Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “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 asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

Luke 21:25-36

Pastor Marc's sermon on the First Sunday of Advent (November 29, 2015) on Luke 21:25-36. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 

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“People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

This line from our gospel reading today is downright scary. When I hear it, my mind immediately imagines dusty fields, people wearing punk rock inspired fashion with giant spikes on shoulders, and lots of cars, trucks, and broken semi-trucks painted in black. Jesus’ words seem to point us to a Mad Max reality - a reality where the end of the world is upon us and no one is feeling fine. Today’s text is a text that imagines a future that, on first glance, frighten us more that we would like to admit. 

Jesus, today, is in the Temple with his disciples doing what he does. He’s preaching, teaching, watching poor widows give everything they have, and he’s busy arguing with religious leaders who don’t believe that Jesus knows God like they do. It’s in the middle of his time on the Temple, right before the Last Supper, when Jesus starts talking about the end of the world. In chapter 21, Jesus describes the Temple being destroyed. He talks about wars, famines, plagues, and outbreaks. Jesus says that the disciples will be persecuted in the days to come and that fake messiahs claiming to be him will lead people astray. The world will be in turmoil, empires will rise and fall, and Jerusalem, God’s holy city, will be surrounded by armies. Even the sun, moon, and stars will give some kind of warning that weirdness is happening. And for us on the ground, the world as we know it will be unraveled, to the point where we can’t tell if nature itself is behaving like it should. Anxiety, rather than stability, will be our new normal. And in this future, everyone will be afraid. 

What a spooky way to start this Advent season. On this weekend after Thanksgiving, this text sure doesn’t sound like Christmas to me. Now, I know that many of us, myself included, are still enjoying pie for breakfast and will shortly be eating our 9th turkey sandwich since Friday. We’re going to spend this afternoon watching football, rushing outside during commercial breaks to finalize our outdoor light displays. This is a season for baking Christmas cookies, visiting the families we are born into or the families that we’ve chose, and a season for spending way too much time looking for a parking spot at the mall. We’re in the long march to December 25. The church calls this season Advent but our sights are on Christmas morning. We’re looking forward to singing songs about the start of something new, about a cute baby boy who, unlike every baby before and after him, never cried and slept soundly through that first night. Our eyes are on Christmas and we’re not particularly interested in the end of the world. 

But the end is exactly where we are today. The disciples heard Jesus’ words and they want to know when all of this will happen. They want to know a date and a time when armies will come, when people will run out of food to eat, and when the sun will start to wig out. Now, the text doesn’t tell us why they wanted to know a date and a time. But it’s not hard to imagine the reasons behind their whys since we want to know when the end will come too. Now, our reasons for this why might be pretty varied. Maybe we want to know when the end will come so we can know if we really need to rake leaves today after church. Maybe we want to know when the end will come so we can finally get off our butt and finish that bucket list by visiting all those places we’ve only seen in magazines and in movies. Or maybe we want to know when the end will come so we can finally know if this whole loving our neighbor thing is something we really should be doing. Whatever our reason might be, there’s something about knowing when the next chapter in our stories will be written that is appealing. If I knew that the end of the world was going to happen tomorrow, I might take some time today to try and fix a few of my broken relationships. But if I knew that the end of the world wasn’t going to happen for another two thousand years, well, I might not be in so much of a rush. 

Yet, Jesus, in his words today and throughout scripture is never as specific as we’d like him to be. He never gives a date. He never tells us a time. There’s no GPS coordinates for where exactly he’ll land once he descends from the clouds. Instead, we just get these words about wars and violence, destruction and famine, climate change and fear. Jesus’ vagueness entices us to try and answer that “when” question on our own. And it’s not hard to turn on the news and think that maybe, today is a good answer to this when. A NATO ally shoot down a Russian plane. The fear of another ISIS attack shutting down Brussels. A terrorist attacking a Planned Parenthood center in Colorado springs. When we don’t know if going to school, or rocking out at a concert, or even if just having our annual checkup at the doctor’s office will result in our being shot or not, well, that sounds pretty scary to me. It’s easy to imagine the end of the world as a day when the nuclear bombs start to fall. But it’s harder to imagine an end to our world where our lives are slowly drained and debilitated by fear. But both of these scenarios are an attractive answer when we try to answer just what the final chapter of our story might be. 

But Jesus, in our text today, isn’t interested in the question of “when.” He’s not being vague. He’s just not interested in giving us a date for when the end will come. Because “when,” isn’t his question. It’s the question of the disciples. They think that the next chapter of their story is still unwritten. They still imagine that the end of their story is something that still needs to be experienced, seen, and prepared for. They still believe that God experiences the world like they do, in some linear straight line, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. We know our past. We are living in our present. And the future - well - is full of what-ifs and unknowns. The disciples can’t imagine that God might already know the end to their story. 

