Salem Sermon Archive
Sermon for December 18-19 2010
December 18-19, 2010
Advent 4A
Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19
Matthew 1:18-25
Salem Lutheran Church, Sycamore, Illinois
I think my neighbor’s house has been foreclosed upon.
I can’t say this with absolute certainty but this past summer when I was out mowing my lawn he stopped me to ask if the church had money that could help as there was a great deal going wrong in their life just then --- not the least of which was they were behind on the mortgage. I told him about our food pantry and I suggested some other resources, but no, we weren’t in a position to help on that scale…
I can’t say this with absolute certainty, because we’re not more than nodding acquaintances and beyond a ‘hello’ or a ‘good morning’ not much has passed between us since, but a few weeks ago as I was leaving I noticed their truck was loaded down with possessions… but I wasn’t home much over the next few days and so I didn’t see the multiple trips it must have taken to move their treasured things.
And then suddenly a week ago last Tuesday the house stood dark. The front screen door isn’t latching and there is no one there to close it. There are no dogs barking, no cat sitting in the window, and no garbage sitting on the curb on Tuesday morning. The wrought iron furniture still sits out back under the cover of snow and a plastic cooler is on the front stoop, but overall it’s pretty obvious that no one is living there. And there was never a ‘for sale’ sign out front to indicate that this transition happened in a less messy kind of way.
And so I find myself wondering about them now. Wondering where they’ve landed. If they’ve moved in with family or friends. If work will soon return so that they can get back on their feet again. And what it must feel like at this time of year especially, to be loading up the back of the truck with all your things…
I find myself wondering about them and all those who find themselves in tough places this year. And I wonder how the words of our Psalm today might speak for them or to any one of us who have ever found ourselves where we never expected to be. For here on the edge of celebrating Christ’s birth again, we hear the words of the Psalmist crying out in pain, seeking rescue. “Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved.” Even the hollow house sitting next to mine now seems to cry out these words, yearning for restoration. How much more so the family who called it home just a few days ago.
It’s into that kind of desperation, that kind of sadness, that kind of uncertainty about what tomorrow or next week or the coming year might bring that an angel visits Joseph in today’s Gospel lesson. Joseph who, no doubt, had his own life planned in a certain way, only to find it taking a path he could never have imagined or hoped for. For we who know this story so well know that he has learned that Mary is pregnant and he knows the child is not his. I wonder if Joseph wasn’t crying out the words of the Psalmist: “Restore us, God: let your face shine that we may be saved!” O God just take me back to yesterday before my world turned upside down. Or if you can’t do that, then just show me a way through this that will leave the least amount of hurt and suffering behind.
We can be certain that Joseph probably had more than one sleepless night trying to decide what he should do in an impossible situation where he couldn’t see any good ending. When it probably seemed as though God had turned his back on them … much less had his face shining on them with any kind of favor. And so even before this night-time visit, Joseph turns to the one resource he’s always relied on: his faith and its beliefs and practices --- but even then he responds with more mercy than the law would normally prescribe … for Joseph decided finally to quietly divorce Mary. Not that this was a perfect solution for surely in that time and place the scandal would follow her and her unborn child all of their lives. And not that this would heal his own broken heart. But it certainly seemed better than having her stoned for her apparent misdeed.
The bills can’t be paid. It’s time to move on. The truck is loaded up. There’s a pregnancy where there shouldn’t be. The future is unknown. Shame, scandal, fear are written all over it…
But the story doesn’t end there with Joseph’s sleepless nights and his less than perfect but best that he can come up with decision. For our story today would remind us that exactly when we can’t see another way, God already has one. For God’s own messenger wakes Joseph from sleep and as Joseph follows his direction, desperation and fear and resignation are replaced with kindness and mercy. Oh, there is still sacrifice in this story, to be sure, but this is sacrifice with purpose and hope: making this not an ending but a new beginning that will forever change the world…
So I can’t be sure of the answer to this question, but I wonder how this story speaks to a world of messy situations… where jobs are lost or are too lean, where homes are foreclosed on and whole families are suddenly living off the generosity of friends. I can’t be sure, but I wonder how this story speaks to a world where families, maybe even your family, doesn’t look the same as it did a year ago; where struggle or pain or grief seems to rule the day more often than not. Perhaps it is some kind of gift in those times and places to hear this story of Joseph who finds himself in a place of such potential heartbreak and tragedy to be shown that the only way out or above it or beyond it or through it is through kindness, generosity and sacrifice. And perhaps that, in the end, is the call for all of us, too. Whether we hear the cry of the Psalmist as our own --- or its echo in the face of our neighbors. For whatever our losses, whatever our hopes --- we would surely do well to follow Joseph now as he listens to God’s own call. For as he does so, clearly claiming Jesus as his own, the world is never the same again.
May it be so for all of us. As we hear the promise that Emmanuel, God is with us, in Christ Jesus, may we respond as Joseph did. And especially in the hard times that come to us each one, may we know God’s messengers putting us to be kind and generous and yes, even self-sacrificial for the sake of others. For as Joseph listened and responded to God’s leading, it was the path to restoration and wholeness. More than that, of course, with Joseph it wound up changing the course of history. Do you suppose this could be so for all of us as well? Amen.
Sermon for December 18-19 2010
December 18-19, 2010
Advent 4A
Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19
Matthew 1:18-25
Salem Lutheran Church, Sycamore, Illinois
I think my neighbor’s house has been foreclosed upon.
I can’t say this with absolute certainty but this past summer when I was out mowing my lawn he stopped me to ask if the church had money that could help as there was a great deal going wrong in their life just then --- not the least of which was they were behind on the mortgage. I told him about our food pantry and I suggested some other resources, but no, we weren’t in a position to help on that scale…
I can’t say this with absolute certainty, because we’re not more than nodding acquaintances and beyond a ‘hello’ or a ‘good morning’ not much has passed between us since, but a few weeks ago as I was leaving I noticed their truck was loaded down with possessions… but I wasn’t home much over the next few days and so I didn’t see the multiple trips it must have taken to move their treasured things.
And then suddenly a week ago last Tuesday the house stood dark. The front screen door isn’t latching and there is no one there to close it. There are no dogs barking, no cat sitting in the window, and no garbage sitting on the curb on Tuesday morning. The wrought iron furniture still sits out back under the cover of snow and a plastic cooler is on the front stoop, but overall it’s pretty obvious that no one is living there. And there was never a ‘for sale’ sign out front to indicate that this transition happened in a less messy kind of way.
