There is no end

Sermon preached at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church, North Liberty, IA

Scripture:  Mark 13:1-8

The last time I preached on this scripture it was March 29, 2020. I was a pastor in Northwestern Minnesota, and I was just figuring out how to livestream worship in an empty sanctuary for a physically distant congregation. I know time flies and all that, but I just want to pause a moment and give thanks that I am here with you in person—and to note how quickly we forget that that is not a given. The poignancy of apocalypse was palpable when I read this four years ago at the onset of the pandemic. Today, over four years later, some things have changed but not everything. It was the end of one way—but not the end of the end. In the end, there was a beginning.

            We don’t like this—we, human beings. We are wired with the belief that life should progress uniformly and linearly. We have an innate sense that as we move forward things should get better—life should improve—and it should get better and better and better. We don’t like that we are mortal, but mortality is OK if the world that lies ahead for our children and grandchildren is a better one. The problem is that sometimes the world does go backwards.

            I am torn about what to say about this, because in the span of human existence, life has generally gotten better. People in the world are living longer; we have found cures to many diseases and effective treatments to others; we have wealth and technology that our forebears even a hundred years ago could hardly have dreamed of, and, yet, we are also saddled with depression and anxiety; we are addicted to screens, fueled by angry people telling us who to blame for all of our problems. We are disconnected, even as we can more quickly talk with a human being across the planet than a person two hundred years ago could talk to a neighbor down the street. We are so, so, so busy—and afraid that if we ever step off the race track, we will fall behind and our children will fall behind. So, we don’t—and we move faster and faster—and we are only ever a moment from panic.

            Is it any wonder that in a world like this—fueled by anxiety—we are fascinated by apocalypse? We instinctively nod along with Jesus, speaking of wars and rumors of wars, of tearing down the temple, and we think, “Yeah, that’s what we need.” Anything to right this out-of-control ship that I’m riding through the rapids. But here’s the big secret: The apocalypse already happened. Two thousand years ago, it happened. Two thousand years ago, the end came, and the remarkable part of the story—the thing we so often forget, as overwhelmed by life as we can be—is that this end was just the beginning.

            I fully believe that the devil’s best work is to set our sights on an abstract not-yet reality when we have so much in front of us to love and cherish and hold dear. The devil takes our faith that Jesus Christ died for us and twists it into an obsession with the afterlife that allows us to ignore very real people who need our care right now. The freedom of a Christian is to look at a world that is scary and is big—a world that may even kill you—and to meet that world and say, “I’ve got this, because Jesus has me.” Then, we dive in, because while Jesus was prophesying the destruction of the temple, he was talking both about a building and himself, but in both cases, death was not the end. Good Friday led to Easter Sunday. Church as building transitioned into church as people—or at least it should be that way.

Grace through the eye of the needle

From a sermon preached at Bethany Lutheran Church, Iowa Falls

Scripture: Mark 10:17-31

Thank you for having me to share a bit about camp, to join with you in worship, and to preach on the story of Jesus and the rich man, which is a misunderstood story—the kind of story we delve into at camp where we have the time and space to deal with complex and misunderstood stories. Of course, the best news for all of you is that I’m a guest preacher, so if you don’t like what I say, I won’t be here next week!

            You know a Bible story is ripe with meaning when you open up your Bibles and see there are a bunch of footnotes about words and phrases that have been added or omitted in ancient sources. But if you are like most people, when you notice a footnote in your Bible about some Greek word, you do what most sane people do and think, “I don’t have time to figure out what that means.” Lucky for you today, I do have time—and in this case, I believe the footnotes are important, because in Mark 10:24-25, Jesus says, “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle…” etc. and in most Bibles you will see a reference, and at the bottom of your page it will say something like, “Other sources say, “Children, it is hard for those who trust in riches to enter the kingdom of God!” And if you are a sane person, you will say, “Ah, so scholars disagree, and this passage sounds really hard anyway, so OK, this is one of those unfathomable mysteries—plus, I was a little weirded out that I might be a rich person anyway, since Jesus doesn’t really define what it means to be rich—so I’m going to either A) ignore this passage entirely, or B) assume it applies to other, much richer people than myself.”

