What If

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + 7th Sunday after Pentecost + July 8, 2018

Readings: Ezekiel 2:1-5; 2 Cor. 12:2-10; Mark 6:1-13 

How would you treat yourself differently if you really believed that God is working through you?

Sometimes that can be a very hard thing to believe. We feel comfortable confessing that God is at work in those really exceptional, saintly people: the Mother Theresas or the Pope Francises. Or maybe we’re willing to admit that God might be at work in people with great skills or expertise: brilliant scientists or inspired musicians. Or maybe we are comfortable thinking that God is at work through the powerful people — surely, we might think, it was God who put them in that position, and for a reason. But God working through me? Well, maybe that will happen one day, when I get better at praying or patience or love.

At the ELCA National Youth Gathering last week we heard lots of speakers who shared a similar theme: that God is at work in us and through us, even when we were are at our least saintly or brilliant or powerful. People who had struggled with eating disorders or drug addiction or terrible diagnoses told us about how they felt and saw God working in them even in the midst of their struggle. God never gave up on them, even when they gave up.

Nadia Bolz-Weber — who is probably the ELCA’s most famous pastor; you might know her as that tall lady with tattoos from the House for All Sinners and Saints in Denver — may have summarized the theme most powerfully during her sermon to the 30,000 youth gathered together in Houston:

[There’s a] burden that we carry of always knowing the difference between, like, our ideal self and our actual self…But if you think about it, no one’s ever become their ideal self. It’s a moving target. It’s a false promise. Your ideal self is a lie…Your ideal self doesn’t exist. The self that God has a relationship to is your actual self. The self God loves is your actual self. And there’s a word for this, and that word is “grace.”

Martin Luther taught that God’s grace made us — miraculously — sinners and saints at the same time. Yeah, of course we do wrong things and we’re prideful and sometimes mean and whatever our particular flaws might be. But at the same time, the Holy Spirit is in us, forgiving us, leading us, working through us to build God’s kingdom and share God’s love…even though we’re also going to go on being imperfect and un-ideal for our whole lives. Even the most saintly of us.

As a pastor I might be in privileged position to see how true this is. Many of you share your struggles and your hurts and even your weaknesses with me and Pastor Lippard, and I get just a glimpse of what you are struggling with, where you see imperfections in yourself, what your doubts are, how you feel that things aren’t good enough. I get to know that broken side of you. And then I turn around and see God working through you. You’re taking care of someone else here at church; you’re going to St. Paul’s breakfast or helping with Room in the Inn; you’re helping get supplies to victims of hurricanes. I get reminded all the time that God is not waiting for us to get more perfect to bring us on to God’s mission team: God is working in us just as we are, and making us holier along the way. God gives us on-the-job training.

So, how would you treat yourself differently if you really believed that God is working through you? Would you give yourself more grace? Would you feel more empowered to do the work God is calling you to do? Would you let yourself think that you do have something important to offer this world? Would you recognize what you have to offer — great strengths and little skills and even weaknesses — as holy things that God can and does work through?

And then: how would you treat the people around you differently if you could better recognize how God is working through them?

This is closer to the situation we see in today’s Bible readings. In our Old Testament reading, God warns the prophet Ezekiel that God is sending him to rebellious, impudent, and stubborn people. The great majority of them will not take seriously that God is speaking to them through Ezekiel. They’ll refuse to hear his warnings and deny his wisdom. They won’t recognize God at work in him.

In our gospel reading, we see that the people of Jesus’s hometown could recognize Jesus’s wisdom, his miraculous healings (either genuinely or sarcastically)…and yet somehow they could not believe that these things were the work of God. Wasn’t this the kid they’d known his whole life, the guy who used to be a day-laborer down the street? Someone just like them, not someone special. Instead of standing in awe of what Jesus was able to do, they took offense at him. They would not recognize God at work in Jesus.

And then Jesus sent out his disciples, and he warned them that some people would reject them. They would not see God working in that ragtag group of ex-fishermen and ex-tax collectors and ex-rebels.

What stopped all those people from seeing God at work in the people around them — people we now revere as prophets and saints and the Son of God? I mean, those guys were doing miracles: casting out demons and curing the sick and revealing divine truths. Was it that they were, aside from the miracles, just ordinary people?

Was it that the rejecters did not like what Ezekiel and Jesus and the disciples were saying? Was it a pride thing — Who are these guys, to think they’re so special?

But maybe the more important question is: What keeps us from seeing God at work in the people around us? Not that they’re all going to have their names on the calendar of saints one day…but God is at work even in imperfect people. Ordinary, boring people; people who make us mad; people who make our food at restaurants; people we disagree with; people who do obviously bad things; I think even in people who don’t “know” God themselves. Of course not everything everybody does is of God, but I think God is at work somehow in all people.

So: how would you treat the people around you differently if you could better recognize how God is working through them? Would you give them more grace? Would you try harder to understand them? Would you look harder for what God is offering through them?

