Taking the Test (Reflections on Lent 1, Year C 2025)

 

“It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” (Luke 4:12b)

I had the good fortune, in my seminary days, to study the New Testament under the tutelage of the distinguished Bible scholar, the late Reverend Doctor John H.P. Reumann. Dr. Reumann was a scholar’s scholar. He had an eidetic memory, was scrupulously detail-oriented, and his examinations were tougher than John Wayne with a hangover. Perspiration still breaks out on my forehead whenever I recall sitting for his final exam on the Gospel of John—an exam which, I’m sorry to admit, I actually flunked[i].

In our Gospel lesson for Lent 1, Year C (Luke 4:1-13), Jesus is undergoing a pretty grueling exam of his own. If you read this passage in the New Revised Standard Version, verse 2 might read, “where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.” Dr. Reumann would be proud of me (I hope) if he knew I had looked this word up in the original Greek and discovered that the word for “tempted” is peirasmos, which has the original meaning of “tested.[ii]”

I’ve been a teacher in one way or another for much of my working life. Whether it was lecturing to college students, teaching special ed in middle schools, or trying to cram Luther’s Small Catechism into the heads of youngsters in my parish preparing to make their Confirmation, I have had to rely on giving tests. I don’t think I’ve ever met a student who looked forward to taking a test. Tests are, generally speaking, regarded with a certain sense of dread. And yet, they are necessary. The reason tests are given (at least for the one who gives the test) is to discover what a student does or does not know. Tests are a necessary diagnostic. We test something or someone for the purpose of discovery.

Even if test-taking is your least favorite activity, you have to admit there is something to be gained from the experience. When I return a student’s paper and they’ve marked an answer wrong, I always let them know what the correct answer is. In this way, even a wrong answer becomes a learning experience. I don’t give tests to embarrass students or trip them up.

Neither does God.

The tests and trials of our lives, as unpleasant as they may be, are all learning experiences. They are meant to teach us about ourselves. We can also learn a bit from the way our Lord was tested.

Two things are important in this Biblical narrative. First, Jesus might be on a high because he’s just been baptized and named God’s Beloved Son.[iii] Second, he’s been in the wilderness for forty days and hasn’t eaten anything. Both circumstances are great opportunities for the devil to do a little testing. Whenever you think you’ve got the world by the Fruit of the Looms or whenever you think you’re lonely, in a confusing and empty place, or deeply in want—that’s the time you’re going to find yourself tested. Whenever we start thinking it’s all about us, the devil is waiting.

Knowing your scripture is a great way to get through a test. Jesus could quote scripture to the devil and was quick with a rebuttal when the devil started quoting scripture to him.

We also learn here what Jesus really cares about. Jesus didn’t come to rule the world. If he did, he had his chance. As Christians, it’s not our job to dominate everyone in society. We’re called to be witnesses, servants, and teachers, not rulers.

We also learn we can be tested, but it’s not for us to give the test. If we start thinking what we do is going to influence God, we are going to be disappointed. It’s pretty dangerous to start firing questions at God and demanding explanations like Job in the Old Testament. We’d best be on our guard against magical thinking which expects God to answer to us. Whenever we do this, we’ve left religion for superstition. True faith is to let God influence us.

Perhaps the most important lesson is knowing that Jesus has gone through what we go through. God understands what it’s like to be tested. So does everyone else. You are not alone in the wilderness, even if it feels as if you are. You can reach out to Christ and to your neighbor.

Finally, we learn there is no final exam. The scripture tells us the devil “departed from him until an opportune time.” There will be another test after this one. You will do just fine on that one, too. Don’t let your heart be troubled, and do not be afraid. You have Jesus. You have the scriptures. You have your brothers and sisters in Christ. You have faith. You’re going to ace this.

God’s peace to you, my friend, during this season of Lent. May the disciplines of Lent draw you closer to God and to yourself.

 

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[i] Yup. Got a big, fat “F” on this one. Fortunately, so did many of my classmates. Dr. Reumann—a great believer in grace—re-weighted his exam to give more credit for the numerous definitions portion of the test and less to the massive essay on the possible theories of the Fourth Gospel’s origin. I’d managed to remember just enough of the later part to get snuck up into a passing grade.