            A brief note on the notes to scripture. What we know today as the Bible was originally many books—you probably know that—but more than that, those books were copied by many scribes—human beings who would physically write copy the words to create new books. This was slow and also the scribes made errors. Humans didn’t have printing presses until the 1500s—you may remember—so when the book of Mark was originally written, it was then copied many times by many different people—people we call “scribes.” We know about some of these scribes because some of these ancient texts have quite literally been dug up through the years, and what we have found is that scribes occasionally made mistakes in copying the scripture, but that is not what happened here. What also happened—and what indeed is happening in our story today—is that a scribe has made an intentional change to the original text. They added some words!

            When that happens, it is well-worth our time to consider why a scribe would do this, and in this case, I think it’s pretty obvious: The scribe read the original words and did not like what it was saying. He (I say, “he,” because it is an odds game it probably was a man) read the original and thought to himself, “Jesus needs to more clearly condemn rich people, because the way it reads right now seems to imply that it is hard for anyone to enter the kingdom of God, and that can’t be right!” The scribe made a theological edit—he believed that Jesus meant to condemn rich people, not everyone—and so he changed the text to clarify.

            This makes sense at first blush, and this scribe is certainly not alone in trying to soften this passage. In fact, around a thousand years later, a man named Anselm of Canterbury was so offended by this story—especially the part about it being nigh on impossible for a rich person to be saved—that he appears to have made up the idea that there was a gate in Jerusalem called, “The eye of a needle.” In this version, Anselm was claiming that it was not impossible for rich people to be saved, it was just kind of hard. That story about the “Eye of the Needle” gate has become so pervasive that you may still hear about it today, but that doesn’t change that it was invented a thousand years after Jesus.

            OK, now you’re all wondering why the Ewalu guy is here to give us a long history lesson about scripture, so I had better get to the point, which is this: If this passage has confused or worried you, you’re not alone, but please, please, please, do something important, and read to the end of the story with me. When you do, this story flips on its head. When you read to the end, this story about judgment becomes something else—but we have to get there to see it. So, let’s do that now:

Freedom and the art of cross-bearing

A sermon for St. Peter Lutheran Church, Denver

Scripture: Mark 8:27-38

              The year is 2006 and I am a sophomore at Augustana College in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I am sitting in my dorm room, booting up the old desktop computer and navigating over to the National Lutheran Outdoor Ministries Association website to apply for a summer camp counselor position. At the time, this is how it was done if you wanted to work for a Lutheran summer camp. I didn’t even know at the time that this was the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod consortium of camps, but I also didn’t care, because I only wanted to work at one camp: Lutherhaven. The previous summer I had my first taste of summer camp leadership attending a youth service camp at Shoshone Base Camp in the panhandle of northern Idaho, and I was dying to go back to see what this summer camp thing was all about.

            Now, here’s how I know this was a lifetime ago: Many of those places I just named have different names. Augustana College, now Augustana University. Shoshone Base Camp, now Shoshone Mountain Retreat. Youth service camp, now Idaho Servant Adventures. I suddenly feel kind of old.

            But I’m not so old that to have forgotten the interview I had for that camp counselor position with Rebecca Smith, the Program Director at Lutherhaven (now Executive Director)—probably my first real interview for a job in my life. I remember her asking me a very straightforward question that took me aback. “What is a Bible verse that is meaningful to you?”

            By some grace of God, I didn’t freeze. In fact, almost before I knew it, I was blurting out, “If any wish to come after me, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” I probably read that the week before or something. Jesus—to Peter—in today’s scripture. Like any good leader, Rebecca didn’t stop there. “Why that verse?” she asked. “Because being a Christian is about doing hard things.” I said, or something like that. I guess that was good enough—or they were desperate for male staff—because I got the job—and because of that job, I am with you today, because boy, did I fall in love with outdoor ministry out there on Lake Coeur d’Alene.