And so I find myself wondering about them now. Wondering where they’ve landed. If they’ve moved in with family or friends. If work will soon return so that they can get back on their feet again. And what it must feel like at this time of year especially, to be loading up the back of the truck with all your things…
I find myself wondering about them and all those who find themselves in tough places this year. And I wonder how the words of our Psalm today might speak for them or to any one of us who have ever found ourselves where we never expected to be. For here on the edge of celebrating Christ’s birth again, we hear the words of the Psalmist crying out in pain, seeking rescue. “Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved.” Even the hollow house sitting next to mine now seems to cry out these words, yearning for restoration. How much more so the family who called it home just a few days ago.
It’s into that kind of desperation, that kind of sadness, that kind of uncertainty about what tomorrow or next week or the coming year might bring that an angel visits Joseph in today’s Gospel lesson. Joseph who, no doubt, had his own life planned in a certain way, only to find it taking a path he could never have imagined or hoped for. For we who know this story so well know that he has learned that Mary is pregnant and he knows the child is not his. I wonder if Joseph wasn’t crying out the words of the Psalmist: “Restore us, God: let your face shine that we may be saved!” O God just take me back to yesterday before my world turned upside down. Or if you can’t do that, then just show me a way through this that will leave the least amount of hurt and suffering behind.
We can be certain that Joseph probably had more than one sleepless night trying to decide what he should do in an impossible situation where he couldn’t see any good ending. When it probably seemed as though God had turned his back on them … much less had his face shining on them with any kind of favor. And so even before this night-time visit, Joseph turns to the one resource he’s always relied on: his faith and its beliefs and practices --- but even then he responds with more mercy than the law would normally prescribe … for Joseph decided finally to quietly divorce Mary. Not that this was a perfect solution for surely in that time and place the scandal would follow her and her unborn child all of their lives. And not that this would heal his own broken heart. But it certainly seemed better than having her stoned for her apparent misdeed.
The bills can’t be paid. It’s time to move on. The truck is loaded up. There’s a pregnancy where there shouldn’t be. The future is unknown. Shame, scandal, fear are written all over it…
But the story doesn’t end there with Joseph’s sleepless nights and his less than perfect but best that he can come up with decision. For our story today would remind us that exactly when we can’t see another way, God already has one. For God’s own messenger wakes Joseph from sleep and as Joseph follows his direction, desperation and fear and resignation are replaced with kindness and mercy. Oh, there is still sacrifice in this story, to be sure, but this is sacrifice with purpose and hope: making this not an ending but a new beginning that will forever change the world…
So I can’t be sure of the answer to this question, but I wonder how this story speaks to a world of messy situations… where jobs are lost or are too lean, where homes are foreclosed on and whole families are suddenly living off the generosity of friends. I can’t be sure, but I wonder how this story speaks to a world where families, maybe even your family, doesn’t look the same as it did a year ago; where struggle or pain or grief seems to rule the day more often than not. Perhaps it is some kind of gift in those times and places to hear this story of Joseph who finds himself in a place of such potential heartbreak and tragedy to be shown that the only way out or above it or beyond it or through it is through kindness, generosity and sacrifice. And perhaps that, in the end, is the call for all of us, too. Whether we hear the cry of the Psalmist as our own --- or its echo in the face of our neighbors. For whatever our losses, whatever our hopes --- we would surely do well to follow Joseph now as he listens to God’s own call. For as he does so, clearly claiming Jesus as his own, the world is never the same again.
May it be so for all of us. As we hear the promise that Emmanuel, God is with us, in Christ Jesus, may we respond as Joseph did. And especially in the hard times that come to us each one, may we know God’s messengers putting us to be kind and generous and yes, even self-sacrificial for the sake of others. For as Joseph listened and responded to God’s leading, it was the path to restoration and wholeness. More than that, of course, with Joseph it wound up changing the course of history. Do you suppose this could be so for all of us as well? Amen.
Reformation Day Sermon
Reformation Day
October 30-31,2010
Jeremiah 31:31-34
Salem Lutheran Church, Sycamore, IL
Hear with me, once more, the words of the prophet Jeremiah today:
31The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. 32It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt — a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, says the LORD. 33But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. 34No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, "Know the LORD," for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.
I opened up my Facebook page the other day and someone had posted pictures of the demolition of my old high school. Step by step the photos take you through it --- circling around recording the building from all angles before the wrecking balls and cranes came in to systematically tear it down, brick by brick until all that’s left is the front stops where I spent many an evening sitting and waiting for a ride home. It made me remember all that building symbolized for me, all it held, especially the gifts there that stay with me still ---- the English teacher who beat into us the importance of not writing with cliché’s, the History teacher whose love of Civil War history deepened my own understanding of forces past that shaped us, the choir director who taught me to sing alto, the speech teacher who saw something I couldn’t see myself and urged me to join the speech team ,and locker number 339 with its combination of 29-39-49 or the grind of running the stairs in the old girls gymnasium. It all came flooding back as I watched the building that hosted it all come down and the dust rise in its wake and as I realize that now if I drive by? All that’s left to see now is a green expanse of lawn and a Walgreen’s sitting on the corner. It’s progress, I suppose. The building was old when I graduated, and no doubt it needed to be done. And once I got over the surprise of seeing it again and watching, for the first time, it actually come down, I found myself remembering that it’s not the building or what stands there that matters so much--- but the thousands of lives who were shaped within it who sat on the same front steps that I did waiting for a ride home.
It’s this kind of truth that Jeremiah is shouting out today to a people in exile. To a whole nation of folks whose homes have been destroyed, whose temple: the center of their lives of faith --- had met its time’s equivalent of a wrecking ball and had been demolished --- It’s the wonder of this kind of truth that Jeremiah is speaking to a people who have been defeated in battle and who have been deported to a land far from home. And to be sure, it’s this kind of truth that Jeremiah wants them never to forget: that the wonder of the faith, the gifts of God don’t live in any one building ---- no matter how precious --- and that these gifts of God can’t be compromised or taken away no matter what life does to you or what you do in your life --- but rather now and forever after are engraved on our very hearts and for that reason can never be taken away. Even if the buildings are gone. Even if nothing on the outside looks familiar even now. Even if it’s been replaced by a Walgreens. The gifts still live because by God’s own doing, they are etched on the very hearts of God’s people. And God’s people carry those gifts wherever we go.