[ii] I remembered in John 6:6 Jesus jerks Philip around by asking him how he thinks 5,000 people are going to get fed. The verse says, “He said this to test him.” The word peirasmos is used in this passage for “test,” so I’m assuming it’s the preferred reading of the word. I can feel Dr. Reumann smiling.

[iii] Luke 3:22

Who Do You Want to Be? (Reflections on Ash Wednesday, 2025)

 

“Beware of practicing your righteousness before others in order to be seen by them, for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 6:1)

Lent always begins with something uncomfortable. “Remember,” we are told, “that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” It’s the same thing God told Adam back in Genesis 19:3 when he and his woman were expelled from Paradise.

On Ash Wednesday death takes center stage. In his classic theology, The Cost of Discipleship, the German Lutheran pastor and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” This annual remembrance of our mortality, the black smudge we receive on our foreheads, shaped in a cross, the symbol of humankind’s obscene talent for cruelty and murder, the recitation of David’s penitent Psalm, are all meant to remind us of what Bonhoeffer called “costly grace.”

Costly grace isn’t some reward bestowed because we’ve piled up enough godly works or avoided anything our world might see as grossly sinful. A reliance on our own merits only leads us to arrogance and hypocrisy. We all know that. But Bonhoeffer wanted more than just a formulaic reliance on the doctrine that God is love and will forgive all our shortcomings as often as we choose to exercise them. As a good Lutheran he believed that God’s law brings death—not because we choose to ignore the Law, but because in our frailty we can never keep it. As Jesus teaches us in the appointed Ash Wednesday Gospel (Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-21) our temptation to sin overtakes even our most pious actions and intentions. The law reminds us of our hopeless, selfish weakness and forces us to look in the mirror of our souls and see a very unflattering reflection. Our notion of ourselves as somehow special and deserving has to die so we will come weeping back to the arms of our savior in all our brittle neediness and fear. The awareness of ourselves as not being who we really want to be makes us like toddlers lost in a shopping mall, desperately crying for the secure embrace of the parent from whom we have wandered away.

The first of Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses reads, “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, ‘Repent,’ he meant for the entire life of a believer to be one of repentance.” He explained in the Small Catechism that we are to die every day to sin and be raised again to newness of life.[i]

If pondering our own death leads us to ponder our life, I’d ask you to think of the turning points in your personal journey which made you who you are today. I would be willing to wager that there was some kind of death connected to those moments. Perhaps it was the death of one of your parents. Sadly, at times, it’s the death of a child or a close friend. It could be the loss of a relationship, or a job, or a dream.

When everything we think we are is stripped away, when, as Shakespeare said, “nothing can we call our own but death, and that small model of the barren earth which serves as paste and cover to our bones,” we still return to Christ. It was the death and resurrection of Jesus which made the disciples die to the notion of who they wanted Jesus to be and rise to live as God intended them to be.

There’s a story (perhaps apocryphal, I don’t know) about Luther teaching his Wittenberg students about the power of God’s grace triumphing over the demands of the Law. Supposedly, a stunned student asked the professor, “Doctor Luther, does that mean we can do anything we want to do?” To which Luther replied, “Yes! But what do you want to do?”

What do you want to do? Who do you want to be? Who does Jesus say you are? The Gospel text—even for such a solum day as Ash Wednesday—gives us courage. Jesus says to us, “Whenever you give alms, whenever you pray, whenever fast.” He doesn’t say, “If you give alms, if you pray, if you fast.” He assumes we are people willing to exercise the desire and effort of discipleship. He knows we want to die to our old frustrations, selfishness, and guilt so we can rise every day to seek his will through generosity and compassion, confession and forgiveness, and renunciation of those things which curve us in on ourselves and keep us from experiencing a relationship with God.

God’s Holy Spirit be with us during this Lenten season, that we all may say in our hearts with Saint Paul, “…living is Christ, and dying is gain.[ii]”

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[i] See section IV of Luther’s explanation of the Sacrament of Holy Baptism in his Small Catechism.

