RIP Lindsey Graham (Reflections on Pentecost 8, Year A 2026)

 

“Let both of them grow together until the harvest…” (Matthew 13: 29a)

The South Carolina Republican senator Lindsey Graham passed away last week and the media has been full of tributes to the senator’s storied career. You may have divined that the late senator and I might not have been in agreement on some issues; nevertheless, the reminiscences of his senate colleagues seem to suggest that—politics aside—old Lindsey was a pretty good dude. Republicans and Democrats alike testify that he was mostly friendly and apparently blessed with a tremendous sense of humor which made him great company. I certainly admire the fact that he served in the United States Air Force, and after tragically losing his parents at a very young age, he took charge of his little sister and raised her himself. That’s pretty impressive and certainly worthy of praise. We all have our opinions and we don’t all get along all the time, but rarely do we encounter anyone who is 100% saint or 100% jerk. We’re all a mixture of wheat and weeds.

As a pastor who does a lot of neighborhood funerals, I’m always amazed when I pray over the remains of talented, intelligent, sweet, caring, sensitive people are also alcoholics or drug addicts or who have taken their own lives. Why is it that those who have been blessed by God with so many gifts also cause the ones who love them so much pain?

Shakespeare famously wrote, “The evil that man do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones[i],” but, in my experience, the opposite has been true. It seems people are far more forgiving, far more ready to give the benefit of the doubt, far more willing to cling to the virtuous wheat of our lives and cast the uncomfortable weeds into the fire.

I think that’s the takeaway from the Gospel Lesson for Pentecost 8, Year A in the RCL (Matthew 13: 24-30, 36-43). If we take this reading on its face, we may superficially summarize it as “Someday there will be a Day of Judgment and good people like me will go to Heaven, and bad people will go to Hell.” I think we need to dig a little deeper into the text. Smart Bible scholar guys think Matthew, our Gospel writer (whoever he was), was writing to a community of early Christians who were living under some real nasty persecution[ii]. Some members of the community might’ve felt the pressure to abandon this Christianity stuff and accommodate themselves to the local culture. You know. They chose to go along to get along. You can’t really blame them, can you? I mean, if someone told you to abandon your faith or lose your life or go to jail or get fired from your job, what do you think you’d do? We all think we’d choose martyrdom, but if it came right down to it…?

Scholarly dudes[iii] point out the parable of the wheat and the weeds appears in Matthew and also in the gnostic gospel of Thomas. Thomas, which may be an older source, doesn’t include any explanation, so we wouldn’t be blamed if we guessed that Matthew made up the gloss in verses 36-43 to speak to his own community. You can imagine the burning question this nascent church had about its members. “If someone denies the faith, do they go to Hell? If that coward turned his back on our community, should we ever let him back in? Are there people in our church we can’t trust?”

Matthew uses the parable of the wheat and the weeds to remind his folks that there will always be good folks and not so good folks living together, but it’s not our place to say who is worthy and who isn’t. Any crusade to root out the slimeballs from the devout is only going to ruin the community. Playing ecclesiastic gestapo is the surest way to destroy a church.

I don’t think the parable need be only about the community of believers. The wheat field could relate to our own lives. Each of us has good and bad growing side-by-side. We know Luther’s doctrine of simul justus et peccator—simultaneously righteous and sinner. Even Luther himself had his own emotional weeds growing among the wheat of his intellect and compassion. He was a gifted teacher and theologian who deeply cared for the souls of his people. He could be extravagantly generous and at the same time short-tempered, caustic, stubborn, and obnoxious when people didn’t see things his way.

The parable encourages us to be a little more charitable in our judgments, but it also offers us the promise that a day will come when God will erase every flaw sown by our sinful nature. Someday our guilt will be absolved, our sin forgotten, and our defects burned away. Every cause of shame and everything we hate about ourselves will no longer burden us. It will all be forgiven when we enter into the Father’s glory.

I may not have agreed with Lindsey Graham’s politics, but when the day comes when I meet him, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.

