This past Sunday, on Trinity Sunday, I preached a sermon that I titled The Divine Ecosystem. I’ll save you the time of listening to the podcast by telling you that I basically said this: Just as plants need light, soil, and a favorable environment, so do we thrive in the ecosystem of the Trinity.
I ended by praying over our congregation this expanded version of Paul’s trinitarian prayer in the very last verse of 2 Corinthians:
(more…)In Spring we are surrounded by explosions of new life: Trees budding out with fresh leaves. Daffodils peeking out of hibernation. Gardens multi-colored with fresh vegetables. Honeysuckle and wisteria fragrance wafting through the air.
In the creation we catch glimpses of the glory of the Creator. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes,
Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.
Not only do we experience the glory of God in the visible creation of individual blackberry bushes, but we see his glory within the changing of seasons: The exuberance of Spring. The fullness of Summer. The transformation of Fall. And even the dormancy of Winter.
(more…)Jesus still made no reply, and Pilate was amazed.
-Mark 15:5
His economy of words. His restraint. His refusal to add to the noise.
But Jesus is not known for being a silent man.
Here is a man who is incredibly good with words. As a tween he could hold conversations with the adult scholars of scripture in the Temple. Now, as a grown man, thousands of people flock to listen to him teach. Lawyers try to trip him up with questions—and he finds a loophole. Religious leaders try to back him into a corner—and his witty and wise response makes them look foolish. He tells stories so simple a child can follow them, and yet so layered that we are still discussing their meaning today.
And now here we see him, death bearing down on him as he is on trial, and he is silent.
(more…)You’ve done it a hundred times: walked forward, received the bread dipped in grape juice, and returned to your seat. It can be easy to simply repeat the rite, to just go through the motions. But have you ever paused and wondered, Wait a sec…what just happened to me?
Holy Communion isn’t a simple transaction. It’s not a magic rite. It’s not just bread and juice with a prayer attached. Communion is a mystery with layers—each one drawing us deeper into Christ himself. Here are three ways to think about what’s really happening when we come to the table.
Layer 1: We Enter the Story
Holy Communion has its roots in the Passover meal, during which pious Jews proclaim, “We were slaves in Egypt.” Not “they were slaves” but “we were slaves.” Similarly, we don’t simply recall what Jesus did long ago. When the celebrant retells the story—”On the night he gave himself up for us”—we are transported to that upper room and take our seat at the table. Jesus’ death and resurrection aren’t distant historical events; they become present realities happening to us, for us, right now. We don’t just remember; we relive.
(more…)Have you ever seen an Amish barn move? It’s a sight to behold. Google it. You can thank me later.
Creating meaningful change in any large context is like moving a barn. Whether that’s bringing health to a dysfunctional family, enacting justice and reform in a toxic system, protecting human life from oppressive political structures, revitalizing a dying church—or whatever big work you are called to—it’s going to require a lot of coordinated heavy lifting.
It requires everyone to lift. No one can spectate from the sidelines, expecting a few other people to do all the heavy lifting. We can’t just bank on the pastor, the board, the elected official, or a few key leaders to pull it off.
It requires everyone to move in the same direction. We must move with singular purpose and trajectory. We cannot each continue to go our own way and do our own thing. We must be humble and open-handed with our own preferences or agendas.
(more…)Yesterday, a year and a day after Hurricane Helene brought unprecedented destruction to our city and so many others, I preached a sermon from Psalm 91. A message of hope in the face of life-threatening storms.
You can listen to that whole sermon HERE. Or, if you’d rather spend 3 minutes reading rather than 30 minutes listening, below is an article-ized version of it that will be coming out in our church Newsletter in October.
(more…)Even so, I have noticed one thing, at least, that is good. It is good for people to eat, drink, and enjoy their work under the sun during the short life God has given them, and to accept their lot in life. (Eccl. 5:18)
Work is hard. Even work that you love and believe in sometimes just feels like a job. It taxes us. It demands of our bodies, our minds, our hearts. Hence all the groaning and complaining about Mondays—or whatever day your work week tends to begin. We learn this early on. Even my kids complain about going to school on Mondays, like their father before them, and my father before me.
That’s fine. Complain if you must. Sometimes you just gonna let it out. Just maybe don’t overdo it.
(more…)It may seem like not much is going on. All your effort hidden beneath the dirt. More burying than harvesting. More getting your hands dirty than keeping your life neat and tidy. But deep beneath the soil, out of your sight and out of your control, something is happening.
This is the hidden business of heaven. Tapping into the life that is transferred in darkness. Forming a stability that will support whatever future growth may come. Over time, often when you’re not even paying attention, life begins to sprout.
As Jesus said, this is the way the kingdom of God operates:
(more…)“The Kingdom of God is like a farmer who scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, while he’s asleep or awake, the seed sprouts and grows, but he does not understand how it happens. —Mark 4:26-27
“This is is my ministry.”
“God gave me this calling.”
“I’ve been in charge of this for twenty years.”
“This is our church.”
“We’ve always done it this way.”
“We built this from the ground up.”
I’ve heard church people say lots of things along these lines. Pastors, board members, congregants. Heck, I’ve said things like this. And it’s not all bad, but it’s certainly a mixed bag. Sometimes it’s said with pride, and other times with gratitude. Sometimes it’s said with anxiety, and other times with love.
But underneath it all is a subtle (or not-so-subtle) posture of ownership and control.
It’s easy to slip into this way of thinking. We care deeply. We’ve poured ourselves into something. We’ve sacrificed. So of course we feel a sense of responsibility. Maybe even a sense of possession.
But the longer I pastor, the more I’m convinced that ownership and control are not the posture the church needs. Especially not now. The way of Jesus looks more like stewardship and collaboration.
(more…)Forgiveness is hard as hell. That is, forgiveness is as hard as the hell that was done to you.
If you scratch my car with your shopping cart in the Kroger parking lot, I’ll be annoyed, but forgiveness won’t be too hard, like leisurely sifting sand through my fingers on the beach. However, if you hurt my kid, digging forgiveness up out of my heart is going to be more like swinging a pick mattock into Georgia red clay: a lot of sweat, cursing, and sore muscles.
Over the past year I’ve been haunted by Jesus’ final expression of forgiveness: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.” This is divine absurdity.
After being arrested for no other crime than offending the powers that be, being mocked, beaten, stripped naked, paraded through the streets, suspended by nails pounded between his bones, and slowly dying as his torturers gambled for his clothing to pass the time…
…this is the moment Jesus prays for their forgiveness!? Divine absurdity.
This haunts me because forgiveness disconnected from apology is crazy talk. Hurt me on purpose? I can forgive that. Hurt me because you’re a clueless narcissist? That’s a a bit harder. Got a heartfelt apology? I can extend heartfelt forgiveness. Defend yourself and scapegoat me as being the one in the wrong? I’m gonna hold a grudge.
But then again, for the record, I’m not Jesus.
(more…) Exploring the mystery of faith in ordinary life.