot like Peter.
I am currently reading a book about the Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams. He is regarded as the most brilliant leader of the church in England in the last thousand years and is considered a highly spiritual man. He is anything but ordinary. Even so, Archbishop Williams has his detractors as all religious leaders do. One complaint is that he exercises poor judgment when it comes to who should be admitted into the ordained ministry. His critics say he is too soft. He possesses a “reckless generosity,” they say, a “holy naiveté.” What that means is that he is willing to let ordinary men and women into the ordained ministry, people who are recovering alcoholics, people who may are not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, people who have shady pasts.
In explaining people’s complaints regarding their archbishop, the author of Rowan’s Rules notes that we prefer heroes to saints, extraordinary to ordinary. He writes: “We all feel it’s our job in our generation to make the story come out right…for if the hero failed, all would be lost. By contrast, a saint can fail in a way that the hero can’t, because the failure of a saint reveals the forgiveness and the new possibilities made in God, and the saint is just a small character in a story that’s always fundamentally about God” (Rupert Shortt, Rowan’s Rule, Hodder and Stoughton Ltd., London, 2008, pg. 72).
Jesus chose small characters not heroes. He chose people with glaring flaws, people whose only gift was to demonstrate God’s amazing forbearance and forgiveness. No one would confuse the twelve bumbling disciples with heroes. The twelve failed over and over again and every time they did, God’s amazing grace seemed to glow more brightly.
Jesus calls you and me to be his disciples, too. If you question that God is calling you, good for you. Disciples worth their salt never feel worthy; they always wonder whether they have the right stuff to work for Jesus. The Bible is full of such questioners. Isaiah was such a questioner. When God came calling on him, Isaiah said that he was a man of unclean lips. He certainly wasn’t up to the task of proclaiming God’s word to the world even though his later words would prove to be some of the most soaring and inspiring in all of literature, secular or religious. Over and over again, God’s chosen ones feel terribly ordinary. It is all part of the process.
There will come a time when Jesus will come calling you and ask you to do a special task in his kingdom. Your initial inclination will be, “Me? Who are you kidding? I could never do that.” If this is your first answer, you are on solid footing and almost certainly the right person for the job. You are exactly who Jesus needs. Maybe when you feel just plain, ol’ ordinary, you have the precise quality that Jesus is looking for. You will make certain that none of the glory shines on you and all the glory is given to God whether you intend to or not.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 31, 2010
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany
Jeremiah 1: 4-10; 1 Corinthians 13: 1-13; Luke 4: 21-30
"Words Chosen Well and with Love"
I will let you in on one of my prejudices. When someone says, “I am a prophet,” my skin crawls. People who make such claims invariably tell a half truth. “Self-proclaimed prophets” typically view themselves as the community’s chief critics, the ones who can say whatever they want with no willingness to accept the consequences. They often lack the most essential ingredient of the prophetic nature: they do not love those who must listen to them.
Most of you know that one of my heroes is the late William Sloane Coffin. He was the chaplain of Yale University in the 1960’s and 70’s. Coffin preached on Sunday mornings to a packed chapel. Protestants, Catholics, Jews, atheists, hippies, even Brooks Brothers buttoned downs came to hear him. Coffin challenged worshipers like no one I have ever heard. He preached tough words and yet soaring poetic ones on such issues as peace and justice, nuclear weapons, racism, and gay rights. This morning’s “Quote for the Day” is William Sloane Coffin’s advice actually offered to him by a college freshman following one of his sermons: “When you say something that is both true and painful, say it softly. Say it in other words to heal and not to hurt. Say it in love.”
Real prophets find it excruciatingly painful to speak tough words as well they should. Take Jeremiah for instance. Like so many prophets, Jeremiah resisted God’s call. “I am only a boy,” he said. Jeremiah knew what lay ahead: God was going to ask him to deliver hard-hitting words to the people he loved, words that had the power “to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” Jeremiah had grown up with these people and worshiped with them every Sabbath day. How dare he tell his family and friends that their nation of Judah was going to be overthrown and they were going to be deported to Babylon?
In our mobile age, people who speak too harshly or carelessly simply change churches or move from the community where they have offended almost everybody. As they leave, they inevitably fire one parting salvo on those they have verbally abused. Jeremiah was different: he was locked into his community for the long haul. Each word he spoke had to be chosen with precision; every word mattered. There was no place for Jeremiah to run, no place to hide.
We bear a similar word to that of Jeremiah. Please do not teach your children the fraudulent nursery rhyme, “Stick and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.” You know better than that; you know how painful words can be. Poorly chosen words keep us awake long into the night; careless words throw communities into frenzied confusion; reckless words even lead some to take their own lives.
Every word matters. Think of the time you visited the doctor with that pain in your chest. The doctor said, “We will see how this turns out in a week.” Innocent words for the doctor to say and yet those words rocked your world. Remember how you fretted over what she meant by the word “this;” and what did she mean by “in a week?” And, “We will see how this turns out”--should we call her back now and ask what she was thinking? Reckless words wreak havoc; carefully chosen words are better than a dozen roses.
We Christians adore words. The simple and yet perfect words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” made us Christians. With those baptismal words, each of us was called to write and speak similar words.
Here is author Annie Dillard’s counsel to those who craft words: “Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality” (Annie Dillard, The Writing Life, pg. 68)?
Martin Luther also offers advice on choosing words in his explanation of the Eighth Commandment (“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor”): “We should fear and love God, and so we should not tell lies about our neighbor, nor betray, slander, or defame him or her, but should apologize for him, speak well of him, and interpret charitably all that he or she does.” I love the words, “interpret charitably all that he or she does.”
My Old Testament professor in seminary, Brevard Childs, said that that no matter how devastating an Old Testament prophet’s words may sound, grace lurks nearby. He demanded that we search for the prophet’s grace in every prophet, whether Amos or Hosea or Isaiah or even Jonah. Mr. Childs told us that there would come a day in our ministries when finding the right word of hope and grace might save a person’s life.
Saint Paul said that love is the greatest gift, yes, even greater than prophecy. Paul cherished the supreme art of choosing words filled with love. Our calling as Christians is to search painstakingly for those words that will build communities of love.
Our beloved First Lutheran has faced a challenging year, good and exciting, but challenging. We have tackled human sexuality with the rest of our Evangelical Lutheran Church in America; we have struggled with finances, giving generously but still facing a deficit; we have been part of the health care debate, praying that all God’s children might experience healing. These struggles are not unique to First Lutheran. Yesterday’s Los Angeles Times detailed the financial crisis confronting Robert Schuler’s once seemingly invincible Crystal Cathedral just up Interstate 5 as it tries to unload considerable assets to make ends meet. We Christians are not exempt from the world’s struggles nor should we be. Our unique calling, however, is to find a good word for these tough times, a word that will cause bitter foes to forgive one another, a word that will bring people with fierce ideological differences together around the Table of the Lord, a word that will make people dance and sing.
The most deserving person of the title, prophet, of course, is Jesus. Jesus gave no easy speeches, not his first one at Nazareth or his last on Calvary. Every word he uttered was done so with the cross in sight. Every one of his words would be listened to by future generations and searched for meaning. Even at the end as the nails were hammered, Jesus told a condemned criminal, “You will be with me in paradise.” Every word was spoken as if it were his last because, finally, one word was his last.
I pray that future generations will look on us and say that we were prophets. Why? Because we were a people who chose words well and with those words, we loved one another in the toughest of times.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 24, 2010
Third Sunday after Epiphany
Luke 4: 14-21
"The Nine Word Sermon"
People always look forward to their hometown boy coming home from seminary to give his first sermon. They remember him in diapers; they taught him in Sunday School and put up with his teenage shenanigans; they remember their astonishment— disbelief is more like it—when they first heard, “Wilbert and Susan Miller’s boy wants to be a pastor.” They won’t forget the first sermon: short on substance, long on pretension and, yes, very, very long.
We just heard Jesus’ inaugural sermon in his hometown synagogue. Before Jesus read the passage from Isaiah, the scroll containing God’s word was paraded up and down the aisles. An old woman with arthritic fingers lovingly reached out to touch the scroll as if it were a honey comb; a young father held up his little tyke who slapped the scroll and giggled. You did a similar thing this morning as the Gospel was paraded into your midst and you sang joyfully, hallelujah forevermore.
When the procession was finished, Jesus unrolled the scroll to the appointed reading in Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
When Jesus finished reading from the scroll, he sat down to preach as was the custom for rabbis. The crowd fidgeted. There was clearing of throats, crossing of legs. A man in the last pew checked his watch, hoping the sermon would be mercifully short and he would be home in time for the Jets - Colts game.
And then Jesus’ sermon. Hear it in its entirety: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” The shortest sermon ever delivered in Nazareth. Nine words total. No one moved. Was it a new fangled homiletic gimmick Jesus learned in seminary? Had his nerves gotten the better of him? One Type-A curmudgeon grunted to his business associate, “We must not be paying him by the word.”
Everyone in the synagogue that morning had heard this passage from Isaiah before. They knew it was about the Jubilee Year. They had learned of the Jubilee Year from wizened old elders with flowing white beards who instructed them: every fifty years, the land was to lie fallow, to rest and regain nutrients; creditors were to cancel old debts that had become impossible burdens and made some people wonder whether life was worth living any longer; servants were to be set free after years of bone crushing labor and receiving wages that never came close to paying for room and food.
Jesus realized that this vision of Jubilee, while beautiful, was impossible for the people to imagine ever happening. And so, as good preachers do, Jesus read Isaiah, gave his nine word sermon, and fell silent, absolutely silent. He let the words ooze into every pore of their bodies.
The minute worship ended, the chatter at coffee hour was deafening. The mayor of Nazareth said to the congregational treasurer: “That young man will learn. This business of caring for the poor sounds hunky-dory now when he has no responsibilities or family, but wait till he is the chief rabbi and has to pay the synagogue’s heating bill and send benevolence payments to Jerusalem. He’ll quit this idiotic sniveling about redistributing wealth from the rich to the poor.” A few poorly dressed people way back in the corner, almost out of sight, said, “This business of Jubilee sounds too good to be true; it hasn’t happened yet and it ain’t never goin’ to happen here.”
It has been two thousand years, and Jesus’ sermon, all nine words, still rings in our ears: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
“In your hearing.” These are Jesus’ words not ours; maybe that’s why they seem too good to be true. If we resist the temptation to shrink them down to our own paltry understanding, these words might even cause us to imagine a world that only God can create.
In her book, Holy the Firm, Annie Dillard writes of a nondescript, white framed church she occasionally attends. She is often the only person under sixty and feels as if she is on “an archaeological tour of Soviet Russia.” She writes of the Congregationalist pastor who wears a white shirt: “The man knows God. Once, in the middle of the long pastoral prayer of intercession for the whole world—for the gift of wisdom to its leaders, for hope and mercy to the grieving and pained, succor to the oppressed, and God’s grace to all—in the middle of this he stopped, and burst out, ‘Lord, we bring you these same petitions every week.’ After a shocked pause, he continued reading the prayer. Because of this,” writes Dillard, “I like him very much” (Annie Dillard, Holy the Firm, Pg. 58).
We pretty much say the same thing week after week, too, about healing the blind, setting the prisoners free, and giving good news to the poor. We do it in our readings and prayers and sermons, over and over again. Do we really expect these things to happen? Do we even have the heart to attempt to accomplish these things? Funny thing, by the grace of God, we don’t give up believing that with Jesus all these things are possible. And so we continue telling our children and grandchildren of this glorious Jubilee vision, when this mixed up world will be set straight, the flat broke will have their bank accounts filled, there will be better jobs than at McDonalds, and the land will sing for joy for not being raped year after year. As long as we keep talking and praying about Jubilee and trusting Jesus’ promise, we can trust that these things will occur.
And so, like in the olden days, yet again, we have paraded the Bible around this congregation, we have read of Jubilee in Isaiah, we have sung hallelujah forevermore, and we have heard Jesus’ entire sermon, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 17, 2010
Second Sunday after Epiphany
John 2: 1-11
"The Water Blushed"
Lots can go wrong at weddings and something usually does. The groom passes out and falls into my hands just as I announce the couple husband and wife; the bride kneels down with her new husband for a blessing and can’t get back up; the best man’s rented tuxedo is three inches too long in the legs; the bride-to-be slugs her “man of a lifetime” right before the rehearsal and comes to me with mascara running, wondering what she should do. This has all happened to me at weddings; you have your stories, too.
Jesus attended such a wedding with his mother, Mary. The wedding had gone on for three days, as they always did back then, and all was going as planned until the wine ran out. The poor bride’s father was horrified. His business associates had flown over from Miami Beach; the groom’s family was mesmerized by the bride’s father’s wealth and panache. Now, no wine!
We love this wedding story because it is our story. How many times has the wine run out in our life? How many times have we looked to God and, like a television evangelist, prayed for a miracle?
We never know what surprises will occur. It is why we are a community of prayer. And yet, truth be told, we are not particularly good waiting on miracles. We leave such stuff to hucksters screaming “praise the Lord” and “hallelujah.” For us, we traffic in reality.