Peace be with you, my friend. Please come and see me again.

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[i] That’s in Julius Caesar Act 3 sc. 2 for you Shakespeare geeks.

[ii] See Griffith-Jones, Robin, The Four Witnesses (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2000).

[iii] I’m relying here on one of my favorite “go-to” sources: Funk, Robt. W. et al, The Five Gospels (New York: Macmillan Publishing, 1993).

Who Will Say What Needs to be Said?

 What follows is not a reflection on the Bible or a sermon. It's just something which has been on my mind, and I needed to say it. 

When I was a kid, we said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning in school. We followed the Pledge with the singing of a patriotic song like “God Bless America” or “America the Beautiful,” and we all knew the words by heart. I read Captain America comic books and watched Combat and The Rat Patrol on TV. I was proud of the way Americans—my own father included—had fought victoriously against the evils of fascism. I believed that the Americans fighting in Vietnam were battling for a virtuous cause against the forces of oppression. I saw public service announcements urging us to donate to Radio Free Europe or join the Peace Corp so the benefits of American democracy could be shared with everyone all around the globe. Our nation was on a moral mission, and it meant something to be an American. Something noble. We were the Good Guys.

Never, in those innocent days, would I have imagined America would be the aggressor. I believed we’d live up to our moral responsibility to openly oppose totalitarian regimes, to uphold international law, and to be an open hand of mercy to smaller nations struggling out of the swamps of poverty. Never could I imagine that my country—whose ideals I’d been taught in school—would sow economic chaos around the world, show a callous and depraved indifference to human suffering by cutting off life-saving food and medical aid, cozy up to ruthless dictators, abandon our friends in their time of need, insult allies who’d come to our own aid, murder foreign nationals on the high seas without proof of their committing any crime, invade the territory of a sovereign nation and overturn its government, and start a war without first being attacked. Never could I imagine the United States would change from being the defender of democracy to the world’s bully.

But here we are. My question is: Where will we go from here? A time will come, whether it be by an impeachment and removal or simply by the expiration of his term of office, when Donald Trump will be no more. What will the United States do then? As a Christian clergyman I believe absolution requires contrition. Will the next American president have the moral courage to apologize to the world for the damage we have done?

I say “we,” because I believe our nation bears a collective guilt which can’t simply be blamed on one man. After the shameful attack on the U.S. Capital on January 6, 2021—an attack instigated by the defeated president himself—it should have been unmistakably clear to anyone with eyes that there was no depth of perfidy to which Trump was unwilling to sink in order to retain power, continue to profit off his office, and perpetuate his self-delusion that he was qualified to govern this nation. We saw in that moment who he was and what he was capable of doing, and yet we returned him to office four years later. Since then, many of the representatives we have elected have become his myrmidons and have done virtually nothing to halt his rapine and criminality.

I believe America owes the people of the world an apology. If we are unwilling to take responsibility for what our government has done and is doing, we will never regain our standing in the community of nations. Who will be the leader who is willing to make confession and ask for absolution? Will our next president be willing to admit defeat in our conflict with Iran? Will he or she apologize to the families of the service members we’ve lost and to the people of Iran for the civilian deaths caused by this illegal and unnecessary conflict? Will America be willing to face the International Court of Justice and abide by penalties imposed? Could our next president stand before the United Nations General Assembly and ask the world’s forgiveness, understanding that we have lost the trust of other nations and that we must earn our way back into their fellowship? Can we admit that we have forfeited our position of leadership in the free world, and that we must commit to humble cooperation if we wish to regain it?

Or will we simply jut out our chin and pretend the people of the world have not seen what we know they saw?

Who is that man or woman willing to do the unpleasant and distasteful task of acknowledging our errors and seeking reconciliation? Who will have the integrity to call our land to repentance? Doubtless the president who is willing to speak the embarrassing truth will invite vitriolic condemnation. He or she will be accused of hating America or even of treason. Such sincere humility may be political poison, but I believe it will be one of the greatest acts of statesmanship in modern times—and an absolute necessity.