But God knows that end. Jesus, as he spoke these words in the Temple, knew that the expected end to his story wasn’t the end that was going to come. Jesus was going to be betrayed. He was going to be arrested. Roe would kill him. But when it looked like the darkness would win, that God’s light would be snuffed out by the violence, greed, and sin that devours our world, that wasn’t Jesus’ end. Fear. Pain. Terror and Death. The ends that consume us didn’t consume him. The darkness that overcomes us didn’t overcome him. God’s story doesn’t end in the middle of the night. God’s story ends with the breaking of the dawn. 

Easter morning. That’s the end of God’s story. That’s the end of God’s unfolding future. That’s a future that we can’t write for ourselves. It’s a future that must be written for us by a God who claims us, loves us, and walks with us even when our world shakes in terror. Jesus isn’t telling his disciples when the world will end. Jesus is telling his disciples that the end is already written. Death and fear, these endings to our story that we know so well will not be the end to God’s story. And even though we don’t know when this future will come, we trust that God’s future will. We trust that there is more to this world than fear, terror, pain, and death. We trust that there is more to this world than just endings. The disciples wanted to know how they should live now so that they could prepare for the end that will come. Jesus, instead, is telling the disciples how they can live now, knowing that the end is already written. 

And that’s what Jesus is telling us too. God’s future is happening. There’s nothing we can do to cause it to come and there’s nothing we can do to stop it from happening. The next chapter in our story and in God’s story is already written. There’s no fear or terror on earth that can bury the light that Christ shines in the world. So, what would our lives look like if we trusted that God’s future will actually come? What would loving ourselves and our neighbors look like? When terror strikes, homegrown or from abroad, can God’s future teach us how to respond to those who want to keep us rooted in fear? Can we imagine our present like God imagines our future? And can we, in the face of fear, stand up, raise our heads, knowing that God’s future will come? Jesus words to his disciples, his words to us is simply this: can we, young and old, assured that God loves us and is with us no matter what - can we go out into God’s world, and just love? 

Amen. 
 

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"Why Advent?" That's how Luther Seminary's professor of preaching, Karoline Lewis, began her weekly reflection this week. And as we start a brand new church year today, "why Advent?" is our question too. What does this season mean since we've been buying giant Christmas inflatables of Santa with a jetpack and the droids from Star Wars wishing us a Merry Christmas since before Halloween? 

It's easy to skip to Christmas because so much of our schedules are devoted to what's coming: holiday concerts at school, scheduling trips to visit family and friends, buying special gifts, and digging through our piles of boxes finding that one with the Christmas star for the tree. Christmas is coming. We all know it is. And we all have a to-do list a mile long to make our Christmas happen. 

But God's Christmas has happened. Jesus already showed up in a manger. We might think December 25th is a month away but the Christ-event, from birth to Cross to Resurrection, is part of our reality. Advent is not a season where we're preparing for Christmas. Advent is a season where we are honest about our world and our lives. We live our lives in a paradox. Christ has come and Christ is coming. We are claimed by God but still living into God's unfolding future. God loves us but we still struggle with what that love means. Advent is four weeks where we are honest about the brokenness of our reality and our lives. And Advent is four weeks where we proclaim that God enters into our brokenness because that's just who God is.  So "why Advent?" Because we're still here, living broken lives in a broken world, and living into God's promise that we are loved anyways.

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Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “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 asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

John 18:33-37

Pastor Marc's sermon on Christ the King Sunday (November 22, 2015) on John 18:33-37. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 

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Be the Widow - isn’t that what this text from the gospel of Mark is saying? Jesus is in Jerusalem and teaching in God’s House, the Temple. He brought his entourage, his disciples, and the more Jesus says, the more people listen. So the Sadducees, Pharisees, and other religious and political groups send people to try and trap Jesus. They bring their questions, riddles, and their theological tongue twisters to stump the Son of God. But it doesn’t work. So today, after a large round of teaching, he plops himself down in front of the Temple’s Treasury, watching people give a financial offering to God. Jesus, like everyone else, sees the rich in their designer clothes putting money in the offering plate. But there’s also this woman, a poor widow. She goes up and deposits two small coins that are not even worth the metal they are made out of. In the vast pile of money that is being collected, her offering is so small, it won’t even be noticed. It’ll end up as just some decimal point recorded by a scribe with no name or story attached to it. She’s unseen - but Jesus sees her. He notices that she is giving everything she has. And in a world where wealth defaults to men, she doesn’t have an inheritance, or a husband, or a son, to get the kind of jobs and money she needs to earn a living wage. She gives a penny because a penny is all she has. 