            Nearly two decades later, I am no longer thrilled with the response I gave to Rebecca Smith. I was right that camp was going to be hard. It was going to test me in ways I never imagined. At times, it hurt; at times, it made me feel unworthy. It was also meaningful and wonderful and a place where I connected with God and made lifelong friends.

But you know what? It was never my cross.

I have come to realize something simple that I should have seen two decades ago: Your cross is not a hard thing that you can overcome through strength of will, gumption, and maybe a little help from God. Your cross will do one thing and one thing only—it will kill you. To take up your cross is to walk willingly toward death, which means it is nothing like any of the things we sometimes jokingly, sometimes seriously consider our crosses to bear. Your children are not your cross. The reality that your children are fragile—that they will someday die? That might be your cross. Your work is not your cross. Your family is not your cross—not even if they are kind of a rough crew. Your cross is not something you can look back upon and say, “Man, that was hard.” Rather, your cross is the thing from which there is no coming back. Your cross is the thing that will bring you to your knees.

            At first, this sounds like really bad news, doesn’t it? You might be wondering: Why is the guy who is coming here looking for help in renovating Cedar Lodge and to get more campers to come to camp preaching about how impossible it is to bear the cross? It’s a bold strategy. But here is what I believe: Camp is for truth-telling. Camp lays bare who we really are—not who we wish to be. At camp, we are honest and admit we are fragile, we are temporary, and no matter how hard we try, we cannot keep everyone we love in bubble wrap, safely tucked away.

            BUT it does not end there. When we name our calling to follow Jesus with crosses in tow, then we get to do something extraordinary: We get to live! Sure, we are walking toward Golgotha, but so is everything in life. The freedom of a Christian is the freedom to know where you are heading and to revel in joy on the way there. It is to never have to justify yourself, because Christ has done that for you. Then, what is left when we have left it all to Jesus? We get to play! We get to stand in wonder of the world around us, living life, not for cowering in fear. We can be bold and joyful and free. When I see kids running around Ewalu, that’s what I see—bold, joyful, free kids discovering they are known and loved by a God who has chosen them and loves them and bears the cross for them.

Healing, resurrection, and a place apart

 A sermon for St. Paul's and St. John's Lutheran churches, Guttenberg, IA

           Jesus ordered them to tell no one, but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it.

            This whole business about Jesus and keeping things a secret has to be one of my favorite things about Jesus. In one of the most central moments in Jesus ministry—after being raised from the dead—Jesus famously directs us to go and make disciples of everybody we come across, which is very familiar to us who know the whole story over thousand years later. More surprising is picking up your Bible, starting in the beginning of the book of Mark, and reading countless stories of Jesus’ ministry and what does Jesus tell us for the first 95% of the story: Keep it quiet! Don’t tell anybody! In fact, my favorite instance of all comes in the first verse of today’s Gospel where it says that Jesus entered a house to get away from everybody. I don’t think that’s the image many of us have of Jesus in our heads—hiding in a house from people who want him to heal them.

Two thousand years later, we have internalized little about what Jesus is up to here. Instead, we read the healing stories—we get jazzed about how cool Jesus is—and then we tell everybody about it—just like the people who witnessed those healings two thousand years ago. Who could argue with that?

Well, it turns out the one person who is not a fan of us doing this is actually Jesus. Jesus does not want them to say anything. Why?

There is actually a very clear reason—one that plays out again and again when we make the Christian faith about little miracles. Now, don’t get me wrong, miracles are powerful, but they are also personal and temporary. This is why Jesus holds up his finger, because when we worship the Jesus who heals, we risk worshipping an inferior god. A tempting god, for sure. Who doesn’t want healing? But the truth is it is not enough. This Jesus we meet in the Gospel of Mark is laser-focused on the cross and the resurrection. Jesus does not want us to rely on little miracles for our faith; rather, he wants us to forget about it entirely and instead stand in wonder of what a far bigger miracle looks like—the miracle of the cross.

