What happens when pastors get asked what they do

Text: Luke 10:25-42

            For those of you who don’t know Kate and I have been on a delayed honeymoon, cruising the Caribbean, and I’m going to flaunt that for all its worth today. We had a great time for a week on sunny beaches and reading outside and, of course, stuffing ourselves with food on a boat that didn’t break down; it was all just about perfect. But there is one thing that happens whenever we travel that doesn’t thrill me, even though admitting it might make me out to be a bit of a vacation scrooge. I don’t like talking with new people. Well, you might say, that’s me just being a good Scandinavian Lutheran, but it’s not that I don’t like meeting new people; instead, it’s tiring to have specific conversations about life back home—you know how these conversations go. Where are you from? Where’s that? That far north? Do you have polar bears? And then, inevitably, what do you do?

Dust

Text: Luke 9:51-62

            We mostly don’t know what to do with Ash Wednesday. I mean, we do the whole shpeel year after year. Come forward. Get ashes put on our foreheads. You are dust and yada yada, something depressing sounding. Return to our seats. Eventually, return home and wipe dust off our foreheads. But why dust? Why ashes? What does today have to do with anything other than the high holy days of soup suppers and this season called Lent?

            Well, a couple of things, actually.

            In the Gospel reading for today, Jesus’ ministry begins its course toward Jerusalem. If you can image the Gospels as a giant valley, in today’s reading we have reached the bottom of the valley and from here we are now ascending faster and faster toward the mountain top which is Jerusalem. The entire season of Lent is oriented toward the holy city where Jesus is heading—first to be celebrated with palms waving and finally to be crucified. But at this valley bottom of the Gospel narrative we have a series of strange stories about people who are willing to follow Jesus but are rebuked nonetheless. There’s the person who says he will follow wherever Jesus goes, whom Jesus shoots down with the line that foxes have holes and birds nests but the Son of Mon nowhere to call home. Then another wants to follow but has an obligation to bury his father, whom Jesus again reprimands, saying “Let the dead bury their own dead.” Another will follow but wants to wish family good-bye first, and again, Jesus rebukes him, saying, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back if fit for the kingdom of God.”

Why should I go to church?

The following is an adapation of an article to be published in the Kittson County Enterprise on February 20.

Why should I go to church?

Honestly, I don’t get asked this question often, but I think it’s behind a lot of the questions I do get asked. “Why should I be in worship on Sunday morning and not at the lake cabin?” “Why does God care?” “Why does it matter?” Those are the questions I sense behind the talk of busy-ness and exhaustion, behind the excuses and guilt. It seems that every time I meet members of the churches I serve they have a laundry list of excuses for why it took so long for me to meet them. The truth is I don’t know all the ins and outs of your lives. I don’t know what feeds you and what drains you, what gives you life and what takes it away, so honestly, I'm not judging. Really, I'm just more curious than anything.

It used to be, not that long ago, that people would go to church out of a sense of duty. If you’re a regularly attending church member over the age of 55 you may very well be a part of that generation. To go to church is, for you, second nature because church is the only place you’ve ever gone on Sunday morning. You did it because your parents did it and they required you to be there in tow; they did it consequently because their parents did it and so on and so forth for generations immemorial. However, the culture has changed. No longer is church the sole center of the community. We can mourn that—and maybe we should—but it doesn’t change the fact that it is so. What’s most important is how we react.

You are not God: The reason for Sabbath

Text: Luke 6:1-16

            A few weeks ago I had what I thought were some good thoughts on the Sabbath… and then somebody went and read them Sunday morning at Grace when I was off in Moorhead—so much for recycling those thoughts! Nonetheless, since we do a particularly poor job of taking Sabbath rest, I’m not just going to skip over it. You lucky folks just get a second sermon on the same subject!