Keep Seeding (Reflections on Pentecost 7, Year A 2026)

 

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven

    and do not return there until they have watered the earth,

making it bring forth and sprout,

    giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,

so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;

    it shall not return to me empty,

but it shall accomplish that which I purpose

    and succeed in the thing for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:10-11)

Can I just say that I’ve found lawn care to be one of the most anxiety-producing responsibilities of home ownership? I have been locked in mortal combat with spotted spurge, dandelions, mushrooms, and a plethora of diabolical vegetation answering to the description of “weeds.” I constantly face the conundrum of watering. When to water? How much to water? Is my irrigation sensor working? 

Last fall the Bride and I sowed some grass seed on our lawn. Heat or fungus or some insidious blight or other turned the fecund green of our lawns to a sickly brown, requiring us to shell out about nine hundred bucks to have seed scattered and sown in hope of reviving the lawn to something approaching health. Wouldn’t you know it? Just as the seeds were starting to sprout, the landscaping company that services our development sent some bovine-brained Gen-Zee on an ATV to treat all our lawns with weedkiller. This wannabe Evel Knievel did a doughnut on our front lawn and tore up a good patch of recently seeded grass.

Recently, as I did my morning chore of pulling up the mushrooms which are sucking the nutrients away from my poor lawn, I asked myself, “Why? Why don’t I run up the white flag and surrender? Why don’t I just let this lawn go and do its own thing? Why can’t I let what will grow grow and what will die die? Who says I should try to control nature?”

The answer, of course, is my HOA. They want everyone’s lawn to look like the eighteenth green at Augusta, and they send you an intimidating letter if your lawn doesn’t measure up. So I guess I’ll be scattering more seed this year. But that’s okay. I’ve come to a place of peace with this. All I can do is scatter the seed. It’s God who gives the growth.

I love Jesus’ parable of the sower which we hear again as the Gospel lesson for Pentecost 7, Year A (Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23) because it’s really a tale of hope. The “seed” is a metaphor for God’s word, and Jesus assumes that some of this seed is going to take root. It’s a mistake to dwell on the seed that doesn’t seem to be germinating when every seed has the potential for growth.

Saint Paul taught us that faith comes from what is heard.[i] No one hears the Word unless we proclaim it. If we’re to cast ourselves in this parable, we’re the sower of the seed. We can scatter the seed through public proclamation, but we also scatter it through our actions and our demeanor. When we do works of charity, when we show patience and forbearance, when we forgive, we are sowers of the seed. We sow when we are advocates for justice for the poor and marginalized, when we are neighbors, and when we show welcome and inclusion. I would hazard to guess that for everyone who is drawn on a Sunday morning to hear more of God’s Word there was a person in the past whose kindness or empathy or sense of internal peace was a seed of inspiration. Can you think of anyone who embodied the Word of God in your life? I can.

The Word of God is a word of love and forgiveness and healing. In the words and works of Jesus we learn and are called to love, patience, acceptance, compassion, mercy, sacrifice, and faith in eternal life. God’s Word is God’s work. When that seed takes root in our hearts, we can’t help but spread it around.

I’ve joked that we at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia have been growing our Christian Education program back from seed. After the ravages of the COVID-19 pandemic our Sunday School pretty much vanished. But then, God decided to send us some infants and toddlers and a few primary grade kids. They’re too little to start reading the Bible on their own, let alone tackle the theological intricacies of the Augsburg Confession or even Luther’s Catechism. Nevertheless, our heroic Sunday School teachers—two Gen-Zees who were baptized and brought up in our congregation—are doing their best to plant the seeds of faith by involving these tykes in our Sunday liturgy. Do the kids have a sense of the sacred? Not so much yet. But they’re learning that they are welcome in church, and church is a safe and fun place to be.