Servant Leadership: A camp love story

St. Paul's Lutheran Church, Waverly

 John 15:9-17

In summer staff training at Ewalu, we charge our staff with a very simple, but challenging directive: Just love your campers. It is a calling illustrated in places like John 15, where Jesus says, “Love one another as I have loved you. Now, that is an awfully high standard. After all, God loves us the way we ought to be loved. Amazingly, it happens at camp—again and again, it happens—campers come to Ewalu and experience God’s love for them, and they go away calling this special place, “Home.” That is a miracle.

            Nevertheless, I do have a certain fear when we talk about love. I’m afraid it will quickly become… fluffy—love, love, love, that’s what it’s all about. Nobody will disagree with that! And nobody will disagree with it because merely talking about love demands nothing of you. Love that does nothing is not love at all. We have to do more than tell kids they are loved, pat them on the back, and send them home. We have to live it. Love demands an object and action. It is never theoretical—you can’t love a theory and you can’t love in theory. Love requires commitment to those we say we love.

A strength of camp is the fact that everybody who comes to camp comes away with an experience. Of course, we aren’t batting 1.000—we don’t always hit a home run—but we do punch above our weight for making a difference in these kids’ lives. We are successful in large part because we provide so many avenues for connection, which is important, because our campers are not one-size-fits-all. Each is a unique child of God. What is holy to me is not holy to every camper or staff member, and vice versa. I love the Maquoketa River—full of beautiful trout and clear, running water, with the occasional turtle and beaver, mayfly hatch and sucker run—but plenty of kids come to the same river and see mud and leeches and crayfish with those pincers, and they say, “I’m not getting in there!” You let some kids play in the forest and they come alive, building forts and setting their imagination on fire, while other kids feel claustrophobic under the canopy. Some kids love singing around a campfire; others only care whether or not there will be s’mores. Some love high ropes—some are terrified of high ropes—some start terrified of high ropes and end up loving high ropes.

Thanks to St. Paul's, Waverly for your support of Cedar @ 60!

The reason camp works so well is, firstly, because of the love that permeates the work we do, and secondly, it is because we offer so many different places for that love to be experienced—so many avenues to connect with God, with the natural world, and with one another.

You can't love in theory

A sermon for Faith Lutheran, Andover

 1 John 4:7-21

“God is love,” says 1 John.

            Two thoughts come to my mind about love in 1 John 4. My first thought is that we don’t say this enough: God is love. Not God loves a lot; not God helps us to love, but God is love. So, if you know love, you know God, which in turn means a few things: Firstly, love is not just a concept and not just a feeling, love is a person. To know God is to know love and vice versa. We don’t say that enough.

But then I have a second thought, which is this: I’m not sure that saying God is love is a good thing in a world that seems absolutely set on cheapening love. Love is more than thoughts and prayers. Love is more than a throw-away, “I love everybody” kind-of-sentiment to make us feel better about ourselves. Love requires self-sacrifice and it forces us to act with mercy—it is lived and actual and real. It is never theoretical—always lived in the flesh. You can’t love a theory, and you can’t love in theory.

            Ewalu campers arrive at camp having had all different experiences with love. Some know deep down that they are loved—they experience it with their family, their friends, and their God. Some hope they are loved—they have hints of it in their lives, but they have times when they really don’t know. Some suspect they are not loved—they have only known it rarely. Some know they are not. Love, to them, is a fairy tale.

Trout and Resurrection

A sermon for Faith Lutheran Church, Marion

Scripture: Luke 24:36-48

In the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus appears to the whole crew of disciples, he asks for something to eat, and I don’t believe for an instant that it was a coincidence that the disciples give him a fish. You may recall that in the Gospel of John, Jesus appears to the disciples on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, telling the disciples to cast their nets on the other side of the boat, while he waits on the shore, cooking—you guessed it!—fish.