Only on this Reformation Day we are reminded that these gifts are not ours by our own effort, not even if we’re of that generation who through pain staking repetition committed to memory much of the pieces of the faith we hold dear. No, indeed, first and last these are gifts by God’s hand and God’s doing.
The amazing gift of knowing God made this world and all there is and all we are --- and we are simply grateful recipients and caretakers of these gifts.
The at first heart-wrenching realization that there is nothing we can do to earn God’s grace, for we will always fall short.
The wonder that when we could not, because we cannot ever be good enough, God sacrificed his own son in our behalf.
The gift of resting in that grace, that forgiveness, that hope for this life and the next.
God has imprinted these, engraved them on our hearts, in a way that can never leave us. Not when buildings fall and history appears to have been erased. Not when jobs are lost or children stray or loved ones die or hope eludes us. Not now and not ever will these truths leave us and not now and not ever will God leave us either.
It was these truths that a monk named Martin Luther staked his life on better than 500 years ago. It was the same truth offered to a people in exile thousands of years before that that is written on your heart and mine as well. You are God’s own beloved child. And by God’s power and God’s wonderful grace, God will never leave you and God will never let you go. May this truth imprinted on your heart fill you with courage and hope and joy every single moment of every day. Amen.
Sermon for October 16-17 2010
October 16-17, 2010
21st Week-end after Pentecost
Genesis 32:22-31
Salem Lutheran Church
Sycamore, Illinois
I don’t know about all of you but the story of those 33 Chilean miners trapped underground for 69 days and nights captured my imagination. Again and again over these last couple of months my mind would turn to them… even during those times when the news wasn’t covering them. For I could not begin to imagine what that would be. To be buried alive. To have left behind who knows what kind of unfinished business that day when they went off to work like any other day. To not know if daylight, if reunion, if new beginnings, if life itself would ever be fully theirs again. And as I sat this week with the story of Jacob wrestling all night long, it occurred to me that that must have been exactly what those miners went through.
No matter that once they were discovered still alive that those outside were able to get them food and medicine, movies and letters from home. No matter that they had an organized routine that included running miles in place --- for their physical health to be sure, but every bit as much, I expect, to keep their spirits up, their hearts focused, their wills strong. No matter all of these things. Still it must have felt like the fight of their lives. Indeed, the first one who spoke to the press on Wednesday morning after being rescued, said that those 69 days and nights he was with God and the devil every step of the way. That while he clung tightly to the hand of God, still the battle was real.
And not only of course, for those 2000 feet below ground, but for their families who kept vigil day and night for over two months and for those charged with the responsibility of their rescue. I mean, what must it have been when those rescuers descended deep into the earth to assist in sending them up. Though their journey into unknown darkness wasn’t as long, still it took a certain kind of strength and courage to push back fears that must be inevitable in moments like those… And as for that tiny cage? It could only carry up one at a time, so one of those rescuers had to come up last. In fact, Manuel Gomez was the first down and the last up. And so I wonder what it must have been for him, especially in those last minutes. For one by one they had been sending them up all night and all day and with everyone who went, he knew his job was that much closer to being done. But when he put his last friend in the cage and watched him go, can you even imagine what threatened to take over his heart and his mind… in those minutes where there was not even one other heart beating next to his before he, too stepped out to the cheers of a world who had been watching and waiting for it all to be done.
Indeed, a battle can last 69 days, or for a night, or for half an hour: and it is just as real, just as wrenching, just as potentially life changing.
And so it was for Jacob. You remember him… he’s one of those Old Testament characters who has captured our imagination all of our lives. From before he came out of the womb we hear something about what his life would hold, for his wrestling match began back before he burst into the world… fighting even then to best his brother, Esau. We recall that there was some real dysfunction going on in that family where one parent favored one of the boys and one the other. We remember how Jacob with his mother, Rebekah, conspired to trick aging, sight impaired Isaac into giving the birthright to Jacob and not to Esau… and how then Jacob had to flee for his life. We recall how Jacob nearly met his match in his future father-in-law Laban: how he wound up marrying not only Rachel, whom he loved, but first having to marry her sister, Leah, too. And now we hear that Jacob is on his way home. Why, we don’t know but for all of his faults and he had many, I can only imagine that Jacob never forgot his brother, Esau and what he did to him. That perhaps he carried some regret about the treachery he employed to take what rightfully would have been Esau’s. And now Jacob is going home… exactly to what, he’s not sure of course, but he’s packed up wives and children, flocks and herds and all that he has and he’s headed towards home.
And so it is the night before that long anticipated reunion with Esau --- the night before Jacob will meet either welcome or rejection, the wonder of life itself renewed or the threat of death each fighting for his attention in his mind: it is then that we meet up with him now. He’s sent everyone else across the stream and now he’s alone and what we hear next is that a man wrestled with him until daybreak. Now to be sure, at first Jacob doesn’t know who he’s wrestling with… although we are led to believe that if it’s not God himself it is certainly God’s representative who Jacob holds at bay all night long. It must have felt at times that it was both God and the devil, as that Chilean miner put it --- who kept wrestling with Jacob through the night. In the end Jacob says he has seen God’s own face and so we know God’s hand is indeed all over it… and that as day breaks, Jacob is left both wounded from the struggle and blessed with a new future with a new name before his journey to see his brother continues.
And so it is with all of us. Sixty nine days and nights. A single night that never seems to end. Or just a few moments when everything that is and has been flashes before our eyes and we can’t see our way clear to what will possibly be ours next. So it is with all of us. We, too, know what it is to spend the long night with both God and the devil close. We know what it is to come back into the daylight both wounded by the struggle, walking with a limp even, but knowing the amazing blessing of God --- for often in and through it in ways we can’t always completely comprehend or explain, in and through those times somehow we are blessed to see the very face of God.