Yes, I have also lamented that many of my former confirmands have shot out the door of the church right after affirming their baptism like someone was giving away Taylor Swift tickets. But some of them have stuck around. Some of them have even returned from time to time. My job is to sow the seed. I can’t force it to grow. When I do funerals for unchurched folks, I always try to explain a little about our faith. I also hand out the church’s business card to the bereaved. Do they ever come through our doors on a Sunday morning? Once in a great while someone does. But, I think, I may have just planted a seed of faith in some of the ones who don’t. That’s up to God. My job—our job—is to keep on spreading the seed.

Yes, I will probably have to reseed my lawn again this fall. My HOA will insist, so surrender is not an option. It’s not an option for Christians, either. God doesn’t give up. Neither should we. There may be a seed lying dormant under the soil, waiting to sprout in God’s good time.

I hope I’ve spread some good seed to you this week. Please come and see me again.

 

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[i] Romans 10:17

Celebrate with Kid Wisdom (Reflection on Pentecost 6, Year A 2026)

 

“I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants…” (Matthew 11:25

I love the Fourth of July. When I was a little kid, this holiday was always special to my family because my maternal grandmother, the child of German immigrants, lived with us. She’d been born in the U.S. on July 4, 1884, so Independence Day at the Griffiths home always involved a celebration. I seem to remember a picnic meal on the back patio of our Long Beach, California home. At night our neighbor, Mr. Gallagher, would set off fireworks for all the kids on our street[i]. Some of the dearest memories I have were of events on or around the Fourth of July.

This particular Independence Day is pretty special for us. It’s America’s 250^th anniversary. We’ve lasted a quarter of a millennium, and representative democracy still has a beating heart. I think that’s kind of special, don’t you?

I’ll confess I’ve had a bit of a hard time getting my “whoopie!” on this year. My anxiety for America has been crowding out my enthusiasm for her birthday. There’s this god-awful debacle in the Middle East. We’re seeing climate disasters throughout our nation which no one seems to be doing anything to address. And, even if it’s come down a smidge, the price of gas is still way too high, and a huge chunk of my pay is still going into the tank of my 2017 Corolla.

Ambivalence, however, has always been with us. Even when I was a kid watching Mr. Gallagher’s fireworks, the grown-ups were taking sides over the direction of our nation, just as grown-ups have done since Jesus’ time and before. In our Gospel lesson for Pentecost 6, Year A (Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30), Jesus expresses his own pique with a bunch of folks who’ve seen the goodness of God with their own eyes but still have to whine and bitch about something. They criticized John the Baptist. I can just imagine them saying to each other, “What’s up with this loony-toon preacher? He keeps telling us to repent and give money to the poor. We’re not made of money! We’re doing the best we can. Not everyone can live off eating bugs like this guy. And why’s he always complaining about King Herod? He’s just going to start trouble!”

They weren’t that pleased with Jesus either. Can you hear them? “Who is this Jesus dude? He’s eating with tax collectors and sinners! Why, in my day, boy howdy, when a person was ritually impure, they stayed ritually impure! And nobody healed anyone on the Sabbath. Back then we had rules, by golly, and we followed them! What’s all this mercy and forgiveness crap? In the good old days, you pulled yourself up by your sandal straps!”

You get the idea. There are some folks who don’t like to hear John preach the law or Jesus preach the Gospel. Their happy place is in the quicksand of their own critical indignation. You may have met people like this (You may have met some of them in church!).

Jesus tells us in the Gospel that wisdom sometimes is revealed to children. I think it might be a good idea sometimes to recapture a bit of childhood wisdom. While watching Mr. Gallagher’s fountain blast a geyser of multi-colored sparks over Stevely Avenue, I wasn’t thinking about the war in Vietnam or whether Humphrey or Nixon would be a better president. I just thought the display looked really cool. The Fourth of July was America’s birthday party, and birthdays are fun.