Our lives are typically pretty ordinary and not especially made for the miraculous. Our bulletin calls today the Second Sunday after Epiphany. Another name for today is the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time. The Second Sunday after Epiphany has pizzazz, but increasingly, I am attracted to the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time. “Ordinary time” tells the truth about our lives, our ups and downs, our richer for poorer, our sickness and health. It is in ordinary time that we see Jesus doing astonishing things like changing water into wine. It is in ordinary time that we need Jesus.
We have been praying for a miracle around our 2010 budget, at least, I hope you have. While we were praying, lo and behold, I received a letter Christmas week from a dear friend in Philadelphia with a surprise check for $3,000 to support TACO’s work--water to wine! Do you want a miracle, First Lutheran? I came into the office a few days after Christmas and $5,000 was on my desk from an out-of-town couple that worships here and loves this place--water into wine!
Do you believe that God produces miracles? Think of the church in which you grew up. If your church was like mine, it was not particularly glitzy or stunning. In fact, today, many of those churches are probably struggling for their very lives. And yet it was there that I, and probably you, first beheld God, hearing the stories of Jesus’ love told by ordinary insurance salesmen, plain housewives, lonely bank-tellers, friendly realtors, and lovely school teachers. That ordinary church and those ordinary people changed our lives. A miracle--water into wine.
That has been First Lutherans’ story, too, as far as I can tell. Never rich by worldly standards, with no huge endowment, First Lutheran Church has nevertheless created abundant ministry over the years worthy of six jars of very good wine. Never moving beyond these few square blocks, even when downtown was “to be steered clear of,” First Lutheran Church has been the heart of Christ in the heart of this city in the ups and downs, yes, in the ordinary times.
And what about your life? In today’s second reading from 1 Corinthians, Saint Paul says: “Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are a variety of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.” God promises that in each of us there is a miraculous gift of the Spirit to be discovered amidst our ordinariness. Do you know what your gift is? Do miracles occur through you?
Yes, we ordinary ones are invited to expect marvelous things to happen in our lives. The recent unspeakable earthquake in Haiti makes the running out of wine at Cana look likes child’s play. How will God transform this mess? We might be surprised. Our Evangelical Lutheran Church in American, beset by an earthquake of sorts in our own ranks as churches leave and we fear where the next dollar will come from, has pledged $250,000 from its International Disaster Response and has authorized an additional $500,000 as congregations like ours respond. The extra offering you put in an envelope this morning coupled with the offerings of thousands of ordinary people in our beloved ELCA will provide a miracle in Haiti. Water into wine!
Nine years ago, Dagmar and I worshipped in London on this Second Sunday of Ordinary Time. I insisted on one thing and that was that we not attend historic and stately Westminster Abbey or regal and renowned St. Paul’s Cathedral. I wanted to go to an ordinary parish church. We chose Holy Trinity Church-Sloane Square. It was there that I gasped as I beheld a miracle. The priest quoted the seventeenth century English poet, John Dryden, in his sermon. The miracle came as I heard God’s word uttered in a beautiful new way. Listen to Dryden’s words for a miracle: “The modest water, awed by power divine, beheld its God and blushed into wine.” I will never forget those words. When the water looked at Jesus, it blushed and was miraculously transformed to wine.
In a few moments we will be given the exquisite opportunity of watching wine blush and become the blood of Jesus. Ordinary words and ordinary wine anticipating divine exuberance as, somehow, it all becomes the very cup of salvation, the blood of Christ.
In this ordinary place with us ordinary people, it is almost unimaginable that such an astonishing thing will happen. You might say, a miracle!
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 10, 2010
The Baptism of Our Lord
Luke 3: 15-17, 21-22
"Epiphany Glasses"
We religious sorts are not much surprised anymore when we read about Jesus’ amazing exploits in the Bible. His miracles and healings are par for the course, old news really, and we do not blink an eye. And yet, today we should be surprised, actually horrified, as Jesus dips his toes into the Jordan River to be baptized.
The early church was not only horrified, it was deeply embarrassed by Jesus’ baptism. If Jesus was without sin, why did he get in line with murderers and drug dealers, wife beaters and money launderers, for a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins? If Jesus was God’s only Son, the early Christians expected him to socialize with a more dignified clientele, the white glove set, those who had the civility to know which knife of the four to use at elegant dinners.
Two thousand years have passed now since Jesus jumped into the Jordan. The embarrassment has all but worn off. Even so, you may be wondering what early Christians felt like when Jesus jumped into the Jordan.
To assist you getting in touch with the early church’s feelings on this matter of Jesus’ baptism, I call your attention to the Philadelphia Eagles. While none of you are mourning their devastating loss to the Cowboys last evening, you are undoubtedly aware that at the beginning of this football season, Coach Andy Reid added Michael Vick to the Eagle’s roster. This move sent shock waves through our nation as did Jesus’ baptism through God’s people so long ago. Michael Vick spent eighteen months in prison for his involvement in the brutal and hideous sport of dog fighting. He was the owner of the Bad Newz Kennels. When his pit bulls were too ripped up to fight any longer, Vick and his gang electrocuted, hung, and drowned the helpless dogs.
Vick’s horrendous acts to “man’s best friend” repulse me. I love animals and have wept every I have had to put one of our beloved cats or dogs to sleep. Part of me wonders how Coach Andy Reid could dare let Michael Vick back onto a football field.
The Austrian poet Ranier Maria Rilke might shine some light on Coach Reid’s action. Rilke said, “Everything terrible is something that needs our love.” Michael Vick certainly needed love and Andy Reid knew it. How did Reid sense this? His own sons, Britt and Garrett, are drug addicts who have been in and out of jail for a host of narcotic offenses. When he brought Michael Vick onto the Eagle’s football team, Coach Reid said, “I know about second chances.” He understands from personal experience that “Everything terrible is something that needs our love.”
Whenever forgiveness occurs, someone is bound to be horrified. Each of us probably has a sin or two we feel is never deserving of a second chance—too hideous to be forgiven. Second chances often upset us, especially when they are offered to others and do not involve our family or friends.
Today we see an epiphany. An epiphany is seeing God come to earth as the pure and spotless one, Jesus Christ, and, in today’s case, seeing Jesus, the unclean one, becoming unclean for our sake at the River Jordan. From the moment God comes to earth, we see God offering second chances to a host of miscreants--pimps, prostitutes, tax collectors and people just like you and me.
We need special 3-D glasses like those being given out at the blockbuster movie, “Avatar,” if we are to make sense of God giving us all second chances. We need “Epiphany Glasses.” “Epiphany Glasses” make it possible for us see God at work in this crazy, mixed up world of ours, giving second chances over and over again, even when we do not think we are deserving of special treatment. Anne Lamott, author of Traveling Mercies, writes of second chances: “I never said I am a good Christian. I just know that Jesus adores me and is only as far away as his name. I say, ‘Hi, Lord,’ and he says, ‘Hello, Darling.’ He loves me so much he keeps a photo of me in his wallet. If I were the only person on earth, he still would have died for me.” Lamott sees her life through “Epiphany Glasses.”
At our baptisms, God took a photo of each of us and placed it in the huge heavenly wallet. Just like those Christmas letters you just received in which proud parents and grandparents brag unendingly about their rambunctious kids as if they are angels, God does the same thing with us and pulls out our baptismal pictures for all to see, saying, “Let me tell you about my wonderful children.”
My hunch is that a lot of people, including many of us, need “Epiphany Glasses” to understand the company we keep here at First Lutheran Church. Rarely a week goes by when someone doesn’t call or email me: “Reverend, we respect your ministry and what you do, but do all the rough and tumble people have to hang out around your place?” Maybe they are right, I think; maybe we should clean up our act and improve the company we keep. “Epiphany Glasses” are essential to any ministry that dares to open its doors to the astonishing company that Jesus always calls us to keep and “Epiphany Glasses” help us resist the temptation to “move on up” to better company.
Let us not forget: when Jesus stepped out of the Jordan and began to towel off, a voice came from heaven and said, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you, I am well pleased.” With these words, the church was given permission to hang out with the riff-raff, to offer and be offered second chances galore.
In these days, we are well aware of the church’s folly and fragility, its need for second chances. We know what is happening in our own Evangelical Lutheran Church in America: we are fighting like cats and dogs among ourselves; the issue really is about the company we keep. Some people long for purity, for everyone to think alike, to be “good" as they define “good.” We find ours church slogging along like an old truck trying to get to the other side of a snake infested swamp. The amazing thing is, God is always on the other side, as he was at the Jordan, urging us out of the deep and treacherous waters and saying, “With you, I am well pleased.”
Seeing our world through “Epiphany Glasses” will thrill us to no end as we live among the riff-raff. We will be thrilled, if for no other reason, that when Jesus stepped into the Jordan, he offered each one of us a second chance.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
January 3, 2010
Epiphany of Our Lord (transferred)
Matthew 2: 1-12
"Opting for a Different Road"
My favorite figures in our family’s Christmas crèche were the kings and their camels. As I have grown older, I have come to understand that those kings might not have been kings at all; they might simply have been Wise Men, Magi, star-gazers, or astrologers. I have learned, too, according to the Bible, that they did not have the majestic names of Baltazaar, Melchior, and Gaspar--one, by the way, after whom we named our youngest son. And, worst of all, I have been informed that there might not have been three. Thank heavens we do know, though, that they brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the Christ Child.
Amidst all this confusion, there is one thing that has stuck with me throughout my life: these three or two or four men dared to stand up to King Herod. This daring has filled my imagination.
There were a few other wise people in Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth besides the mysterious ones from the East. They were the chief priests and scribes, Herod’s court theologians. They told Herod what he wanted to hear, including that there might be a king in Bethlehem. They had come to this conclusion through diligent biblical study. Interestingly, even though they were in my line of work and could easily be my heroes, I have forgotten who they were. Their “no runs, no hits, no errors” manner left little for my imagination growing up; their lack of courage has not inspired me over the long haul. There is a particular ailment that we clergy are prone to suffer just like Herod’s puppet theologians: our imaginations begin to rot when our greatest desire is pleasing others, especially those in power. We become little more than yes men and yes women who leave you bored and struggling for some meaningful vision.
While I have forgotten almost entirely about the chief priests and scribes, I have remained intrigued by the Wise Men. This is true for others, too. The wonderful mythology that has been created around them is in no small part due to their considerable courage. Funny the attraction: they were not seminary trained; they were not insiders; they were not of the right religious persuasion; instead, they were weirdoes attracted to Tarot cards, homeopathic medicine, and star-gazing.
Herod had one request of these weirdoes: “When you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.”
They did find the child by means of a star that shone over the unlikeliest town of little Bethlehem. When the Wise Men entered the stable, what to their wondering eyes should appear, but a little baby in a manger. Only weirdoes would, as the Bible states, be “overwhelmed with joy” by such a pathetic sight. Only the off beat would fall down on their knees, pay homage, and present the swaddled one with exquisite gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Here is what has astonished me about these mysterious men. After they worshipped this new born king, the Bible says this of them: “And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.” I love that: “They left for their own country by another road.”
As a youngster, I am not sure I sensed their daring. Only with years have I come to realize the risk the Wise Men took. Only with years have I asked poet T. S. Eliot’s question, whether they were led all that way “for birth or death.”
Children love the fairy tale quality of this story as these mysterious men stand up to the wicked old king. What they don’t realize until later in life is the courage required of anyone who refuses to cozy up to the powerful and the necessary sacrifices that likely will follow.
As we grow older, we are tempted to become less like the Wise Men and more like the chief priests and scribes. We learn to couch our loss of nerve in lofty religious language. After all, didn’t Jesus say, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar and to God the things that are God’s.” And Saint Paul, “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities.” We mask our refusal to go home a different way in biblical language. And yet, deep down, we are sickened by what we have become: we have not ended up the Wise Men and Women we would like, daring to risk for the sake of the Gospel; rather, too often, we have become cowardly ones slithering along in lockstep to the powerful and the sure bet.
Don’t we long to be like the Wise Men, filled with fervor, boldness, and imagination? We remember Robert Frost’s poem because it urges us to such a heroic vision: “I shall be telling this with a sigh/ Somewhere ages and ages hence;/ Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-/I took the one less traveled by,/And that has made all the difference.”
Whenever I think of the churches and ministries that have touched my life over the years, they are without exception the ones that have “left for their country by another road.” They are made up of people not too different from you and me. They are the ones who refused to take their churches and leave the city for the suburban green pastures. They stayed put in the city, barely able to see a star in the sky but, the one they did see led them to the Christ Child’s glory. This glory flowed strangely among the riff-raff, in the ones often more sinner than saint. These heroes of the faith are the ones who chose the rutty road home and that choice made all the difference in their lives and that choice touched the lives of many more like you and me. These people who discovered the Christ Child almost always did so on a prayer to God and rarely more than a nickel in the bank. These people risked for the sake of the Gospel.
A New Year stands before us now. This year will likely be like many others in this congregation’s history. I sense it will be filled with challenge. I sense that their will come a moment or two of uncertainty when we will be forced to decide which road will take us home. Will we take the way that has less risk and fewer thrills or will we take the challenging way that, while at times frightening and uncertain, will prove far more breathtaking? I pray that, by God’s grace, we will chose courageously like the Wise Men, that we will act with boldness and imagination, and perhaps sometime down the line, there will be those who will look back at what we did and be grateful for the choices we made.
