Questions and Reflections

February 2020

Reflection: The Stories We Tell...

Are you the kind of person who tells the same story over and over again? If you are, that's great because I'm one of those people, too. My family has spent a lot of their lives patiently listening to me tell a story they've already heard. On days when they're feeling generous, they let me keep talking. But sometimes they let me know I'm acting like a broken record. The re-telling of stories is one reason why I write and store all my sermons in Google. When I pick a story to use in a sermon, I first need to search through the hundreds of sermons I've already written. Sometimes I discover that I haven't used that story in a sermon since the days I was on internship in New York City. Yet, there have been times when I had forgotten I used that story just three weeks before. I consider the stories I tell over and over again to be stories worth sharing. But even I know a story can sometimes lose its meaning when it’s told too often.

One of the ways the church is unique is that we re-tell the same story every day. We are constantly dwelling in and sharing the story of Jesus. We remember how he casted out demons and offered healing to all. We celebrate the stories around his birth and how he saved the host of a wedding reception from being embarrassed when he turned water into wine. We also proclaim to each other and the world that Jesus refuses to give up on them. Unlike the stories I share, the story about Jesus never grows old because it's a story that always speaks to us in new ways. We re-tell the story of Jesus because His story helps us become the people God knows we can be.

So during this Lent, we're going to take some time to learn how to share Jesus' story. We'll do this by using Pixar's model for storytelling. In the space below and in the margins on this page, I want you to think about a moment when Jesus made a difference in your life. Hold that moment in your mind. Replay it over and over again. Relive that life-giving moment. Then I invite you to complete this sentence: One upon a time there was. . .


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For Our Sake [Sermon Manuscript]

We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain. For he says,
‘At an acceptable time I have listened to you,
   and on a day of salvation I have helped you.’


See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation! We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry, but as servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: through great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger; by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness of spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; in honour and dishonour, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

Pastor Marc's sermon on Ash Wednesday (February 26, 2020) on 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 


When I read the Bible for myself, I read it assuming it was written seriously. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t parts of the Bible that are absurd, silly, shocking, or funny. But in my head, I imagine that when the words for the Bible were first written down, the physical act of writing happened in a reverent and serious way. The original authors who recorded or wrote these words probably didn’t know they were crafting scripture that would last thousands of years but I think they must have known they were writing something holy and important. When I read the Bible, I assume the reverence I bring to the text is something the original authors experienced too. 

But my assumption is just that: an assumption. And sometimes a text comes along like tonight’s reading from 2 Corinthians that needs more than just reverence. The text needs passion and energy and a little theatrics because that’s probably how Paul composed this text nearly 2000 years ago. He was caught up in a pattern of writing letters back and forth with a Christian community he founded in the Greek city of Corinth. From what we can tell, Paul had established a shop in Corinth’s marketplace as a kind of leather worker. As people came to his shop to place orders for the different things he could make, he talked to them and eventually shared who he knew Jesus to be. Through persistence, grace, and a lot of help from the Holy Spirit, a group of maybe two dozen people started gathering together for worship and prayer. Paul stayed maybe 18 months before moving on to a new city. But his relationship to the Corinthian community continued. And it wasn’t long before the community started to split into different cliques. People argued about who had the right understanding of Jesus and they started valuing people based on the amount of spiritual gifts they had. These disagreements got so intense that people stopped worshipping together and they kept only to their friends. As these splits grew, someone finally wrote to Paul asking for his thoughts. We don’t have the letters that were written to Paul but we do have Paul’s responses - and they were eventually arranged into what we know as First and Second Corinthians. These two books were his actual responses to actual people trying to figure out what it actually means to follow Jesus Christ, together. Paul didn’t think he was writing the Bible. Instead, he was addressing people who were trying to embody the grace God had already given them. 

And since this grace was embodied, we should see Paul’s words in this letter as embodied too. Because he didn’t physically put these words on paper or vellum. Instead, he probably hired a scribe to write down these words as he said them. So instead of imagining Paul, a Jewish scholar sitting in a quiet room, writing a letter in the most reverent way possible; it’s better to see Paul speaking and how he became more animated as he spoke. He was, most likely, walking around the room and gesturing wildly with his hands. And when he got to the middle of verse 2, he exploded with energy because he knew what it was like to hold onto hope even in the middle of hopeless moments. We can almost hear him speaking faster and faster as he connected so many different and competing experiences with one another. His words rolled off the tongue because he was giving voice to what his life with Jesus was all about. It wasn’t a life that was easy or simple or that focused on his being comfortable. Rather, it was a life that lived into everything it was given because it trusted in a promise: a promise that our life is not evaluated only by our health, wealth, age, gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, social class, or any of those things we use to keep our communities apart. Rather, our value is defined by God - and God loves you. 
But God doesn’t only love the best version of you or the version of you that’s always reverent all the time. God loves all of you - including the parts that are over-the-top, passionate, and full of theatrics. God loves the parts of you that you do not like; the parts that don’t work like they should; and all those things that you push off to tomorrow when they really should be taken care of today. God’s love isn’t reserved for the best version of who God wants us to be. God loves you. And it’s a love that makes a difference in the world - and in you. 