Maybe this Independence Weekend I can try to recapture a little of the joy I felt as a kid. It’s our country’s birthday, and—by the grace of God—our Republic has lasted another year. Our neighbors are still our neighbors. Even if we disagree with them, they still love their children like we do. They still take their trash out to the curb like we do. They still pay their taxes (we hope!) like we do. And they still might give us a lift if our car breaks down and we ask them nicely.

We still have hope in the ideas which founded this wacky experiment in self-governance. Mr. Jefferson—slave holder that he was—put his quill to parchment and gave us these magnificent words:

“We hold these truth to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.—That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.”

However imperfectly this idea has been realized in our 250-year history, it remains our aspiration, and one worthy of celebrating.

The Hebrew scripture lesson for Pentecost 6 is from the prophet Zechariah (Zechariah 9:9-12), a guy who found himself in a geo-political situation worse than anything we could imagine.[ii] Nevertheless, ol’ Zech had a child’s ability hope for tomorrow. He could look beyond the goat rodeo he was experiencing and see a time when peace and humility would be the order of the day, when a new King would come riding on a baby donkey. Like the prophet, let’s all keep that childhood dream alive, because God never stops being good even though we haven’t noticed the goodness. Let’s look beyond today and rejoice we are still “prisoners of hope.”

God bless America, and God bless you, my friend. Please come again.

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[i] The firework display was, technically speaking, illegal in Long Beach. Mr. Gallagher did it for years, and no one ever called the police to my knowledge.

[ii] Okay. If you’re a Bible nerd, you’ll know that the author of this lesson in chapter 9 of the book was probably writing about 100 years after the guy who penned the first eight chapters. Chapter 9 and following are known as “2^nd Zechariah.” I doubt one guy lived long enough to write both parts, and it wasn’t uncommon for writers to write in the name of their teacher or one who inspired them.

Father Knows (Reflections on Pentecost 4, Year A 2026)

"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows." (Matthew 10: 29-31)

Most smart Bible scholar folks agree that the community to whom Matthew (whoever he really was) wrote his gospel was having a pretty sucky time of it. Matthew quotes Jesus a lot on the subject of persecution. In the Gospel appointed for Pentecost 4 Year A (Matthew (10:24-39), Jesus warns his friends that people won’t always take kindly to them. Hey! If people call your rabbi “Beelzebul,” just think what they might call you! “Beelzebub” was a reference to a Canaanite deity whom the Jews referred to as the “Lord of the Flies” or the “Lord of Dung.”

There’s been a lot of talk in the U.S. lately about “anti-Christian bias.” Frankly, whenever I hear that term, I want to say, “Oh just shut up!” The folks who say this have no idea what an anti-Christian bias is. Go to North Korea if you want to see anti-Christian bias. You can be imprisoned or executed for owning a Bible in that country. Same goes for Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, and any number of countries in the Middle East or North Africa. You think it’s hard to be a Christian in America? Try being one in Palestine where you have to pass a checkpoint to get to church[i]. I’d say being a Christian in the U.S. is pretty easy.

Of course, there will always be those who will accuse the Church of hypocrisy or other acts or wrongdoing. Like trying to “Christianize” indigenous people and wipe out their culture, or being anti-LGBTQ+, or anti-woman[ii]. They may bring up some unpleasant things like the Crusades or the Inquisition or the Thirty-Years War or the Roman Catholic Church’s child sex abuse scandal. All I can say is we have been guilty as charged on all these counts, and some denominations still don’t seem to have grasped that basic “Love Thy Neighbor” thing. We should be honest about this. Jesus told us there is nothing that is covered up which will not be uncovered.

Nothing, however, should keep us from proclaiming the love of Jesus. It’s appropriate that we admit the errors of the past. An open discussion of the Church’s history could prove a very good opportunity to share the Jesus you know. The Church has managed to survive over the centuries in spite of ourselves. We’ve made it through real persecutions, barbarism, schisms, the Enlightenment, militant atheism, and our own uncanny ability to make stupid, self-serving choices. We’ve survived a whole lot of rotten stuff, but we can’t survive timid silence. Proclaiming from the housetops might be a little excessive for your average Lutheran, but a quiet discussion about what you believe and why it’s important to you might just be what someone else needs to hear.

