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.