There is a prayer that I particularly love from the church’s Evening Prayer service. Please bow your heads and join me in that prayer: “Lord God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 27, 2009
First Sunday of Christmas
Luke 2: 41-52
"Those Blessed Questions"
You have received your Christmas cards by now from family and friends. Some news has been wonderful--new babies, engagements, college graduations, job promotions, calls to new churches. Other news has been sobering--friends with heart attacks, prostate cancer, divorces, and job losses.
The elderly wife of my childhood pastor wrote in her letter to us that each year brings the two of them new challenges. She added, “And yet, the news is the same, ‘Christ the savior is born!’”
Today, only two days after Christmas, we hear of Jesus and his parents, Mary and Joseph, traveling to Jerusalem for his Bar Mitzvah. You can imagine how Mary and Joseph reported the news of this trip in their annual holiday greeting card. Like many of the cards we received this year, there was good news and there was bad news. Mary reported that Jesus was so mesmerized by the teaching of the wise men at the Temple that he forgot to join his parents on their return trip to Nazareth. Anyone who reads Mary’s news is stunned: “We went a full day before we realized he was lost and it took us a total of three days to find him.” Imagine what Grandma and Grandpa must have thought: how come it took those young parents three days to miss little Jesus—“I told them they were too young to have a baby!” You can hear Uncle Solomon as he scratched his head, “What kind of father is that Joe, anyway?”
This is the only glimpse we have of Jesus’ childhood in any of the four gospels other than the nativity accounts in Matthew and Luke. All that we hear of Jesus’ growing up years is these measly eleven verses. You just heard them.
You must admit that these eleven verses give you hope. This was Jesus, the Son of God, Emanuel, God with us, the Messiah, and he got separated from his parents in the big city. There is hope in these verses for parents. Listen to Mary as if it is you: “Jesus, did you not know your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety?” Jesus didn’t seem terribly different from kids we know: he went to the big city with his parents, was mesmerized by something that intrigued him, and lost his parents in the excitement.
I read somewhere that the Gospels don’t give us an exhaustive account of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection; rather they offer us snapshots, important pictures of Jesus’ life that can be carried with us when we need them most. Today’s snapshot helps us ponder the unruly teenage years and the troubling discord in our own families that often feel so unique and yet which touch almost every family.
What we hear today is not a heroic account of some child god. Many religions have such stories. There are wondrous stories of the Buddha in India, of Osiris in Egypt, of Cyrus the Great in Persia, of Alexander the Great in Greece, and of Augustus in Rome. There are even stories of young Jesus the wonder kid performing astonishing magic acts, but these stories never made it into the Gospels. They were kept out! When you hear of young Jesus visiting the Temple, it is as if you are hearing about the kid next door: “After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers.”
Jesus was well schooled in Torah. He was mesmerized by the wise elders. And yet, note well: he also asked questions. Now there is a snapshot for your wallet. Don’t we all have questions? As we set foot into a New Year, it is highly likely, whether we are twelve or ninety, that we will have questions.
Our family spent much of Christmas Eve following worship here, looking at an astonishing new comic-like book, The Book of Genesis, given to us by Jim and June Swartz. The illustrator of the book is R. Crumb; he has done record album covers for Janis Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Company and the Grateful Dead along with drawings for poetry books by Charles Bukowski. As we looked and read, our Son Caspar asked a number of probing questions: “So Dad, what’s the deal about Abraham living more than 900 years? And Pop, the bit about the woman created out of a man’s rib? And, come on Dad, do people really believe the world is less than 10,000 years old—what about dinosaurs that are millions of years old?” Some parents are frightened by such hard-hitting questions. I rejoiced and was delighted. Jesus had questions of the religious teachers, too. Questions seem like an altogether healthy and proper thing.
Henning Mankel in his novel, Italian Shoes, writes, “I have no faith in a world in which all the riddles are solved.” I agree. I love the mystery, the unanswered questions, that we sometimes simply have to sit with. I am suspicious of people, especially religious ones, who have all the answers. I am equally suspicious of religious denominations that have all the answers to life’s most pressing matters neatly sewn up. I tremble when Christians prohibit questioning of the faith.
As we grow older--not just twelve and in confirmation class--but fifty and sixty and seventy, we will still have questions. They are the questions I read in our Christmas cards: Why did Jack get such a terrible diagnosis only two months after he retired? Why does God allow Alzheimer’s to fog Harold’s brilliant mind? What kind of God let’s our dear son fight on the front line in Iraq?
We live in an age begging for tough questions, questions on health care, homosexuality, terrorism, the economy, Islam, Judaism and Christianity’s antagonism toward one another. Sadly, we have shown an increasing inability to live with questions as witnessed in our own ELCA around human sexuality and in our nation around health care. What we see in Jesus’ brief visit to Jerusalem is that faithful people don’t have to sit by idly with saccharine smiles, accepting trite answers for difficult questions. We catch a snapshot from Jesus’ Jerusalem visit that shows how faithful people come to God and ask, why and how come and what for?
My hunch is that the coming New Year will bring us as many questions as it will answers in our personal lives, in our church life, and in our national life. Perhaps one of the most important gifts we receive this Christmas is from the twelve year old Jesus who celebrated the questions and sought wisdom from wise people within his community of faith. Notice, even Jesus was not an island: he didn’t simply come to his own answers without probing the wisdom of the elders. Likewise, we Lutherans sometimes are mesmerized by Luther’s “Here I stand;” we take this statement as our own license to be theological John Wayne’s, to act as if we know the truth without ever plumbing the wisdom of the community and its elders. Let us never forget that Luther desperately wanted to be involved in debate with the religious community. He wanted to ask questions and to seek answers from the wise. We, too, need one another as we seek for the deepest truths in our lives. As we face challenging questions, let us dare to question and let us have the grace to listen to one another.
May God walk with you in the coming year and may you join hands, asking tough questions together and seeking God’s wisdom.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 24, 2009
Christmas Eve
Luke 2: 1-20
"The Christ Child's Light"
The fiercest theological debate in our family centers on the issue of Christmas tree lights. Perhaps your family has engaged in a similar debate, hoping to maintain Christmas tree light orthodoxy. Here’s the question in a nutshell: should Christmas tree lights be the old-fashioned variety, big and multi-colored—if it was good enough for grandma and grandpa it should be good enough for us; should the lights be tiny and white—the kind in vogue in recent years and receiving Martha Stewart’s “Town and Country” seal of approval; should they blink and chase—good if they don’t make you seasick; or should the tree have real lighted candles—this, by the way, is my wife’s central tenet of faith, even though it has threatened to make our house an inferno over the years.
Whatever your preference regarding Christmas tree lights, the truth is that on this Christmas Eve, Jesus Christ our Savior is the only light that matters. Whether your lights are red or blue or orange or white, chase or blink, whether they threaten the family home or not, what is crucial is that the light of the Christ Child burns brightly in your life.
The drawing on this evening’s bulletin cover is filled with Christmas light. It is known as “The Stalingrad Madonna.” I first saw the original in the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church in Berlin, Germany, a number of years ago. Since then, a copy of this drawing has always been under the glass of my office desk.
The artist, Kurt Reuber, was a pastor and doctor from Dresden, Germany. He drew this picture during the frigid Russian winter of 1942. The drawing was his gift to the injured and dying soldiers whom he cared for during the Battle of Stalingrad. Two million lives were lost in that bloodbath, more than any other battle in history.
Dr. Reuber writes of this picture in his last letter: “I wondered for a long while what I should paint, and in the end I decided on a Madonna, or mother and child…There are no proper materials and I have used a Russian map for paper [You can see the folds of the map on the bulletin cover].”
Note on the left of the picture, Weihnachten im Kessel 1942 ("Christmas in the Cauldron 1942") and at the bottom, Festung Stalingrad ("Fortress Stalingrad"). Of the German words licht, leben, liebe on the right side, Reuber notes: "I remembered the words of St. John: light, life, and love. What more can I add…My comrades stood spellbound and reverent, silent before the picture that hung on the clay wall…Our celebrations in the shelter were dominated by this picture, and it was with full hearts that my comrades read the words: light, life and love."
The joy the soldiers experienced that Christmas was not of the “chirpy optimism” variety often seen on bumper stickers and book markers purchased at Christian bookstores. “The Stalingrad Madonna” bears a far more profound joy, one whose light navigates the world’s deepest darkness. Those soldiers were 1,500 miles from home; artillery shells were flying. The only question that remained: would the Christ Child’s light burn brightly enough for the hunkered down soldiers to see God’s light, life, and love amidst the slaughter?
The nature of the Christ Child’s light is that it always burns brightest in the world’s darkest places. This light burned brightly in a smelly manger in Bethlehem; it continues to burn brightly tonight on those who come by here during the day but, for now, have no place in the inn and are sleeping nearby on the San Diego streets.
The light of Bethlehem is tested in your life as well. Will the Light of Christ accompany you during your unemployment? Will Mary’s Baby shine on you as you unwrap your presents alone for the first time in a long time and as one stocking remains sadly empty? Will this Light of the Nations pierce the Afghanistan night where young men huddle in dangerous mountain passes and hold onto the Christ Child for all they are worth?
A bit later this evening, we will sing “Joy to the World.” As we sing, listen to what the music does: it does not go soaring into heaven, with notes going higher and higher; rather, the music tumbles down to earth, with the notes going lower and lower. Just like that music, God’s joy comes down from heaven to be with us tonight.
This wondrous light, “I bring you good new of great joy for all people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord,” has been entrusted to every generation from the time of the shepherds who kept watch over their flocks by night. Each generation must test its heritage and see whether Christ Child’s light still burns brightly in its own day. We do exactly that as we carry the Babe’s light to hospital rooms, prison cells, and cemeteries, all the while singing, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”
The great circus promoter P. T. Barnum once said, “People want someone to throw up sky rockets.” He was right. Tonight, we are the sky rocket throwers. We will go out onto our patio at the conclusion of this service, amidst the world’s darkness, and we will throw up sky rockets. We will sing for all the world to hear that “Jesus Christ is born!”
As we go out into the world singing of our dear Savior’s birth, notice how the world tilts if ever so slightly. See how the world’s darkness is pierced yet again by the Christ Child’s glorious light.
May the Christ Child burn brightly in your life and in the lives of those you love on this blessed night and forever.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 20, 2009
Fourth Sunday in Advent
Luke 1: 39-55
"Wow!"
I know I should not admit it in such sophisticated company but I do believe in Santa Claus.
When I was growing up, the front room of our house, next to the living room, was called “the reception room.” Except for piano playing, the reception room was rarely used; and yet, during the days leading to Christmas, astonishing things happened there. It suddenly became off limits to all eager little ones. Sheets were hung over the leaded glass windows to prevent peaking in from the front door; the French doors, separating living room and reception room, were slid out from their pockets and locked tight, the key hole stuffed with cotton, preventing snooping by the curious. As far as I could tell, Santa’s elves--called “brownies” in our house—cordoned off this magical room. They did this to ensure that no one could see them as they constructed the elaborate Christmas platform that would be a winter wonderland on Christmas morning. The only certainty we had that Santa’s helpers were present was that the milk and cookies and letters to Santa that we put on the fireplace mantle before we went to bed, were always gone in the morning. The brownies apparently delivered one letter I had nervously written with my parents’ counsel and permission, requesting permission from the North Pole CEO to join the elite elves brigade.
Those enchanting times are gone now and yet this season, at least for me, is still filled with wonder. I hope you, too, find these days similarly enthralling.
Christmas requires a radical reorientation if we are to be filled with awe. I am not just talking about Santa Claus. Christmas obliges us to look for God coming in unexpected places, to see God working in unlikely people. Christmas is about God appearing where we least expect heaven to dwell.
You have noticed, I am sure, that whenever God is busy in this world, there are inevitably as many questions as there are answers as to what God has done. When God comes to earth, we are left with nagging questions like, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Or, said another way, “What worthy person could be born in Bethlehem?”
On this Fourth Sunday in Advent, so close on the heels of Christmas, God invites us to bend and stretch. Such worship calisthenics will be necessary if we are to grasp what happened in the Bethlehem manger so long ago.
Today, one of God’s bending and stretching exercises is to look at old Elizabeth. Not in our wildest dreams do we imagine that she, a card carrying AARP member, could have a baby. In fact, Elizabeth’s husband, Zechariah, was struck dumb due to his disbelief: he thought it preposterous that he and his wife, late in their autumn years, could have a baby—whether God was involved or not.
These days of Christmas preparation stretch our imaginations to believe that with God all things are possible. Just when we get our minds around the possibility of two old folks giving birth to John the Baptist, we confront another mystery: how is it possible for a thirteen year old virgin to become the mother of God? This is almost impossible to believe--even Mary had to bend and stretch when the Angel Gabriel announced to her that she was going to be the mommy of a bouncing bundle of love from heaven. The Bible says that Mary was greatly troubled.
It is two thousand years later now and we are still troubled. Every pastors’ group I have ever been in has hotly debated the issues surrounding Mary and the conception and birth of her child. How can this be? we wonder. After all, we are educated in these matters and have seminary degrees to prove it. We want everything to make sense as if we made Mary pregnant, not God. We struggle to explain the unexplainable; if we can’t explain it, it certainly cannot be true. The mysterious and unique seem ludicrous to us, as silly as Santa Claus. And yet, let us beware: when we try to make God’s actions intelligible, we risk wiping away the mystery and erasing the marvel.