Because for our sake, God moved into this world. And in a verse Paul might have rushed through as he geared up for the high energy of verse 2 and beyond, Paul revealed what his experience of Jesus was all about. He knew Jesus as a gift - a gift of love because God came to us. This gift wasn’t something Paul earned after he was already the faithful person God wanted him to be. Rather, Jesus came to him as love incarnate first because that’s just what Jesus does. This love isn’t meant only for our comfort or to make us feel better about ourselves. Rather, God’s love comes with an energy, passion, and theatrics of all its own. Jesus moves us into a new reality where the love we receive becomes the love we give. And this love, like Jesus’ himself, knows no bounds. 
The love God gives us is a love that is always honest about who we are. It doesn’t run away from our faults, our fears, and the ways we don’t love each other like we should. It doesn’t ignore the ways we, as a community, sometimes limit who we offer love too - holding back from those who might not act, or think, or carry themselves in the ways we think they should. This love also doesn’t ignore the ways our wider community- the neighborhoods, towns, state, and nation we call home - acts as if this love from God is, someone, limited. We have no problem saying that Jesus’ love is for us but then we act as if God’s love stops there, letting us remain as we are instead of seeing how God’s love transforms us into something more.

Which is why, I think, we celebrate events like Ash Wednesday. It’s why we will use ashes in just a few minutes to remind us exactly who we are. Yet we are also different because we are marked by the sign of the cross. We do these things, as a community, so that we can help one another realize that Jesus has inserted himself into our lives, helping us be the more generous, more inclusive, more compassionate, more merciful, and more loving people God knows we can be. The love we feel and the love we give is not only for our own personal benefit but it’s also meant to be, like Jesus, a gift given for the world. There will be times when we’ll need to be reverent, serious, and all that those words means. But there are other moments when the love we give needs to be animated and full of energy. We are not the keepers of God’s love. We are the ones called to give that love away. And so tonight, as we remember the whole truth about who we are - we will also remember the new truth that God’s love says about us. And how, through Jesus, God’s love is made visible in our reverent and not-so-reverent lives. 



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The Christian Life [Sermon Manuscript]

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”

Matthew 17:1-9

Pastor Marc's sermon on the Transfiguration of Our Lord (February 23, 2020) on Matthew 17:1-9. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 


It’s hard to talk about today’s story - the Transfiguration of Jesus - without including all the verses that come before it. So that’s what I’m going to try to do now; I’m going to paraphrase what happened in Matthew before Jesus, Peter, James, and John went up the mountain. And to start off, we’re about 12 chapters further into Jesus’ story than we were last week. Jesus’ ministry around the Sea of Galilee is almost over. But before he took his final steps towards the city of Jerusalem, Jesus visited the city of Caesarea Philippi. Now Caesarea Philippi was the political, religious, and economic center of the entire area and it was built at the base of a mountain covered in religious shrines and temples. For centuries, people gathered there to worship non-Jewish gods and goddesses. Yet during Jesus’ lifetime, something new showed up and there were suddenly statues honoring and celebrating the Roman Emperors. By this point, the Roman Emperors were declaring themselves to be either gods or the sons of gods. And they claimed they had a kind of divine permission to make the entire world their own. In the city of Caesarea Philippi, the streets were filled with Roman soldiers and their allies; and the marketplaces were covered in images declaring Rome’s greatness at the expense of everyone else. Caesarea Philippi was a place that tried to convince you that it was Rome that gave your life meaning and purpose. And so Jesus brought his disciples there. And while standing in the shadow of a mountain filled with statues dedicated to the Roman Emperor, Jesus asked those who followed him: “who do you say that I am?” Peter, even though he could literally see the political, economic, and religious might of the Roman Empire in front of him - quickly said: “Jesus, you’re the Messiah; you’re true center of our world.” Jesus, in response to Peter’s confession, started sharing more of his story. He told them of his decision to head to Jerusalem and how, instead of overthrowing the Roman Empire, he would be arrested and killed. This wasn’t how Peter thought the story of the Messiah should turn out - so Peter challenged Jesus’ own words. And in a sudden shift, Jesus seemed to turn on Peter. He called Peter Satan - and said he was stumbling block for Jesus’ own ministry. Jesus then turned to all his disciples, telling them that they needed to deny themselves, take up their cross, and be ready to follow him. 

And that, according to Matthew, is the last sort of detail we get about what Jesus was upto until he and his friends go up a mountain. For six days, we hear nothing about the direction Jesus walked in or if he visited any other towns. We have no idea if Jesus cured anyone during this break or if took some me-time and maybe visited a spa or saw a show. For six whole days, we have nothing in the story that can distract us from the twist and turns that came right before. And instead we can imagine the disciples replaying this conversation they had with Jesus over and over again in their head. They tried to make sense of Peter’s confession, Peter as Satan, and this cross that seemed to involve them all. They had heard Jesus confirm that he was exactly who they hoped he was. And yet his words also left them confused, worried, and full of doubts. 