[ii] Philippians 1:21.

A Sign of...What? (Reflections on the Feast of the Transfiguration, Year C 2025)

 

Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” (Luke 9:35)

Have you ever had an out-of-the-body experience? I can’t say that I have but I feel like the Gospel lesson for the Feast of the Transfiguration of Our Lord (Luke 9:28-43a) describes what it must be like to be transported out of oneself into the realm of God’s mystery. Here we have Jesus, Peter, James, and John off on a prayer retreat on a mountaintop. Luke tells us that, while Jesus was praying, his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. I don’t think this passage is really about what happened to Jesus. I think it’s about the effect this moment had on his disciples.

Peter, James, and John—without the benefit of ingesting any really funky mushrooms—were transported out of this earthly kingdom and given a glimpse of heaven. They beheld their friend and rabbi in his glorified form, glowing brilliantly like a halogen headlamp and in the company of two heroes of the Jewish faith who had already passed into God’s presence. They got this little, tiny peek at eternity. You have to wonder what they were feeling when they experienced it. When the curtain closed, they seemed to have been too overwhelmed to even speak about it. But I’ll bet they knew something was up.

This was a moment of transition. But was it the beginning of the end or just the end of the beginning?

We in the Church celebrate this story of Christ’s divine manifestation as the last Sunday in the Epiphany season. On Wednesday the holy season of Lent will begin. In Luke’s Gospel, the vison on the Mount of the Transfiguration comes before Jesus’ prediction about his own betrayal, the journey to Jerusalem, and his appointment with the cross. In our natural world in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s a time when winter is coming to an end, but spring hasn’t yet begun.

So, Peter, James, and John come down the mountain having had this vision and not knowing what it might mean. They know a change is coming, but they can’t quite get their mental fishnets over it. Something is about to happen, just not quite yet. Back on level ground stuff is still pretty much the same. A dad needs healing for his son. Their nine colleagues still seem inept and clueless. Even Jesus is starting to wonder how long this period is going to last. They feel the change, but they’re as much in the fog as they were up on that cloudy mountain.

Do you ever feel that way yourself? Do you ever get the feeling that something is about to end, or something is about to start, or your life’s about to change in some way? Sometimes we feel in our flesh that the pages of our lives are turning. You’re almost out of school but you wonder where your education will take you. Is it time to get married? Have a baby? Change jobs? Do you need to cut something or someone loose from your life? Is it time to move or to downsize? Wouldn’t it be swell if God just sent you a postcard informing you what’s about to happen and what choice you ought to make about it?

Unfortunately, God doesn’t always work like that. God nudges us with the prickly notion that times are shifting but doesn’t provide us with a crystal ball to see how or why or when. In the Church and in our nation we sense and see the change. This is a moment of transformation. Will the Christan faith adapt and grow even as churches are closing? Will America fall into a Philly-sized sink hole of rot and decay, or are we on the cusp of our finest hour?

Fortunately, we are still provided with those momentary glimpses of God’s control and goodness every time we choose to worship together, to sit with one another in the light of God’s redeeming grace, to pray for and with each other, and to come in both joy and humility to the table of our Lord to be assured that this is, indeed, our Father’s world.

The change which was immediately in front of the disciples was not going to be a day at Disneyland. There would be persecution, betrayal by one of their own, fear, dissention, and torture and death for the teacher they so dearly loved. But in the end, it would all be worth it.

How do we navigate through this liminal time we find ourselves in? We can start by doing what Jesus took his friends up the mountain to do—pray. We can also do what the voice from the cloud directed—listen to Jesus. In these past Sundays of the Epiphany season Jesus has told us to speak good news, prepare ourselves for rejection, keep fishing for people, lift up the poor, give to those in need, and love our enemies. We can also continue to partake of the transformational nature of God’s love by gathering as a family in God’s house every week.

Everything transitions but the love, grace, and promise of God.

Hang in there, and please come visit me again.