            If you trace the fish through scripture, you will find that they are there in the beginning—in the Genesis creation story; they are killed off in the plagues in Exodus; and they are extolled in the Psalms. Ezekiel was certainly into fish as that book mentions them in three separate contexts; and then of course we have Jonah, the biggest of fish. But it is in the life and ministry of Jesus that fish come to the forefront. Fish are mentioned 32 times in the Gospels—from the feeding of the 5000 to the disciples who left their boats to follow Christ. It is little surprise that the fish has become a symbol of Christ—and that Greek word, “Ichthys,” has entered our popular lexicon as a Christian term and acrostic, meaning “Jesus Christ, Son of God. Savior.”

            My ears perk up when I hear about fish in the Bible for another reason: I love to fish. From long days casting for muskies up on Lake of the Woods to slow days jigging for walleyes, casting spinners for perch; and even shore fishing for carp and catfish or leaving traps for minnows. I love to wonder about what is in the water and to discover a little more of that unseen world. But the fishing I love more than any other involves casting a fly in a clear river in search of one of God’s most precious and most fragile creatures: the trout.

Into the Wilderness

Sermon for Christ the King Lutheran Church, Iowa City

Mark 1:9-15

“And the Spirit immediately drove Jesus into the wilderness.” –Mark 1:12.

Leave it to the camp guy to ignore the other stuff and head straight into the verse about the wilderness. Then again, if you’ve been paying attention these last several weeks to the Gospel readings in Mark, the wilderness shows up a whole lot. Six times in the first chapter of Mark alone we get this Greek word “eremos,” a word that is the basis for J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Eriador”—the land of the free peoples of Middle Earth in the Lord of the Rings.

Two things you will get with me: Love of wilderness and nerdy stuff.

“Eremos” means a place that is desolate, lonely, solitary, and uninhabited; in other words, not really the place we expect Jesus to be. Yet, Mark 1:12 says that the Spirit drove him into the wilderness immediately, and there he stayed for forty days, being tempted by Satan and hanging out with the wild beasts.
            Why? Why would the Spirit send him there in the first place—why immediately go from baptism to temptation. Why does the wilderness matter to our faith?

I want to share with you a bit of my experience with wild spaces and why I believe they matter so profoundly to faith. I’m going to get to camp—I know you were worried—but I’m going to start with my experience out in the wild—in this case, on a hike.

In 2019, I took a sabbatical from my pastoral call in northwestern Minnesota and spent a month hiking the Superior Hiking Trail along the north shore of Lake Superior in Minnesota’s arrowhead, starting at the Wisconsin border just south of Duluth and finishing at the Canadian border. I meandered through 310 miles of forest and rivers over rocks and roots, spending days on end in wild spaces. It sounds silly to admit, but if I’m being completely honest, for the first week or so, I did not know why I was out there. Like so many places we find ourselves in life, I was just doing a thing that seemed like a good idea at the time only to find out it was hard and uncomfortable, and any day I might end up getting eaten by wolves.

Near the end of my second week on the trail, I paused at a sign along the trail—a pleasant wooden sign that shared how many miles you still had to walk to find the next campsite—in this case, too many miles. While I was standing there reading the bad news, I saw what appeared to be a blemish in the face of the wood—like somebody had taken a knife to the soft wood and pealed it back. I don’t know how long I sat there staring at that blemish, but it was probably a couple minutes at least since I was taking the opportunity to eat M&Ms—and, let me tell you, those were prolonged breaks—before I chanced to look closer. Only then did I realized that the blemish was not a blemish at all, but a moth of the same color and texture as the wood beneath it. All I was seeing was the shadow of the moth’s head lifted up from the flat wooden sign. It was remarkable.