And then: how would you look at the world differently if you could better recognize that God is working in all sorts of people, in all sorts of places, in all sorts of situations?

For a solid period of time Western Christian missionaries believed that their culture was closer to God’s way than the cultures of the peoples of other lands — even the parts of their culture that really had nothing to do with following Jesus: things like dressing in the same style, taking on the same social customs, listening to the same music, using the same first names. As they sought to win converts to Christianity, they demanded that the converts also turn away completely from their native way of doing things and essentially become foreign Westerners.

Individual missionaries had a whole range of personal experiences in their work, and I’m sure that many of them were changed and inspired and grew as Christians through their encounters with other peoples. But at least at the theoretical level — and often at the practical level, too — it was thought to be the missionaries who carried God to others, and there was little to no reciprocation: they did not go out expecting to see God at work in these other lands, did not expect to be changed or challenged back.

In some ways this idea still persists: we often think of mission or outreach work as one group doing the work of God for another group rather than as something more reciprocal and relational. It takes a lot of thought — and probably some real experience — to be able to see the prisoner ministering back to the chaplain or the homeless man providing something to the Room in the Inn host. And, admittedly, it can still be easy for us to think of Western culture and Christianity as one and the same — for some this is unintentional, because it’s what we’re used to, and we need the reminder that God is already at work in other places and cultures, and has been since ancient times. But for some other people the idea that Christianity is Western culture, that’s a creed they hold on to…and that easily becomes harmful to mission work and to Christianity.

But today many missions groups — including ELCA Global Missions — teach that their work is something more interdependent and mutual. Our Global Missions website talks about how our missionaries work with and among the people they travel to, seek to empower them, build relationships, and open themselves to what they might learn from other people and other cultures.  These missionaries go expecting God to work through them and also expecting to experience God working in others, in the midst of different traditions and styles and histories. As one of our Young Adults in Global Mission put it: “You always hear about ‘brothers and sisters in Christ,’ so that’s not, like, a totally new concept for me…but I’m just really feeling it lived out here.”

How would you look at the world differently if you could better recognize that God is working in all sorts of people, in all sorts of places, in all sorts of situations? What situations would you consider with more grace? What would you try harder to understand? What preconceptions would you have to let go of? What things about the way the world is going would you want to challenge? What new things might God teach you?

Jesus came to his hometown, and his disciples followed him. On the sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astounded. They said, “Where did this man get all this? What is this wisdom that has been given to him? What deeds of power are being done by his hands! Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary…?” And they took offense at him. (Mark 6:1-3)

Sometimes we, like these people from Jesus’s hometown, may fall into the habit of limiting God. We might think, “God can’t be here, or there, in that person, in me.” There might be great teachings. There might be great signs. But for some reason, we can’t quite get ourselves to believe God is working in people or places that don’t seem right or holy enough, that seem too ordinary or too strange. Maybe it’s because of our pride or because of our shame; maybe it’s because we’re too comfortable with what we’re used to, or too uncomfortable with a new experience. But what would change if we did see God working in places we aren’t used to expecting?

What if God is working in all those strange and contentious parts of our world?

What if God is working in the people you see every day?

What if God is working in you?

What then, Child of God? What then?


“Ash Wednesday,” San Francisco, CA, Feb. 6, 2006. Via Vanderbilt Divinity Library’s Art in the Christian Tradition





The End is Only the Beginning

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + The Resurrection of Our Lord + April 1, 2018

Reading: Mark 16:1-8

The end is only the beginning.[1]

Because otherwise, this is a really unsettling ending to the gospel reading on Easter morning, right? These faithful women heard the news — “[Jesus] has been raised!” — “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” In the earliest copies we have of the Gospel of Mark, which was the first gospel written down, that’s it. The end.

But the end is only the beginning.

And maybe that’s part of why the women were so afraid that they “said nothing to anyone.” I mean, granted, I’m sure the main reasons for their reaction had to do with the sheer and otherworldly unexpectedness of what they found at the tomb. The Gospel of Mark tell us that these same three women — Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome — witnessed Jesus’s crucifixion (Mark 15:40-41). And now they came to his tomb, ready to care for his dead body. That’s the kind of terrible scene they prepared themselves for. But instead, when they get to the tomb, they see that the huge stone has been rolled away already. And what would your first thought be in that situation? They had just seen Jesus arrested by the authorities, the riots at his trial, his public torture and humiliation, and finally his gruesome execution, and now all of his followers were in hiding — so maybe they saw that stone rolled away and could only think in panic: “What are they doing to him now?”

And then they entered the tomb and saw a stranger sitting where Jesus’s body should have been. And he told them that something supernatural had happened: Jesus had been raised from the dead. The man that they had watched die on a cross — they would see him again, alive. And maybe that supernatural message was way too much to take in from a strange man sitting in their dead friend’s grave. It makes total sense to me that they would just go blank with “terror and amazement;” or jump to the conclusion that this stranger was lying to them and yet another horrible thing was being done to them, to Jesus and his followers and his legacy; or that they wouldn’t think at all, just start running as their whole world turned chaotic for the second time in a week.