Now let me switch gears.

In addition to being the Furth Sunday in Pentecost and the commemoration of Onesimos Nesib[iii], it’s also Father’s Day. The Gospel reading makes me think of a student a I had when I was a grad assistant at the University of Wisconsin. Brian’s dad was a lawyer, and in Madison, Wisconsin in those days for every citizen there were about four attorneys. Brian’s dad had left a government position to go into private practice, but his practice never flourished and he became depressed. Eventually he started up the family car inside a closed garage and asphyxiated himself. I have vivid memories of Brain crying on my shoulder when I came to his dad’s funeral. But Brian’s family tragedy made me more grateful for my own dad. He had his financial and employment woes too, yet, for all his faults—and he had plenty of them!—I have to give my father credit for never giving up. When he found himself laid off, he did everything he could to keep us in Fruit Loops and Hamburger Helper. He was an engineer, but he worked as a janitor. He tried a number of self-employment schemes, all of which ended rather disastrously. But, like Dickens’ Mr. Micawber, he had an unshakeable faith that something would always turn up. And it always did.

On this Father’s Day I give thanks for my illustrious Old Man whose faith and optimism often annoyed my more practical mother. I can picture him doing yard work or cooking something in the kitchen while lustily belting out one of the old gospel hymns from his Primitive Methodist childhood, and I am reminded that God knows what we need even before we know it ourselves. Even the hairs on our heads are numbered, and not a sparrow falls apart from our Heavenly Father. Our circumstances are temporary. Our citizenship in the Kingdom of Heaven is eternal.

There’s a whole lot to unpack in these fifteen verses from Matthew 10, and I could probably talk for an hour about each one (which would not set well with my congregation should I chose to do so. They have definite views about how long a sermon should be). I would sum it up, however, by saying we should be on our guard not to be lost  in the opinions of the world, but to find ourselves in the goodness of God. This we should proclaim with boldness.

Keep the faith, and come back and visit with me again.

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[i] Please pray for Natalie Abudayyah, a Palestinian Lutheran college student who was abducted from her college along with three other young women on June 1 by the IDF. She has--as far as we know—been imprisoned without any charge being filed against her and without access to an attorney. The Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan and the Holy Land has demanded her immediate release.

[ii] Yup. Just check out what the Southern Baptist Convention has done to outlaw women pastors.

[iii] Onesimos Nesib (1856-1931) was  a Ethiopian Lutheran who translated the Bible into the Oromo tribal language. The Oromo are a people of Ethiopia and Northern Kenya.

It's a Scary Job (Reflections on Pentecost 3, Year A 2026)

 

When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” (Matthew 9:36)

Did I ever tell you about this cat, Gordon Simmons? When I was a junior in seminary Pastor Gordon was held up as a paragon of evangelical ministry. He was the pastor of Reformation Lutheran Church in the East Mt. Airy neighborhood of Philadelphia, which, at the time, was the best attended ELCA congregation in the city.

The way I heard it, Gordon had a cushy job on the Synod staff, but, feeling the Holy Spirit’s call to go back into parish ministry, he took the challenging call to revive Reformation. At the time, the little Lutheran church was attended by a small handful of maybe thirty or so Caucasian Lutherans whose average age was somewhere between seventy-five and deceased. East Mt. Airy’s demographics were rapidly changing. The elegant 19^th century single family homes were being purchased by upwardly mobile African Americans whose familiarity with the great leader of the Protestant Reformation may have been limited to familiarity with the Civil Rights leader named in his honor.

Like Jesus’ disciples in the Gospel appointed for Pentecost 3 (Matthew 9:35-10:23), Gordon set out on foot to bring the Good News to the neighbors of East Mt. Airy. His ambition was to knock on every door in the 19119 zip code, and—son of a gun!—he did it! Not once, but about three times. He greeted his neighbors and asked politely if they had a place of worship. If they said no, he asked permission to visit again to tell them a little about Reformation Church. There were many who became part of Reformation’s family because of Pastor Gordon’s door-to-door approach, and many more who came when invited by those he had invited.

