The Spirit will show us truth

I love how Chong, in his Banner article, Truth Will Win describes his experience hosting a "no-topic-is-taboo discussion for students, which sounds a lot like the hopes we had at Campus Edge for Pub Theology: 

"Everyone had a fair voice in this forum. It was dialogue, not debate. I didn’t allow any harsh words or tones. I had a number of non-Christians, even ex-Christians, who not only kept returning every week but invited their non-Christian friends to attend. 

Rather than controlling the discussion, I trusted in the Holy Spirit’s guidance that the biblical truths shared would take root in the midst of other views. Sure, some of the opinions shared made me cringe. But I trusted that God’s truth would resonate more with people in the end. The Christians grew in their faith because they learned to answer for their beliefs. The non-Christians learned more about Christianity and the Bible in a safe, non-threatening, and uncensored environment."

There is much hope in trusting that the Spirit will convict people of truth. I can trust that the Spirit will use my efforts (and that of others) to share who God is with others, but I can also trust that God will also help me see where my understandings are incomplete. 

Called to find God's presence in our actual lives

I found Tish Harrison Warren's recent article in Christianity Today, "As a Pandemic Parent, God Calls Me to This Loud and Lonely Life | Christianity Today, to be both encouraging and challenging as she invites us to look for God in our lives today.

Warren shares how Nouwen retells, in The Genesee Diary, how he longs for God to show up 

“in such an intensive and convincing way” that Nouwen would let go of his idols and commit himself unconditionally to God. In response, the abbot is neither surprised nor impressed. “You want God to appear to you in the way your passions desire,” he says, “but these passions make you blind to his presence now.” He calls Nouwen—and me—to find God’s presence in the only place where it can be found: in our actual lives."

I find this challenging, because I find being present in my actual life hard at times. It's easier to imagine that - if only ' circumstances changed, I'd be able to be as holy and loving as I imagine I can be.

Yet, I also find it encouraging because I find it comforting to know that I'm not alone in my spiritual 'fantasies.' I also find it encouraging to be reminded that I do not have to wait for circumstances to be perfect to experience God's presence in my life. God is already here in the middle of my messy and imperfect life. 

In fact, as Warren notes, my messy and complicated life is an invitation to a different kind of spiritual discipline: 

"Typically, when I forsake spiritual practices like silence or solitude, I tend to conceive of it as a failure of discipline—like skipping a workout and eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s instead. But during Covidtide, having to frequently surrender these practices is its own kind of suffering. The call to notice God in the actual moment I’m in is therefore a call to meet him in suffering, however quotidian that pain may appear."

Jesus, wake up

The following is a sermon I preached earlier this month at Wine Before Breakfast.

These past few months I have deeply appreciated the lyrics of the song “Wake up Jesus” by The Porter's Gate. The song stood out to me at first because Jesus in the storm is one of my daughter’s favourite Jesus’ stories, but I have kept listening to it as the words have resonated with how I feel this season. When I look at the world around me – at the injustices we hear about and the suffering connected to covid-19 – I feel as lost as Jesus’ disciples on the raging sea. 

And I wonder, Jesus when are you going to wake up? Don’t you care that we’re drowning?

This song captures Advent, especially Advent this year. We are in the middle of a storm. Waves of anger and hurt crash over us. Polarization and frustration rain down us. The wind blowing over us carries the cries of the downtrodden. Our boat has been shaped by the systems of privilege that help some of us but do tremendous harm to others of us.

We’re sailing blind in the middle of that boat, not sure if we should jump out or hold on. We catch glimpses of the suffering around us: domestic abuse, gun violence, empty stomachs, discrimination. But we also realize how little we see when most of our attention is focused on our own feeble attempts at staying afloat.
 
Jesus, wake up. Gracious God, do something.
Come and heal this world.
Don’t you care that we’re drowning here?
Wake up already and calm this raging sea.
 
I find it easy to imagine the panic of the disciples in the storm, as it echoes my own sense of being overwhelmed.
 
When I tell this story to my small daughter, though, her reaction is not that of being overwhelmed. Jesus in the storm is really one of her favourite Jesus stories, and she interacts with and interprets the story with the enthusiasm – and wisdom – of a 3-year-old.
 