So, for all of us, what would it be like if we gave like she did? What if we gave everything we had - all our houses, cars, checkbooks and credit cards - and just dropped them, deeds and all, into God’s offering plate? 

Now, that request probably makes us feel pretty uncomfortable. Even while I’m making the request, my gut is reacting against it. I get defensive. I’ve got bills I have to pay, car and student loan and even childcare payments that I have to make or else I can do what I’m called to do. The request to give everything like the widow does immediately made me uncomfortable. , And even though my family and I give to the church, even though we are on a journey to become tithers and are proud that our pledge for 2016 is more than 2015, I still wanted to run away from the widow’s demand. I still try to reason my way out of the request. And maybe you did too. But before we step away from the widow’s example to try and undo that uncomfortable feeling - I want us to grab it and not let it go. Any time Scripture makes us uncomfortable or causes us to flee, that’s an opportunity for us to dig deep and discover just what is going on in the story and with us. This is Scripture as a mirror - staring straight at us and asking us to see ourselves fully, warts and all. 

So let’s stay uncomfortable - for a moment - and step into today’s gospel reading one more time. 

So like I said before, Jesus is in the Temple. He’s teaching. He’s having arguments with the different Jewish groups of his day. Our text today begins with an attack on the scribes, the educated religious leaders who, unlike most, could read and write. Jesus tells his friends and those listening to beware of those who dress nice, who want the best seats in the house, and who pray long prayers without really meaning them. These fancy scribes are the ones who devour the homes of widows. We don’t know exactly how they do that. Jesus isn’t specific here. But there’s something about their behavior - about their desires and point of view - that consume the weakest and most vulnerable members of society. It’s after this warning that Jesus sits down to watch people as they bring their offerings to God. 

Now, up to this point in Jesus’ time in the Temple, we aren’t sure who is part of his crowd. In Mark, we know there are people around him, but the only folks who are named dropped are his disciples and all the other religious leaders. When Jesus speaks, it’s these folks who respond back. There’s no mention of a poor or sick person being in his crowd, being in his sight, until that poor widow makes her offering. Jesus doesn’t go up to her. He doesn’t chat with her. He doesn’t even share her name. But he sees her - and then tells the story of what she gives. 

Jesus tells her story. That’s it. He doesn’t actually praise what she does. He doesn’t tell his disciples to “be like her” and his disciples don’t take the hint and immediately drop all their coins into the offering plate. Jesus just points the poor widow out and tells the story of what she’s done. 

So, with that said, what’s making us uncomfortable? Is it the word “more?” Are we seeing ourselves as the rich who give too little? Or would we like to gain the “more” than that the poor widow seems to get? Our feelings could come from these kinds of questions or be from something else entirely. But whatever happens, don’t try and wipe that uncomfortable feeling away because that feeling is the invitation to do what Jesus does. He sees. He notices. He tells the story. This isn’t a text about giving; it’s a text about seeing. Jesus isn’t praising what the widow does - he’s seeing her when no one else does. And in the middle of a long series of stories where Jesus is having arguments with religious leaders, scribes, Pharisees, and Sadducees - Jesus does what they don’t do, and he sees the vulnerable person in the midst. 

But before we exhale and lose that uncomfortable feeling now that I’ve said this text isn’t about giving - we also can’t ignore that the poor widow gives. To see her is to see her gift. We don’t know why she gives. We don’t know if she feels obligated, if she feels that this is her faithful act to God, or if she gives because she loves the Temple and believes the Temple will take care of her when she’s in need. We don’t know her - we just see her because Jesus sees her. And seeing is the first step to being known. Seeing is noticing the unnoticed. Seeing is noticing the folks who are always there, in the background, who are the extras to the film story of our life. Jesus sees the poor widow. He sees what she’s doing. He sees what she’s giving and Jesus cares. He cares about who she is and why she’s there. And Jesus invites his disciples to do what they weren’t doing before and see her too. 

A few weeks ago, I attended the Woodcliff Lake’s mayor and council debate. The format of the night was pretty simple. Everyone in the audience was invited to write their question on a card and hand it to the moderator who would then decide if that question would be asked. So I wrote my question, turned it in, and sat there as candidates talked about issues I knew about and others I knew nothing about. I heard them talk about how many stories houses should be, what to do with the Galaxy Gardens property, and what kind of tile should be at the municipal pool. There were questions about property taxes, suggestions on how to raise property values, a little jealousy that Woodcliff Lake doesn’t have a downtown area like Westwood or Hillsdale, and a lot of words spilled about who came up with the idea to install a bike path around the reservoir. There was plenty said about where we, as a community in Northern New Jersey, should go. But there was very little about noticing the people who are here now. I left that night with my question unasked. I left not learning where the candidates stood on how to deal with seniors living in poverty. We have seniors in this extremely affluent town who own their homes but can’t afford to eat. They are hidden from view, hidden in their own homes that they lovingly worked so hard to afford. But now, on the other side of 65, their struggle is real. We might not see them - but they, like that poor widow, are seen by God. And God cares. God cares about them, about all of the unseen, about that poor widow giving all she has, and God also cares about those who struggle to see everyone around us. 