When Your Family Members Act Stupid (Reflections on Epiphany 7, Year C 2025)

 

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.” (Luke 6:37)

Okay. Nobody’s family is perfect. I won’t say my own family was completely dysfunctional, but I can’t help but recall a troubled time in my youth when my dad, being out of work, fell prey to a multi-level marketing operation. For at least a year in the history of the Griffiths clan my parents were suckered into a combination religious cult and Ponzi scheme. The outfit which seduced my unemployed pater promised to save the world through its health food, vitamin supplements, and non-toxic cleaning products. It also promised that—if the Old Man could sell enough of their stuff and convince others to sell it too—he could get stinking rich in no time. The company offered the perfect incentive of altruism mixed with greed.

So, for over a year or so, my sisters and I were subject to our parents’ holier-than-off-the-retail-shelf zeal about these wonderful supplements and cleansers and were forced to partake of supposedly healthy snacks and protein drinks. For kids raised on Fruit Loops and Coco Puffs, this was like asking us to eat spoonsfull of dirt. Fortunately, my dad realized that he wasn’t cut out to be a hustling salesman, and the spell was broken. I never found out how much money he lost on that deal.

Everybody’s family has some embarrassing moments in their history. Yours does too. If you ever feel uneasy about the people who raised you, I suggest you start reading the Book of Genesis beginning at chapter 12. There you’ll find the stories of the Great Patriarchs of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic faiths, and—in case you think your family is messed up—you’ll be the Brady Bunch compared to folks God called to be a blessing to the nations.

In the First Lesson for Epiphany 7, Year C in the Revised Common Lectionary (Genesis 45:3-11, 15), we get the culmination of the story of Jacob’s children. Jacob was married to two wives simultaneously. This was the result of some treachery practiced on him by his own uncle. He slept with both wives and with their lady’s maids and had children with all four women. Unfortunately, he only really loved one of the women and favored her son, Joseph, over all his other progeny. This caused the boy’s jealous brothers to want him dead. In an act of forbearance, however, they decided only to sell their brother into slavery in a foreign land and tell their Old Man the kid was eaten by a lion. I guess they thought that was the decent way of getting rid of a sibling they hated.

Fast forward several years, and a famine strikes the land of Israel. Joseph, through a lot of adventures I won’t go into, has become the Prime Minister of Egypt. His ten treacherous brothers come down to Egypt looking to buy grain and don’t recognize this aristocratic Egyptian as the brother they betrayed. Joseph now has his enemies in his clutches, but he finds out from them that his kid brother, Benjamin (the younger son of his birth mother), is still living with Dad back in the land of Canaan. Joseph decides against having his ten brothers executed as spies but tricks them into going back to Canaan and bringing Benjamin with them. When they return with the boy Joseph frames Benjamin for theft so he can keep him with him in Egypt. One of Joseph’s older brothers, Judah, then makes a rather selfless move. He tells the Egyptian bigwig that their aging father will die of a broken heart if Benjamin doesn’t come home to him. He then offers to stay in Egypt as Joseph’s slave in order to let his little half-brother go free.

This heroic offer touches Joseph. He has an attack of conscience, reveals his true identity to his brothers, forgives them for their past dirty deeds, and offers to move them and their father down to Egypt to escape the hard economic times and enjoy his wealth and good fortune. Forgiveness and reconciliation save God’s chosen people and Genesis concludes on a pretty cheerful note. Roll the credits.

Unfortunately, not every family’s saga ends happily ever after. There are some hurts which just can’t be swept aside so easily. There are children estranged from parents and siblings who won’t speak to each other. There are wounds which go so deep they just can’t be brushed off, and Jesus’ admonition in the Gospel Lesson (Luke 6:27-38) about loving enemies, praying for abusers, and turning the other cheek may sound empty, impossible, or even stupid to some people.

When we’re trapped in these inter-personal animosities, I think there are three things to consider. The first is empathy. Before we decide to curse someone into the fires of Hell, it might be a good idea to try to understand what lies beneath their actions or words. It might be fear or hurt. Knowing this, of course, doesn’t excuse the behavior of an abuser, but it might have a softening effect on those who are abused.