But even after that initial burst of terror and confusion had settled, there were more questions to deal with. If Jesus had been raised from the dead, how would that affect their lives? Maybe that was a reason to be afraid, too…or at least intimidated.


Bob Quinn, “The Empty Tomb.” Bronze. See more images here.

These three women — like the twelve disciples, like many others — had been following Jesus from Galilee and helping to support his ministry (again, Mark 15:40-41). They had followed him all the way to Jerusalem, about 100 miles. They followed him while he healed people and cast out demons — Mary Magdalene was one of those he freed from demons (Mark 16:9); they followed him while he fed thousands with a just a few loaves of bread and some fish; they followed him while he clarified the ancient laws and taught about God’s love; they followed him while he rioted in the Temple and challenged the authorities; they followed him all the way to the cross. Witnessing his life on earth, they had felt God’s pull to follow Jesus, to support him, to be part of his mission — even though it demanded everything from them; even though it got dangerous.

Jesus’s life had changed their lives — not just a little, but totally. Jesus had changed their priorities, their plans, their relationships. Everything had been transformed by that pull towards the life of Jesus.

And maybe when he died, they felt like their transformation might die, too. In the last day, while Jesus’s body laid in the tomb, had they thought about what they would do next? Maybe they felt like everything Jesus meant had been extinguished. Maybe they were thinking about admitting defeat and returning to their old lives.

But now — a resurrection. Jesus had been given new life. And if Jesus’s “regular” life had pulled them into a new way of being, had so fully transformed them — what would Jesus’s resurrected life demand of them? These women suddenly found themselves called, pulled into something bigger and more life-changing than they could have expected– and maybe that was terrifying at first. Because now this was about more than a prophet, a healer, a wise man of God; this was about even more than another revolutionary — this was about something completely new, something no one could expect, something that reconfigured history and opened up a future no one could imagine. Now this was about death and resurrection: the death of the way things always had been, of all mortal dealings and plans, and the resurrection of God’s future.

The end is only the beginning. The old ways must die, because everything is being made new.

Christians hold that the resurrection of Jesus was a cosmological change. Jesus was the first to be raised to new life, and his resurrection ignited the transformation of the whole world: one day we will all be raised, all of creation will be raised to new life, fully redeemed from the evil ways of the world, “set free from bondage to decay” (Rom. 8:21), made whole in God’s future. In the resurrection of Jesus, the transformation has only just begun.

God’s work is as big as the world, as all of history and all the future days: but often it is through our everyday actions that God works the transforming power of the resurrection.

God started with those three women at the tomb: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome. We know that they did eventually tell the other followers of Jesus what they saw and heard at the tomb. And those followers — the Church — took on the resurrected life of Christ. They healed people; they freed people from guilt and demons; they fed the hungry; they clarified Jesus’s teachings; they preached about God’s love; they challenged the authorities and the status quo when they were out of line with God’s will. God pulled them — even with all their imperfections — into the work of transformation; God called them to die to the ways of the world and to rise into the resurrected life of Christ, into God’s future.

God continues transforming the world through each person that feels the pull of Christ’s resurrected life.

In 1960 Lucille Bridges convinced her husband, Abon, that they should let their six-year-old daughter help integrate the New Orleans school system. And so Ruby Bridges became the first African-American student to attend William Frantz Elementary. On that first day the other parents boycotted, rushing into the school to take their children home when Ruby entered. All the teachers refused to teach at a school where a black child was enrolled — all the teachers except Barbara Henry, who taught Ruby one-on-one.

On the second day of Ruby’s enrollment, one parent broke the boycott: Methodist minister Lloyd Anderson Foreman marched his five-year-old daughter, Pam, through a crowd of angry protesters to get her to school. Slowly other parents sent their children back to school, although Mrs. Henry continued to teach Ruby alone for over a year.

Four federal marshals escorted Ruby to school every day, through the crowds of people wanting to put a stop to integration. Some of them threw things at Ruby; some threatened her; one woman threatened to poison her every day, and so Ruby was only allowed to eat food she had brought from home. Yet Ruby seemed undaunted, and even somehow remained cheerful.[2]

Ruby Bridges

Federal marshals escorting Ruby Bridges from school, 1960. Via Wiki Gallery.

Her attitude drew the attention of psychiatrist Robert Coles, and he began to meet with her to try and figure out how a young child could remain so strong while crowds of adults yelled and threatened her every day, while she was ostracized to a separate classroom, even a separate teacher. Mrs. Henry told Dr. Coles that she saw Ruby moving her lips while she came to school every day. So Dr. Coles asked Ruby, “Who were you talking to?”

Ruby answered, “I was talking to God and praying for the people in the street. […] I wanted to pray for them. Don’t you think they need praying for?”

“Where did you learn that?” Dr. Coles asked her.