Today’s text isn’t asking us to be the widow. Today’s text is asking us to see the widow - to learn her story, her experience, and her thoughts on God. Today’s text is about taking that uncomfortable feeling inside of us, that desire to flee from the widow and turn back so that we can truly see. Jesus points out the widow to his disciples not because he wants them to only see what she gives. But Jesus knows it’s when we see clearly that we can truly know what God is calling us to give.

Amen. 

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Our second reading today is Revelation 1:4b-8.

How do we describe God? That's probably one of the hardest, and most central, questions in the entire Bible. As Christians, we see this story play out and be expanded in trying to discover who Jesus is, why he came, and where Jesus comes from. The disciples believe him to be the Messiah but they don't fully understand what Jesus is doing. The Romans and religious leaders view Jesus as a political revolutionary who is undermining their power and authority. And many experience Jesus as a miracle worker who keeps telling them to be silent about the work that he is doing. God is full of mystery, but a mystery that is revealed to us in God's Son, who reveals what God is doing for us and for the world. Today, 2000 years after Jesus' death, we are still on that journey, looking at Jesus' story to discover the God who is with us and with the world. 

The book of Revelation is the last book in the New Testament and our bible. It's also very odd. The images and descriptions in this book are filled with dragons, mystical creatures, giant thrones, and flying cities. The author is named John who is describing a vision of heaven. He's trying to give hope to churches in Asia who are being persecuted for their beliefs. As the Romans try to destroy their beliefs and practices through violence, torture, and death, John offers a vision of hope for them. God hasn't abandoned them. Christ is, right now, with them. The Romans can't pull them away from the Lord who loves them and who won't let them go. 

In our opening verse today, John describes God as the one "who is and who was and who is to come..." This is an odd way to describe time. The present comes before the past and the future. But that's a perfect way to describe God. The stories we read in Scripture aren't stories only for the past. They are stories about today because they show, over and over again, that God cares about us now. God is here. God is present. God is with us today. That's grace. That's good news. And that's God's commitment to us, always.

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When the confirmation students (i.e. confirmands) first dissect the Apostles' Creed, the first question I ask them is just what a creed is anyways. Each Sunday, we recite one of three creeds. I usually introduce our recitation with the words "Let us confess our faith in the words of..." But creed (besides being a rock band from the 90s) is a word we don't usually use. So what's a creed? A creed is simply a group's statement about who God is and how God acts. In other words, a creed is what we teach, preach, and teach. It is a condensed explanation of the mystery of faith and who God is. 

It wasn't long before creeds started to show up in the early church. Some creeds appear in Scripture. Deuteronomy 6:4 ("Hear, O Israel: The LORD is our God, the LORD alone") is a creed. It is a statement about God and who God is. "God is love" is another one. Creeds are everywhere and help us explore just who God is. 

Our Apostles' Creed started to take shape in 215 AD/CE. During the 100s, the church was struggling with the mystery of God. Different views took shape and  different kinds of Christianites developed. As the groups engaged, argued, and talked with each other, there arouse a desire to lay a foundation on what our faith says. A Roman named Hippolytus wrote a creed that looks a bit like our Apostle's Creed. Overtime it was refined and reshaped as new experiences, conversations, and controversies arose. A legend developed that each clause in the apostles' creed was composed by one of the original apostles. Our current version of the creed was mostly formalized by the year 800. The English translation we use in worship today was translated and composed in 1988 by "English Language Liturgical Consultation," a group representing english speaking churches and denominations Lutheran, Anglican, Roman Catholic, and more)from all over the world. 

I was asked recently about why the current translation dropped the word "again," in line 12 of the creed ("and he [Jesus] will come to judge the living and the dead.") The word again was included in the Lutheran Book of Worship (LBW - the Green Book) from 1978. I wasn't able to discover the notes behind the translation choices but I believe the word "again" was dropped because of the flow of the text. That paragraph of the creed describes Jesus: where he came from, what happened to him, where he is now, and where he will be tomorrow. At the end of the paragraph, we hear how Jesus ascended to heaven (after Easter) and is sitting at the right hand of the Father. That is where Jesus sits, at the point of God's power, able to pierce into our lives, transforming us, so we can live into God's future. And that's what the last line of the paragraph is about: God's future. Jesus will come, from God's hand, to judge the living and the dead. An older translation of the Apostles' Creed, from 1941, highlights this point: "From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead." From Jesus' present location, God's future and Will will be done. 