I don’t know that I’d ever have the guts to do the kind of “cold calling” evangelism Gordon Simmons did. If I went banging on doors in the neighborhood around my parish, I’d be afraid someone would turn the garden hose on me or meet me at the door with a Smith & Wesson. I can’t imagine embarking on the freaky and dangerous evangelism mission on which Jesus sent his twelve buddies in our Gospel lesson. I mean, how would you feel if Jesus sent you out on a mission like that?

So you’re Peter or James or one of the other guys and Jesus tells you to go knock on doors in strange villages. Imagine Jesus saying to you, “By the way, guys, you can’t take any money with you or any provisions for the road. You can’t accept any pay but a place to sleep and something to eat—if you’re lucky enough to be offered either one! Oh! And you might get beaten up for your efforts. Or arrested. Or prosecuted. Your family is probably going to hate you for this, and you just may have to run for your life from time to time. It’s also very likely that you all will be put to a grizzly, painful death before this is over. You guys okay with that? Great! Well, off you go. Good luck my dudes!”

Compared to what the disciples were asked to do, Gordon Simmons’ efforts look like a day at Disneyworld.

Nobody ever said bearing the Gospel would be easy, but I think Jesus gives us some good tips in this reading. First, Jesus tells the boys to avoid the gentiles and the Samaritans. Now, we know that Jesus doesn’t have anything against gentiles or Samaritans, but he knows they’re not real keen to welcome or entertain these Galilean Jews. He’s saying, “Don’t try talking to folks who won’t be open to listening. Go to folks with whom you have a little something in common. Go to the people you already know.”

The best way we can start proclaiming God’s love is to proclaim it to one another. Strengthen our own relationships within the congregation. Stay for coffee hour and talk to someone you don’t know very well. Then be sure to greet every newcomer with love and welcome. That’s pretty easy, even for the shy people among us.

The scary thing might be starting a conversation about faith with a neighbor or family member or co-worker. You don’t have to invite them to church, but wouldn’t it be interesting to ask them what they believe? Just listen. Get to know them better. And, as Jesus suggests, let the Holy Spirit tell you what to say.

To be honest (and I try to be), I don’t think I believe in “Evangelism Programs.” Back in 2007, being too scared to knock on doors like Pastor Gordon, I initiated a program at Faith Lutheran and mailed out invitations to 22,000 households. Out of that number, we received exactly one family (who disappeared after the youngest child made Confirmation!). Some churches will open day care centers or pre-schools or offer other programs in hopes of attracting new members. I think that’s selfish and inwardly directed. If a church offers a cool VBS or a holds a neighborhood fair or starts a men’s fellowship, it should be because the neighborhood needs a place for kids, a chance to gather as a community, and an opportunity for men to share and make friends. If ministry isn’t done for its own sake, it’s not ministry. Real evangelism, I think, only comes from inter-personal relationships.

So, what’s the purpose, you ask? Jesus sent the twelve out to heal and cast out demons. If ever there was a time when folks needed healing, I’d say this is that time. In a society with its noses perpetually pointed at cell phone screens, we all need what Christ’s church can give. We need to offer people the gift of live, human community. We need to hear Christ’s words of love and charity, and experience being instruments of that compassion because there are far too many suffering people in this world. We desperately need moral guidance. And we need a time in our lives to experience the beauty of liturgy and music and hear the words assuring us of our value in God’s eyes. And, most of all, we need a place to pray and experience hope. We who are already in the church have these gifts. Let’s share them as we’re able with the harassed and helpless.

Thanks again for coming by. Share some love this week, won’t you?