So after six days, Jesus took Peter, John, and James up a mountain. And as they climbed, the three disciples carried all of their stuff with them. Every doubt they had about Jesus; every question about their choices in their life; and this conversation they had repeated in their minds over and over again - all of that went up that mountain with them. Jesus didn’t invite his most perfect followers to journey with him up the mountain. Rather, he took the doubters; the ones with questions; the ones who, even after following Jesus for some time, still weren’t exactly sure what their faith and this Jesus was all about. Jesus, in other words, basically invited us to go up that mountain with him. Because we, like Peter, James, and John also doubt; and worry; and sometimes wonder if this Jesus thing matters for us as much as it should. We, like them, still find ourselves living through moments where we don’t see Jesus as clearly as we should. And in periods of our life that last much longer than six days, we’re not sure exactly what we should believe. We find times in our lives where every prayer we utter, every worship service we attend, and every piece of bread or drink we share at the Lord’s table feels - a little bit too normal - and no where near divine. God, for us, starts feeling too strange or too mundane; too over-the-top and unrealistic or maybe too down-to-earth and really small. God stops feeling like God. And we find ourselves going up the mountains of our lives not really sure why we’re going up at all. 

Yet it’s then, right before the disciples got to the top of the mountain, that Jesus transfigured. His face glowed brighter than the sun and his clothes turned white. Suddenly two others appeared with him and the disciples instinctively knew that Moses, the one who received the law on another mountain top, and Elijah, the great prophet, was there with them. Peter, being Peter, interrupted this scene with his words - and so God spoke. And the disciples fell to the ground, afraid. Matthew doesn’t tell us exactly what they were afraid of - but we can fill in the details ourselves. The disciples, In the words of Joseph Harvard III, “had their eyes opened, and they saw a new reality. It was revealed to them that the way of Jesus was God’s way in the world.” Yet their eyes saw more than just Jesus. They also, I think, came to realize a truth about themselves. Jesus is. They really were disciples who doubt, who wonder, who get confused, and they realized they’re the ones who do not get Jesus right. And so they fell to the ground, covering their faces and their eyes, because they saw the truth about Jesus collide with the truth they knew about themselves. 

Yet before they could uncover their eyes and see Jesus looking like his own unshiny self - Jesus first came to them. He came to those who were afraid; to the ones who doubted; to those who didn’t know what to do with this Son of God. Jesus came to them first, and with a gentle touch and world, invited them to “Get up and do not be afraid.” These words were not meant to be harsh or to be a command for the disciples to not feel what they were truly feeling. Rather, it was a word of comfort that Jesus knows we are exactly who we are - right now. Jesus knows we doubt and that we’re sometimes confused. He knows we feel fear and that our fear will sometimes block us from seeing the truth that’s around us. Jesus knows we are exactly who we are - yet he also knows whose we are too. We are already in a relationship with him. And he comes to us not because we are perfect but because his love for us is. He reaches out to us - in baptism, in communion, in our gathering together for worship, and in our prayers - and he continues to remind us that nothing can separate us from God’s steadfast love. Our doubts; our fears; our confusion; and even our lack of an unwavering faith - will not stop Jesus from coming to us. Instead, his commitment to us lets us do a hard thing and that’s follow him. We get to get up, to head down the mountain into our very ordinary lives, and to trust that Jesus is with us even when we are afraid. We follow because we choose that love, not fear, will be at the center of our lives. And Jesus, in our journey on mountains and through valleys, promises he will never let us go. 



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Reflection: Being Honest About Intrepretation

Let's spend some time with 2 Peter. It's a letter we don't read often. Most scholars believe that the letter was written many years after Peter's death. In the ancient world, it was acceptable for people to write in the name of people who had died. This was the author's way of letting people know their point of view and earlier readers would have recognized the references to Peter "as literary devices used in this type of writing" (Lutheran Study Bible). The author used Peter's point of view to address a major issue in the early church: what does unity look like? There was then, as there is now, many different perspectives about what it means to follow Jesus. And the author of 2 Peter wanted us to lean into the promises of Jesus more than assuming that our interpretation of Jesus was what faith was all about.

So how do we recognize an interpretation from the promise of Jesus? That's sometimes hard to do because we, as humans, are in the business of interpretation. We are constantly processing new experiences through the entirety of our story. If you've ever gone through something a family member or friend, we're often surprised by the slight differences that show up when we talk about the experience afterwards. The things that popped out to us didn't matter to our friend or the feelings our friend had were emotions that were nowhere near our radar. Even though we went through the exactly same experience, our interpretation of that experience is always different. We are not objective nor are our opinions facts. Rather we use our interpretation as a way to make sense of our world. And even though there are facts that never change, how we interpret those facts will be how we follow Jesus into the world.

The author of 2 Peter wanted, I think, for us to admit that we do interpretation. We should never be so hard-nosed about our own views that we refuse to listen to other people. When it comes to faith, our experience of God's grace is not the limit to what's possible with God. Our faith is exactly that: ours. And it's God who gives the gift of faith to us and to others in the exactly way that they need. It isn't our job to show people what they need to believe. Rather, we are called to share what we believe. And that begins by living into our experiences of Jesus - experiences we have in worship, in prayer, and in our daily lives. Center your faith in where you have met God. And let that fact fill you with a love that will sustain you all of your days.