Of course, we know and experience Jesus in our lives right now. In holy communion, holy fellowship, and in the holy moments of our lives, we discover a Jesus who comes over and over again. And, through us, God blesses the world. Creeds aren't designed to wipe away God's mystery, making faith a set of thoughts we just agree to. Creeds highlight the mystery because God loves us, Christ walks with us, and the Spirit works through us, even when we're doubt and struggle to believe. That's an amazing mystery that can never be reduced. It can only be pointed to, celebrated, and leave us in awe.

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December is a month full of expectation. I expect to wake up Christmas morning and to find at least one present under the tree for me. I expect to find myself shoveling snow. I expect to wear sweaters inside my drafty house. And I expect to be stressed out trying to negotiate gift buying, holiday parties, and trying to hold everything together during a very busy time at church. I expect a lot from December and I think December expects a lot out of us. 

For the four weeks before Christmas, starting on November 29, we'll be in the season of Advent. Advent is a time of expectation but it's more than just expecting large crowds at the mall. Advent is a march towards Christmas, when we celebrate the coming of God in the incarnation (birth) of Jesus. God chose to live a human life, to walk, talk, cry, and celebrate like we do. God came to bring us life but this life isn't limited to a past event 2000 years ago. Christ didn't just come on one Christmas morning. Christ comes, over and over again, into our present life, transforming us to live into God's unfolding future. During Advent, we expect that Christmas will come and we expect that Jesus is coming to us right now, in the church and throughout our lives to bring life to our world. Advent is about celebrating that God will do what God promises by loving us and the entire world.

This December, I invite you to look for the God we expect to come. Discover how God is working at Christ Lutheran Church and in your life. Notice God at your workplaces, school, in your families, and even while you're waiting in line at Old Navy. Look for God because God is there, with you, loving the world and showing you how to love the world too.

See you in church!
Pastor Marc

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As [Jesus] taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

Mark 12:38-44

Pastor Marc's sermon on the 24th Sunday after Pentecost (November 8, 2015) on Mark 12:38-44. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 

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Be the Widow - isn’t that what this text from the gospel of Mark is saying? Jesus is in Jerusalem and teaching in God’s House, the Temple. He brought his entourage, his disciples, and the more Jesus says, the more people listen. So the Sadducees, Pharisees, and other religious and political groups send people to try and trap Jesus. They bring their questions, riddles, and their theological tongue twisters to stump the Son of God. But it doesn’t work. So today, after a large round of teaching, he plops himself down in front of the Temple’s Treasury, watching people give a financial offering to God. Jesus, like everyone else, sees the rich in their designer clothes putting money in the offering plate. But there’s also this woman, a poor widow. She goes up and deposits two small coins that are not even worth the metal they are made out of. In the vast pile of money that is being collected, her offering is so small, it won’t even be noticed. It’ll end up as just some decimal point recorded by a scribe with no name or story attached to it. She’s unseen - but Jesus sees her. He notices that she is giving everything she has. And in a world where wealth defaults to men, she doesn’t have an inheritance, or a husband, or a son, to get the kind of jobs and money she needs to earn a living wage. She gives a penny because a penny is all she has. 

So, for all of us, what would it be like if we gave like she did? What if we gave everything we had - all our houses, cars, checkbooks and credit cards - and just dropped them, deeds and all, into God’s offering plate? 

Now, that request probably makes us feel pretty uncomfortable. Even while I’m making the request, my gut is reacting against it. I get defensive. I’ve got bills I have to pay, car and student loan and even childcare payments that I have to make or else I can do what I’m called to do. The request to give everything like the widow does immediately made me uncomfortable. , And even though my family and I give to the church, even though we are on a journey to become tithers and are proud that our pledge for 2016 is more than 2015, I still wanted to run away from the widow’s demand. I still try to reason my way out of the request. And maybe you did too. But before we step away from the widow’s example to try and undo that uncomfortable feeling - I want us to grab it and not let it go. Any time Scripture makes us uncomfortable or causes us to flee, that’s an opportunity for us to dig deep and discover just what is going on in the story and with us. This is Scripture as a mirror - staring straight at us and asking us to see ourselves fully, warts and all. 

So let’s stay uncomfortable - for a moment - and step into today’s gospel reading one more time. 