When I start talking about how the disciples are panicking because of the wind and the waves and the rain, and they start looking for Jesus to come fix things, I ask my daughter where Jesus is. And she enthusiastically replies that Jesus is sleeping. Perhaps her enthusiasm is because she recognizes the absurdity of the situation – that in the middle of the raging sea Jesus is sleeping.
 
But perhaps my daughter's answer is one of joy because she knows what comes next in the story. The disciples go to Jesus and tell him to Wake up. Jesus, Save us. Jesus, wake up. And sometimes my daughter lets me know that the disciples must have stolen Jesus’ blankets to help him wake up. And just like her Papa responds so well when you pull the blankets off him in the morning, Jesus must also have woken up. And when Jesus wakes up, he tells the wind, the waves, and the rain to stop. And they stop. And things are restored to the way they ought to be.

When I tell my daughter this story, I am struck by her complete and utter conviction of how things ought to be. Of course, Jesus will wake up. Of course, Jesus will fix things. Of course, Jesus can be asleep in the middle of chaos – because he sees and knows things that his disciples – and we – do not.

When I listen and read Mary’s song, I hear that same conviction. The words Mary speaks are the words of someone who knows how the story ought to end. Mary knows the stories of God redeeming the people of Israel. She knows that the Messiah’s coming will change everything. She knows that God will keep the promises made long ago to the people of Israel.

Because Mary knew these stories and knew she belonged to the Mighty God who does great things, she could sing this song, a song that was active resistance and fierce hope. Because as much as Mary’s song is a song of elation – of joy that the Messiah is coming and that she gets to play a part - it is also a song that is sung in a time when Mary’s words were not obvious – like us, Mary was living in a time when it wasn’t obvious how God was working.

As much as Mary knew the stories of how God had acted in the past, she and her people were living in a time when God seemed silent. The great stories of Elijah and Hana were from the distant past. Despite the fiery message of the prophets, the people had gone into exile. While some returned, as the books of Ezra and Nehemiah tells us, it was only a small remnant. And after that came the Greeks, and then the Romans. Even Judas Maccabeus, who had looked like he might be able to rescue the Jewish people, was more than a hundred years in the past.

Mary’s song is more powerful because of the context in which it is sung. She is singing out of the conviction of who God has been to the people of Israel and out of trust in the promises that God has made – and not primarily out of her current situation as a young woman whose people had not been free for centuries.

Furthermore, Mary sings this song even though she does not yet know what will happen in her own future – she does not know if she will be rejected by Joseph and forced to raise her child alone, if she even survives childbirth. She didn’t yet know that Jesus would reject her one day or that she would witness the world’s rejection of him with his death on the cross. She did not know what would happen and yet, because of who she knew God to be – the Mighty One who does great things - because of this she declared that all people would one day call her blessed.

It is one thing to sing this song of joy when all is well. It is another thing to sing these words about God’s mercy from generation to generation, words of how God has shown strength and scattered the proud – when you were still waiting for those to happen in your own life. Mary expected Jesus to be the answer. And he was and is, but perhaps not exactly the way Mary or even we expect.

Because of Jesus, the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. (Matthew 11). Because of Jesus everything has changed. But the changes are not always how we want them to be. Jesus didn’t come as king into Jerusalem and conquer the Romans. Instead, his love and power were shown by his laying his life down. Even Mary’s song invites us into this revolutionary way of power and love – letting go of our own power, riches, and privilege so that we might be part of what Jesus started – a kingdom where all are welcomed, the silenced are given voices, the loud are invited to listen, and all have enough.

Because of Jesus’ life and the Spirit’s working in this world for hundreds of years, we now know more than Mary did about how the Mighty God has done great things for all people. At the same time, we, like Mary, haven’t lived to the end of the story yet. We often feel like we are still in the middle of the storm waiting for Jesus to wake up, waiting for God to come and heal us and this world.