We are invited to be like Mary. In fact, “Mary is who we are. She is a person of faith who does not always understand but who seeks to put her trust in God. She is one who is blessed not because she sins less or has keener insights into the things of God. She is instead blessed, as we are, because she is called by God to participate in the work of God…To call Mary blessed is to recognize the blessedness of ordinary people who are called to participate in that which is extraordinary” (Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Cynthia Rigby, Blessed One: Protestant Perspectives on Mary).
Perhaps the greatest mystery of all during these days is that God comes to you and me. Can anything good come out of Bethlehem, that Podunk city seven miles southwest of the metropolis of Jerusalem? It is not a huge leap to ask another question, whether anything good can come out of First Lutheran Church or our lives? We are so tiny, a Podunk kind of place. Does God really come by here, to us? And, of course, you know yourself better than I: who are you that God should come to you?
These magical days invite us to imagine God weaving wonders in our midst. On Friday, we saw such wonder. Hundreds of poor people came here as if to the manger to get their Christmas presents (sleeping bags, tarps, scarves, sweatshirts, socks). God’s beloved homeless ones opened their packages like little children, right here. Magic was in the air and I am certain I saw a sign hanging over our patio proclaiming, “THERE IS ROOM IN THIS INN!” The Christ Child was here.
Are you able to imagine that Bethlehem is here this morning? When you hear the words, “Take and eat, this is my body,” do you believe that your hands will form the manger for the Babe of Bethlehem?
Well, do you believe in Santa Claus? What occurs here is a million times more magical. Do you believe in Bethlehem? Look around, wonderment is in the air.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 13, 2009
Third Sunday in Advent
Luke 3: 7-18
"Wow!"
The word “repentance” sounds scary. It makes us frown. If someone tells us to repent, we will likely get our backs up and become grumpy. Who shouts for joy when we hear the word “repentance?”
Today is the Third Sunday in Advent. It is called Gaudete Sunday; that means joy as in “Rejoice in the Lord always,” as in a Christmas pageant with exuberant, angelic children, as in 250 brightly wrapped sleeping bags that will be given to our patio-parishioners on Friday morning. Given today’s emphasis on joy, John the Baptist’s invitation to repent feels like an unwelcome intruder.
I wonder if we viewed repentance differently, if it might feel more appropriate to this joy Sunday. What if we viewed repentance as a joyous gift from God?
A good way to begin seeing the joy of repentance is by contrasting the lives of Peter and Judas, two of Jesus’ disciples. Both were miserable sinners. You remember that Peter denied knowing Jesus three times when Jesus’ needed him most and when his life was on the line. Judas, on the other hand, only betrayed Jesus once, telling the authorities where they could find Jesus the night before he died. We might debate whose sin was worse, Peter’s or Judas,’ but such a debate would be silly. Sin is sin. The difference between Peter and Judas is not found in the sins they committed but in which one repented.
Peter repented and his life was changed; he was freed from the terrible cowardice that plagued him almost every time he was called to do something heroic on Jesus’ behalf. It was because of repentance that Peter became one of the most courageous people the church has ever known. Judas did not repent. He wallowed in his sins because of the disgusting way he betrayed his friend, Jesus. Judas finally had enough and despair led him to take his own life. The essential difference between Peter and Judas was not that one’s sin was worse than the other’s; the difference was that Peter repented and found hope, Judas failed to repent and lost all hope.
What we see as we look at Peter and Judas is that repentance changes lives and leads to joy. I love the way writer and preacher Frederick Buechner defines repentance--it might even make you smile: “To repent is to come to your senses…True repentance spends less time looking at the past and saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ than to the future and saying, ‘Wow!’” (Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC, pg. 79).
The crowds wanted to say, “Wow!” so they asked John the Baptist, “What then should we do?” We here at First Lutheran ask the identical question. We, too, are a community of believers that wants to say, “Wow!”
Our congregation faces a critical financial challenge in the coming year that makes “wow” seem very far off. While our pledging is at its highest level in our history and 7 ½ % higher than last year, we still face a potential deficit of $31,000. This deficit includes no salary increases, no increases in ministry. “What then shall we do?” we ask.
You may have noticed that John’s invitation to repentance is an economic proposal. John doesn’t tell the people to pray or go to church; he counsels them, “If you have two coats, you must share one.” John’s counsel on how to say, “Wow!” seems tied up in how we use our resources to care for others. Of course, this proposal is counterintuitive: we typically think that joy comes by keeping everything for ourselves. John says joy comes another way, when we give away what we have to others.
Our Council has carefully examined possible places to make cuts in our proposed budget. One possibility could be in the $25,600 we will offer to our Pacifica Synod and Evangelical Lutheran Church in America for ministry done beyond our doors. We could easily convince ourselves that because of our considerable outreach ministry done with God’s blessed poor right here at Third and Ash, we are justified in cutting what we give beyond our doors. I am saddened to report that quite a few churches in our synod and across the ELCA are doing precisely that. I am pleased to report that our Council has not been tempted by this tantalizing tease. In fact, I believe our Council’s decision is actually one of repentance, of seeking to be who God intends this community to be. Who here, when telling others about our church, does not talk about our ministry to the homeless and working poor and our commitment to the church beyond our doors? This does not come without a cost but it certainly does come with a “Wow!”
Look at the 250 sleeping bags and tarps, gloves and sweaters lining our sanctuary wall and creating the crèche for this morning’s Sunday School Christmas pageant. Who among us will soon forget this astonishing sight, especially in this wretched economy? Someone asked me a few months ago, “Pastor, how much does our ministry to the homeless and poor cost First Lutheran?” I said, “It would cost us our very life if we stopped it.” Sharing our gifts with others has given this congregation a purpose for 121 years now; it has helped us discover how magnificently God provides for this congregation when things seem so tough. Sharing our gifts brings us amazing joy and vibrancy on this little corner of God’s universe. That, my dear friends, is what repentance is all about. Joy!
The Sunday School is now going to repent. In their own way, they are going to look beyond themselves and help us say, “Wow!” As our beloved children help us look to the Christ Child, may we all find joy and may we all say, “Wow!”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
December 6, 2009
Second Sunday in Advent
Malachi 3: 1-4; Luke 3: 1-6
"Rewriting Our Lives"
When I was a boy, my father took me on a tour of one of the steel mills that then lined the Ohio River. I was overwhelmed by the huge kilns swirling with molten steel in extraordinarily hot fires. These scorching fires must have been similar to what the prophet Malachi had in mind when he spoke of the purifying fire necessary to purify God’s people in preparation for the coming of the Lord.
Malachi also spoke of fuller’s soap. I worked on a dairy farm in high school and college. One of my morning chores was mucking out the stalls after the cows were milked. My hands and fingers were covered with cow manure when this task was completed. Before lunch, we went to the milk house and used Fells Knaptha Soap to rid ourselves of cow-pie remains. If you have used this caustic soap, you know the experience is something akin to rubbing your hands with sandpaper.
We fool ourselves if we think the process of ridding our lives of impurities and filth in preparation for the Lord’ coming is going to be painless. According to the prophets’, it might feel like the refiner’s fire or the fuller’s soap. The prophet Isaiah paints another picture of the hard work necessary to prepare for the Lord’s coming: “Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” This is a major work project.
How many of you have had hip or knee replacement? I don’t want to give away all my trade secrets, but, whenever I make a pastoral visit following such surgery, I always ask people if they are in excruciating pain. If they answer yes, I say, “Good, the surgery worked.” Making the crooked straight is painful business.
Repentance of our sins requires similarly serious surgery in order to make the crooked straight. Alcoholics Anonymous calls this process “making a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves” (step four of twelve). I remember talking to a veteran AAer. He told me that many newcomers think the pathway to sobriety is going to be pain free: just show up at the meetings and everything will be easy, they think. He said that nothing is further from the truth. Breaking destructive habits, he said, requires commitment, time, and hard work. Adopting healthy, new ways of living is rarely easy.
I have always felt that we Lutherans should give more emphasis to private confession. Upon hearing that, I know what you are thinking: we are Lutherans not Roman Catholics; we don’t have to go to the pastor to confess our sins. In one way, of course, you are correct: you don’t have to go to a pastor to confess your sins. However, private confession is part of our Lutheran tradition. The order for such a service appears in our new cranberry Evangelical Lutheran Worship hymnal. Be that as it may, most of us avoid private confession like the plague—have you ever privately confessed your sins? We sense that it will feel like a purifying fire or fuller’s soap--and, in some ways, that is true. Change is rarely painless. If you have been to the therapist’s office, you know that standard decoration is a Kleenex box for all the tears that accompany painful, positive change.
Cast in bright light, private confession is the wondrous opportunity of going to another person in the strictest confidence and telling them the entire truth about ourselves. It is also the opportunity, after openly telling our darkest and dirtiest secrets, to discover not only that the other person doesn’t faint in horror, but does something far more astonishing by saying, “I now forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
The painful work of repentance is stopping the burdensome game of pretending that we are perfect. Repentance is, as the words of the old confession say, confessing that “we are by nature sinful and unclean.” Repentance is announcing exactly who we are and believing that it is God’s task to make us better.
Alfred Nobel invented dynamite, spent a lifetime manufacturing and selling weapons, and made a fortune. One day he woke up and read his obituary in the newspaper. A French reporter had mistakenly announced his death instead of his brother Ludvig’s. The paper’s headline announced, “The Merchant of Death is Dead” and went on to say that he "became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before.” The obituary apparently reported nothing more about Alfred Nobel.
Horrified by how others viewed him, Alfred Nobel began the process of purification and cleansing, of repentance. He decided to turn his life around. It is said that, in an effort to recreate himself, he created the Nobel Prizes. As you know, one of those prizes is the Nobel Peace Prize which is given every year to the person who has worked tirelessly for peace in the world and will be given in a few days to President Obama.
John the Baptist and prophets like Isaiah and Malachi are the headlines which tell the stark truth about our crooked ways and counsel us to straighten out our lives. Repentance is never the ending, though; it is always only the beginning. In affect, like the headlines in that French newspaper that challenged Alfred Nobel to turn around his life, the prophets’ words give us the amazing opportunity to rewrite our obituaries in advance of our death, to begin to live as we hope people will see us even in death. There is always good news with the prophets’ words, always a Gospel opportunity to turn our lives around and live as God would wish us to live.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 29, 2009
First Sunday in Advent
Luke 21: 25-36
"Raise Your Heads"
The Gospel reading we just heard is next to impossible to understand. And, if we think we understand it--all the ominous signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and the distress among the nations--it will scare us half to death. Jesus painted a bizarre picture of the end time. It is a mighty strange way to begin a new church year on this First Sunday in Advent.
To have half a chance at understanding what Jesus was talking about, it helps to understand what Advent is and what Advent is not. Advent is not about making believe that we are preparing for Jesus to be born again in Bethlehem. Said another way, Advent is not an adult Christmas pageant. Jesus was born once and for all many years ago.
What Advent is is truth-telling. Advent tells the truth about the darkness that exists in our world, the hatred between people of different beliefs, the brutal wars among the nations, the gaping divide separating the rich and the poor.
Is it any wonder then that we observe Advent at the darkest time of year when the pole of the earth slants farthest from the sun? We feel the chill in the air. It is dark as we drive home from work. Even in beautiful San Diego we notice the dying: the leaves have fallen and are rotting; the flowers no longer do their colorful dances and their stalks are at half mast. Winter is upon us, sorrow is in the air.
The church could have decided to observe Advent at different time of year, say in June instead of December. It seems logical to place the season of God’s son’s return in days that are bright and warm, when birth not death is in the air. Rather we place Advent in the darkest days. Hope seems absent. The despair of this time of year has a name--seasonal affective disorder--that time when darkness nearly drives us mad.
We would prefer to be optimistic people rather than pessimists moaning about shadows. We would prefer to be confident people, believing that we can bring about a brand new day with a little human ingenuity, creativity, and hard work. The last century, the twentieth, had so much potential for sunny optimism. Humanity seemed at the top of its game. No century saw more dazzling achievements. Albert Einstein’s insights into the atom laid promising groundwork for improving the lot for the world. And yet, that ingenuity led to the creation of the most demonic death machine the world has ever known. One of our most brilliant discoveries birthed our most appalling wickedness. What was supposed to be our finest century proved our bloodiest. Our ingenuity left a trail of unimaginable destruction and human ashes in its wake.
Cormac McCarthy, in his book No Country for Old Men, tells of a grizzled old lawman who has seen more blood and guts in his days in Texas than anyone should have to see in a lifetime. In this book made into an Academy Award movie, the lawman finally comes to sad determination that there is nothing he can do to stop the violence being rained down upon his community. At one point he says: “I wake up sometimes way in the night and I know as certain as death that here aint nothing short of the second comin of Christ that can slow this train” (Thomas Long, Preaching from Memory to Hope, pg. 121). This law enforcement officer dedicated his life to protect human life and to end violence, and yet, as he reflects on his years of service as a police officer, he concludes that his accomplishments haven’t amounted to hill of beans. All it seems he can do now to achieve his dreams is wait for the second coming of Christ.