“From my mommy and daddy and from the minister at church. I pray every morning and every afternoon when I go home.”[3]

In this one story there are so many people answering God’s resurrection call. Ruby’s parents deciding to send her to integrate this school; and, along with their minister, teaching her to pray even for her enemies. Barbara Henry, choosing to separate herself from the other teachers’ boycott even though she was new in town, and facing danger and ridicule in order to teach Ruby. Lloyd Anderson Foreman, who changed the tides just by sending his daughter to her school. The U.S. marshals who, in doing their duty, helped to usher in a new world. Robert Coles, who helped counsel Ruby and her family, and whose work provided insights that would help others facing conflict. And of course Ruby Bridges herself, who at six years old found herself thrust into a terrifying situation and faced it with courage and grace given by God.

All these people were thrust into a terrifying situation. The usual way of things in the South was dying, but many people were fighting to keep it alive. Still, God was working to transform things, to bring about resurrection and new life, a new way of things. And God called these and many other people to be a part of that transformation — and they answered that resurrection call.

The end is only the beginning. The old ways must die, because everything is being made new. Through the resurrection God pulls us into God’s future.

This morning we meet the strange messenger at the empty tomb. This morning we hear the good news: “Jesus has been raised!” This morning we stare into the empty tomb and wonder, “What does this mean for us? How does this change our lives?”

And maybe that question should shake us up, like the three women were shaken up two thousand years ago. Because the story of resurrection begins by reminding us that we must die to the way things are in this world: we must die to our personal sins and to the webs of sin the world traps us in; we must die to our apathy; we must die to our hopelessness and our fear; we must die to our prejudices and our greed and our selfishness and our idols. The world as we know it must die to its abuses of power and humans and all creation. These things must die, so that God can raise all creation — so that God can raise us — to radically new and unfamiliar life.

God is pulling us into God’s future. God is transforming our lives. God is renewing the world.

The end is only the beginning.

Christ is risen!

He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

[1] Taken from a section heading in Emerson B. Powery’s commentary on the Gospel of Mark in True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, ed. Brian K. Blount, (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), Mark 16:1-8, pp. 151-152.

[2] “Ruby Bridges,” Wikipedia. Available online: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruby_Bridges. Accessed April 1, 2018.

[3] Peter W. Marty, “When Ruby Birdges prayed for her enemies,” The Christian Century, March 24, 2017. Available online: https://www.christiancentury.org/article/when-ruby-bridges-prayed-her-enemies Accessed March 28, 2018.

Katharina von Bora Luther

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church+ Midweek Advent Service + December 20, 2017

A Reading from Colossians:

…you have stripped off the old self with its practices and have clothed yourselves with the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator. In that renewal there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all!

As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly; teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.

(Colossians 3:9b-17)

Some of the most exciting parts of Katharina von Bora Luther’s life — at least from our outside perspective — happened before she ever met Martin Luther face-to-face. She came from a noble family, but one who had fallen on hard times, and her family gave her over to the care of a convent when she was five or six years old. Sometime in her early twenties, while living the life of a nun in a cloister, she heard the teachings of Luther’s reformation, and something in those teachings must have affected her deeply — because one Easter Saturday, she and eleven other nuns sneaked out, abandoning their vows, the convent, and the only life they knew, taking a leap of faith into a dangerous and unknowable future. Abducting nuns was a crime punishable by death even if the nuns were willing escapees. But some reformers were willing to risk it, and so in a plan master-minded by Martin Luther himself, a man named Leonard Koppe smuggled Katie and the other women in a wagon full of fish barrels (or so the legend goes).

What were these ex-nuns to do now? How were they going to survive? Since there was still little respectable space for a woman outside the home, their best option was to marry. Katie looked lucky at first: she met a man she actually loved; he was of noble birth to boot, and he loved her back. They dreamed of getting married. But his family intervened; she was an ex-nun: too scandalous, too poor, and too old. Katie became the last ex-nun still without a husband.While she suffered from a broken heart, Luther and a friend kept trying to set her up with old pastors. Although she should have been thankful for any opportunity for a stable life, she rejected the matches, finally saying she would only marry one of two men: Nicolaus von Amsdorf, “a devoted bachelor,” or Martin Luther himself. Whether because Luther admired her spunk, or wanted to “irritate the pope and the devils,” or get his parents of his back, he agreed to marry her — making Katie the most famous of the very first women to fill the role of pastor’s wife.[1]


Portrait of Katharina von Bora by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1526). Katie lived with the Cranachs for a time before she married Luther.