That is the picture behind me today. That moth—partially covering the letter “A” in “CAMPSITE.”

I am 100% confident that had I come across the same sign on day one on the trail—or day five on the trail—I would not have noticed that moth. It was day 10 and I had only just slowed down and opened my eyes long enough to see, but when my eyes were opened, I started to see more and more.

What happened to me was perhaps a less dramatic version of what happened to Jesus—and indeed what I believe happens to everybody who spends time in contemplation in the wilderness. The things that we pray in our hustled and bustled lives back home find their answers when we slow down enough to see what God is doing before our eyes. In the wilderness, we discover that answers to prayer are not given, they are discerned through discipline. Even Jesus Christ, the Son of God, needed that distance from distraction to discover it.

Once I get started on that whole alliteration thing with all of those “d” words, I can’t stop—I apologize.

We need the wilderness

Scripture: Mark 1:29-39

“In the morning, while it was still very dark, Jesus got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.”

            I don’t know about you, but that sounds awfully nice to me. Away from the kids. Away from the bustle—the demands on his time and attention. Away from dinging phones, emails, social media. Just away. We probably don’t talk enough about Jesus’s penchant for leaving it all behind and heading off into the wilderness. And Jesus wasn’t alone. It seems like most heroes in the Bible would go off from time to time, whether Abraham, or Moses, or Elijah, or John the Baptist. They all went off to pray and reflect.

            When is the last time you prioritized going off on your own?

            I hope you don’t hear that question as judgment. Lord knows, we have so many forces in life begging us to never take a break. There is always more work to do—more, more, more. There is so much to do, in fact, that it can never get done, so we keep at it—more, more, more. Because our work is important—so very, very important. Raising a family is important—so very, very important. If we don’t give it 100% all the time, we will regret it—we will wonder why we didn’t do just a little more. We want to give our kids, our families, and our selves our best shot. What could be wrong with that?

The wrong side of town

For St. John Lutheran Church, Cedar Falls

John 1:43-51

Jesus is always hanging out in the wrong side of town, but we shouldn’t be surprised—that’s where he’s from. Always the wrong side of town—hanging out with the wrong people—sinners, mostly.

The story starts with Jesus out recruiting disciples one day. He finds Philip and says, “Follow me.” And we know right away that Philip is a good catch, because the first thing Philip does is go about recruiting more friends for the party. He really takes that fisher-of-men thing to heart. So, he finds his friend, Nathanael, and straightaway tells him that the Messiah has come and he is Jesus of Nazareth. However, Nathanael, you might recall, is not listed amongst the original twelve disciples, and the reason for this may soon become obvious, because Nathanael has his concerns about the origins of this Messiah. Nazareth? “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he asks.

You can substitute every wrong side of town you can imagine here, if you like. Even for those of us who try to see the best in all dark places, we can certainly list a few—places with a negative connotation in our minds—places we wouldn’t want to go—places we mistrust.

Then again, of course Jesus came from Nazareth! Of course, Jesus came from a backwater nowhere. I sat at home over Christmas and caught a bit of the Lutheran worship service from Bethlehem broadcast on Facebook, which they called “Christ in the rubble.” Today, Bethlehem, where Jesus was born, is a majority Muslim town in the West Bank. In those days, it was a quiet place—a nowhere place. Of course, Christ was born there! Not Jerusalem—not even Nazareth—not New York City—not London or Tokyo. Nowhere.

“Can anything good come from Nazareth?” Could anyone good be born in Bethlehem?

Well, here’s the backward, amazing thing about the Christian faith: Jesus Christ only ever dwells in those dark places. Jesus Christ only ever shows up on the wrong side of town. Jesus appears in A.A. meetings and under the rubble of natural disasters and war; Jesus shows up in dementia wards and children’s oncology units; Jesus is found in underpasses and in redlight districts and wherever the poor and neglected and hurting gather. Jesus Christ came into a world of darkness to meet us when it appears all hope has turned to dust.