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Who Is Jesus? Pastor Marc's Reflection in the Messenger: March 2020 edition

One of the ways I serve the wider church is by being a member of the New Jersey Synod’s Candidacy Committee. The Candidacy Committee shepherds people who feel a call to become deacons and pastors. We review applications, conduct countless interviews, and require candidates to write a bunch of essays. The candidacy process isn’t easy, but it’s one of the most fun things I get to be a part of. After every meeting, I leave spiritually exhausted but faithfully full because I got a glimpse of the future of the church. I know that we all, regardless of our age, are members of the body of Christ. Yet there’s a kind of joy that comes when we baptize someone new and when we see someone take their first steps to become a future leader in the church. It’s at that moment that we get a glimpse of the Spirit building a foundation to take the faith someplace new. And that faith is centered in our experiencing, understanding, and belief in who exactly Jesus is.

Who is Jesus? That’s a question the candidacy committee asks all our candidates at every stage of the process. We’ve surprised people by asking this question even though they’ve never been to seminary. And, we’ve asked those who just graduated from seminary that same exact question. As Lutherans, we’re supposed to share our faith, and we believe that words have power. The words we use should be centered on the Word. So, we proclaim Jesus in all that we do, teach and say. The question “who is Jesus” isn’t an easy one to answer. But our ability to answer it is essential whether we’re planning to become ordained deacons or not.

So during Lent, we’re going to learn how to answer that question on Sundays. We’re going to figure out how we, in our own words, can let people know who Jesus is to us. Our answer to that question might not earn an A in some theology class in seminary. But it will be enough to help make Jesus real to the people we’re closest to. My hope is that we’ll use a tool familiar to our friends at Pixar to help us share Jesus. Because when you feel the call to be a future leader in the church – to serve on council, to lead a committee, to head that new project that will help change the world, or to become a deacon or pastor in the church – who Jesus is to you will be the center of your story. And that’s a story that all people want to hear.

See you in church!
Pastor Marc


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Hard Words [Sermon Manuscript]

“You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’; and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, ‘You fool,’ you will be liable to the hell of fire. So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to go into hell. “It was also said, ‘Whoever divorces his wife, let him give her a certificate of divorce.’ But I say to you that anyone who divorces his wife, except on the ground of unchastity, causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.

“Again, you have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not swear falsely, but carry out the vows you have made to the Lord.’ But I say to you, Do not swear at all, either by heaven, for it is the throne of God, or by the earth, for it is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black. Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one.

Matthew 5:21-37

Pastor Marc's sermon on the 6th Sunday after Epiphany (February 16, 2020) on Matthew 5:21-37. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 


So yesterday, my entire family attended a funeral at Trinity Lutheran Church in Astoria, Queens. We loaded up our minivan, filled the kids with snacks, and prayed we would find a parking spot within six blocks of the church. When we finally got to Trinity, the service had already started. But since that church is my “home congregation,” I knew exactly how to walk in, take over an entire back pew, and get settled before the opening hymn was over. Trinity was the first church I ever really attended. It’s also the place where Kate and I were married; where Oliver was baptized; and it was that faith community that recognized what God had in mind for me before I even knew what being a Lutheran was all about. Trinity is one of the reasons why I’m a pastor. And one of those people who shaped my faith and my relationship with Jesus was a woman in her 90s named Virginia. 

Now, Virginia was an amazing person. She was tough as nails, with your stereotypical New York sense of humor and Queens accent. She knew Greek, was a former owner of a diner, and kept in contact with Kate and I through facebook right until the end. During the recession of 2008, I found myself with a lot of free time because my freelance web development work dried up. So on Tuesday mornings, I joined Virginia and a few others of the “old guard” to putter around the church, chat, and have lunch. Virginia was the type of person who, regardless of the situation, was always herself. She had no problems sharing her opinions. Yet she was also incredibly accepting of other people. She knew everyone’s business but she didn’t really gossip. Instead, people trusted her and she worked hard to build that trust with all people. It didn’t matter if you were 92 or 22 - if you needed help, care, or prayers - Virginia was the one who knew exactly what you were going through. She was, in a few words, opinionated, thoughtful, loving, and a little intense. And she made sure to fully invest herself into her relationships so that all of us could experience grace. 

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew is not the easiest to preach on. We find ourselves deep in Jesus’ sermon on the mount - a sermon that began with the beatitudes - where Jesus said that the meek and the poor in spirit were blessed. Last week, we heard Jesus declare that he came to fulfill the law and the promises recorded in the prophets and that those who followed him were the salt of the earth. Jesus used, I think, a figure of speech to help root us permanence of God’s promises. When God said “I love you” and claimed you as God’s own in baptism - God really meant it. And God’s giving of grace is like salt being salty - it’s just a permanent part of who God is. You can almost imagine being there with Jesus and feeling pretty upbeat since he told you how much God loves you. But then Jesus goes a little hardcore and, as we hear today, he started talking about things like murder. Now, Jesus’s speaking pattern in this passage was pretty common in the first century. Rabbis often debated by stating a traditional understanding of a law and then challenging it with an interpretation of their own. This wasn’t their way of trying to replace the law or the tradition they inherited. Rather, it was a way to dig deeper into it and, in the words of Eric Barreto, grab onto “the divine values these commandments [and laws] communicated.” Jesus, in this passage, wasn’t trying to replace the law. Instead, he intensifies it. And Jesus, I think, went heavy so that reveal God’s vision for our lives and for our world. 