Martin Luther wrote his second-to-last letter to his wife on February 10, 1546, a week before he died. It gives us a little peek into their twenty-year marriage:

To the b[lessed], anxious L[ady] Kat[therin] Luth[er], Doctor of Zulsd[orf] at Wil[tenberg], my g[racious], dear wife

Grace and peace in Christ! My most blessed Lady Doctor! We thank you most kindly for your great concern, which has prevented you from sleeping. For since you started worrying about us, a fire at our inn, right outside my chamber door, nearly engulfed us. And yesterday – no doubt through the power of your concern – a stone almost fell on our heads and crushed us, as in a mouse trap. For in our private chambers, lime and mortar crumbled above our heads for two days, until we sent for some people, who merely touched the stone with two fingers, causing it to fall down. It was big as a large pillow and as wide as a large hand. For this, we would have had to thank your holy worries, had the dear angels not been guarding [us]. I fear that if you do not cease worrying, the earth will finally swallow us up and all the elements will persecute us. Is this how you learned the catechism and faith? Therefore, pray and leave it to God to worry, you have not been commanded to look after me or yourself. It is said: “Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee,” as in Psalm 55 and many other places.

We are, thanks be to God, hale and healthy, except that we are growing weary of the whole business. And [Justus] Jonas so desperately wanted to have a bad leg that he bumped into a chest; so great is human envy that he begrudged me being the only one with a bad leg. With this, I commend you to God. We would now like to leave and go home, God willing. Amen. On the day of St. Scholastica, 1546

Your Holiness’ willing servant
M. L.[2]

Though Luther teases her for her all her anxiety, maybe Katie felt like she was justified in worrying so much about her husband — and not just because he had received death threats for years. Katie had to worry over Luther from the very start of their marriage. When the couple married in 1525, she was 26 and he was 41. He had been a bachelor all those 40 years, and on top of that a monk (which I’m sure comes with its own quirks) and a professor single-mindedly devoted to his work in reforming the Church. We can imagine Luther’s type: a brilliant scholar and revolutionary so absorbed by the workings of his mind that he comes off as absent-minded in the day-to-day works of life. And this imagining probably isn’t far off: there were times when Katie entered Luther’s private chambers to find his bed stinking and rotting: he’d neglected to change the straw that made up his mattress.[3]

When Katie married Luther, she immediately felt the need to take control of the financial situation. Though Luther’s fame had spread throughout Europe and so had his writings, he had not been collecting any payments for his books.[4] He had no fixed salary, either, and on top of that, he had a hard time saying no to people in need. Luther changed the world, but struggled with his own upkeep. So Katie immediately got to work: collecting money for his writings and fixing up all the disrepair in Luther’s home, the Black Cloister or Black Abbey (and yes, that’s where the Nashville brewing company gets its name, because Katie Luther, one of the first preacher’s wives, was renowned for her skills in beer-making).

Katie turned the Black Abbey into a self-sufficient household. She grew fruits and vegetables, raised farm animals, fished, baked bread, and made butter and cheese. She increased their wealth by purchasing additional land: more farms and orchards.

All this work went into feeding and sheltering more than just Mr. and Mrs. Luther and their six children. The Luthers also raised six or seven nieces and nephews and four orphans.[5] The Abbey served as a boarding school for theological students and a hostel for other visitors as they came to talk with Luther and the other reformers. Katie regularly hosted meals for 30-40 people, and she often fed as many as 120 people.[6] In that time of great political and religious turbulence, Katie frequently sheltered refugees; and when the plague reared its ugly head, she turned her home into a hospital.[7] All this work shows Katie’s great hospitality and practicality, and also a skill for leadership and a strength of will to match Martin Luther’s own. It’s no wonder that Luther’s favorite pet names for Katie included, “my Lord,” “most holy Mrs. doctoress,” and “the boss of Zulsdorf.”

When we talk about saints, we often talk about their wondrous miracles passed down in stories: like St. Nicholas travelling in a dream in order so save sailors caught in a storm.

Katie Luther worked more down-to-earth miracles: figuring how to stretch the family income to not only meet her family’s needs but also to generously care for others; keeping up all the tasks of a self-sustaining farm; putting up with theological guests who thought Luther’s wife should keep her mouth shut on matters of faith and the Bible, even though she had her own share of religious education.

This difference between the miracles of Katie and the “classic” saints reflects one of Martin Luther’s teachings: the priesthood of all believers. Prior to Luther, the church had considered only certain occupations to be a “spiritual” calling: the obviously religious work of priests, monks, nuns, and the like. The rest of people fell into the category of “secular.”Luther rejected this divide, writing, “In fact, we are all consecrated priests through Baptism.”[8] With that idea, anyone’s work — both what they did for money and the role they played in their family and community — was a spiritual calling. Katie Luther was one of the first and most public models for living the roles of wife, mother, and house manager as a holy calling from God. Her holiness — the work of the Holy Spirit in her — showed in her dedication to her tasks and the grace-filled hospitality she showed to her guests and to people in need.

This was how Katie saw her work: as a way to live her faith. Martin Luther once told her he would give her $50 if she would sit still and read the Bible. She told him she had read enough back in the convent; now she wanted to live it.[9]

Katharina von Bora Luther reminds us to see all of the roles we take on and the tasks we perform as calls to embody our faith — an active, living faith. Whether what we do is as bold and extraordinary as running away from a convent or as ordinary as waking up at the crack of dawn to take care of our family, all these tasks may be holy if we do them in service to God. As the scriptures say: “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” Amen.