So when did you last look into God’s face? When have you known the power of God in that amazing way that might well leave you limping but whole in ways you never were before? Was it a battle over a physical illness, a long broken relationship, fears for a beloved child, a grief that still wakes you in the night, or worry about your own unknown future? What was the struggle, the match, the fight that finally brought you to a new clarity of vision and understanding and hope? And what new name did God give you when you were done? For 33 Chilean miners, they will be marked and remembered for 69 days underground which had to leave them changed. For Jacob he was forever after called “Israel” which came to stand for a whole nation of people who would continue to follow God and stray from God’s ways, who would triumph and sin and fail and begin again over and over again. And who finally, ultimately would rely on the very grace of God that gave them all they had and made them all they were in the first place. And so it is with all of us. We know this to be so in a single Chilean miner who came from the darkness into the light and who told the world about holding God’s own hand. And in Jacob, the second son of Isaac, who wrestled all night long and lived to tell a story of God’s own grace. And all of us with all of our all night battles who have been so very blessed to see the face of God as well. Indeed, all of us, too, who are now named people of deep faith, lovers of justice, dreamers of new days, and those with deeper understandings that can only be borne of struggle. Indeed, all of us, too. Amen.
Pentecost 18C Sermon
September 25-26, 2010
18th Week-end after Pentecost
Luke 16:19-31
Salem Lutheran Church
Sycamore, Illinois
I, for one would rather not hear Jesus' words today as especially meant for you and for me. For you and I, at first glance, are neither the rich man in this story nor are we Lazarus. To be sure, on any economic scale we're familiar with, we fall somewhere inbetween. So at first it would be easy to dismiss Jesus' words as not meant for us…
Only I haven't been able to do that for a very long time. Let me tell you why.
I was a student still. Living then in a church apartment in North Minneapolis. My room-mates and I lived there free of charge, in exchange for opening the building in the morning, checking to be sure the doors were locked late at night and taking a walk through the building and glancing into every nook and cranny to be sure no one had made their way in during the day who hadn't made their way out by night fall. Mostly all we ever encountered were bats who had been stirred out of their hiding places by the large fans in the church tower in August… but now and again a homeless person had found his way into a pew where he hoped to spend the night safe and warm.
For you see, North Minneapolis is and was not the kind of neighborhood anyone from here would much want their 25 year old daughter living. Only my folks didn't especially know that it was a neighborhood marked by poverty and crime and the kind of fear that lives in every heart when both are present.
Only we weren't there most of the time. We'd get up early and unlock the doors and head across town to school where we would spend the day learning and interacting with others preparing to be leaders in the church. And most days? Well, we'd be getting home long after the neighborhood settled down. And most significantly perhaps, long after the people in the soup line that would make its way past our front door had been fed and the pots and pans cleaned up and put away.
Most of the people who worshiped in that Lutheran Church didn't live within walking distances of that building like their ancestors did. They didn't have a whole lot of connection or commitment to their neighbors; but they did allow their kitchen to be used on week nights to be sure that the hungry were fed.
So now I tell you the truth. I was a little afraid of the people who lined up to be fed every night. My world seldom intersected with theirs and I wasn't all that unhappy most days to miss that line of children and old people, singles and families who came to have their hunger satisfied. And when on that rare occasion I did happen to come home early, usually I would take a side door in and make my way to our apartment --- avoiding too much contact with these who lived so differently than I.
Only one day, this is how it was. One of the men in line stepped out of line. He blocked my way to the side door and proceeded to scream at me using words I had seldom heard directed my way. Now I know he was probably mentally ill. Still then I only experienced surprise and fear as his outburst forced me to lift up my head and look into his eyes. And then into my own heart to acknowledge the indifference that lived there.
Now here's what I don't want you to do today. Every time I've had occasion to share this story, I've gotten a whole lot of sympathy from those who've heard it. Yes, it would be only normal to experience fear in the face of such an encounter. And no, of course, I hadn't necessarily done anything wrong to deserve this. But here's the point. Neither had the rich man in Jesus' parable done anything particularly wrong. At least we don't hear that he did. His sin was that of indifference. Of turning the other way. Of not feeling and responding to the pain of one over whom he apparently had to step on his way about his business every morning, noon, and night. His sin was that of allowing himself to be so utterly closed off from all this world God made --- from its joys and its hurts and all the variety of people God had created and placed alongside him. And to be sure, the rich man's sin was still seeing Lazarus as his inferior --- one whom he could order around --- even after their fates had been sealed. His sin was in not seeing Lazarus as the child of God that he was.
So it's no easy word that comes to us today. And it's easy to turn away from it, thinking that one person, or twelve people or even three hundred people can't begin to address the kind of need that's represented by Lazarus today. It would be easier to believe it has nothing to do with us; but then we would only be taking one more step towards sealing ourselves off into a kind of hell of our own making. One where the needs of others are felt as threats and not as opportunities to live as the whole people God made us to be. The rich man's sin was his indifference. It took a screaming, hungry, homeless person to shake me out of mine. And every single day since I find I must intentionally stand still to seek to listen to and look at the needs of the world with the eyes of Jesus and not my own. And many days still I find I must ask for the forgiveness of the One who made us all and loves us all the same, trusting that God will give me yet another chance tomorrow. And every single day I pray that God will take away my indifference, my fear, my lack of hope or confidence and help me to live as one who sees and gives and loves in this life now.
And so it happened again this week. I shared with you a while back about a conversation I had with the counselors at Sycamore's middle school… wondering with them about whether there might be hungry kids there… and wondering if we might be a part of helping meet that need. I got a call back on Tuesday. They haven't had time yet to work through all two hundred children who are on reduced and free lunches to measure their need… but one of the counselors called to tell me that she has four hungry kids. Four youngsters who are going hungry more often than not from Friday night to Monday morning: those days when school lunches aren't available. And can we help? And so Tuesday night I mentioned it at our council meeting here and by noon on Wednesday I had enough backpacks for those four kids and a couple to spare. And on Friday we packed up peanut butter and jelly, bread, pancake mix and syrup, spaghetti and sauce, some canned fruit and some soup and took them to the middle school to go home with those kids for the week-end. It's just a start and we most likely will wind up with more kids who need help, but for now God has sent us four. Four youngsters whose parents are weeping because they can't feed them. Four children of God, made in the image of God just like you and me. Four children who much like Lazarus, live just outside our gate, just down the street, whose hunger we've been called to feed.