So, instead of trying to unpack everything Jesus said in this passage - which would require a whole sermon for each verse - let’s take this passage as a whole. What thread weaves in and out of these seventeen verses - especially the parts that seem harsh, like Jesus’ comment on divorce? Where’s the grace in these hard words from Jesus? 

Well, for me, that’s where my friend Virginia comes in. She learned, over her many years, how to invest in the connections she had with other people. She knew how to ask questions, how to listen, and how a New York style wisecrack could let us know we were heard. Throughout today’s passage from Matthew, Jesus is focused on our choices in relationships. He’s not thinking so much about the people we have relationships with or what they’ve done. Rather, he asks us to be honest about what we invest into every human connection that we have. Do we invest in anger and in the brokenness that’s entails or are we faithful enough to admit how other people could rightfully have something to hold against us? Our coming before God is, according to Jesus, related to our relationship with one another. And how we connect is a sign of that faith and trust. For us to truly reconcile with one another, we need to be honest about the harm we’ve caused others. And in those situations where reconciliation is impossible, we can still use the gifts of community, connection, and therapy to not let anger, resentment, and disconnection be what defines us. 

It’s this work of investment, I think, that gives light to Jesus’ words that follow. Instead of objectifying people - especially women - and then blaming them for our gaze, Jesus told those who are doing the looking to invest in their connections by first disciplining themselves. Instead of letting men, who traditionally controlled the wealth in a household, divorce their wives and leave them homeless and in poverty, Jesus told us to invest in the life we’re building together. There are times when that investment in a marriage will be exactly what that relationship needs but there are other times when our investment will reveal that the most holy and healthy thing we can do is let that marriage. And instead of tying the promises we make to one another with some kind of collateral to make sure it actually happens, Jesus asked us to invest in making every word we say be honest and trustworthy. Jesus’ call in this passage is not focused on what others do or how they make us feel. Rather, it’s about how we can, right now, invest in our relationships and how that investment will actually grow us closer to God. 
Because the story of law, the prophets, and of Jesus himself is the story of God’s continual investment in God’s relationship with us. We, as humans, are made in the image of God and we carry a bit of the divine into the world. Those who follow Jesus are, through our baptism and our faith, invested into the body of Christ - a body that, at its core, is all about relationships and connections. We are not only in a relationship with Jesus; we’re connected to everyone else. And this connection and relationship is nourished through our worship, our prayers, and reinforced every time we commune at the Lord’s table. We are, as baptized followers of Jesus Christ, connected to a God who does not stop investing in God’s promises - and we are invited to be like God in all our relationships as well. This kind of investment isn’t easy or simple and it actually requires us to do the work. But when we do, the investment we make in our relationships ends up giving grace because it reflects the grace God has already given us. We can start this investment by naming our anger; by admitting all the different ways - either personally, systematically, or historically - others might have something against us; by being honest that we do objectifying others; by naming the different ways we take our marriages for granted; and by finally admitting how our comments - especially those we make on social media - do not embrace the care and the truthfulness God wants us to share. Because it’s only when we go heavy and deep into our actual lives that we are then able to fully invest into all our relationships. And its then when grace and love becomes a permanent part of who we are - something that we freely give because Jesus already has given that grace to us. 



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Reflection: Sacred Trust

A few weeks ago, every pastor in the New Jersey synod received a letter from Bishop Tracie Bartholomew strongly "encouraging" us to attend a very specific workshop. The tone of the letter made it difficult for any of us to say "no." So on Tuesday, the Lutheran pastors in Northern New Jersey met our bishop in the main ballroom of the Lutheran retirement community at Crane's Mill. We were each given a folder, a pencil, and a pad of paper. And after putting on our names tags, we assembled in groups of eight around large round tables. The chaplain at Crane's Mill began the session by sharing with us a little bit about the facility, where to find refills for our coffee, and where the nearest bathrooms were. After the welcome, the Bishop asked her to lead us in prayer. When the prayer was over and after we all said "amen," the Bishop took over. And she led us in an all-day workshop on how pastors and deacons should maintain proper boundaries with everyone in their congregation.

This kind of boundary training (focusing on adult-to-adult situations) is something all pastors in our denomination go through every 5 years. It's not fun and it usually disrupts the plans we've already made for the day. But the workshop is important because it reminds us that the relationship between a pastor and the people they serve is something sacred. The pastor's commitment to serving God and God's people is built on a trust we are given to protect and nourish. But since pastors are people and live their lives as saint-and-sinner (like we all do), his sacred trust is sometimes broken. This usually happens when a pastor fails to stay mindful of their own spiritual, emotional, and mental health needs. Instead of caring for their congregation, the congregation ends up filling a void the pastor is missing in their life. This unhealthy behavior can seem small - like favoring one group of people over others. But it can also grow into something more problematic such as sexual harassment. In fact, over the last few years, there have been incidents in our synod where pastors broke their martial vows with members of their own congregations. This boundary crossing is unacceptable and is not tolerated in our synod. When a pastor does this, they are removed from the place they serve, and they are no longer a pastor in the Lutheran church. Yet, their removal from a congregation does not end the suffering within the congregation. A violation of sacred trust can reverberate in a community even decades later.