Katie Luther: The Morning Star of Wittenberg, (documentary) The Evangelical Lutheran    Church in America. Posted by the ELCA on YouTube, October 13, 2006. Available         online: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4h6NoxNhmE

Martin Luther, the Reformation, and Women, (documentary) DW Documentary.       Posted by DW on YouTube, October 31, 2017. Available online:                       https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBMLO1MomWU

Kirsi Stjerna, Women and the Reformation, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2009).


[1] Kirsi Stjerna, Women and the Reformation, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2009), 51-56.

[2] “The Reformer as Husband – Luther and His Wife,” German History in Documents and Images, online: http://germanhistorydocs.ghi-dc.org/docpage.cfm?docpage_id=4421 Source of original German text: “Luther an seine Frau. [Eisleben,] 10. Februar 1546,” in D. Martin Luthers Werke. Weimarer Ausgabe (Sonderedition). Part 3: Briefwechsel. Vol. 11, pp. 290-92. Translation: Thomas Dunlap

[3] Kirsi Stjerna in the documentary Katie Luther: The Morning Star of Wittenberg, (ELCA). Online: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4h6NoxNhmE

[4] Stjerna, Women and the Reformation, 62.

[5] Stjerna, 58.

[6] Stjerna, 61.

[7] Stjerna, Women in the Reformation, 60.

[8] Martin Luther, To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation. Quoted in Timothy Wengert, “The Priesthood of All Believers and Other Pious Myths,” Valparaiso University Institute of Liturgical Studies Occasional papers, 1-1-2005, p. 12.

[9] Stjerna, 61.

Open My Life, Lord

Written for Saint Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + Lenten Midweek Service + February 17, 2016

Reading: Galatians 2:15-21

St. Paul would have made my English teachers proud. “Show, don’t tell,” they always used to say, meaning something like, “Don’t just say this happened, then this happened. Paint us a picture. Bring us into the experience.” Though of course when we were learning to write essays, they drilled into us the importance of telling through thesis statements: “Tell us what you’re about to say.”

In the letter to the Galatians Paul accomplishes both; he shows us and tells us how God has opened his life. He tells us: “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me.” God has so opened Paul’s life that the barrier between Christ’s living presence and Paul’s life has been torn down.

Paul isn’t saying that he’s perfect. (He proclaims his own sinfulness too often for that to be the case.) When Paul says, “It is Christ who lives in me,” I think he means that every part of his life is open to God. Every part of his life is now a part of God’s action in the world; every part of his life is open to being part of Jesus Christ’s continuing mission.

Paul also shows us how God has opened his life. In the opening paragraphs of Galatians Paul reminds us of who he used to be. He says, “You have heard, no doubt, of my earlier life in Judaism. I was violently persecuting the church of God and was trying to destroy it. I advanced in Judaism beyond many among my people of the same age, for I was far more zealous for the traditions of my ancestors.”

Paul’s whole life had been devoted to what we might call “establishment Judaism.” The Judaism of the powerful, the Judaism supported by traditions and rules and writings. He was so devoted to it that when a new Jewish sect rose up and challenged the establishment in the name of some crucified man from Nazareth, Paul tried to squash it and protect the tradition he knew.

But then God revealed Jesus to Paul. And we can see how Paul really did die to be raised with Christ. The man who tried so hard to protect establishment Judaism was dead, and alive and running was a man whose energy and values and traditions were thrown open to Jesus Christ.

This letter to the Galatians is like a case study in how Paul’s life was opened to the mission of Christ. Once Paul would have clung tightly to the Law as something that set him and other Jews apart as a holy people; he would have refused even to eat with non-Jews. Now we see Paul subjecting the Law to Christ, saying it is Christ who makes people part of God’s holy people. And this theological point shows in his life: He calls out Peter for refusing to eat with Gentiles (Gal. 2:11-14). He tries to convince the other leaders and the people that when Gentiles wanted to join the church of Jesus Christ — still very much a Jewish group — the Gentiles did not have to be circumcised to become part of the holy people of the God of Israel.

God opened Paul’s life. And this was such a radical transformation that the old Paul had to die so that the new Paul could live in Christ, and Christ could live in him. No part of Paul’s life was left untouched by God.

In Lent the Church sets aside a time for us to think about how we, too, must die so that we can live in Christ, and Christ in us. Where is there still a barrier between “my life” and the life of Christ? What part of myself and my way of living am I still clinging to, saying “This one thing, at least, I have control over — it is not God’s, it’s mine”?

There are many ways our culture encourages us to keep some things separate from God. We talk about how are faith is a “private” thing, to be kept out of our public life or our political talk. Or, we think as if the way we treat and use our bodies is not part of our life of faith. Or we defend the importance of the individual having control, taking care of himself, being her own boss.