The problem for those of us in the church is a practical one: That backwards, wrong-side-of-town mentality is not marketable, which is a problem because it means that Jesus is not marketable. After all, Jesus tells us that in order to be his disciples we must pick up our crosses and follow—and those crosses are not the kinds of minor inconveniences that we so often talk about to tone down the enormity of this calling. Our crosses are not our children or our relatives. Our crosses are our very lives—that is what Jesus ultimately calls us to give up. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, “When Jesus Christ calls a disciple, he bids them come and die.” You won’t see that on many billboards: Come, die.

You also won’t see that on any Ewalu brochures. And, yet… Ewalu is a place where faith is sticky—where kids depart at the end of the week singing songs—where adults look back on their time at camp as their deepest experience of faith formation—and I believe this happens so often at Ewalu because camp is a place where Christ does bid us to come and die. We die to the self we construct in our life apart from camp. We forget about the Instagram posts, and whether that one person read our text or not, and who won that game, and what you scored on that test. All that stuff dies at the boundaries of camp. At Ewalu, campers encounter this Jesus Christ who comes from a lowly, unexpected, wrong-side-of-town place kind of like many of the places they come from. For the first time, many of them experience this backward faith that seeks after lost sheep and celebrates the wrong sort of people—Samaritans and women and the poor and the sick—and campers latch onto that with all their might because so many of them are desperate for it to be true.

Why?

Because they already know that they are the lost sheep—they’ve just never had anybody spell it out for them! Because they know that they were born in the wrong place. They know that they have the wrong cheek bones and they carry weight in the wrong areas. They know that they can never be skinny enough or muscly enough. They know that they are fundamentally imperfect people, and their whole lives have been spent with adults (who hopefully love them and care for them, telling them that they are beautiful children of God), but they also know that those adults lie—that those adults, who we call parents, also aren’t very smart. They know we are faking it, and most of us are just doing exactly what our parents did (or exactly the opposite of what our parents did) and our parents didn’t know what they were doing either.

Our kids know this. Now, don’t get me wrong, you should be telling your kids you love them; you should be telling your grandkids you love them. I know many of you come from stoic, Nordic-heritage families like my own where all feelings are to be treated like a game of charades—where you act them out but it’s against the rules to actually say anything about them. Yeah, don’t do that. Do tell your kids you love them, but don’t be surprised when they run away from that love—and when they don’t believe you.

The reason the camp experience sticks with campers is because they discover that Jesus Christ loves them not because they are good, but because God is good. Better still, Jesus Christ comes to us from places like Nazareth—places from which reasonable people like Nathanael can wonder: Can anything good come from there? The Christian faith is not a reasonable faith. It is a faith that only makes sense in a broken world—it is a faith that can only be practiced by broken people. Cross-bearers.

Camp and church are after the same thing, but camp has an easier time marketing ourselves because it is temporary. One week of discomfort—full of fun, sure—but discomfort nonetheless. Nobody is arguing that Foresters village is more comfortable than your bed at home. Instead, we are saying that there is very good reason to get out there—to encounter Christ in creation—if only for a week. I don’t envy your congregation. I was a parish pastor for nine years, and I struggled with this myself quite often. As Christians we are called to go into all the backwards wrong-side-of-town places where Jesus is, but in a world that often feels so mixed up, we often come to church just needing a refuge. It’s hard to see that the refuge we need is to go deeper into discomfort. Churches have it hard because this is your calling every single week.

All of this is why I am glad we are in this work together. Help us help you (and your kids) to encounter Christ on the wrong side of town. Let us work together to discover how God shows up through discomfort. Together, we can meet a world of Nathanaels, who say, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” with an emphatic, “Yes! Come and see.”

In fact, the best things only ever come out of the wrong kinds of places. After all, that’s where God has promised to dwell. In our pain. In our hurt. In our grief. In our discomfort. This faith will drive you crazy, but it will also save you.