You and I are a lot like that lawman. We have tried our best and our best is not good enough. No matter how hard we try, we end up throwing our hands in the air and praying the Advent prayer, “Stir up your power, Lord Christ, and Come!” We cry out this Advent prayer in the bleak midwinter of our lives when we light our little wreath of candles, one at a time, here at the church. This candle-lighting is nothing spectacular. And yet, every year we find ourselves on tippy-toe, hoping that God will put the finishing touches on what was begun at Bethlehem so long ago.
In spite of the stark picture before us, today’s Gospel invites us to stand on “tippy-toe.” Jesus urges us, “Stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” The gospel tells the truth about the limp nature of our human efforts; the gospel also tells the truth that God can bring about the redemption of this groaning world.
Georges Bernanos writes of a priest who raised up his head in order to bring hope to his insignificant little country parish. During his pastoral rounds, the priest heard “the screaming of a beaten wife, the hiccup of a drunkard…poverty, lust.” The priest thought: “No doubt I should turn from all this in disgust. And yet I feel that such distress…will awaken one day on the shoulder of Jesus Christ” (pg. 126, Thomas Long). This priest had to look beyond his bag of tricks, to Jesus’ shoulder, to bring hope to his parish.
We all are country priests. In fact, Martin Luther called us a priesthood of believers, ordained and unordained alike. You and I know people who need to awaken on Jesus’ shoulder and we will do our best to make this happen. Like the mother and father who come running to their little one in the wee hours of the night when monsters lurk under the bed, we come running to comfort those frightened by nightmares and who desperately need Jesus’ shoulder to lean on. We tell of Jesus’ shoulder as we sit quietly by our beloved dying ones, holding their hands as they breathe their last; we tell of Jesus’ shoulder to an elderly gentleman home alone, over a steaming casserole we have brought him; we tell of Jesus’ shoulder to a homeless person here at First Lutheran as we call her by her first name and, for the first time in a long time, she is touched by tenderness and dignity. We carry Advent light to those in the dark and we tell them that they will soon awaken on Jesus’ shoulder.
We need Advent. We need the truth it tells about our pain, our grief, and our deepest longings. We need Advent’s light in the frightening places of our lives and in the lives of those we love. We need Advent to urge us to lift up our heads and cry, “Stir up your power, Lord Christ, and come.” We need Advent that we might lean on Jesus’ shoulder and rejoice and sing.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 22, 2009
Christ the King Sunday
John 18: 33-37
"Our King on the Other Side of Brokennness"
Let’s not be too hard on Pilate. He had a job to do. Pilate had to make certain that his authority and the authority of the empire were not usurped by some upstart king. It is entirely appropriate for Pilate to ask Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?” That is why we have leaders and pay them the big bucks, to make certain that crackpots do not attempt to overthrow the throne.
Admit it: Pilate’s question is our question: “Jesus, are you a king?” We thought Jesus’ kingship would turn out differently. If Jesus is the King, shouldn’t he have put an end to war and violence, hunger and injustice by now? If Jesus is the King, shouldn’t things be on the upswing in our world?
Jesus said to Pilate: “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate threw up his hands in exasperation, “So you are a king?”
We have spent an entire church year trying to figure out Pilate’s question, “Jesus, are you the king?” We have watched Jesus closely, Sunday after Sunday, in our private devotional lives, Bible studies, prayer groups, and Wednesday evenings in Lent and October. On this the final day of the church year, we expect more from Jesus the King than his being condemned to death by Pilate. Is this any way to end the church year? Is it any way to be a king?
This day, Christ the King Sunday, originated as an answer of sorts to the world’s madness and its crazed kings. Pope Pius XI instituted this day in 1925 to counter the devastation of World War 1, the supposed war to end all wars. Christ the King Sunday was to proclaim that God has a purpose for this world. But we ask eighty-four years later, if Christ is King, why the madness of World War II? Korea? Viet Nam? Iraq? Afghanistan? Like Pilate, we scream, “Jesus, are you the King or not?”
And with the question, “Are you the King?” we wonder what this king’s followers should look like. How will we, Christ’s subjects, follow the one who died on the cross? The Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams suggests that the way we should model our loyalty to the king is by telling others of our own frailty. Frailty? If we are Christians, shouldn’t we tell others of our strengths, our righteousness, our good works, our successes? Archbishop Williams seems to feel otherwise: he urges us to admit our brokenness to one another and in so doing to become more human. This admission of brokenness, he says, is the most precious gift we have to offer one another. Our frailty! (Rowan Williams, Where God Happens: Discovering God in One Another, Shambhala Publications, 2005)
I hope you have experienced someone sharing their frailty with you. Perhaps you have had a conversation with someone when your marriage was unraveling. You and your spouse had tried everything you could think of to save your marriage and nothing seemed to be work. You were at a dead end. You had confided in the person you had come to, in part, because she seemed a goody-two-shoes; maybe she would have a magic answer. And then that person whom you thought had the perfect marriage said: “My husband and I went through a vicious storm a few years back. We even separated. We had no idea where to turn. Things are better now but we still have our stormy stretches.” Suddenly, you realized you are not the only couple in the world struggling to honor your marriage vows. Because that special someone had shared her frailty with you, miraculously, you felt better.
To help others, we don’t need to have all the answers, we don’t even need to make things better; rather, we need to point them to Christ the King. I recently heard it said that when a line is drawn in the sand, Jesus always ends up on the wrong side of that line. The wrong side is where many of us have found ourselves more often than we care to confess. This peculiar king gave his life to be with us on the other side, the wrong side, the side we are on when we can’t stop taking one more drink, when we are so depressed we don’t know what end is up.
The wrong side is where you and I, like our king, are called to do our finest ministry. It is rarely the most comfortable place to be but it is where our King died, deep in the valley of the shadow of death. The wrong side is where Jesus rose from the dead to live forever.
This past Tuesday evening, I had to report to our Church Council where our congregational pledging currently stands for next year. I had to tell the Council that our pledges are below where I had expected them to be at this point even though, I know, you are doing your very best. As I drove to Oceanside for a meeting that very morning, I worried and worried about the budget that will be presented to you at our December 13 congregational meeting; the budget we are working on currently has a proposed deficit of $45,000. This budget includes no raises for staff, no fancy new programs, no financial additions to anything we are doing. I spent the drive to Oceanside fretting.
When I got to the meeting, Bishop Finck told those gathered there of an email he had received from one of you. In your email to our Bishop, you told him of last Sunday’s worship at First Lutheran. He told those gathered for the meeting that you wrote of the rousing worship, of the motley crew of people who gather Sunday after Sunday at First Lutheran, of people seeking ways to support others down on their luck over a cup of coffee. You told Bishop Finck that you were in tears when you prayed with your brothers and sisters in Christ, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done.” Had you seen a community gathered on the wrong side of the line, gathered around Christ’s brokenness? Had you heard this broken assembly sing alleluia together? As I listened to Bishop Finck, I thought, that’s what happens at First Lutheran every, single Sunday. Suddenly, rather than fretting about our budget, I was thinking of what a remarkable community this is, a place that finds its greatest delight being on the wrong side of brokenness with the broken and fragile ones. I suppose we find delight here because, in one way or another, we all live at one time or another on the other side of brokenness.
And then it struck me: our King, the one we worship this morning, he comes to us this very morning, and once again, he is on the wrong side, broken for you and me for the forgiveness of our sin.
Oh yes, and lest you have forgotten or never knew, Pilate couldn’t keep our king down. Our king rose from the dead to bring us all to God’s right side where brokenness is mended forever.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 15, 2009
Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost
Mark 13: 1-8
"Large Stones and Large Buildings"
The disciples were country bumpkins mesmerized by the big city of Jerusalem. Like school children on their first field trip to the big city, the disciples gawked and pointed at the Temple: “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings.”
We are all impressed by bigness. In 1983 I remember seeing the great wall that separated West Germany from communist East Germany. Dagmar took me out on a country road that was abruptly stopped by a fence running right across it. A huge fence stretched as far as our eyes could see separating East and West Germany—like the fence at the border separating the United States and Mexico. At regular intervals, there were towers with soldiers and high powered binoculars. I will not forget the soldiers walking up and down the fields with rifles and attack dogs at the ready.
As I looked at that wall it seemed so big. It was the very sight of power. Remember how our nation amassed weapons after weapon defending itself from this wall? The fence felt frighteningly permanent like the big stones and big buildings in Jerusalem must have felt to the disciples. I could never have imagined that one day that fence would come tumbling down and people would no longer be prisoners in their own country. Only days ago, Dagmar and I celebrated the twentieth anniversary of the tumbling of that terrible wall. Many of Dagmar’s relatives were held captive to that wall. We listened to Leonard Bernstein conducting Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the very music played on that memorable day when the Berlin Wall came tumbling down.
Once the disciples had visited the Temple Souvenir Shop where they purchased bobble head dolls in the likeness of Temple priests and snow globes of the Temple, Jesus set them straight. Jesus was not nearly as impressed by the big buildings and big stones as the disciples were. He told them: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown away.” Jesus urged the disciples to change how they viewed the world. Big is not better. What seems everlasting will soon come tumbling down. What matters is whether our hopes and dreams are built on Jesus Christ.
Jesus warned them that there were those who would try to convince them otherwise. “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray.” And isn’t he right? Many come to us, too, with shiny claims that promise to put an end to all manner of evil. Some nations claim that they are the very savior of the world, the lasting hope for all people. Some leaders promise the war to end all wars and brutal policies that will end terrorism. Churches get in on the act, too, with pastors claiming that they know God’s truth exactly and that their big congregations are the very testament that they know exactly what God would have them say on all manner of difficult and controversial subjects. Big promises. Imagine the disciples’ surprise when Jesus told them that the big stones and big buildings would come tumbling down. How was it possible that the Temple in Jerusalem, the symbol of God’s presence, would come tumbling down?
Jesus counsels a more realistic vision. He doesn’t tell us to give up working for our convictions, but he does warn us that our convictions, no matter what they may be, are far from perfect. Jesus seems to tell us that we alone can never bring about a perfect kingdom. Jesus says: “When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”
Jesus calls us to be a community that cares less about big buildings and big stones and more about his return in glory. I believe we here at First Lutheran are such a community albeit struggling along to be true and faithful. Even as we try to make ends meet financially, we do not stop doing ministry for God’s very little ones, God’s blessed poor. We gather here Sunday after Sunday crying out, “Christ has died. Christ is Risen. Christ will come again.” Our cry is not some fanciful fairy tale. As we cry, we urge one another to believe that Christ will come again to end all manner of evil, including death itself. Until Christ comes again in glory, our mission is to encourage one another not to lose hope. In word and deed, we wait patiently until Jesus comes.
Dachau was the site of one Adolph Hitler’s most infamous concentration camps. Today Dachau is a memorial to the many who were imprisoned and died horrific deaths in that place. At the museum there are terrible photographs of the reign of despair and death that occurred in Dachau and other concentration camps like it. One photograph shows a little girl, seven or eight years old with her mother, being marched to the gas chamber at Auschwitz. “The mother walks behind her daughter, powerless. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, the mother can do to stop what is about to happen to her little girl. So, she commits the only act of love left to her; she places her hand over the daughter’s eyes so the girl will not see where they are going.”
Thomas Long writes of that picture: “I believe that every person who gazes at that photograph is moved to prayer. Secular or religious, all are provoked by that tragic scene to an anguished lament: ‘God, do not let this be the last word.’”(Thomas Long, Preaching from Memory to Hope, Westminster Press, 2009, pg. 127)
The ministry we do in this place and in this world is our plea for all those we love: “God, do not let this be the last word.” We face all manner of death in our lives--alcoholism, divorce, drug addiction, lost jobs, mental illness, terminal illness, people living on the streets, elder and spousal abuse. We are a desperate people. We all need someone at one time or another to draw close to us and whisper in our ear, “This is not the final word.” That is why we gather here Sunday after Sunday. We proclaim together, “Christ will come again.” Some Sundays we need to hear these words more than others do and so they tell us that “Christ will come again.” On other Sundays we need to proclaim these words to those who are fearful of losing hope. And so we draw close and place our hands over their eyes, as we plead, “God, do not let this be the last word for those we love.”
Jesus said the big buildings and big stones would all come tumbling down. And they did and they do and they will. We are here this morning because we trust that the rubble of big stones and big buildings in our lives is never the final word. Sometimes we find it impossible to believe that Christ will again. So we come here to hear someone tell us, “Christ will come again.”
Yes, we have come here together again, hand in hand, to encourage one another to wait patiently for that glorious morning when the Son of God will shine in our lives and in the lives of those we love forever. Until then, we cry out in the midst of the rubble of stones, “God, do not let this be the last word. Christ will come again.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 8, 2009
Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost
Mark 12: 38-44
"Living Life on the Edge"
I shouldn’t do it but I am going to anyway. I am going to tell you who First Lutheran’s third highest giver is this year. She has given an average of $221 a week.
We received a letter in the mail earlier this year from AT&T telling us that one of their former employees, Renee Hill, had died and left First Lutheran Church a bequest of $11,500. I immediately began the search. Who was Renee Hill? Finally, Doris Shimizu told me that Renee Hill had been a member here years ago. Talk about an anonymous giver.