Sometimes our surroundings help us to divide our lives into “God’s space” and “my space.” I’ve always thought it funny when people say things like, “Don’t lie in God’s house!” As if when we are in the church building we need to be especially Christian, but at all other times we kind of forget about being disciples of Jesus. It’s easier to live by the rule that when we are around other Christians, we live the Christian life, but at other times we live our own lives.

Sometimes we keep parts of our lives separate from God out of a misplaced sense of humility, or an unhealthy sense of guilt or shame. “This part of me is not good enough to be part of God’s plan,” we think. We might mean something is too ordinary for God to bother with: “My job isn’t all that important,” or “I’m not special enough to be of much use to God.” At other times we might mean that something in us is too wrong or sinful and must be kept apart from God.

But when God opens our lives, God opens our whole lives. Everything in us, everything we do, everything we are, have been, and will be is cracked open, and God invades it all. God takes up every bit of it. Some parts will suffer and die. In fact, it will be like we are being crucified with Christ. But then we will be raised to a new life, a life that Christ lives in us and that we live in Christ.

Alphonsus Rodriguez lived in Spain in the 1500s. He married and had three children, but by the time he was in his 30s his wife and his children had all died. He devoted his life to strenuous religions practice, and he tried to join the religious order called Society of Jesus, or the Jesuits. They denied him entry because he did not have enough education. He tried to complete more studies, but he couldn’t get through the program. Eventually, the Society of Jesus admitted him as a lay member.

Rodriguez took on the humble job of a doorman at Jesuit college, and he remained a doorman for the remainder of his life — 46 years. “His duty was to receive the visitors who came to the college, search out the [priests] or students who were wanted in the parlours, deliver messages, run errands.”[1]

But God opened Rodriguez’s life, and so as “just a doorman,” Rodriguez influenced many, many lives. People who had no one else to turn to would talk to the doorman about their troubles, and word spread that this man gave good comfort and good advice. Eventually he was asked to preach during dinners, and the crowds would stay past dinner time to hear him preach.

Rodriquez “was devoted to finding God in every moment” of his life. He would pray “Lord, let me know you. And let me know myself.” It is said that each time the doorbell rang, he would look to the door and envision that it was God standing outside seeking entrance. On his way to the answer the door, he would say, “I’m coming Lord.”

Today, this doorman is a recognized as a saint by the Roman Catholic Church.

St. Rodriguez gives us an example of a life opened by God. The tragedies he faced did not keep him from God; his lack of education did not keep him from ministry; the humility of his work did not keep it from being holy. He, like Paul, had been crucified with Christ and could say: “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives within me.”

May the lives of St. Paul, St. Rodriguez, and all the saints who have gone before us help remind us of how God opens our lives, our whole lives, so that Jesus Christ may live in us, and we in Christ.

Let us pray. Open our lives, Lord, to reflect your glory. Lead us to the cross, to the grave, to the empty tomb, and into the world as imitators of Christ. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.[2]


[1] Prayer from Melissa Mole, “Midweek Lenten Series: Open My Life, Lord,” Seasonal Rites for Lent in Sundays and Seasons, Year C 2016 (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2015), p. 108.


[2] Joseph Tylenda, S.J., Jesuit Saints and Martyrs, quoted in James Martin. S.J., The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything, (New York: HarperOne, 2012), p. 100. Material found in that book supplemented by Wikipedia’s article “Saint Alphonsus Rodriguez.”

God’s Call, Like Gravity

Written for St. Andrew Lutheran Church, Franklin, TN + 2nd Sunday After Epiphany + January 18, 2015

Texts: 1 Samuel 3:1-10; 1 Corinthians 6:12-20; John 1:43-51

Yesterday afternoon I had the pleasure of attending the ordination of my friend Scott. I met Scott during my first hours at divinity school, and if I could take you back in time to that day, to tell Scott that in four years he would be wearing a stole and presiding over communion, I think his eyes would have popped out of his head. He had come to divinity school with a deep sense of call to ministry, but also with a deep distrust of all religious institutions and with a heavy load of cynicism. And that’s still pretty true of Scott: Actually, when we had coffee a few weeks ago and he told me about his ordination process, he still seemed totally shocked about where he is today. But he also felt in the very core of his being that he was exactly where God had called him to be.  And so he titled his service of ordination: “The Miracle in Nashville: The Bet Las Vegas Lost: The Ordination of Scott Jamieson.”

Our Bible readings for today tell other stories of miracles and lost bets — of God calling surprising people to surprising work. First, we heard the story of the young child Samuel, called by God (rather than the much more experienced priest Eli) in the middle of the night to challenge the rulers of his nation. Next we heard the story of the Christians in Corinth, who were surprised to hear that God’s call on their lives included claims on their bodies as well as their souls. And finally, we heard the story of Jesus calling two of his disciples: Philip, who seems to follow Christ immediately, and Nathanael, who needs to see a little proof that this Jesus guy isn’t just another weirdo from Nazareth. Three people and one group, each called to different tasks in very different ways.