So yes, I expect this story is about us in the end. Our prayer must be that God would do what God must do to wake us up, to stir us to see and hear and live and love more fully now… that we might not find ourselves enclosed in hells of fear and indifference of our own making even now. To be sure, we are confident that God will forgive us when we don't --- but still we give thanks that God promises to keep putting Lazarus in our paths… For the sake of Lazarus, to be sure. But perhaps even more for our own sakes as we find ourselves encouraged to live as the people we are meant to be. Amen.
Pentecost 15C
September 4-5, 2010
15th Sunday after Pentecost
Philemon 1-21
Salem Lutheran Church
I had an out of the ordinary experience at a funeral recently which comes to mind as we approach Paul's letter to Philemon today. Let me set the scene.
The one who died was clearly a person of deep faith… the Bible that was with her in the casket was well worn and her prayer list --- which her family said guided her conversation with God every morning was there as well --- written in her own hand. She had been a part of this congregation a very long time ago --- but from what I could tell her faith experience had led her and her family to worship in ways a little different than what I am accustomed to. This came home to me especially at the end of the funeral… when her grieving husband stood and gathered the attention of everyone in the room.
"There's one prayer that has not yet been answered, " he said, looking at me. And then he said it again, "There's one prayer that hasn't been answered." Then he proceeded to call forward two family members and insist that they forgiven each other then and there and that they seal that forgiveness with a hug --- for this had been her prayer for a very long time. Well they did --- hug each other, that is. To the tears and the applause of everyone in the room. Then Ron proceeded to play the postlude and the crowd --- mostly family --- made their way out and to the cemetery.
It was a wonderful sentiment, to be sure… to want to see his beloved wife's prayers answered then and there. And while it may have worked: I surely can't see into the hearts of the two who were so publicly urged to bury the hatchet --- still it struck me as entirely different from the tone of Paul's letter to Philemon today. For Paul may well have wanted to simply tell Philemon he had to receive Onesimus back as a brother in the faith --- and he surely could have, for he had to the authority in the early church to do just that --- still he did not. For Paul knew that faith is always an invitation. And that responding in faith is always an invitation… that when it's forced, it's hardly authentic, and it seldom lasts.
Let me set the stage though for Paul's letter to Philemon.
The most important piece is this. As reprehensible as it seems to us today, slavery was an accepted part of the economic system of the Roman Empire. Onesimus, by birth or other unexplained circumstance, owed his life, his livelihood, his existence, to Philemon, the recipient of this letter today. He was his slave. Only somehow he had escaped. And somehow had found his way to Paul and while there his life had been changed and he became a follower of Jesus. More than that, Onesimus and Paul had formed some kind of special connection --- a friendship or a partnership of sorts.
We are not told how long Onesimus was with Paul before Paul decided it was time to tend to the unfinished business with Philemon. For regardless of Onesimus having claimed the Christian faith, still by all rights in that time and place, Onesimus still was Philemon's slave. And if Philemon should get Onesimus back he could lawfully add years to the length of his bondage, he could physically punish him, he could even have him executed. Only, as we've heard, Paul doesn't see Onesimus as a slave anymore, but rather as a child, as a brother in the faith… and as we hear in his pleading words today, Paul wants nothing more than for Philemon to see Onesimus, to regard him, to treat him in the same way.
Only as we know Paul doesn't tell Philemon he has to do anything. Instead, what he does is remind Philemon of the relationship the two of them share. He does speak of the gift of Christ's love --- the wonder it has been for him and how we are called then to share that love in real ways. Paul does put his own self on the line, offering to repay anything that Onesimus may owe Philemon. He encourages and suggests and invites, to be sure, but he doesn't tell him what to do.
Paul, Philemon, and Onesimus lived in a tough world. One where their faith called them to make hard choices --- decisions which had real consequences in terms of relationships and economics alike.
And so do we. So do we.
One more story. Again, let me set the background for you. I read a while back that Clinton Rosette Middle School in DeKalb has a backpack program. They work in cooperation with the Northern Illinois Food Bank and what happens is that especially needy families are able to take advantage of this program where on Friday afternoon the middle schooler picks up a backpack full of food for the week-end and on Monday returns the backpack empty, only to pick it up again the next Friday. So we got to wondering if there was a such a need here in Sycamore and I contacted the principal at our Junior High to ask him. He was interested, and suggested that once the school year was underway, I meet with their school counselors to asses whether there is a need.
So on Tuesday I did... sitting down with four hard working people. People who clearly care about kids. People who put their hearts and souls into tending the learning needs and the overall well-being needs of 6th, 7th, and 8th graders who are our children and grandchildren, neighbors and friends. I showed up to push them to think deeper about the needs of those kids even beyond the hours they are in contact with them from Monday to Friday. Especially on week-ends when reduced and free lunches and breakfasts are not available.
Now I say this without judgment, for I can think of a dozen times and more that I've felt the same way --- but here's what I saw when I sat with these four dedicated educators. I saw the struggle in their eyes. For they already have too much to do. And here I was asking them to begin to sort out the extent of such a need. To be in yet one more conversation with up to 200 kids and their families. To think with us about how such a need could be met. I was asking them to love those kids as whole human beings in a real and concrete way --- in ways that would take time and energy and wisdom.
For Philemon, loving Onesimus as a brother in the faith ---- and not just tending to his physical needs as a slave --- it comes at a cost. For a group of Junior High Counselors --- taking the next step in loving those kids as whole human beings --- for the sake of their lives beyond the regular school hours --- it comes at a cost. And for all of us, too. To look beyond what we're obligated to do, what the law or normal rules of conduct tell us we should do, and to treat the world with Christ's own love --- it comes at a cost.
What did Philemon do? We are never told. How will that forced reconciliation at a recent funeral turn out? Time will tell. How will our Jr. High staff respond to my request? That also remains to be told. What shall we do in our work and in our homes and in our neighborhoods with those we know and those we don't know and those we've just met? That story is still being told as well. Whatever else is true, there is no turning back now for we also have heard Jesus' call as our own. We've heard that call to move beyond what we have to do and to respond in faith to love the world as Jesus does. So may God bless our efforts as we seek to live and serve, to love and to give as increasingly we live in this world with the very heart of Jesus. Amen.
Sermon for Pentecost 14C, August 28-29 2010
August 28-29, 2010
14th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 14:1, 7-14
Salem Lutheran Church
As I sat with Jesus' commentary on seating assignments at a banquet, I was carried back to he house where I grew up, where we always sat in the same place when we sat down for supper.