Here is another anonymous giver:
Sitting across from the offering box, Jesus was observing how the crowd tossed money in for the collection. Many of the rich were making large contributions. One poor widow came up and put in two small coins—a measly two cents. Jesus called his disciples over and said, "The truth is that this poor widow gave more to the collection than all the others put together. All the others gave what they'll never miss; she gave extravagantly what she couldn't afford—she gave her all."(from Eugene Peterson’s The Message)
This woman’s gift was not even near $11,500. It was 2 cents! Jesus said of this poor widow, “She gave more to the collection than all the others put together.” Jesus was astonished that this woman gave away everything she had. Everything.
This is the time of the year when you and I are asked to make a pledge to our church for the coming year. We have received our pledge cards in the mail. I hope you have given prayerful consideration to how much you plan to give to your church in the coming year. Forty-nine members have already done so. If you have not handed in your pledge card, I trust that you will place it in this morning’s offering.
This is a difficult year to make a request for giving. Quite a few of you have lost your jobs. Others have received word that your retirement benefits will decline in the coming year. Still others of you are struggling like the dickens to make ends meet. These are tough times.
I know that this particular Sunday is especially excruciating for a number of you who care deeply about your church. You care so much for your church and yet there is only so much you can do. Being asked for money hurts. You come here for protection from the storm, for a listening ear when there are no good answers, for a shoulder to cry on. What a rude jolt to be asked, “How much do you plan to give in 2010?”
You should know that the economy has also been tough on your beloved First Lutheran. We will likely end this year with a deficit of $35,000. Thankfully, we have enough savings—about $100,000—to see us through a few more tough years. For a church our size, our giving is remarkable. We have increased ministry in these tough times by pinching pennies and having you do volunteer work that once was done by paid people. The needs of the poor which we address here become greater every day and there is less money coming from beyond our doors to care for these needs. We have been faithful in supporting the church’s ministry beyond our doors, increasing our commitment to the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America year-by-year, even when we lamented its previous policies that were not always kindly to the gay and lesbian community.
Some of you have asked, “Is First Lutheran in financial trouble?” Let me answer that question the best I am able. I have served four congregations during my ministry. Some of those churches never felt like they have enough money no matter how much they have saved up and others always lived on the edge, spending their all for ministry. My guess is that First Lutheran will be one that always lives on the edge. We will always wonder where the next dollar will come from. Why? Because we have the crazy notion that our calling is not to see how much money we can amass in the bank as if the richest church is the best! We are not Wells Fargo or the Vanguard Fund. We are First Lutheran Church! My hunch is that even if we have an astonishing leap in giving in the next few years, we will find ways to do more ministry and, yes, necessarily, to spend that money. Because of our view of what it means to be the people of God, I imagine that First Lutheran Church will always end up living on the edge.
Our culture is not entirely comfortable with those who live on the edge. If our culture had been in Jerusalem with Jesus watching the widow throw in her last measly two cents, it likely would have said: “Woman, you are so irresponsible. Now who is going to take care of you?”
We are uncomfortable with people who do not count the cost. I am currently reading the book, Where Men Win Glory. It is about Pat Tillman. He grew up in California, played football at Arizona State University and professionally for the Arizona Cardinals. After a few years with the Cardinals, Tillman’s agent told him he could make millions more by signing with another team. Tillman said no. He said he would rather be loyal to those who treated him well than make a fortune by betraying that loyalty. His friends and family tried to persuade him otherwise but to no avail. Tillman soon made an even “poorer” decision. Following 9/11, he decided to leave the National Football League and enlist in the Army. Those closest to him told him he was a fool to sacrifice millions of dollars a year serving in the military and a foreign policy with which he did not agree. Those of you who know the Pat Tillman story know that he was killed by friendly fire in a battle in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. Tillman gave his all; he went beyond the edge.
Some people can’t help giving their all for things that matter. As Jesus watched that widow give her final two cents, he must have been thinking that in a matter of a few days, he would offer his life for those he loved. You can hear his disciples urging Jesus to be more responsible, to play it safe and live twenty or thirty more years: “Think of the miracles you could perform, Jesus, the outcasts and sinners you could eat with, the difference you make in this weary world if you only lived longer.” Why did Jesus give away everything at the age of thirty-three? My best guess is that he knew that if he kept saving up for a rainy day, he would live longer but never do what God wanted of him. It was now or never if Jesus were to love the world.
During these days of stewardship, I pray that each of us will ponder our commitment. Nothing we give can measure what Jesus has given for us. But what a joy to offer the best we are able, whether two cents or $11,500. We follow in the footsteps of a host of remarkable witnesses: a poor widow who gave 2 cents, anonymous Renee Hill who gave $11,500 to this congregation, and so many others over the years. What a treat to stand in line with those who have gone before us, those who have stood at the edge and whose generous offerings have helped spread Jesus’ love. Let us continue their wonderful witness.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
November 1, 2009
All Saints' Day
Isaiah 25: 6-9; Revelation 21: 1-5; John 11: 32-44
"Jesus Wept"
There have been some confirmation students through the ages who have driven their pastors to early retirement. We pastors are often exasperated as students choose their biblical verses for confirmation day. Almost always, there is a brainy girl who chooses an entire Psalm to memorize and recite before the whole congregational throng. And, almost always, there is a hormone-challenged boy who engages the pastor in a final duel to death with the words, “Rev, my confirmation verse is ‘Jesus wept.’”
Typically, the pastor asks Mr. Wise Guy to pick another verse. But I wonder if it would be wiser to let “hormone boy” go ahead and use his tiny verse, “Jesus wept.” If only the boy knew what a gem he has chosen. If only the horrified parents knew. If only the pastor knew! “Jesus wept.”
These words, “Jesus wept,” come, of course, when Jesus arrives too late and finds his dear friend Lazarus dead. “If you had been here,” Lazarus’ sister says, “my brother would not have died.” Seeing sister Mary’s profound sadness and being touched deeply by his dear friend’s death, Jesus weeps.
In this text, after Jesus weeps, we see the miraculous power of God: Lazarus comes back to life. And yet, if we are honest, as we must be, we know that, sooner or later, Lazarus will die again, and those who love him will weep again.
It is so important to remember that Jesus wept.
When those we love die, one of the greatest gifts from God is the gift of tears. The Orthodox Church holds the gift of tears in very high regard. My father died in 1997. A pastor friend entrusted me with very helpful wisdom about the gift of tears: “You will never get over your father’s death. You will weep at the strangest times.” While these were hard words for me to hear and harder ones for him to speak, he was right: I have not gotten over my father’s death. There are times when I sing a particular hymn—like this morning’s Ye Watchers and Holy Ones—and I think of my father and mother’s funerals and tears come quickly, or I hear a John Philip Sousa march and think of my father throwing his baton over the goal post as the drum major of the University of Pennsylvania marching band and I get weepy. These tears seem to come out of nowhere.
The poet Alfred Lord Tennyson described this sudden onslaught of tears in his poem, “Tears, Idle Tears:”
We, the people of God, are called to tell the truth about life and death to one another as my pastor friend told me the truth. Of course, we are to tell of the joys of birth, of love, of life fully lived; we are also to tell of the deep sadness that accompanies the death of those we have loved and whom we are left to mourn. Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote: “Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love….The dearer and richer our memories, the more difficult the separation.” Isn’t Bonhoeffer correct? And how sad we are if we have not loved deeply and have no tears to shed. How sad.
You who gather here this morning on All Saints’ Day know this, I’m certain. You have just written the names of mothers and fathers, spouses, and friends in Christ in the Book of Memory. You will call out their names at the Prayers of the People, including our sister, Delores Praefke, who meant so much to this congregation and who died earlier this year. So, too, Lisa Miller who was known by only a few of you and yet, most importantly, was known by God; she was homeless and ministered to by our “Going Home” volunteers (a hospice of sorts for homeless people); she is now buried in our columbarium with other saints of this congregation.
So much of our world makes believe in the face of death that nothing bad has happened at all. I have heard it said more times than I care to admit of our beloved dead in caskets, “My, does she ever look beautiful;” I think, how can this be, she is dead! Our newspapers participate in the masquerade, referring to deaths as “passages” as if the people have not done much more than gone on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. We use the euphemism, “He passed away,” fearful to utter the truth, “He has died.” Could it the world has nothing better to offer than make believe in the face of death?
We Christians have something far better to offer in the face of death. As we gather here on All Saints’ Day, we the people of God are called to demonstrate what a seminary professor of mine describes as a “steady honesty about death” (Gordon Lathrop in his book, The Pastor). The poet Dylan Thomas urges a steady honesty of death:
I think he is right. We Christians should rage against death. We dare not get cozy with death as if death is our friend. St. Paul reminds us, “Death is the last thing to be destroyed” (1 Corinthians 15:26). We know that. Let us, then, weep.
And yet, my dear friends, if all we have is tears in the face of death, what a pathetic lot we are. Of course, we must weep. We Christians should be the chief mourners. And yet there is so much more.
I particularly love the words from the ancient graveside liturgy, “Even at the grave we sing “Alleluia!” We are a people who weep and sing songs of joy at the very same time. Though we weep, we trust that Jesus Christ will take those we love and one day gather us together with them in the eternal arms of God.
Even as tears stream down our cheeks, we sing Isaiah’s promise: “On this mountain the Lord of hosts…will destroy…the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever. The Lord god will wipe away the tears from all faces…” (Isaiah 25: 6-8).
Even as we weep, we dream with St. John of Patmos: “See, God will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be not more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more…”(Revelation 21: 3,4).
And so we gather here today. We weep for the saints we love--why of course we do. We sing a song of joy for them, too, “Alleluia.” We trust that there will come a day when all our tears will be wiped away and death will be no more for us and those we love.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 25, 2009
Reformation Sunday
Romans 3: 19-28; John 8: 31-36
"Defining Grace"
My seminary preaching professor, Mr. Muehl, was not fond of his students using religious words in sermons. He discouraged the use of words like “faith,” “love,” “gospel,” and “salvation.” It wasn’t that he was opposed to these perfectly good words; rather, he felt they are so overused by preachers that they become clichés that leave listeners baffled and, worse yet, bored. He urged us to agonize over our sermons, seeking illustrations that make religious words and phrases come alive in our listeners’ ears.
I remember Mr. Muehl stopping a student mid-sermon. The student had made the unforgivable blunder of saying, “We are all saved by grace.” Sitting in the last pew of Marquand Chapel, Mr. Muehl jumped from his pew and blurted out: “Stop! What in the world will people think, Miller, when you say, ‘We are all saved by grace?’” Since that day, in Mr. Muehl’s honor, I have struggled to explain what I mean whenever I say, “we are all saved by grace.”
While I was taking Mr. Muehl’s preaching course, I was also doing field work at the Masonic Home and Hospital in Wallingford, Connecticut. One resident I was particularly fond of was 89 year old Ernie Tosca. Ernie was an irascible sort who preferred not taking his prisoners alive. He had worked as a welder in the New London shipyards. He saved his union wages without fail, knowing there would come a day when, as only Ernie could say, “I’ll end up in once of those retirement dumps with no men and lots of women looking for my money.”
One day Ernie was sitting outside the snack bar, smoking his pipe. He called me over: “Chaplain, have I told you yet that I pay my way to live here? Between you and me, not many of the bums in this place pay their way. Reverend, they are a bunch of freeloaders.”
I remember asking Father Mahoney, the chaplain in charge, how many people were actually paying their way. He said that, while lots of the residents thought they were making the financial grade, most had long since outlived their meager savings. Many, he noted, were recipients of the home’s free grace or, said another way, of its Masonic largesse.
Now that’s how Mr. Muehl wanted us to describe “grace:” grace is being saved by someone else’s generosity when you are unable to pay your own way.
Martin Luther was a lot like Ernie Tosca. Both were irascible and Luther, like Ernie, assumed that if he worked hard enough, he could pay, in his case, pay his way into heaven. And save Luther did. He described his savings plan this way: “In the monastery I did not think about women, money, or possessions; instead my heart trembled and fidgeted about whether God would bestow his grace on me” (Miroslav Volf, Free of Charge, pg. 133). Luther prayed regularly, went to church daily, and performed all manner of severe penance for his sins. If he performed enough good works, Luther thought, he might just earn his way into heaven.
Luther’s problem was that he never felt that he had saved enough. Like people who die in dilapidated trailer homes with millions under their mattresses, Luther had amassed a fortune of good works to his name and yet still feared that these were not enough and that God might not love him into eternity.
Luther’s life changed dramatically when he read Paul’s letter to the Romans, the one we just heard: “For there is no distinction, since all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus…” Out of the blue, Luther felt as if God were speaking to him: “Martin, you are justified by grace as a gift.” Imagine the freedom Luther felt. He was going to heaven!
The Reformation began on October 31, 1517, when Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses on the Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany. He wanted to debate with the church leaders his belief that God loves us all no matter what we have done in our lives. Luther risked his life and the anger of the church he loved in order to proclaim that God’s love is free of charge. Luther believed that the church’s only task is to announce to every person in a way that they are able to hear that God loves them.
Ernest Hemingway starts his short story, “The Capitol of the World” this way: “Madrid is full of boys named Paco, which is diminutive of the name Francisco, and there is a Madrid joke about a father who came to Madrid and inserted an advertisement in the personal columns of El Liberal which said: PACO MEET ME AT HOTEL MONTANA NOON TUESDAY ALL IS FORGIVEN PAPA and how a squadron of Guardia Civil had to be called out to disperse the eight hundred young men who answered the advertisement.”