One thing the Bishop wanted us to share with you is a document of the Synod's guidelines pertaining to this kind of boundary crossing. Copies are available in the church office and these guidelines do not have a statute of limitations because there's no time-limit when it comes to trauma. As a church, we are our most faithful when we are honest about the harm we've caused. And since we all are members of the body of Christ, any violation in any church in any Christian denomination impacts us all. If a clergy person in your life has harmed you or if you have been part of a community where a clergy person has broken that sacred trust: I am sorry. We see you. We believe you. And may the Spirit guide every clergy person and leader in the church to hold fast to the sacred trust that keeps us all working together as God's servants.


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One Second [Sermon Manuscript]

[Jesus said:] “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot. “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.

“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 5:13-20

Pastor Marc's sermon on the 5th Sunday after Epiphany (February 9, 2020) on Matthew 5:13-20. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 


So I want to start today’s sermon by highlighting something I’ve been doing these last few weeks that’s sort of grown into an unintentional sermon series. Two weeks ago, I asked all of us to imagine different superheroes and the places that made them who they are. We talked about Batman and the City of Gotham, Superman and Metropolis, and even Black Panther and Wakanda. Those places shaped those superheroes were and we  are shaped by our places too. Last week, I started by asking all of us to imagine just how loud the Temple in Jerusalem would have been when Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus engaged in some of the rituals of their Jewish identity. Our expectation that holy sites should be serene and quiet probably didn’t match the actual experience of worshippers in Jerusalem 2000 years ago. Instead, the noise and bustle of the Temple pointed to the life that God’s presence brought to God’s people. And so today, I’d like us to - once again - use our faithful imagination as we engage with this text from the gospel according to Matthew. But instead of asking you to imagine being a piece of salt or being an actual city on a hill, I want to point out what I think our imagination does for us when we let it encounter the Bible. When we engage our imagination, the possibilities of where the text will take us is practically endless. The words, rather than ourselves, take the lead and we don’t assume that we already know what this passage is all about. We don’t limit the text to only be moral instruction or so-called life lessons or even details about what we’re supposed to believe. Instead, we let the Word of God meet us as we are right now. And instead of working on the text, our point of view shifts and we see how the text, and God, has already been working on us. 

So let’s take a second to shift our mental gears and engage our imaginative ones. I’m going to re-read verse 13: “[Jesus said] You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.” I don’t know if that verse sounded different to you than it did before. But I find that when I use my faithful imagination, I’m able to ask questions I might not have been brave enough to ask before. Usually, when we read this verse, we assume Jesus knows a lot about what salt can do. And so he must have known that salt could, while walking around the sea of Galilee, lose its taste. Yet our imagination might be emboldened to wonder if Jesus got this little snapple fact wrong. Because salt, which is just sodium chloride, can’t actually lose its saltiness. If it does, it’s no longer salt and it couldn’t be thrown onto the ground. Some have argued that the salt Jesus was referring to was of poor quality, mixed with dirt and sand and could, after time, lose its taste. But it’s also just as plausible that Jesus was maybe purposefully describing something impossible but used words that invited us deeper into his story. It’s kind of like when someone tells you something that, at first, seems completely reasonable but then later, when you actually think about it, makes you go “what?” The absurdity we didn’t see at first ends up pulling us in. And we wonder where Jesus is taking us next. 

Now the transition from salt to light to city to lamp is a little jumbled but there’s an opening here that fits our use of faithful imagination. We shouldn’t only focus on visualizing ourselves to be lit up like a lighthouse, seeing ourselves as a revealing symbol to the world. Instead, we can narrow the vision for our imagination by zooming in on the bushel basket. The bushel basket Jesus had in mind was probably made out either wood or reeds woven tightly together. It would have been used regularly to collect fruits, grain, and other agricultural products and it probably wasn’t entire air-tight or fully sealed. The bushel basket was a tool that didn’t need to be perfect to get its job done. And it also wasn’t designed to be around lamps. In Jesus’ day, if you wanted light to shine without the help of the sun, you had to light something on fire. The lamps Jesus probably had in mind were little oil lamps with a wick burning an open flame. Putting a dry and wooden bushel basket over a lamp would, most likely, burn the basket up. The ordinary beauty of a lampstand lighting up an entire house does not erase the absurdity in the first half of Jesus’ words. That weirdness is right there in the text and we’re not, I think, supposed to smooth out what Jesus said. Rather, these moments might be a sign that we are witnessing Jesus’ faithful imagination at work - an imagination that reconfigures and transforms the world through God’s absurd and loving grace. 