Yes, this was back in the time when people somehow actually had schedules which allowed them all to sit down together to share a meal. Even then, breakfast was always on the run and lunch was eaten at work or at school. But at 5:30 every night we all found our way to the dining room table.
My mom sat in the chair nearest the kitchen. My sisters and I were on either side of the rectangular table. And my dad sat at the head of the table in the chair with the arms.
The menu varied of course, but some things were always true. We waited for everyone to get there. We always offered prayer before we ate --- usually "Come Lord Jesus." And if there was meat to be carved, my dad carved it and served it at the table, passing the plates around. For while my mom may have done a great deal of the work to put the actual meal on the table, by virtue of where he sat and how he served, he was the host.
Except on birthdays. Then whosever birthday it was got to choose the menu and have a special friend or two join us for the meal. And whosever birthday it was got to sit in the chair with the arms.
It wasn't always that way though. In fact, I have to go so far back I can barely remember it, but there was a time when we would sit wherever we wanted at the table --- choosing from the four places on either side. But, as you might imagine, this often didn't go well and often someone was to sit next to or across from someone other than whoever they were sitting next to or across from and we would squabble until the night my folks put their collective feet down and said, "That's it. From now on you'll sit where you're sitting now." And from then on we did. Showing some measure of humility the likes of which Jesus describes in our Gospel lesson, as we did what we were told. For that matter, we sat in those same places for as long as my mom remained in that house with that dining room and with that dining room table. Except after my dad died, we never did really sort out who was to sit in the chair with the arms.
We needed the order I would guess. That rule, however arbitrary it may have been, helped us know where we were to be. And it kept the peace.
And so it has always been. Rules help us to keep order. We pay attention to them and we know where we belong. They may well keep the peace.
Only Jesus enters the scene in today's Gospel reading and throws our very human, very fragile, very contrived peace right out the window. For while my parents, and the people he was speaking to so long ago, may have been doing the best they could, those rules don't begin to reflect the Kingdom of God. And not only in terms of who sits where, but even more than that in terms of who's invited to the party altogether.
For one of the rules we have always lived by, is that normally we eat with people we know. People with whom we have something in common. People with whom we share a history or a future. And people who have the ability and the inclination to return the favor and pick up the tab next time. But what we hear today is this: When we're part of God's Kingdom, it's all different. That now we're not only to invite the people we know who can one day return the favor. Rather, we are to invite those we don't know: and those who may be most in need of a meal who most likely can never pay us back. Because here we remember that Jesus is the host, not us. Jesus is sitting in the chair with the arms, passing the plates around… for God has given us all we have to put on our tables anyway. And God's guest list is larger and broader and no doubt more surprising than any one of ours.
Surely we model this here in this place every week where we speak aloud the certain truth that all are welcome at the table. And where we make room for everyone who comes forward for a bit of bread and a taste of wine. And don't you think sharing in this meal together in this place in this way possibly leaves us changed --- better able to extend God's gifts to others… even or especially those who have no chance of returning in kind?
I got to be part of this meal in a different place a few weeks ago. I had stepped outside to visit with one of our own who was by then so frail that she couldn't easily climb down out of the passenger seat to come in and visit with me. I knocked on the car window and she rolled it down. I asked how she was feeling and she shrugged and said not so good. But she moved past it then and asked if I would bring communion out to the family that next week-end. For everyone would be home.
What went unspoken was the certainty that this would be the last time such a meal would be shared between these people bound up together by the bonds of family.
So I went. First we shared a meal of bratwursts and sweet corn together. We had homemade coconut cream pie for dessert. It was a summer feast. Only the table wasn't big enough to include everyone, so some sat on stools at the bar in the kitchen. But when I pulled out a couple of communion kits everyone crowded around, sitting almost on top of one another so as to be able to get as close as possible. I found I had to keep my head down and bite my lip once or twice as I spoke these oh so familiar words about Christ sharing a meal with his disciples --- about his offering of his own body and blood. I kept my head down because whenever I looked up I caught the sight of another person with tears streaming down their face. Except for the one who sat next to me. The one who had issued the invitation. The one whose living and whose soon dying had brought all of these people together for this time. It was as though she already had her eyes, her mind, her heart fixed elsewhere. It was as though, at least in that moment, this meal was more important than even the grief that lived on the edge of her consciousness. She wanted those she loved to have that gift, that reminder, that promise one more time when she could be a part of it with them. A meal that binds us to one another across everything that would separate us… how much we have, where we live, the language we speak or the time we live in. A meal which is God's own gift to us. Just as all the meals we share actually are. A meal where Jesus is the host.
It was different from the bratwursts and sweet corn. There were no tears then. This meal, however, brought us to a different place. One where everyone had to acknowledge the wonder and mystery of life and death. One where we were carried by the promises of Jesus. One that left us somehow changed. One that allowed us, at least for a moment, to see into eternity with the eyes of God.
May this meal always be this for us. Enabling us to see with the eyes of God. And to begin to live by the values of God's Kingdom. Where Jesus sits at the head of the table and the rest of us gather around. Where we crowd closer together to make room for the stranger, the poor, the suffering, the hurting. Where we give up our seats for those who may need to be closer than we do. Or who may need to sit while we can stand. May all of our meals look more and more like this one. Where everyone is welcome, especially those we might not normally think to invite. But who come first on God's guest list. Amen.
August 21-22 sermon
August 21-22, 2010
13th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 13:10-17
Salem Lutheran Church
I saw this Gospel image come to life before my eyes last week. And I'd go so far as to say that Jesus was there in the heart and hands and voice of the hospice nurse in the room. For she sat on the edge of the bed, you see, and she leaned over the beyond thin woman who lay dying there. She leaned over so as to be able to look into her face which was then twisted to the left. She leaned over and spoke gently to her, calling her by name. "Hey there…" she whispered. And again she called her by name. Seeing her. Speaking to her. Connecting with her ever so gently in the only way left to do so. With her voice, her tender touch, her gentle presence.
I sat in the chair a few feet away and watched. And thought to myself how all too often it is far too easy to not see each other. Especially when one is so physically disfigured, it is simpler then to glance away and not look such suffering in the face. Perhaps this is because such suffering reminds us that it could be us, if it is not already. Only when we fail to really see the one who is before us, we are looking away from one who was created and beloved by God just as much as the most perfectly formed among us who have not yet been ravaged by age or disease.