Today, I'm going to start in a different place, namely with the question of what Biblical laws are supposed to do. In order understand why Jesus is willing to violate the Sabbath we first need to understand what the law is. If I were to guess, I bet most people who don’t take the Sabbath seriously do so because the idea of Sabbath seems like general guidelines for a good life. The law, however, is much more than guidelines, and, anyway, the “good” life that scripture would have you live is the one where you take up the cross and follow Jesus to the crucifixion. I’m guessing that’s not the good life for which you were hoping: it’s counter-cultural and downright scary. It's scary also because the law always convicts you. You can never be good enough according to the law. That is, after all, why Jesus came. Only when you understand that you are not going to live up to God’s standards can you begin to understand the importance of Sabbath.

Art and the Probable-Impossible: Thoughts on miracles and Madeleine l'Engle

"That which is probable and impossible is better than that which is possible and improbable."-Aristotle in Poetics

Madeleine l'Engle is a hero of mine. In fact, I count her on a very short list of authors, alongside Wendell Berry, who have influenced my perspective on God and the world more than any others. So, when l'Engle wrote that she had been pondering this Aristotle quote from the time she was in college until near the end of her life I set it aside as something worthy of my own time and interest. Today, as I prepare to lead a discussion on miracles with our 9th-grade confirmation students, I find myself returning again to what this means for me and for all of us trying to understand this world.

I recognize firstly that both Aristotle and l'Engle were writing on art, but if you've read much of l'Engle you also should know that she believes art is not a discipline of escapism but a primary means of truth-telling. She is a scientist, an artist, and a poet, but you don't get a sense in her work that the three are separate; they are, in fact, equal, integrated and integral to the whole picture she is painting. So, when l'Engle talks about her favorability towards the probable-impossible it is in the sense of making good art but also telling something that is fantastic and true in the world, something that can't be told with such ruthless efficiency as we might like. The probable-impossible is for her (and for me) a world where miracle and God are the ultimate reality, while the possible-improbable is this world that we see which so often cheapens everything down its most banal and self-gratifying nature.

Fishers-of-men: On spreading our faith and other things that don't sound Minnesota-nice

Text: Luke 5:1-16

            I like to fish. A lot. Ever since I was just a little kid with the Mickey Mouse rod, complete with bobber, hook and worm, fishing at my grandpa’s house on Maple Lake near Longville, Minnesota, fishing has been one of my things. This summer I already have days booked up at Lake of the Woods, and while the equipment is bigger and I’m no longer after “sunnies,” the enjoyment has not lessened one bit. A bad day fishing beats a good day doing most other things.

            I can imagine that changes, however, when you make a living from it.

            The thing I have to remember when I read about Simon Peter and his apparent ineptitude at catching fish is that this was no day off at the favorite fishing hole. Peter was dependent on the fish—absolutely dependent on the food and the income from it. If he did not catch fish, his family would starve—no insurance, no welfare, no safety net; this was a matter of life and death.

            So, imagine the frustration and the worthlessness you would feel if you were out fishing for your livelihood all night and you came home with nothing—I mean, absolutely nothing. The Sea of Galilee seemed to be without fish. From what I hear, those of you who have been ice fishing up at Lake of the Woods this winter know what that’s like. Some days the fish are just gone, and so you drink a few more beers to make up for it, but if it were a matter of feeding your family this would be a much more serious problem.

Lance Armstrong and the power of myth-making

Mark Gunter/AFP/Getty Images

I got into cycling after Armstrong, or rather as Armstrong was "coming back" into the sport, so while I remember the legends of Tour de France's gone by I was not emotionally connected to the Armstrong myth. Nonetheless, I wanted Lance to win. I wanted him to win in his comeback. And, until recently, I wanted to see how high he could ascend in the Ironman. Now, things are different for me--my opinions have changed--but it wasn't easy for that change to come about, and for others the legend is more powerful than the truth and the narrative keeps on chugging. There is much to be written on the Armstrong saga, but I want to avoid the simple commentary on where he was lying or telling the truth. I don't want to draw attention to details of the interview he did with Oprah or the loose ends that really don't add up. I don't even want to dwell on the areas where Lance is still obviously culpable--even if those areas where he needs to spend some serious meditation. Instead, I want to take this opportunity to think through what Armstrong's story says about how we create myths and the risks in making a human being (with all his faults) into a legend.