So like I said before, Jesus is in the Temple. He’s teaching. He’s having arguments with the different Jewish groups of his day. Our text today begins with an attack on the scribes, the educated religious leaders who, unlike most, could read and write. Jesus tells his friends and those listening to beware of those who dress nice, who want the best seats in the house, and who pray long prayers without really meaning them. These fancy scribes are the ones who devour the homes of widows. We don’t know exactly how they do that. Jesus isn’t specific here. But there’s something about their behavior - about their desires and point of view - that consume the weakest and most vulnerable members of society. It’s after this warning that Jesus sits down to watch people as they bring their offerings to God. 

Now, up to this point in Jesus’ time in the Temple, we aren’t sure who is part of his crowd. In Mark, we know there are people around him, but the only folks who are named dropped are his disciples and all the other religious leaders. When Jesus speaks, it’s these folks who respond back. There’s no mention of a poor or sick person being in his crowd, being in his sight, until that poor widow makes her offering. Jesus doesn’t go up to her. He doesn’t chat with her. He doesn’t even share her name. But he sees her - and then tells the story of what she gives. 

Jesus tells her story. That’s it. He doesn’t actually praise what she does. He doesn’t tell his disciples to “be like her” and his disciples don’t take the hint and immediately drop all their coins into the offering plate. Jesus just points the poor widow out and tells the story of what she’s done. 

So, with that said, what’s making us uncomfortable? Is it the word “more?” Are we seeing ourselves as the rich who give too little? Or would we like to gain the “more” than that the poor widow seems to get? Our feelings could come from these kinds of questions or be from something else entirely. But whatever happens, don’t try and wipe that uncomfortable feeling away because that feeling is the invitation to do what Jesus does. He sees. He notices. He tells the story. This isn’t a text about giving; it’s a text about seeing. Jesus isn’t praising what the widow does - he’s seeing her when no one else does. And in the middle of a long series of stories where Jesus is having arguments with religious leaders, scribes, Pharisees, and Sadducees - Jesus does what they don’t do, and he sees the vulnerable person in the midst. 

But before we exhale and lose that uncomfortable feeling now that I’ve said this text isn’t about giving - we also can’t ignore that the poor widow gives. To see her is to see her gift. We don’t know why she gives. We don’t know if she feels obligated, if she feels that this is her faithful act to God, or if she gives because she loves the Temple and believes the Temple will take care of her when she’s in need. We don’t know her - we just see her because Jesus sees her. And seeing is the first step to being known. Seeing is noticing the unnoticed. Seeing is noticing the folks who are always there, in the background, who are the extras to the film story of our life. Jesus sees the poor widow. He sees what she’s doing. He sees what she’s giving and Jesus cares. He cares about who she is and why she’s there. And Jesus invites his disciples to do what they weren’t doing before and see her too. 

A few weeks ago, I attended the Woodcliff Lake’s mayor and council debate. The format of the night was pretty simple. Everyone in the audience was invited to write their question on a card and hand it to the moderator who would then decide if that question would be asked. So I wrote my question, turned it in, and sat there as candidates talked about issues I knew about and others I knew nothing about. I heard them talk about how many stories houses should be, what to do with the Galaxy Gardens property, and what kind of tile should be at the municipal pool. There were questions about property taxes, suggestions on how to raise property values, a little jealousy that Woodcliff Lake doesn’t have a downtown area like Westwood or Hillsdale, and a lot of words spilled about who came up with the idea to install a bike path around the reservoir. There was plenty said about where we, as a community in Northern New Jersey, should go. But there was very little about noticing the people who are here now. I left that night with my question unasked. I left not learning where the candidates stood on how to deal with seniors living in poverty. We have seniors in this extremely affluent town who own their homes but can’t afford to eat. They are hidden from view, hidden in their own homes that they lovingly worked so hard to afford. But now, on the other side of 65, their struggle is real. We might not see them - but they, like that poor widow, are seen by God. And God cares. God cares about them, about all of the unseen, about that poor widow giving all she has, and God also cares about those who struggle to see everyone around us. 

Today’s text isn’t asking us to be the widow. Today’s text is asking us to see the widow - to learn her story, her experience, and her thoughts on God. Today’s text is about taking that uncomfortable feeling inside of us, that desire to flee from the widow and turn back so that we can truly see. Jesus points out the widow to his disciples not because he wants them to only see what she gives. But Jesus knows it’s when we see clearly that we can truly know what God is calling us to give.

Amen. 
 

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Today's first reading is from 1 Kings 17:8-16.

Sometimes the lectionary (the 3 year cycle of readings we use for worship) doesn't make sense. Today's first lesson from 1 Kings doesn't really match with the gospel lesson. Professor Rolf Jacobson from Luther Seminary says that this pairing of texts is really just trying to find a text about a widow in the Old Testament to match the widow in the Gospel. And I think he's right. These two stories are related because they have widows but that's about it. 