Which, of course is the gift that Jesus offers in today's Gospel lesson. He sees the bent over woman, probably bending down to do so. In the amount of time it takes most of us to take a deep breath, he comprehends her and what her life has held these last 18 years. And he touches her. And after that nothing is ever the same again. Not for her, to be sure. Not for those gathered either. And surely not for Jesus.
For you see, for Jesus, this was yet another step on his journey to the cross. It was yet one more time when he got crossed up with the authorities for extending kindness and renewing life at a time and place where apparently he wasn't supposed to.
And it did, it does mess with an otherwise well-ordered day, doesn't it? There is time and energy expended, to be sure, but it's more than that of course. For what we know is that in the time and place when this bent over woman entered the synagogue, people like her were prohibited from being in that holy place altogether. For it was believed that her condition was a punishment for her sins. And so she along with so many with similar conditions were not welcome in that place where it was believed God resided.
Now of course we don't believe that any more, that our physical ailments are by definition a punishment for our sins. And yet. I suspect often we still come to this place on this our Sabbath and part of us would rather not be confronted with such pain. We come wanting to be filled, not to be reminded of such great need in the world --- and our call to be instruments of meeting that need. And so we may be tempted to turn away and to try not to let our hearts and imaginations linger there for too long, perhaps not wanting to be reminded of our own need for such healing, too. Maybe that's why that hospice nurse's gentle touch and voice brought tears to my eyes last week. For too much of the time, my instinct is to turn away as well. For I can see myself there, too. On the needing end of that kind of care, that kind of seeing, that kind of healing. And maybe I don't want to be there.
And yet, I am of course. We are all that bent over woman. Bowed down by physical pain, by loneliness, by broken memories, by abandoned hopes. Made weary by too much work, too many worries, too much weighing us down. We are bent over. Unable to lift our heads and look into the eyes of others. Unable to lift our heads to see beyond the step right in front of us. Unable even to straighten up and see the gifts of God which surround us right now.
I am, you are too, of course, so needing someone to bend over and look us in the eye… To see you. And to speak your name ever so gently. To twist their gaze to meet your bent and broken one. To touch you to touch us with a kind of tenderness which brings healing and hope and life, enabling us to stand up straight to see and receive all of God's amazing gifts. I need that seeing, that touch, and so does everyone who enters this place today. Every one of us someway somehow. Can you feel the promise, the gift that is meant for you? For as Jesus saw that bent over woman so long ago, he surely sees you. And Jesus bends down to look you in the eye as well. He calls you by name. He brings you wholeness and life.
The argument that happened that day so long ago between Jesus and the ruler of the synagogue was about what the Sabbath was for, what God's Day was for. But shouldn't it be for this, Jesus said, this day when we are called to receive and celebrate God's amazing gifts? And shouldn't part of this day be then for this: for you and me to bend down to look into the eyes of others also so created and so beloved by God? And to see them? To really see them? And in the seeing to be instruments of that healing that only God can bring? Indeed, how shall we share this gift of healing and hope which we have received --- how shall we share it with neighbors and friends, strangers and family who are so yearning for it, too? Amen.
Pentecost 12C Sermon
August 14-15, 2010
12th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12:49-56
Salem Lutheran Church
Now to be sure, this has to be one of our least favorite pictures of Jesus before us now, don't you think? He seems to come in with all kinds of anger that he's setting loose on those who have gathered to listen to him. I mean, it could well be that he speaks these words in a gentle whisper, and yet the tearing violence they hold threatens much of what we hold dear. So it feels more like shouting… and yet. These are spoken into a world every bit as broken as the one you and I live in. These are spoken into ears like yours and mine which have real, life-altering choices to make before we're through. These are spoken out of a profound sense of the sometimes difficult consequences of following Jesus. For as he says right up front, "I have a baptism with which to be baptized." A baptism which involves sacrifice and suffering and death. And if this was so for Jesus, mustn't this also be so for those who follow him?
Even knowing all of this, I find it's hard to feel good about hearing these words of Jesus. Until I pause to listen to the stories of God's people who have lived them. Let me offer you one of those.
Tammy was a member of a congregation I served some time ago. This story took place in the late 50's or early 60's…when she was 9 years old. That was when, for reasons she could not and cannot explain, God started awakening faith in her. And it could only have been God for she came from one of those terribly broken places where nobody important in her life would bother with matters such as a life of faith.
This is how it was. Tammy started going to church. She would sneak out of her house on Sunday morning and would walk alone to worship. Too young to have doctrine make any difference at all, she would visit churches of all kinds on her Sunday morning expeditions. Assembly of God, Roman Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and yes, Lutheran, were all included. She would walk right in and find a place to sit. She would watch and listen closely and at first timidly and then more boldly she would sing the hymns and stand and kneel and listen and pray in different fashions week after week. Tammy did finally settle on a Lutheran church though. Maybe that's because of what happened after one of their services on one of those Sunday mornings.
Tammy was heading out the front door after shaking hands with the pastor. And she was met by her mother on the expansive green lawn of the church. And there, in front of the pastor and church members, her mother beat her. For her disobedience, to be sure, for sneaking out of the house. But it was something more, at least in terms of how Tammy remembered it. Her mother expressed a violent opposition to the faith that had taken hold of her little girl and was starting to shape her life.
Well, you might think that would have put an end to Tammy's Sunday morning expeditions, but it did not. The next Sunday morning while her mother was still asleep, Tammy showed up again at worship at that Lutheran church ---- just as the 10:30 church bells rang --- and she slipped into a back pew. And that Sunday, and every Sunday after that, after worship, her pastor snuck her out the back door.
"Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided."
Jesus' words simply affirm what a member of one of our congregations experienced when she was only nine years old. This faith we claim and that claims us has real consequences. Lived into, it may well put us at odds with the people we know to be closest to us in our lives. Indeed, what Jesus describes for us today are inevitable consequences in a broken world where not everyone has heard the voice of Jesus in the same way that you and I have. For everything we are called to be and do in this place and among the people here runs counter to what the world would have us do. Where the world would have us hoard or only spend on ourselves, our faith would tell us to share it. Where the world would tell us getting even is what matters, following Jesus would say that forgiveness is always essential. Where the world would say that the earth's resources are ours to be consumed, our faith would tell us that we are called to care for and tend this wonderful earth, not simply use it up and throw it away.