Last weekend the Companions in Christ Sunday school class shared their own call stories with one another. And just as if we could ask Samuel, Nathanael, or Scott about their experience of God’s call, and each of those people would give a different story, so each person in the class had a unique story to tell. Some people could vividly remember a single experience that changed their life and faith in an everlasting way. Many, though, could not really name a single grand moment, but rather thought of their faith-life as a series of less dramatic — though no less significant — calls from God. Some emphasized the call we all receive through our baptism.

But even though we have all these examples of call stories, I don’t think we can set down a specific formula for figuring out when a person is being called by God. Each call story we know is a little different, and a little differently miraculous. The Bible doesn’t even seem to suggest that we can get to such a formula: after all, Samuel’s story is the most-clear cut of all of these calls stories — the little boy actually hears the voice of God calling his name, and runs to a priest for help — and even the priest can’t figure out what’s going on until God’s third try at calling Samuel.

A “call” — Christians tend to believe — is God’s doing. It has something supernatural about it. So maybe it makes sense for it to be confusing, ungraspable, outside of our ability to understand and control. Maybe it makes sense for it to be less like a memo from the boss and more like “the bet that Las Vegas lost” – an experience no one can really predict.

As I prepared this sermon, trying to figure out how exactly I can talk about this weird “call” experience that we all seem to share but which is so hard to pin down, I’ve been thinking of the feeling of a call like the feeling of gravity. As I understand it, Einstein described gravity like this: think of space as having substance and shape. Think of space as a trampoline. If you put a bowling ball on the trampoline, its weight pulls down the fabric. Then, if I roll a baseball onto the trampoline, it follows the fabric and rolls down to hang out with the bowling ball. The trampoline is space, and the bowling ball is a planet. When a smaller object, like the moon, feels that forceful pull that we call “gravity,” it is actually just following that curve made by the large object in space. (For a great video demo, click here.)

From TheConversation.com

OK, enough with the physics. But what I’m trying to say is that there are moments in life that seem to have the weight of planets. There are people, places, events, ideas that seem to so strongly shape my space that I start rolling towards them, almost as if I am being pulled towards them, or as if my life is moving towards them and I’m just following the curve. Joining the ELCA was like that for me: I had not been an official member of a church for at least a decade. I’d been going to Christ Lutheran for only a couple of months when Pastor Gordy mentioned that the congregation would soon be receiving new members. I knew I was going to tell her I wanted to join before I’d ever even thought about it. I felt a pull I could not bring myself to resist, like gravity. Maybe, I think, that pull was from God.

Tomorrow is a day set aside to remember one person who served as a planet for many people: Martin Luther King, Jr. He was a name, a voice, a message, that pulled others into his mission. His speeches moved people to action like the Earth moves us to touch the ground. But King always pointed beyond himself, to the source of his own sense of call. King always believed he had one real mission: he was called by God to preach the gospel. His civil rights campaigns for minorities and for the poor were to him one more way that he preached the gospel. And through King this gospel message moved others to join in the work of God in that time and place.

I think we all have the opportunity to be planets like Martin Luther King, Jr. — beings which shape the space around us so that people are drawn to God. After all, we are all members of the Body of Christ. We are members of the big church on earth, which is undoubtedly one of those places that God uses to call people to God. Most of us here today are members of St. Andrew or another Christian group, some specific organization that God uses to call people to God. And as individuals, too, we can be sources of that mysterious sense of call.

Now, I’m worried that some of you are thinking “Yes, there are sure are some people in this congregation who draw others to God!” Now I don’t know why you jumped to that thought: maybe you just really admire that person a few pews ahead of you. But I’m worried that you feel like your faith isn’t good enough, your gifts aren’t fit enough, your call isn’t strong enough.

So let’s take a minute to return to my friend Scott, whose ordination was “the bet that Las Vegas lost.” Or, better yet, to Martin Luther King, Jr., since you’ll be reminded of him a few times tomorrow and have to think about this. Did you know that he had serious doubts about God since he was 13 years old? And though he’d responded to an altar call at the young age of six, he later confessed that he was just a young kid following his older sister, and that he had no idea what was happening at his baptism. He spent his years in college and in seminary wrestling with his doubts about miracles and the truth of scripture and the divinity of Christ. And if he’s like all the other pastors I know, he never really stopped wrestling. But he also felt himself pulled with all the force of gravity in the direction of the gospel. And as he followed the shape the gospel made in his life, he shaped the lives of others in the gospel direction, too.

So, where are the “planets” in your life? What draws you toward itself, and through it, towards God? Some might feel that way about the bread and wine we are about to share. Or about a program you’re involved in, or an important person in your life, or a powerful moment from the past. Take just a moment now to think about those times you have felt God’s call on your life most clearly.

As we sing our next hymn together, remember that you are called – like Samuel, like the Corinthians, like Philip and Nathanael. You are called – somehow, someway – to shape the space around you as the gospel shapes you. Speak, Lord, for your servants are listening.