The story in Kings takes place during the time of the prophet Elijah. He's just announced the start of a 3 year drought, running off into the desert because people are mad. God tells him to travel outside Israel, to head into a foreign land, because God has a widow who will take care of him. However, God doesn't let the widow know what's going on and so we have this exchange today. The widow is near the end of her resources but she is actively doing what she can to survive. When Elijah asks for water, she offers hospitality and goes to give him something drink. But before water is given, Elijah asks for bread. She has no bread to give him and, in verse 12, is honest about her current situation. She is near the end of what she has and she's cannot see where her next meal will come from. Elijah makes a promise that God will do something amazing for her. She goes home, makes a little cake out of her meager supplies, and delivers it to Elijah. And, for the next three years, her jar of flour and her oil do not run out. She and her son can now survive and thrive. 

But it's at this moment of abundance that something happens. The widow's son dies. This is devastating. Not only did she lose a son but, in her world (generally), husbands and sons were the ones who made money and generated wealth. Without a son, she has no opportunity to receive an income and no security net when she grows old. By bringing her son back to life, Elijah secures not only her present but also her future. 

In 1 Kings, Elijah is a miracle worker. But his miracles come from God. And God is doing something that Elijah always struggles with. In these stories, Israel is suffering a famine while God is bringing life and a future to a non-Israelite. God is doing an odd thing by expanding who is part of God's family. And by expanding God's family to include people who aren't like us, God is showing just how big God's family should be.

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When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

John 11:32-44

Pastor Marc's sermon on All Saints' Sunday (November 1, 2015) on John 11:32-44. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 

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Have you heard the story about how the bible came to be broken into chapters and verses? It’s actually pretty interesting - and involves a few characters spread out over a thousand years. But my favorite part of the story concerns the New Testament. When the books of the New Testament were first written down, they were written in a style of ancient greek that didn’t have punctuation. In fact, there wasn’t even spaces between the words. When we read the text, we just needed to mentally know where all those things went. But as time went on, scribes started to put in the spaces, the periods, the other marks of punctuation. And it wasn’t long after that when the books started to be broken into chapsters. By the time the printing press came around and the Reformation was in full swing, scholars wanted a more minute way of identifying just what parts of scripture they were talking about when they were arguing with their opponents. So a Frenchman named Robert Estienne in the 1540s took up the task. He took the greek text of the bible and carefully began to give sentences verse numbers. But, if you read the text closely enough, you’ll realise that sometimes the verse numbering doesn’t make any sense. New verse numbers will show up in the middle of sentences and in other random places. Legend says that these random verse markings showed up because Robert did a lot of his work while riding in the back of a carriage. He’d be marking up the text when the carriage would hit a bump - and his pen would move, marking the page in the wrong spot. But when he got to this part of John, chapter 11, the roads must have been good. There’s no random markings here. Instead, Robert read this text, looked at the two words that make up verse 35 and that was it. That verse didn’t need more words. John 11:35 is the shortest verse in the entire bible - but it speaks volumes. Jesus, confronted by the death of his friend, does something amazing: he weeps. He does what we do when a loved one dies. And this text doesn’t have the usual commentary that John likes to add, claiming that Jesus was expressing this kind of emotion to test his disciples or to test the crowd or just to annoy the religious leaders. No, Jesus just cries. His mind is firmly focused on the death of his friend - and his heart just breaks. 

So, on this All Saints’ Day, who is on your mind? 

In a bit, during the prayers of intercession, it’s possible that we’ll name who you’re thinking about. Every year on this day, we read the names of members of this community who have died or the names of people this community has commended to God and buried. But I know this list is incomplete. It doesn’t include all the people in our lives who’ve died. It doesn’t include the beloved friends, the loyal companions, the devoted fathers, or distant brothers we wish we had connected with more. And the list doesn’t include the ones who died years ago and who we’ll always miss. If we tried to compose a complete list of all our loved ones who have passed, I’m sure when next Sunday rolled around, we would still be here, listening as the names keep coming. Death and loss, grief and pain - those things aren’t alien to us because we still live. We’re still here. Living doesn’t mean we’re not dead. Living means we’re going to experience death in all it’s forms. In our lives, we will face death and, like Jesus, weep. 

Now, the text doesn’t specify exactly why Jesus weeps. And in the parts that follow, Jesus’ tears don’t seem to match with what comes next. When he goes to the tomb and orders Lazarus to come out - Jesus sounds confident. He’s not shaky. He doesn’t say, “Okay, Lazarus - if you can, please come out.” No, Jesus commands. He shouts. He acts like he knows that Lazarus will come out. So death, for Jesus, can’t be as final as it feels to us. He isn’t carrying guilt knowing that he’ll never be able to fix that relationship with his beloved friend. Jesus will never worry about those words he said to his dear friend when they last saw each other. And Jesus doesn’t carry any remorse because he didn’t make enough time to spend with his friend and now he’ll never get that chance. We know that Jesus gets that chance with Lazarus. Lazarus is brought back to life. Jesus’ confidence tells me that he knew this even before Mary called him. But even with that confidence - Jesus still weeps. 