Now even those few examples have real consequences in terms of how we live our lives day to day. And they may well put us at odds with those who are dearest to us. Hopefully never in the way a former 9 year old experienced at the hands of one of the people in this world who was called to love her first and foremost. But that happens, too. And when it does, the promise of Christ's powerful love rests on us most profoundly then. That love which pulls us into and makes us part of another family, this family of Christ's church, which can give us belonging and hope and purpose: those precious gifts we need to live and be all that God has called us to be.
No, the voice of Jesus does not fall gently on our ears today. But even so, this is surely good news for those who have lived it. For we know then that we're on a journey with Jesus who has already been there. And at the end of, and often in the middle of, this life of faith we will experience God's amazing gifts over and over again. And if we haven't known that kind of division resulting from the choices we're making: if not with family, then with friends or coworkers or neighbors, then perhaps we need to look again at how we're called to follow Jesus. And to do so in new ways. Oh, to be sure, it's likely that one day that time will come when our faith will cause us to break in some way from someone somewhere. Then may these words of Jesus fall as blessing on us, too. Amen.
August 7-8 Sermon
August 7-8, 2010
11th Sunday after Pentecost
Luke 12:32-40
Salem Lutheran Church
Sycamore, Illinois
I was six years old the morning my mom put me on a bus in Rockford with my destination being Waukesha. I was going for a week to visit my cousin Susan. I was, for the first time in my life going without my three younger sisters tagging along. I was going alone.
Now this would be unthinkable today, but back then I guess many people didn't worry so much that something terrible would happen to a six year old alone on a Greyhound bus. At least my folks didn't. So off I went with my little suitcase and all kinds of glad expectation filling me up as I climbed on board and took my seat halfway back.
It wasn't long though before I figured out that I had failed to ask some important questions. For you see, every other time I had traveled it had been in the back of the family station wagon. Every other time we had done this journey with maybe one bathroom stop on the way and with my folks keeping track of us. This time though? That bus stopped in every little town between Rockford and Waukesha. And since apparently I had no concept of time and wasn't much into reading road maps or signs, every time that bus would come to a stop, I would walk to the front of the bus and try to get off. And every single time the bus driver would patiently say to me, "Not yet, honey… I'll tell you when…" and send me back to my seat. Only I didn't really trust that I wouldn't be forgotten. So I kept making that trek to the front of the bus at every stop.
We were almost there before I figured out if I just listened, the driver was announcing the name of the next stop we'd be pulling into. If I only paid attention, if only I knew what it was I was to watch for, I wouldn't miss my stop.
In some ways, it is that kind of vigilance that is called for in our Gospel lesson today. It's the kind of watchfulness that knows that your very life depends upon it so you find yourself keeping all your senses peeled. The only problem was? I was working with the wisdom of a six year old who hadn't been on this journey in quite this way before. And so all I knew to do was to keep checking.
And while, I don't believe God would have us today keep checking with the driver to see if this is the end of the journey here, what God does call us to today is different from what we often do.
For most of the time I'm at the back of the bus, believing the journey will never end.
Too much of the time, I'm engrossed in my own business and not tending to what needs to be tended to before the bridegroom returns.
All too much of the time I forget entirely that God is simply waiting to give me all that I need --- even right down to God's own Kingdom --- and it is only ours to receive it and to live like it's ours in which to love and live, to give and receive, to hope and to pray.
I can recall another kind of vigilance that marked my life when I was small. I would experience it some nights before I would fall asleep and my imagination would get the better of me and I would start to wonder what would happen if the house suddenly caught fire. How would I get out? And so I would make an escape plan. And then I'd think about what valuables I'd want to take with me. And I would look around my bedroom with my eyes now adjusted to the dark and would pick out those treasures I could grab quickly and carry with me as I hurried down the stairs.
I was small of course… probably five or six years old… and surely it was a sign of my own short sightedness that I thought of things I would want to save rather than the other people who also slept on the second floor of that house on South 3rd Street. Still, it's an interesting exercise, isn't it? What would you grab in a hurry? Where is your treasure, truly?
In some ways, life seemed more fragile when I was six than it does sometimes now that I'm approaching 50. Over time we pay up our insurance, put double locks on the doors and try to keep our homes in good repair so that now our imaginations aren't so likely to carry us away in the deep of the night… We long ago learned to read maps and watch the road signs --- time and experience have taught us what to listen for so that we can be sure we'll always get off at the right stop.
And yet, the words spoken today are best heard by the child in us --- that part that is deeply aware that forces beyond our own control could change it all at any time and that ultimately someone else is driving this bus we're on. That's what Jesus is getting at when he tells us not to be afraid, little flock, for it's the Father's good pleasure to give us the kingdom. We are simply receivers of God's gifts and we're not finally in control.
And so what is there for us today? Surely this is not a call to spend our nights waiting for it all to end or our days so distracted by watching for the signs that we altogether miss the joy of the kingdom God is extending to us. No indeed, my anxiety at the age of six already had me wanting to be in control --- as much as I could be then. So no, it must not be that, but rather, this must be a call to live our lives by a different set of values. One that wakes in the morning and remembers that our beginnings and endings rest in God's hands and that in-between we are to reflect that powerful love God has for us in this day to day time we've been given. And surely that finds its deepest, truest meaning in the next words out of Jesus' mouth where he tells us that we are to be remembering the poor. The poor in body and spirit and heart. Those in our home, those in our neighborhood and those halfway around the world. And in remembering to care for them, it is there we will find the only treasure that matters. For that is where and when we'll come closest to the heart of God. That's where and how we'll find ourselves awake to God's gifts in our lives and the gifts we have to give the world. Indeed, as we live more fully in this way that God intends, we will learn to trust more deeply God's desire to give us all that is good. And we'll be so engaged with the world God gave us to live and give in, we won't be checking to see when it's time to get off the bus. For we'll already be living by the signs that were meant for us. And we'll be so deeply aware of the goodness of God, that we will end each of our days in trust and in hope, knowing that the treasures that matter aren't the ones we can gather in our arms should we have to flee from a burning house, but the ones that live in our hearts. Amen.