                                                                                                                     

 

God Sees You (Reflections on Pentecost 2, Year A 2026)

 

Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.” (Matthew9:22)

Some weeks back my wife suggested that we hold a healing service at church. I don’t know if her suggestion came from seeing the unusually long roster of folks on our prayer list, or because she’s got a number of ailments herself. Anyway, I thought it was a good idea, and I noticed the lessons appointed in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 2 seem to lend themselves to the theme of healing.

If I’m honest (and I try to be) I’m not sure I’ve been feeling all that swift myself lately. Physically, I’m doing as well as any sixty-six-year-old dude can do. A few aches here and there, but pretty okay on the whole. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel we’ve all been living in a wounded society. You know what I mean. There’s just so much anger and discontentment around these days. And the wounds seem to be on both sides of the social and the religious arguments. I think what it comes down to is we’re all feeling a certain assault on our sense of identity. Folks on both sides of the divide are feeling neglected or betrayed or unseen. Others are feeling like their value system is getting flushed down the crapper. And that really bites. The result is feelings of anger or hopelessness or just plain disgust—none of which are particularly healthy.

On top of this, a lot of us, or a lot of the people we know and care about, have real physical or emotional conditions which make getting up and out of bed every day—assuming they can even do that—an act requiring some epic willpower. Sickness is also an assault on our identity. You can see the doctor, but the doctor may not see you. Doctor will see cancer, a knee replacement, diabetes, or any number of frustrating, frightening, or depressing ailments, but Doctor will not see a veteran, a retired school teacher, a great craftsman, a wonderful mom or dad, or any of the other things which make us who we are and give us identity and purpose.

I think this decent into anonymity is particularly true for cancer patients. The “Emperor of All Maladies” holds a trash-compactor grip on our imaginations, filling us with fear and blotting out any vestige of personhood for both the patient and his or her loved ones. I have to confess to being guilty of “cancer myopia” when my late sister was diagnosed some years ago. I think I began every conversation with her with inquiries about her health and state of treatment. I never asked about all the whimsically creative things she was doing or thinking or sharing while cage fighting with her disease.

The other thing which tends to wipe out our sense of who we are is grief. A deep, personal loss can put us in a bubble where we can see the rest of the world but not be part of it. Others can see only our suffering and so may tend to avoid us. After all, nobody wants to hang out with sad people, right?

But what does Jesus see? In the Gospel appointed for Pentecost 2, Year A (Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26) Jesus sees Matthew at the tax booth. He doesn’t see a slimeball tool of the occupying power ripping off his fellow countrymen. Nor does he see a Jewish guy defiling himself by touching pagan money with graven images on it. He sees God’s child, made in God’s image, a guy who is in need of the healing only God’s love and acceptance can bring. And Jesus says, “Follow me.” No judgment, no pre-conditions, no litmus test for purity or orthodoxy. When some bigshot begs Jesus to heal his child, Jesus doesn’t see a man of privilege or a religious hypocrite or an oppressor of the poor. He sees a dad who grieves for his little girl and who wants her to be restored—just as any of us would. When a bleeding woman touches his cloak, Jesus doesn’t see a sick, ritually impure, punished by God victim. He sees a daughter of God with phenomenal faith.

Last week the Southeastern Pennsylvania Synod of the ELCA held its annual assembly with the theme Imago Dei—Latin for Image of God. We were reminded that God created all of us in God’s own image. We may be anxious, depressed, disheartened, sick, or grieving, but those things do not define us. Those things are not what God sees when God looks at God’s own children. These ephemeral states shouldn’t be the things we see when we look at ourselves, nor should they be what we see when we look at anyone else. We may be sick, but God has sent a physician to heal us.

Healing. It comes from a Greek word meaning “to be made whole.” Ultimately, none of us are curable. We will all die from something someday. Nevertheless, we are all healable. We can all go to our Maker knowing we have been loved and seen for who we truly are.

Father in Heaven, for Jesus’ sake, send your Holy Spirit upon your servants; drive away all sickness of body and spirit; make whole that which is broken; deliver your servants from evil; and preserve us in true faith, to share in the power of Christ’s resurrection and to serve you with all the saints now and evermore. Amen.