Because it takes a special kind of imagination to wonder if salt could lose its saltiness and if an easily flammable basket could cover a burning flame. An imagination that is comfortable with those kinds of absurdities is one that’s also capable of reimaging us. Instead of letting us lean into our default settings of “comfort, conformity, and complacency,” God’s holy imagination invites us to see how our actions and our inactions always have an impact. Too often we let our fears, worries, and our unwillingness to admit our wrongs, limit our imagination and what we think is possible in the world. This is manifested in the many ways we ask others to show us grace while we give them none. And how we are quick to label other people’s stories, identities, and experiences as absurd because we can’t imagine how their lives are connected to our own. We often act as if the limits we place on our own imagination come from God. Yet, as we see in our reading today, the God who has already re-imagined you as being the light of the world will not be limited by what we think that means. 

Instead, God will continue to do absurd things, like giving us the grace to expand our faithful imagination. Because it’s that kind of imagination that, I think, helps us trust that the promises God made to other people God also made to us. The impossibility of salt losing its saltiness means that you, as the salt of the earth, will not lose God’s promises too. And since a flammable bushel basket will only burn brighter when it meets the lamp of God, your identity as the light of the world is a gift God has already given to you. These declarations from God are not given to us in response to something that we do. Nor are they merely affirmations of what we’re already doing. Instead, the promises of God are gifts, re-imagining us into the people God wants us to be. It’s a re-imagining that expands our limits of what it means to show mercy, to give grace, and to love. It’s a re-imagining that expands our capacity to say we’re sorry, to seek justice, and to see what we can do so that others might thrive. And it’s a re-imagining that helps us expand the imaginations of others too. As little H. is about to hear shortly in his own public welcome into the body of Christ - we are here to let the light of God’s grace shine in all that we say and do. And that light - a promise of love, a promise of mercy, and promise that you are already part of God’s holy and life giving imagination - is a gift that we are called to freely give. 



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Reflection: A Crossed Shaped Life

I'm going to let you in on a little secret: the Bible texts we read on Sunday morning sometimes allows for optional verses. We use a three year cycle of readings called the Revised Common Lectionary. And this cycle of readings is shared by Catholics, United Methodists, Reformed communities, Lutherans and the like. There are times when the lectionary gives us options for Sunday morning. For example, an assigned reading from the book of Isaiah might focus on the first nine verses in a chapter. But at the end of this reading, there are additional verses surrounded by brackets. These bracketed verses are not the main thrust of the reading but they can help us flesh out how the reading can make a difference in our lives. Not every church will read the optional verses. But I have a habit of including them whenever they show up. When it comes to our lectionary readings, I'm an adder. I like more. And I apologize to our lector today for adding all these extra verses to our readings.

Today's reading from 1 Corinthians 2:1-16 is a continuation of what we heard last week. The community in Corinth is divided. People have started to form teams and are refusing to even worship with other people. This division in the community is a bit surprising since the Christian community in Corinth probably numbered around 20. Yet they, like us, were working hard to figure out what it means to follow Jesus. And in their quest to be good Christians, they started to separate themselves from each other.

Much of this separation was caused by their belief that one team had to win and everyone else needed to lose. There was an inherent competition in their understanding of what it means to follow Christ. And they lived this competition out by trying to see which one of them had the best "spiritual" gifts. Instead of seeing these talents as tools they could use to take care of each other, the community in Corinth wanted to define themselves as being "the best." Paul's work in this section of the letter is to try and remove this sense of competition. He reminded them that, in Christ, none of us are more special than the others. We are all beloved. We are not here to be in competition with one another. Instead, we're called to put on the mind of Christ—and to see each other as Christ sees them.

When we put on the mind of Christ, what we're doing is letting the Cross influence our viewpoint of the world. With cross-shaped vision, we recognize the gift of Jesus Christ actually dying because he refused to let the world's sense of power and competition be what defined God's kingdom. Our actions in the world should not be a race to win against others. Rather, what we do should be defined by a love that is willing to make sacrifices for others. This sacrifice is not easy and is something we don't always want to do. But as the baptized members of the body of Christ, when it comes to being with God—we've already won. So, let's live as if Jesus life, death and resurrection actually matter.


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Welcome: Being Reverent [Sermon Manuscript]

When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, [Mary and Joseph] brought [Jesus] up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord”), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.”

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. When they had finished everything required by the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.

Luke 2:22-40

Pastor Marc's sermon on the Presentation of Jesus (February 2, 2020) on Luke 2:22-40. Listen to the recording here or read my manuscript below. 


So how loud do you think the Temple was when Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to it? One way we can answer that question is by using our imagination to combine the story we just heard from the gospel according to Luke with some details about life in ancient Jerusalem. Now, the Temple was located along one of Jerusalem’s main city walls and it was the center of religious and political life. All kinds of people moved in and out of the Temple constantly. The narrow streets leading up to the Temple were the size of alleyways and they were filled with merchants and businesses selling all kinds of things. These merchants served a very densely populated city with people living in cramped apartments and with little to no space between the buildings. I’m pretty sure much of Jerusalem wasn’t soundproof so it’s safe to assume that you could hear everyone else’s business and everyone else could hear all of yours. The Temple also didn’t try to limit the noises of the city and in its own way, the Temple added to it. It had numerous large courtyards filled with people: pilgrims who traveled to the city, priests performing religious rituals, and rabbis teaching anyone who came to listen. Yet they weren’t the only living things making noises in that space. There was also the sounds of animals - cattle, sheep, lambs, and birds needed for ritual sacrifices. We often imagine religious places being quiet and serene. But the Temple in Jerusalem was never a refuge from the noises of life because it was filled and surrounded by it. Even baby Jesus, as Mary and Joseph carried him in their arms, probably added to the noise with his own cries for attention. The Temple was the physical representation of God’s presence with God’s people. And that presence should have received some kind of reverence. Yet what’s reverent to us might not be reverent to God because God chose to be engaged in our kind of life - one that doesn’t stay very quiet. 