There’s something about death that, at its core, breaks God’s heart. So maybe that’s why God had to swallow death up - not to end our tears, but to mend God’s own heart. Because God is a God who creates - a God who builds. God didn’t start the world by destroying something first. God took the chaos - faced that darkness - and God brought light. Bringing light - bringing life - bringing hope even in the midst of loss, fear, and tears - that’s what God does. In the tombs that we find ourselves in - from the walls of doubt and pain, sorrow and sin, suffering and anxiety that we place around ourselves - even in the darkest places of our own souls - Jesus opens ours tombs and God’s light comes in. 

The shortest verse in the bible - where Jesus weeps - is, in some ways, where Jesus is the most human. It’s also where he is his most divine. It’s where the phrase “God is love” becomes real. Jesus didn’t need to weep, but he did. God’s heart doesn’t need to break, but it does. The places and times in our lives when we are our most human is also the places and times when God is the most divine. Because God could have let the brokenness just happen. God could have ignored the finality of death, ignored the pain it causes, and not experience it as we do. God’s Son could have run from death. But he doesn’t. He came to live through it. He came, as we say every time when we confess our faith in the Apostles’ Creed, to ‘descend to the dead.’ He came to experience what we all experience: the brokenness, the fear, the broken hearts, and that giant void of death that scares and frightens us. And it’s there, in death, that his light burns brightest. 

It’s that light that our loved ones now call home. And it’s one of the reasons why we light candles on this day. But this light isn’t just a light for our future. It isn’t a light that we have to literally die for. It’s a light that we, as members of the body of Christ, are experiencing right now. The flame we hold in our hands and place in the sand is not just the flame of our beloved spouse, parent, or child. When we look into the flame, we are looking at them and at us. We, in our baptism, in our faith, are joined with all of those who came before and all of those who are to come. In God’s light, the past, future, and present condense into a single flame. And that flame is something that we are a part of right now. It’s the same flame that fed our loved ones and it’s the same flame that feeds those who we’ll leave behind. We’re caught up in a God where the bumps and rattles of our lives can’t knock us out of the hands of the one who has us. The shortest verse in the bible doesn’t remind us how short our lives on earth are. The shortest verse in the bible shows just how vast our future in God will be.

Amen.  
 

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Today's first reading is from Isaiah 25:6-9.

In the movie Lawrence of Arabia, Anthony Quinn plays the role of a bedouin chief named Auda abu Tayi. T.E. Lawrence, a British army officer arrives to convince abu Tayi to join the side of the Allies during World War 1. Their discussion takes place in the evening during a feast. Everyone in reclining, laying down on the ground with pillows and chase lounges propping them up. As the talk turns to money, abu Tayi proclaims his poverty because, in his words, "I am a river to my people!" The wealth he receives is turned over to his people. He claims to have nothing. 

This is a great line for a movie and also a foolish one. Auda abu Tayi is a ruler. He has power, weapons, and is famous. He always receives the best. Even in the scene, he is eating an amazing meal while his followers wait to receive what he doesn't eat. He's rich, powerful, and showcases his prestige by hosting a giant feast. 

As Professor Anathea Portier-Young writes, "In the ancient near eastern world, such feasts provided opportunities for mighty rulers to display their wealth and power, foster loyalty, communicate their protection and providence, negotiate treaties, and render judgments. The feast was a hallmark of empire. But the shared meal also has a sacred and intimate character. It brings pleasure and satisfaction. It engages the senses. It establishes and strengthens relationships."

Today's text from Isaiah shows God throwing a feast where everyone attends. The powerful and the weak, the oppressed and the oppressors, the rich and the poor, all gather at God's table. God assembles the best food for this amazing meal. But at the meal, God does not eat. God doesn't touch the food or the drink. Instead, God swallows something else entirely. God devours death. 

But God doesn't just consume death. The language of shroud and sheet in verse 7 is more than a reference to a death shroud. God is swallowing up all that covers, shapes, and defines us. Our cultures, way of life, thoughts, and actions are consumed by God at this Holy Feast. By taking everything we have and experience, God is opening us up to a new future where God, and not our experiences, will define what happens. And that's what today, this All Saints' Day is about: a God, as Prof Portier-Young shares, "de-creates the order of life and death and makes possible a future for God’s people beyond death and destruction." God is giving us a new future and inviting us to live out that future today. 

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