(I was, of course, only kidding earlier about my parents’ crazy embrace of the multi-level marketing scam. My sisters and I never considered we were ever abused. But, as I muse on this episode, I realize that every stupid thing we’ve ever done must’ve seemed like a good idea at the time. My folks were the product of their own time and upbringing. They’d lived through the Great Depression, and they had no desire to relive it.)

The real goal for all of us should be reconciliation. If you were Joseph and you saw the brother who had betrayed you become Benjamin’s protector—sacrificing himself to protect your little brother and your dad, you might come to believe that he’s seen the error of his ways. True reconciliation comes with repentance. An honest “I’m sorry” is just as important as an “I forgive you.” But it’s hard to bring someone to contrition if you’ve constantly got them on the defensive. That’s why empathy is so important.

Finally, a time comes when we need to practice some self-love. President Nixon famously said in his farewell to the White House staff, “Others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. And when you do, you destroy yourself.” Despite its historical irony, this was a very wise remark. Contrition is important for forgiveness, but not necessary. There are times when reconciliation is just not possible. Still, we choose to forgive because holding onto hatred is poisonous to our souls.

What would Jesus do? What would he have us do? This passage from Luke speaks for itself.

Think of others, my friend. Be open to forgiveness. Thanks for letting me share.

Who Are We Blessing and Cursing? (Reflections on Epiphany 6, Year C 2025)

 They had come to hear him and to be healed of their diseases, and those who were troubled with unclean spirits were cured. And everyone in the crowd was trying to touch him, for power came out from him and healed all of them. (Luke 6:18-19)

They came to Jesus to be healed of their diseases. I hope none of you suffer from diseases this winter, but we’ve been warned there’s a pretty nasty flu virus going around. Of course, you can always get a flu shot and try to protect yourself.

If, however, you happen to be in the Republic of the Congo, you might not be so fortunate. There’s an absolutely deadly strain of M pox running loose in that population with no vaccine available to stop it. Up in Uganda there’s an outbreak of Ebola, but no vaccine will be coming for those people. An unelected foreign national who has somehow gained influence over the United States government considers inoculating Ugandans and Congolese and stopping the Ebola or M pox spread falls under the category of fraud, waste, and abuse.

I think I hear what Jesus is saying in the Gospel lesson for Epiphany 6, Year C (Luke 6:17-26). He’s expressing God’s love for the poor—a love emphasized over and over again in Luke’s Gospel. But I also hear what this current moment in our nation’s history is saying, and it’s very different. When I read the news coming out of Washington, I’m hearing the opposite of what Jesus is teaching:

Woe to you who are poor, for your poverty is none of our concern.

Woe to you who are hungry, for we won’t be sending you any more food.

Woe to you who weep now, for you will go on weeping. You will catch preventable diseases, and your children will die of malnutrition because the wealthiest man in the world has decided your lives aren’t important.

And woe to you who are criticized and reviled for preaching the word of God. There will be a resolution presented before the House of Representatives to condemn your sermon as a “distorted message.[i]” A disgraced army officer will go on social media and accuse your denomination of laundering money. The grant money appropriated to you by the US Congress for non-religious humanitarian work will be called “illegal[ii].”

But blessed are you who are rich. You will get even richer.

Blessed are you who are full now, for there’s a big, fat permanent tax break coming your way.

Blessed are you who are laughing now, for you are now in charge.

Blessed are you when all speak well of you, for you have really put one over on the suckers.

I struggle with this message. I have a definite conflict between honoring my ordination vow to preach the truth and stand up for the poor and the marginalized, and my responsibility as a parish pastor to provide a calm and safe worship experience which allows my congregation to come quietly into the presence of God—blessedly free of controversy or anything upsetting. I guess the first duty won out this time.

I’m not trying to make people angry like the Howard Beal character in that old movie Network. In fact, I think anger, no matter how righteous, is often counterproductive. I’m not even telling you to go out and protest—at least not yet. But I am trying to say that what is happening in Washington—the arbitrary withholding of humanitarian funds and the shutdown of the United States Agency for International Development—is a direct contradiction of the Holy Scriptures.