In Advent, we name the difficulty of living in the middle of the storm, living in the middle of the story. As we celebrate Christmas, especially when we long for things to be different, we need to be reminded of the whole story – and that we, like Mary, can be certain of how the story ends. Mary’s song of active resistance and fierce hope is a reminder to us of how God has worked in the world and will continue to do so.

By singing this song with her, we can find hope when all seems hopeless, courage enough to keep fighting the waves of injustice and despair around us, and strength to turn to each other and Jesus when the storm overwhelms us.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This has been cross-posted at the CRC campus ministry website

What can happen when you try to arrange things for God

Over a year ago, the main chaplain for the CRC campus ministry at the University of Toronto made known his plans to retire. As a fellow CRC campus minister, I'd become friends with some of the U of T staff team and hoped they'd find a new staff member who was a good fit for the ministry. And, because I'd like to see more female campus minister colleagues, I also thought it'd be great if they could find a female to take on the position. 

When it became known that the campus ministry was indeed looking for someone to fill the position full-time, I started reaching out to people who were qualified. I brainstormed with Sara, a friend of mine who used to work as part of the staff team in Toronto, about all of the qualified females we could ask, trying to help arrange things for God.

And then in February this year, Sara and I were wondering again how we could help out the ministry (and God) with filling the position, and she suggested again that I apply. When she'd suggested this previously, my answer had always been a quick no, sometimes with a laugh at the absurdity of the idea. I loved my job in Lansing, and if we moved again, it would be back to Europe. 

But that February, when Sara asked again, what had once seemed an obvious 'no' felt differently. So I wondered if perhaps the Spirit was prodding me to look again - had God even been using my intense interest in arranging things for the ministry as a preparation for being open to the idea of applying to the position myself? But it still felt absurd to contemplate moving to Toronto, and so when I asked Matthijs about his thoughts about moving to Toronto, I assumed he'd respond negatively. But he was enthusiastic about the idea, and I had a stronger sense of what chaos God might be asking us to enter into these next few months. 

And then the pandemic hit, life turned chaotic, and I was in a position to provide needed encouragement and pastoral care to folks connected to Campus Edge as we navigated this new season. And still, sensing God's hand on the whole process (and with some extra help from Matthijs), I applied to the position at U of T. And the folks of U of T continued with the search and hiring someone. And I couldn't help but wonder what kind of idiot contemplates upheaving their life and moving jobs across a closed border in the middle of a pandemic! 

We are now in week two of self-isolation in Toronto, and as of tomorrow I am officially working full-time as a chaplain at the U of T (I've been working part-time, gradually increasing my hours, since mid-August). I still feel like one does need to be slightly crazy to move countries and jobs in the middle of a pandemic. Or perhaps one simply has to have a strong sense that God is better at arranging things than I am: how else can I account for our selling our house, the tremendous help we had in finding housing here in Toronto (and how graciously we've been welcomed)?

Running around in our new house

Making a bridge (and slide) with stuff loaned from a colleague for our 2-week mandatory quarantine

 

2 Kings 5 - when God shows up

The following is a sermon preached at Campus Chapel in Ann Arbor on August 25. The sermon is less exegetical and more of an interaction with the text of 2 Kings 5. It started with a rumination on 2 Kings 5:13 (“But his servants approached and said to him, “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean’?””) and then moved gradually into exploring how God enters into our lives.

If we were asked to do something hard,

I think most of us would do it with conviction.

Especially if it meant saving someone’s life.

Yet, when this all started back in March,

we were asked to wash our hands umpteen times a day.

Singing a song so we would wash long enough.

And then we were told to stay home to stay safe.

Where are the heroics in that?

It seemed so little.

And even almost cowardly.

As if we were afraid of illness and death.

 

At first, it seemed so little,

And so I didn’t understand why I chafed,

Why was I protesting so strongly?

Why do I want to turn away in anger, like Naaman in 2 Kings 5?

If I had been commanded something difficult,

would I not have done it?

How much more then, when only this little is being asked of me?

Wash, be clean, keep others clean.

 

And then the protests started.

Protesting masks. Protesting injustice.

And I understood that the words, wash and be clean.

Actually meant so much more:

Wash away your ideas of control

Let go of your life as it used to be.