We all are Paco longing to hear our heavenly Father say, “All is forgiven.” That is why we are here this morning. We have come yet again with hopes of hearing that God loves us regardless of how messy our lives have become--and, I assure you, our lives are messy!
Those who join our community of faith this morning shared movingly how God called them to our community, First Lutheran. If we had time, I would stop my sermon this second and invite our new members to tell their honest stories of how God’s amazing grace called them here this morning. Each would describe God calling them by name as if they each were Paco.
I urge you to introduce yourselves to our new members at the reception in their honor following this service. Ask them to tell you their stories of how God called them here. You will surely hear a story that Mr. Muehl would say poignantly defines God’s grace.
For now, let us go to the waters of baptism. As we gather at the river, let us watch God’s grace washes over Cooper and Nate and as they hear God say to them--as God has said to us all--“I love you.” Watch, my dear friends, and you will see grace defined at its very best.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
Sermon Preached at Semiannual Gathering
of San Diego ELCA and LCMS Clergy
October 19, 2009
“My Broken Body for You”
Producer Barry Levinson produced three movies that take place in Baltimore, Maryland (Diner, Tin Men, and Avalon). Avalon is about the Krichinsky family. The extended Krichinsky family gathers together every Thanksgiving for its Thanksgiving meal. As these occasions are wont to do, this meal is steeped in tradition. Uncle Gabriel and his wife arrive late every year and everyone waits patiently for their arrival. Once everyone takes their seat around the large dining room table, the steaming toikey is ceremoniously brought to the table where Uncle Gabriel carves it with almost religious fanfare. On one fateful Thanksgiving the family makes the decision to start the festivities without Uncle Gabriel--they have waited long enough. When he and his wife finally enter the dining room and discover that the meal has begun without them, Uncle Gabriel explodes and storms out of the house with his wife. The meal continues and yet the Thanksgiving meal is drastically different without Uncle Gabriel.
I must confess that this worship service always feels to me like the Krichinksy Thanksgiving dinner. Here we are ELCA’ers and a smattering of LCMS’ers gathered for the thanksgiving meal of Christ’s body and blood. Part of our family has decided it cannot eat with us. This is always a somber occasion for me.
Luther described the meal we are about to share as the “sacrament of real fellowship.” We all know that this morning’s fellowship meal is tragically broken.
I believe we must lament our brokenness and mourn the absence of our LCMS colleagues. We cannot take pride in our being present or in their staying away. We must search our hearts and ponder what part we play in the brokenness of Christ’s very body.
I have a dream for this service. I have shared this dream with the deans and circuit counselors who plan these semi-annual gatherings. My dream comes from a worship service I have imagined is held at Taize, the ecumenical monastic community in France. In my dream the monks gather together for worship and listen to God’s word; when it comes time for Holy Communion, this close knit community sadly divides, Protestants going to one altar and Roman Catholics to another. The most astonishing think in this dream is that Christ welcomes all the broken ones, Protestants and Roman Catholics alike, to taste the gifts of heaven.
I contacted a classmate of mine who was a monk at Taize and now teaches worship at Luther Seminary in Saint Paul. I shared my dream with him and asked him if it is even close to reality. He told me that my dream isn’t quite true. The monks do not go to separate altars. They do gather together for the service of the Word and yet, when it comes time to receive Communion, Protestant and Roman Catholic receive the sacrament reserved from their respective traditions’ previous celebrations. Dirk pointed out that the monks confess and lament their brokenness. They do not create false solutions for age-old divisions and or pious fabrications for current misunderstandings; rather, they gather as broken Christians in a broken church longing for God to heal them and the church they love.
We gather this morning as a Reformation church. While we give thanks to God for the truth of the Gospel, we should also lament our brokenness. I cannot think of a more apt illustration to confirm Luther’s explanation of the third article of the Apostles’ Creed than our gathering here this morning: “I believe that I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ, my Lord, or come to Him.” No matter how hard we try, we are incapable of mending the fracture of Christ’s body either by our liturgical ingenuity or theological gimmicks.
One might wonder then, what is the hope? Where is there a word of Gospel this morning? Hear again Saint Paul’s words: “For there is no distinction, since all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom God put forward as a sacrifice of atonement by his blood, effective through faith.”
Father Timothy Radcliffe, a British Roman Catholic priest, in his book Why Go to Church, says it this way: “Any engagement with the word of God opens us beyond our narrow ecclesiastic tribes. It subverts our temptations towards sectarian superiority; it demolishes the battlements that we erect around our tradition” (pg. 58).
The Gospel touches us here this morning and it mysteriously touches those who have stayed away at least for now. We, a Reformation people, trust that God will prevail and mend this broken body. Until then, we give thanks that God sees fit to persevere and that, yet again, we hear the words, “Take and eat, this is my broken body for you.”
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 18, 2009
St. Luke, Evangelist and Physician
II Timothy 4: 5-11; Luke 1: 1-4; 24: 44-53
"Be Healed!"
I don’t know it for a fact but I have got to believe the reason there are so many malpractice suits filed against physicians is because many of us have the crazy notion that our doctors are God. We believe that doctors should be able to cure our every ailment and, if they don’t, we will sue them for not being God. Doctors should be able to cure cancer, relieve aching joints, find remedies for baldness, and restore our vision to 20-20. If they cannot get our diminishing bodies back in order, they have failed us and we will sue.
Tradition has it that Saint Luke, whose memory we honor this day, not only wrote the Gospel of Luke and the Book of Acts but was also a physician. I would imagine that many people in his day treated Luke like God. He probably visited his patients’ homes, knelt at their besides, and tried every procedure under the sun to restore their health. And they, in turn, probably expected him to heal their every ill.
While Saint Luke was prescribing herbs and ordering up smelling salts for his ailing patients, he also was inviting them to listen to stories about Jesus in the Gospel he wrote. He not only healed patients’ physical ailments, he also healed their souls. Luke brings that identical healing to us this morning.
Without Luke’s Gospel and the Book of Acts, our spiritual lives would be in poor health. Luke gives us that beautiful song of Mary that she sang upon receiving the news that she was going to be the mother of Jesus--“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord.” Luke teaches us the Nunc Dimittis, the words Simeon proclaimed upon beholding the Messiah, the baby Jesus, after waiting for his arrival for years and years—“Now let your servant go in peace…for my eyes have seen the salvation which you have prepare in the sight of every nation.” If it were not for Luke’s gorgeous imagination, we would not hear of shepherds watching over their flocks by night on Christmas Eve. Luke’s story-telling gives us the beloved parables of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son. Doctor Luke brings us healing and salvation for eternity.
Today we are about to do something that hasn’t been done here at First Lutheran in a number of years, something some of you may never have done in your lifetime. Today we have a healing service. In a few moments you will be invited forward to be anointed with the oils of healing. The oils were blessed by our Bishop Murray Finck and Episcopal Bishop James Mathes of the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego at the annual Holy Week service at Saint Paul’s Cathedral just up the street, when we pastors renew our ordination vows and receive these blessed oils for this very ministry of healing.
I must be honest with you: healing services give me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it has something to do with my West Virginia roots where country preachers set up their tents and claim to perform miraculous healings for all manner of infirmities. My hunch is that a number of you, upon being invited forward to “receive a sign of healing and wholeness in the name of the Triune God,” will think of those television evangelists laying their hands on people with crutches and screaming, “In the name of Jesus, be healed, throw down your crutches and walk!” How many of you are struggling this very moment, “Should I go forward or not?” Deep down, you wonder whether any significant healing can happen here this morning or if this is simply a pious hoax?
A number of years ago when I served Augustana Lutheran Church in Washington, D.C., our congregation held the official healing service in conjunction with the unveiling of the massive AIDS Quilt on the Washington Mall. I will never forget that Sunday morning. Our church was packed. A young man, skin and bones and sores, was pushed forward in a wheel chair by his weeping mother. We prayed to God that his deathly illness might flee him. 300 people came forward that morning in solidarity with that young man who had been treated like a leper by so many; they came forward, too, to be healed of their own invisible ailments. What joy we all felt. Healing happens mysteriously for those with eyes of faith.
I remember another healing. 103 year-old Geneva Bailey was breathing her last breaths this side of the kingdom come. I gathered at her bedside at the National Lutheran Home along with her daughter, Naomi. I anointed Geneva’s head with the oil of healing and announced the identical blessing I had for the young man with AIDS. I will never forget Geneva suddenly joining her daughter and me as we sang “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.” She died moments later. Though she could not remember her own name, she remembered God’s name as she sang her last song on earth. Have you ever seen such a healing?
Neither of these healings was what we expected. Is it possible that God gave that young man and Geneva the healing they needed most, the healing we could never imagine and which only God can give?
Luke tells similar stories over and over again in his Gospel and the Book of Acts. Just when people give up hope, suddenly God concocts miraculous surprises. Just when people lose their imaginations, Jesus does the unimaginable.
What will happen when you come forward to be anointed this morning? It may be exactly what you expect or it may be far more wondrous than anything you are imagining. I urge you to keep you eyes and hearts open. Who knows, you might throw down crutches you never knew you had.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 11, 2009
Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost
Mark 10: 17-31
"Priceless"
You have heard the commercial: “Some things are priceless; for everything else there is Master Card.”
The rich man who came to Jesus agreed with the Master Card commercial with one slight exception. He believed nothing was priceless: as long as he had money--and he had lots of it--and as long as he led a good life--and he was as good as they come-- nothing was out of his reach. Everything, in his mind, had a price and he had money to pay for it.
The rich man was a very good man as I have noted. He had kept all the commandments: he had murdered no one, had never committed adultery--maybe even hadn’t lusted in his heart like Jimmy Carter, had defrauded no one--he was no Bernie Madoff; and he still loved his mother and father even though they drove him half crazy at times. Not only was he a very good man, he was rich to boot. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted, when he wanted, no matter what the price--the finest aged liquors, the most exotic cars, the luxury box at Qualcomm Stadium, the one hundred foot yacht complete with helicopter, the stunning vacation homes in Tahiti and Monaco. It was in that vein that he asked Jesus, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
“What must I do to inherit eternal life?” is the kind of question people with lots of money are used to asking: “How much does it cost? No problemo.” These kind of people don’t haggle to round off the price to the nearest hundred thousand dollar. You name the price and they are happy to pay the going rate--squabbling over thousands of dollars takes time and energy and the well know, of course, time is money. Is it any wonder, then, that the rich young man asked Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Then Jesus’ stunning answer: “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” You know the rest, I’m sure…“The rich man was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”
Jesus didn’t dislike the rich man; in fact, the Bible says, “He loved him.” As Jesus watched him walk away with tears in his eyes and his head hanging low, Jesus was saddened for him. Here the rich man thought he had to buy God’s love, never imagining for a second that for the first time in his life, something so exquisite, so perfect, was absolutely free.
Jesus watched him walk away. He knew that it was going to be impossible for that poor rich man and so many like him to enter the kingdom of heaven. The rich man simply couldn’t purchase eternal life. Buying eternal life is not like buying a Ferrari. The rich man’s attempt to buy eternal life was so pathetic that Jesus compared it to a camel trying to thread itself through the eye of a needle.
And yet, the story doesn’t end there. It was impossible for the rich man to buy eternal life, but it wasn’t impossible for God to give it to him without charge, freely. And then these wonderful words--and never forget them, never: “For God all things are possible.”
Before we get down on the rich man and a lot of people like him, let us exercise caution. This Gospel reading is not just about wealth. Each one of us has something which we find impossible to give up for a greater good. That one thing we won’t give up is our most cherished possession or, in another word, our idol. It is the one thing we would die for--our nation, our children, our job. Jesus tells us that we must be willing to let go of our most prized possession if we want eternal life! Perhaps this is what happens when we feel like we have lost everything and we cry, “What will I ever do now? I have lost everything.” No, Jesus says, you haven’t lost everything. You still have the most priceless gift, the promise of eternal life. Maybe when all seems lost, when there seems like no tomorrow, maybe then we are closest to having free hands to receive the most exquisite gift of all, the priceless gift of eternal life.
Abraham Lincoln said it a different way: “A person becomes what he or she thinks about all day.” What do you think about all day? Do you worry what other people think of you--sell it! Do you worry about how much money you will have in retirement--sell it! Do you agonize that people don’t think you are important enough--sell it! Jesus has an uncanny way of discovering what that one thing is that blocks us from receiving that priceless gift of eternal life--and he says, “Sell it. Make room for my love.” We may not have the rich man’s riches, but each of us has that something that gets between God and us. Figure out what it is and sell it.
Jesus was very sad about this rich man because he was running scared. Rich as he was, he was missing out on the joy of God’s love, of what someone else, in this case God, could do for him. He couldn’t live life without worrying about what the stock market was going to do tomorrow. “Sell all you have and give it to the poor”--Jesus wanted to teach him how to love life, and most importantly, to recognize for the first time that God would love him even if he didn’t have a nickel to his name.