Luke’s Gospel is full of references to economic justice. The Virgin Mary sings of God’s regard for the poor (1:46-55). Jesus tells the parable of the rich man and Lazarus (16:19-31), in which a man wastes food but lets a beggar starve. Even dogs show the poor man more compassion than does the wealthy man. But when they both die, the poor man is carried away to the bosom of Father Abraham. The rich man is in torment in hades and is reminded by Abraham that he had Moses and the prophets to teach him about compassion. Jesus tells the parable of the rich fool (12:13-21) as a warning against greed. Perhaps the most obvious example of all is the parable of the Good Samaritan (10:25-37) in which we are reminded to love our neighbor as ourselves by showing mercy. Jesus tells us, “Go and do likewise.”

Many states of our Union have laws against ignoring or refusing aid to those in emergency situations. To hear a cry for help and refuse to respond is called depraved indifference. The laws against such indifference are often referred to as “Good Samaritan Laws,” a reference to the teachings of Jesus.

I dearly hope the federal courts will put a stop to the impounding of funds intended to aid the needy in the US and around the world. Let’s pray this will come to pass. In the meantime, we will continue to do what we do. We will not withhold generosity or compassion. We will continue to support Feast of Justice and continue our sponsorship of two school children in Latin America. We’ll take up our special offerings and support the work of our Synod. And we will continue to pray “Thy kingdom come; thy will be done.”

Luther reminds us:

“God’s good and gracious will comes about without our prayers, but we ask in this prayer that it may also come about in and among us.”[iii]

Keep praying. Keep your hearts open. Keep seeking God’s will. It’s more important now than ever.

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[i] See https://www.congress.gov/bill/119th-congress/house-resolution/59

[ii] See https://clintschnekloth.substack.com/p/musk-and-flynns-attack-on-lutheran?

[iii] Luther’s Small Catechism, explanation to the Third Petition.

Tips for Fishing for People (Reflections on Epiphany 5, Year C 2025)

5 Once while Jesus[a] was standing beside the Lake of Gennesaret and the crowd was pressing in on him to hear the word of God, 2 he saw two boats there at the shore of the lake; the fishermen had gotten out of them and were washing their nets. 3 He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. 4 When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” 5 Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” 6 When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to burst. 7 So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. 8 But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’s knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” 9 For he and all who were with him were astounded at the catch of fish that they had taken, 10 and so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” 11 When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him. (Luke 5:1 – 11)

Like all ELCA Lutheran clergy, part of my seminary training involved three months of institutional chaplain experience called Clinical Pastoral Education or CPE.[i] I was fortunate to be accepted to do my CPE in the Ivy League at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. At the time the Chief of Chaplains at Penn was a modest but extremely insightful United Methodist pastor named Ralph Ciampa. As a CPE trainer, Pastor Ciampa would frequently accompany student chaplains as they visited with the patients and would help these students process the experience of ministry to those suffering from serious illness. If a student asked Pastor Ciampa “How did I do?” the Chief of Chaplains would turn the question back on the student by asking “What were you trying to do?”

I think—don’t you?—that it’s important for us in any ministry endeavor to know what our goals are. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before in this blog, a big fat chunk of my ministry (sort of my “side hustle” if you will) is officiating funeral services for the unchurched in my community. Over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at it, and I suspect one of the reasons is because I know what I’m trying to do with this ministry. I’m not trying to give closure, because I don’t believe one should ever want to close the books on someone they loved. I do, however, want mourners to know their loved ones’ life mattered, that they have permission—healthy permission—to grieve, that the one they love is in God’s loving hands, and that they are not alone in their grief as others have come to support them and honor the deceased with them. I also want to use the opportunity of a memorial service to teach the assembled a little bit about the Christian faith. After all, as a disciple of Jesus, I’ve been called to “fish for people.”

Don’t get me wrong. My memorial services aren’t a Billy Graham Crusade. There isn’t an altar call, and I don’t try to pray everyone into Heaven. I’m even pretty uncomfortable with a doctrine which says, “Believe in Jesus or burn in Hell.” I mean, who are we to decide whom God will receive into God’s loving arms?