Being reverent or showing reverence is one of those things we can see but it’s also really hard to define or explain. When I was in seminary, I finished my degree at the General Theological Seminary of the Episcopal church in New York. That seminary identifies itself as being anglo-catholic which is just a fancy word meaning they like worship full of incense, bells, bowing, fancy clothes, candles, and long periods of silence. I don’t recall ever having a class where reverence was defined or laid out but being reverent was something we all tried to do really well. And one of the extreme examples there of being reverent took place at the seminary’s gym. Across the hall from the gym was a small chapel space where the leftover pieces of communion bread and wafers were stored after worship. In their tradition, anything not eaten during communion is still considered consecrated and is due reverence. So that means, before we would enter the gym, we would turn and bow in the direction of the chapel. And then, after spending an hour on the elliptical machine and lifting weights, we step out of the gym and bow before heading home. There’s nothing wrong with this kind of reverence but when it doesn’t really have a definition, we can reduce being reverent to only performing certain acts. That’s why, I think, many have stories about being acolytes as children and getting into trouble because they lit the candles on the altar in the so-called “wrong order,” or weren’t wearing the right shoes, or made too much noise. Or some learned how to do everything that was expected of them but learned to do it quickly, barely nodding their head at the altar, and assuming they were getting away with being reverent. Reverence is more than just an act. It’s something that shows intentionally and that we realize we’re encountering the divine. 

Paul Woodruff, in his book Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue, admits that even he doesn’t really know what reverence is. But he does describe it as “the well-developed capacity to have feelings of awe, respect, and shame when these are the right feelings to have.” Nothing in that description talks about silence or noise or bowing or lighting candles in the right order. But it does talk about a capacity to pay attention to what we’re engaged with and that’s, I think, a call for us to be aware when God shows up. Reverence is, in the words of Richard Dietrich, the acknowledgement that we “are not alone in the universe” and “that there are others.” And reverence also knows that “we are not the center of the universe or its governor.” Being reverent or showing reverence isn’t about how deep your bow is when you’re in-front of the altar nor is it only about embracing a holy silence while standing in any sacred space. Rather, reverence about being consciously aware of who we are and whose we are - and how, even now, God is still here. God is still with us. And, whether we feel it or not, we are not alone. 

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Luke is an example of reverence. Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to the Temple to finish the rituals associated with making their Jewish family whole. Jesus was circumcised, named, and presented at the Temple. And Mary brought two turtledoves as part of her ritual to mark the transition of her life from recently giving birth. Those birds not only showed Mary and Joseph’s willingness to be fully Jewish and share their faith with this newborn son, but it also made public their economic status since a wealthier person would have brought a lamb instead of a dove. While they stood there, waiting to give their birds to the appropriate religious official, I’m sure those animals shrieked and chripped while baby Jesus cried for his mom’s attention. The noise of the city, the bustle of the Temple, and Mary and Joseph trying to handle the kind of chaos that comes with bringing any child into any sacred space, probably did sound very reverent. Yet what made this a truly reverent moment was their intentionality to, in that moment, admit their connection and need for God. And that kind of reverence is always going to be expressed by different people in different ways. For some, reverence shows up in moments of silence, deep bowing, and long pauses. For others, reverence means being stirred by the Spirit to leave one’s home and tell a complete stranger than their baby will be a light for all. And for still more, reverence means being a prophet and letting everyone know the truth about the world and about God. Reverence isn’t, I think, something we pick up easily. It takes time to learn reverence and we grow into it by noticing how God encounters us in the everyday moments of our everyday lives. We try to express this reverence in our worship and in prayers. But reverence isn’t restricted to only sacred spaces. Reverence is something we should also notice and express in our world. The details of what this kind of reverence will look like will always be different from person to person. And that’s perfectly okay. Because it’s not the type of act that defines reverence. Rather - it’s your capacity to be your version of Simeon and Anna; your version of Mary and Joseph; to be honest about the world around you; and see how God is at work in you and in others. Being reverent requires us to put ourselves aside and believe that there really is “something else” to whom we owe reverence too. And when the noise of the world and the noise in our lives makes it seem as if being irreverent is all that we can do, we get to remember that God did not run from that noise. Instead, God entered into it - choosing to live a noisy life, surrounded by a noisy people, who were reverent and irreverent in their own unique ways. God lived in the noise so that Christ could transform it, inviting us into a new way of life where our capacity for awe, respect, and shame opens us to live for others because Jesus, even now, lives for us. 



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