God loves you too. This whole morning has been free of charge--the words of forgiveness for all the sins you have committed, known and unknown, have been declared to you for free; the meal soon to follow is the best free lunch the world knows. You are here at a royal banquet with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit and it doesn’t cost you a dime. This is priceless my friends, absolutely priceless.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
October 4, 2009
Eighteenth Sunday After Pentecost
Psalm 8
"The Creation Symphony"
Today’s Bible readings are absolutely maddening. The book of Job can leave you breathless as you try to figure out why God lets such terrible things happen to Job and his family. The reading about divorce from Mark’s Gospel makes you sit back and wait in anticipation or fidget in fear: “What will the preacher dare say this morning?” Frankly, I am not up to the challenge of Job or divorce. Thankfully, as Jared and I brainstormed about today’s worship service, it popped into my mind that today is Saint Francis Day. Like a gift from heaven, I had the topic for this morning’s sermon.
Today’s Psalm is Psalm 8 so please don’t accuse me of disregarding this morning’s lessons totally. Psalm 8 is a delightful celebration of creation and of our lofty place in God’s glorious universe. Listen to the Psalmist as he stares into the night sky: “When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?”
Saint Francis loved those starry nights, too.
There is something astonishing about looking up into starry skies. It is easy to ask the Psalmist’s question, “What are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” When you look at all those stars, you do wonder, don’t you, why God has made us the governors of creation or, as the Psalmist says, “A let little lower than God” crowned us with God’s glory and honor or, as the 60’s rock group the Jefferson Airplane would have, “We are the crown of creation.” Why us? Why has God chosen us to be almost co-creators?
If I were ever to become a Presbyterian, the chief reason I would do so is because of my love for the first question and answer in their Westminster Catechism. The first question: “What is the chief end of humanity?” The answer: “To glorify God and enjoy him forever!” I love that!
The chief end of humanity is to glorify God. We could say that God has appointed us to be conductors of the Creation Symphony. You and I have the capacity to look to the eastern sky as the full moon rises over the mountain and to look to the west as the sun sets into the Pacific and have our jaws drop; we become absolutely silent except for the occasional oohs and ahs. Unlike any other creature in the universe, we can feel wonder, we can sense magnificence. And with that wonder and sense of the magnificent, we can sing praises to God.
The difficulty arises whenever we forget that we are the conductors of the Creation Symphony. It is up to us to protect every bit of the universe’s splendor so God’s praises can be sung with every one of creation’s instruments.
The Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew is the “first among equals” in the Orthodox Church. Patriarch Bartholomew, known as the “the green Patriarch,” has said: “For human beings to cause species to become extinct and to destroy the biological diversity of God’s creation; for human beings to degrade the integrity of the Earth by causing changes in its climate, by stripping the Earth of its natural forests, or by destroying its wetlands; for human beings to injure other human beings with disease by contaminating the earth’s waters, its land, its air, and its life, with poisonous substances--all of these are sins before God, humanity, and the world.” The Orthodox Church, one of the more conservative Christian traditions, understands that if we are to sing God’s praises fully, we must protect creation; anything short of that is sin.
Saint Francis understood this as well though he lived 800 years ago. The son of rich cloth merchant in Assisi, Italy, Francis gave away all his earthly possessions. He had no need of earthly possessions when he had creation’s beauty at his fingertips.
There is a story told about Saint Francis walking along the road with a number of his religious brothers and talking about religious things when, out of the blue, Francis seemed distracted and went over to a tree and began to preach to the birds. Suddenly, he began to teach the birds to pray. Listen to his words: “My brother birds, you should praise your very Creator very much and always love him; he gave you feathers to clothe you, wings so that you can fly, and whatever else was necessary for you. God made you noble among his creatures, and he gave you a home in the purity of the air; though you neither sow nor reap, he nevertheless protects and governs you without any solicitude on your part.”
Saint Francis delighted in the simple pleasures. I know that many of you are like Saint Francis. You find great delight in your dogs and cats. Just a few months ago, we had to put our beloved Persian cat Emma to sleep. She was a tiny little fur ball of a thing whom we had found almost dead, at curbside, on a scorching Philadelphia afternoon. She brought us astonishing joy. Every night when we went to bed, Emma was soon to follow—I think she thought she was a dog! I would say to Dagmar every night once we were tucked in, “Count to 10 and guess who will be on your pillow.” Like clock work, Emma would jump up on the bed, leaping as high as she possible could, walk right over my face, push Dagmar around until she found the perfect sleeping position on her pillow, and then, always, she would shake her head from her night’s last drink as water flew all over our faces. We loved this evening shower. It was how we concluded the day, praising God with our cuddly little Emma, wet and remembering our baptisms for all the dangers that lurked in the night.
If you are fortunate, you have similar stories of your beloved pets. You know the peculiar phenomenon of crying for your pets when they die like you have rarely cried for another human being. When we dug the hole and placed Emma in our backyard on her favorite pillow, I cried like a baby and didn’t go to work that day. Who knows why? Perhaps it was as George Eliot once said, “Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.” Or, as the needle point picture my mother gave me and that hangs in my office reminds me, “God, help me be the person my dog things I am.” We know that these animals, in their own delightful fuzzy way, help us glorify God like nothing else can.
And, of course, you don’t need a dog or cat to praise God. We are blessed to live in one of the world’s stunning cities. Quite a few years ago, on a gorgeous spring day in Washington, D.C., I asked a parishioner who had traveled the world, what place has gorgeous spring days year round. He said, if there is such a city, San Diego comes close. Isn’t he right? I still catch myself, after 4 ½ years, walking up to strangers and saying, “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” They look at me strangely as if to say, “You fool, every day is beautiful. This is San Diego!”
When we say that we believe in God, we say that we believe in Jesus Christ the redeemer and the Holy Spirit the sanctifier; we also say that we believe in the Father the creator. We need to give more airplay to God the creator. In seeing the wonder of creation, we are led to see the glory of God. The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh says, “The miracle is not to walk on water but on the earth.” The miracle is to walk on the earth! The miracle is to see this earth singing its own beautiful melody to God.
And so I pray that you might find great delight in your pets and in this beautiful city of San Diego. May sun and moon, dogs and cats, crashing waves and soaring mountains--may they all help you magnify your God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 27, 2009
Seventeenth Sunday After Pentecost
Esther 7: 1-6, 9-10; 9: 20-22
"What an Amazing Beauty Queen!"
This is a first for me. Today will be the first time in my ministry that I preach a sermon on the book of Esther. I have spent the week brushing up on this obscure Old Testament book. How many of you know or can tell the story of Esther?
Esther is a most peculiar book. Like her Old Testament kin Song of Solomon, Esther never mentions God once. To add insult to injury, the book is filled with sexism and brutality, mayhem and treachery.
Esther is one of the more controversial books in the Bible. Rabbis and Martin Luther alike questioned its placement in Sacred Writ. In our day, this is one of the few biblical books not to appear in any of our assigned readings over a three year period. The other books never scheduled for use in our worship are Ezra, Obadiah, Nahum, and Haggai in the Old Testament and John’s Second letter in the New Testament. The only reason we read Esther this morning is because we have been using alternative Old Testament readings for the past few months.
I have a question for you: who among you ever imagined that a beauty pageant winner would become an important player in the life of God’s chosen people? That’s exactly what Esther was, a beauty queen. She grew up with her older cousin Mordecai in the enemy nation of Persia which is today’s Iran. When King Xerxes tossed his wife Vashti out of the castle for refusing to kowtow at the snap of his fingers and parade her beautiful body at a “men’s only” party, he went looking for a new queen. He held a beauty pageant to determine his next bride. And the winner was Esther. As politicians do occasionally, Xerxes apparently didn’t vet Esther thoroughly enough. When he chose her to be his bride and mighty Persia’s queen, he missed one stunning detail: she was a Jew; she was the enemy.
Once Esther got into the royal palace, she caught wind of a terrible plot about to occur. One of her husband’s wicked cabinet members, Haman, was hatching a plan to hang her cousin Mordecai because he refused to pay homage to him. Haman hated the Jews as many have hated the Jews through the ages. Haman asked King Xerxes permission to build a seventy foot gallows from which to hang Mordecai. Xerxes liked the plan. “Hang him,” he cried! To make matters worse, as weak leaders are inclined to do, Xerxes became convinced the best solution for the entire “Jewish problem” was to kill them all…Have you ever heard of such a thing?
Esther had a choice to make: acquiesce to her husband the king or come out of the closet and tell him she, too, was a Jew. The only question remained: would Esther risk her neck for the sake of her people? She chose the courageous option: she told the king she was Jewish and pled with him to spare Mordecai and all the Jews whom Haman intended to butcher.
Lo and behold, Xerxes heeded Esther’s request; not only did he spare Mordecai and all the Jewish people but, in a strange twist of fate, bizarrely, he sent his trusted advisor, Haman, to the seventy foot gallows to die instead. To put a cherry on top of the sundae, Esther persuaded her husband to give Haman’s vacated governmental position to her cousin, that Jewish guy Mordecai.
The Jewish people have celebrated this miraculous event every year on the festival of Purim which typically falls in the month of March. On this day, they read the book of Esther. Purim comes from the word pur which means “lot.” Haman, the king's advisor, drew lots to determine the exact time when to kill the Jews. Esther saved the Jewish people from Haman's "lot" by revealing the plot to King Xerxes. It is fitting that we read about Esther during this holy time for the Jewish people as they observe their most sacred day tomorrow, Yom Kippur.
This Jewish festival of Purim is apparently quite a riotous affair, filled with raucous merry-making. The celebration is so joyous, in fact, that it is said that the rabbis have actually commanded adults to get drunk on the holiday of Purim.
We Christians are often not so good at celebrating, of giving thanks for good health or being spared disaster. We easily forget to thank God for saving us from our own personal gallows. I remember when my sister and I were little, following Communion, as the older people processed back from the altar, my sister, seeing the sour faces asked my parents, “Aren’t you allowed to smile after getting Communion?” Our Jewish brothers and sisters have something to teach us: they know brutality and yet, in the face of horrible hatred directed their way over the years, they have also known how to celebrate when God prevails. Listen to their merry-making, “They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat, drink and be merry!”
In addition to teaching us how to celebrate, Esther might encourage each one of us to be more than we ever imagined we could be. Esther had a lot going for her: she was beautiful and married to a king. This was not enough for her though. She saw her people suffering and she felt compelled to stop the madness. There was more to life for Esther than being beautiful and powerful and comfortable.
In his lovely new book, South of Broad, southern writer Pat Conroy writes about “proper society” in Charleston, South Carolina. One character he writes of is young Molly, a true Southern belle. He describes her this way: “She was a Southern girl born to please rather than to think, to charm rather than to issue calls to arms.” Esther was destined to be just like Molly except Esther used the gift of her beauty and charm for a greater end. She challenged the brutality of her adopted land and persuaded the ruler, her husband, to shower compassion on God’s children.
Esther is an important model for us all. Sometimes we measure our lives by how good things are for us individually. And yet there almost always comes a time when, if we are to be fully human, we realize that there is more to life than simply caring for our own needs and desires.
Psychologist James Hollis expresses it this way in his book, What Matters Most: “My experience of working with people…is that the human psyche continues to ask us to grow, to develop, to explore, to be curious. Boredom is the pathology of the depressed, or the unimaginative. Ceasing to grow is a failure of nerve, because it is not what our psyche demands.”
Esther did not suffer from a failure of nerve! She had to grow and in order to grow she had to ask, “What matters most?” The answer she discovered was wrapped up in risking her neck for the people she loved. She was summoned to be something far greater than a beauty queen, to do something far more satisfying than to wear the queen’s tiara. She was called to save God’s chosen people, the Jews.
I sometimes worry about people whose biggest concern in life is their own happiness and their own personnel salvation. I am not saying that your happiness and personal salvation are unimportant. What I am saying is that your relationship with your suffering brothers and sisters in this world is just as important if not more so. Do you care whether God’s children have food on their table this morning? Do you care whether God’s children live in peace in the Middle East? Do you care whether a little child suffers illness because she has no access to health care? Esther cared for far more than herself. And for that reason alone, this book deserves to be in the Bible.
The book of Esther is a story of deliverance and courage. The book of Esther is a book worth reading. Now, in a song (“Open Your Ears, O Faithful People”) filled with the spirit of Esther’s Jewish family, let us celebrate all those in this world who, by God’s grace, find the courage to stand up for all who suffer in this world and let us celebrate God‘s goodness for all people.
The Rev. Wilbert S. Miller
First Lutheran Church, San Diego
September 20, 2009
Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost
Mark 9: 30-37
"Oh, Those Kids!"
When I was a kid, I stared at an oil painting just above the baptismal font every Sunday morning. The painting was called “Christ and the Children of the Nations.” I looked at that picture a thousand times as a child and at my confirmation, ordination, and my loved ones’ funerals. In it, Jesus gathers the children into his arms and onto his lap. There is a blond haired girl in dress and petticoat and patent leather shoes, an Indian girl in a lovely sari, a grass skirted Hawaiian girl with a lei and flowers in her hair, a Chinese boy in exotic costume, and an African boy in a loin cloth. This picture spoke volumes to me as a kid and still does today. It is a vision of what is most important to Jesus.
We typically don’t view Jesus’ hanging around with kids as the vital part of his ministry--the disciples certainly don’t! They have more important things on their minds. Immediately after Jesus tells the disciples what is ahead for him--his betrayal, death, and resurrection three days later--they begin to squabble over who among them is the greatest. They don’t seem capable of fathoming the depth of Jesus ministry, especially the part with the kids. They are expending their energy quarrelling over which of them is the greatest.
Let’s not be too harsh on the disciples. Our claims to greatness may not b