No. If we’re going to fish for people, we’d best be sure of the sort of bait we use. I’m pretty sure that fear of Hell and damnation aren’t the best ways to express the love of Christ, and I think sharing that love is what we’re really trying to do.

I’ll grant many of us look at this fishing expedition with some reluctance. Well, get in line. Isaiah in our First Lesson for Epiphany 5 in the Revised Common Lectionary (Isaiah 6:1-13) is not a little uncomfortable being a man of unclean lips in the presence of Almighty God. Not only did he feel unworthy of God’s commission, but I’ll also bet he was afraid of being squashed like an ant on the sidewalk by a just and powerful deity. God, however, had other ideas. God knows a good potential prophet when God sees one.

Ditto our old friend, Simon Peter in the Gospel Lesson (above). Peter must’ve though he was the last person who could be of any use to Jesus or the Kingdom of God. Granted, he had to live with Jesus for about three years and make a bunch of mistakes. He almost drowned[ii], he got called “Satan” [iii], and he denied he even knew Jesus when his rabbi got arrested.[iv]. It finally took Jesus’ resurrection and the anointing of the Holy Spirit[v] to get this guy into the preaching mode. Fortunately, Peter, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit stuck it out, and this fragile and very human former fisherman became the fisher of people Jesus always knew he would be.

I suspect a lot of us may not be feeling the call to be ambassadors for Christ. Many in our pews are older adults. We’ve had all the kids and grandkids we’re going to have, and we’ve made all the friends we’re going to make. Our mission field—the lake in which we might fish—seems pretty small these days. But remember, we’re not being called to build churches or fill pews. We’re being called to proclaim the goodness and love of the Lord. You may have an influence of which you are not aware. Often, after I’ve preached a memorial homily, people will approach me and ask where my parish is and if they can have a card or some information about worshiping there. I always oblige them, but truth be told, rarely do they ever show up on a Sunday morning. But that’s okay. If they’ve heard the love of God, if their consciences have been moved, if they’ve become inclined to pray a little more, or even if they only feel for an instant that they are part of God’s loving embrace, I may have done my job.

You don’t have to be Billy Graham or a TikTok influencer to fish for people. The bait you throw out to hungry human fish is the love of God you carry in your heart. It’s your willingness to forgive, listen, and understand. It’s your generosity to those in need and the simple help, the quotidian favors and kindnesses you give to your neighbors. It’s your joy in the abundance of God and the gratitude people see in your life regardless of your circumstances or the world’s selfish expectations. It’s the way you endure your hardships, and the way you say—without proselytizing, shaming, or expecting anything—“I am a Christian.”

I am reminded of a famous quote from the poet Mya Angelou:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Keep fishing, my friend. You might be better at it than you know.

  

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[i] This was sometimes called Cruel Perverted Experience by some seminarians.

[ii] See Matthew 14:28-33.

[iii] See Matthew 16:21-23 and Mark 8:31-33.

[iv] See Matthew 26:69-75, Mark 14:66-72, Luke 22:56-62, and John 18:25-27. This was a pretty big embarrassment for old Simon P. You think?)

[v] See Acts chapter 2.

What Are You Waiting For? (Reflections on the Presentation of Our Lord, 2025)

 

"The Presentation of Our Lord" (Bartolomeo, It. 1516)

“…for my eyes have seen your salvation…” (Luke 2:30a)

So what are you waiting for? We spend a big chunk of our lives waiting, don’t you think? When you’re a kid you can’t wait to grow up. You wait for Christmas, or for graduation, or for your first car. We anxiously count down the days until a baby is born. We wait for the opportunity to get that new job, or for escrow to close on our home, or for retirement, or the birth of a grandchild.

Sometimes there are things we hope we can see before we die. It might be something that’s just silly, like one more Super Bowl victory for our favorite team. Or it might be something which is deeply impacting. We want our child to get out of rehab and assure us he’s on the right track in life. We want to see a certain project come to completion and know our work has not been in vain. We want to patch things up with an estranged loved one. Then we can die in peace.

For some of us, we’re waiting for the world to change.

IN the gospel lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary appointed for the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord (Luke 2:22-40), we see two seniors who’ve been hanging around the temple in Jerusalem, praying and waiting for God to do God’s thing and restore a broken nation. The Bible says Simeon—a pretty darn good old dude who was righteous and devout—was “looking forward to the consolation of Israel.” That is, he was waiting for some word of comfort for his people. Anna, the octogenarian widow, wanted to share the Good News of Jesus’ birth with those who were looking for “the redemption of Jerusalem.”

These two geezers wanted to see things put right. They loved the Lord, and they knew from their youth what God desires. It must’ve been hard for them to live under Roman occupation, knowing a pagan dictator was calling the shots in the land that had been promised to their ancestor Abraham and his descendants. They must’ve grieved the violence with which the Romans kept order and the violence with which the Zealots opposed that order. They must’ve seen the greed and corruption of the temple officials and the hypocrisy of the Pharisees. I’ll bet they felt their own identity as God’s Chosen People had been poisoned by a fractured and godless world.

But then a young couple came to the temple, showing devotion to God by observing the customs of the faith. And they had with them a little baby boy who was to be presented to the Lord.

A quick word, if I may, about this practice of presentation and purification. Jesus would’ve been circumcised on the eighth day after his birth, but Mary wouldn’t be able to go to the temple or synagogue for another 33 days under Levitical law. Because the ancient Hebrews had a thing about blood, women who had given birth—and you must admit we all came into this world in a pretty messy way—were deemed to be ritually unclean until 33 days after the birth of their son. If Jesus had been born a girl, Mary would have to wait 66 days (Go figure!). Mosaic law decreed that the firstborn of anyone—be they human or animal—was to be presented as an offering to the Lord. Naturally, one would not want to give away their child, so parents could present their firstborn and redeem him with a burnt offering of a goat and a sin offering of a turtle dove or a pigeon. If the couple were poor and couldn’t afford a goat, two pigeons were the discount rate. [i]

There are some things about this passage which I find rather touching. The first is that Mary and Joseph were obviously poor because they paid the poor peoples’ rate—two pigeons to redeem the Savior of the world. I also love the image of this old guy, Simeon, holding up the baby boy like a proud grandpa seeing the next generation of his family name. He knows this child is the representation of his hope. The Holy Spirit has called him to the temple to meet the one who will lift up the oppressed and put the arrogant in their place. Of course, as Simeon tells Mary, this isn’t going to be a day at the beach for Jesus. He will be opposed—and, indeed, continues to be. The Good News doesn’t mean the absence of suffering.

I also love Anna. I’ve known so many Annas in my time—little widow ladies who love their place of worship, never miss a Sabbath service, serve on altar guilds and sing in choirs and send out birthday cards and anniversary cards to folks in the congregation. The Church thrives on the faithfulness of all the Annas and on their prayers. They are the ones who have lived patient lives and can speak with authority about the goodness of the Lord.

Anna and Simeon won’t live to hear Jesus preach or see him perform miraculous healings. But they live knowing God has not abandoned them. They keep believing in the righteousness which is to come.

I am reminded of Dr. Martin Luther’s King’s last sermon, often called “The Mountaintop Speech,” which ended in a rhetorical flourish:

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life; longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land! I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land! So I'm happy tonight, I'm not worried about anything! I'm not fearing any man! Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!

Dr. King was assassinated the day after he made this speech.

Perhaps we all are waiting for those things we might not get to see—an answer to climate change, a lasting peace in the world, an end to poverty and gun violence, a renaissance for the American Christan Church or whatever it is that touches your heart right now. We may not see it come to pass, but we have seen the Light of the World. We have heard the voice of Jesus, and we still believe in our hearts.

The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of the Lord stands forever. (Isaiah 40:8)

Peace be with you, my friend.

 

 

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[i] See Leviticus 12. A famous exception to this rule was made by Hannah in 1 Samuel 1:1 – 2:11. She wanted a child so badly she was willing to give her son, Samuel, to serve in the temple as soon as he was old enough. The command to give the firstborn is found in Genesis 17:10-12.