 

For Naaman, the command was an invitation.

Humble yourself,

wash yourself in the river of this other country,

follow the strange commands of this prophet and his God.

Let go of your life as it used to be.

Recognize that all your best efforts cannot save you.

God alone does the impossible.

 

And we, we are invited to wash our hands,

Let go of our plans.

Recognize how little control we have over the future.

Deny ourselves

Trusting that God can use our small efforts to save lives.

 

Be baptized by the water

That washed away our sins

And also washes away our good desires

That sometimes grow

As unhealthy as the disease that covered Naaman’s skin.

 

Naaman returns to the prophet healed.

Deeply thankful,

ready to make a great sacrifice.

Except he is not allowed to pay for the gift he received.

A reminder again

that no matter how mighty we are

God does not need our help.

 

But instead God invites us to keep asking.

On top of the healing,

Naaman asks for dirt.

Something to take with him

So that he can serve the God of Israel

While not needing to give up everything in his life.

An ancient prototype of technology, you could say

Allowing Naaman to remain with those he cared about.

While continuing to be reminded of God’s gift

And so live in thankfulness for the gift he received.

Our gifts today are internet and zoom,

Social distancing and masks,

Keeping us connected to those we love

Allowing us to keep coming together.

As we live into the rearrangement of our lives

That began with a focus on washing our hands.

 

And as hard as this time has been,

The story of Naaman speaks

to how God enters into our lives.

Challenging and shaping us.

Inviting us to wash ourselves

Opening ourselves up to God cleansing

And healing us.

 

Naaman’s cleansing began with a stranger.

A foreign captive in Naaman’s house.

Who spoke up and was heard

Who brought words of hope

A promise of the impossible.

 

In a time when distancing makes helping hard

When every other person I interact with

could be a potential threat

And even those I love

Are disrupting the order of my life.

How does one keep loving and listening?

When I’ve spent so much of the last months

With barely enough energy left over,

How do I care for those who are part of my communities?

my next door neighbors?

Let alone the foreigner and stranger

All the potential threats.

 

How do I not become contaminated by this illness

that spreads through being connected?

How does my physical distance

Not become emotional and spiritual distance?

 

How do I not become like the king who tore his robes:

How dare you expect me to do something?

I cannot heal others.

But to ask that is to blind myself to the truth

That God is the one who heals.

God who has entered into our lives.

God among us - Immanuel

Jesus who healed so many during his time on earth

And then conquered death

Before returning where he reigns on high

God the Spirit who is with us

This God is the one who heals.

This God can do the impossible:

This God can renew our earth and climate;

Heal the polarization in this land

Enact changes to end structural racism.

 

And this same God invites us,

Like the servant girl,

To be part of that healing.

Not because our efforts will change the world.

But because sometimes,

Like the servant girl,

our words are heard.

And we become part of God’s

Entering into the world.

The servant girl spoke.

Naaman listened.

Elisha intervened.

God acted.

And so the impossible happened.

 

But, oh we so want to claim

That it was our voice that changed things.

Or get some kind of reward

For what we have done.

Or perhaps simply we are tired

And just want something to make life a little easier.

 

What was Gehazi thinking?

The request –

The slight distortion of truth

Just 2 sets of clothes

And some silver

How could that be a big deal?

 

As a child, I couldn’t believe Gehazi’s greed!

How dare he!

And as an adult,

I see in him myself.

That longing to be rewarded

For all that I have done.

To be compensated

For that all I have given up. 

 

And God enters the story here,

Just not perhaps the way we’d like.

Elisha confronts Gehazi.

And Gehazi is punished harshly.

Probably not so much for his greed

As for how he has distorted God’s image.

What picture of God is shown

When Naaman is able to ‘pay’ for his miracle

When instead of radical grace

His healing has shifted into a transaction

Especially if that transaction comes from Gehazi’s desire

To take advantage of their enemies.

Instead of trusting that God does provide.

And so God enters anew into Gehazi’s life

Through sickness

And what has often felt, to me,

a harsh punishment.

 

But Gehazi’s story does not end here

He shows up again in chapter 8

In the courts of the king, of all places!

He is advocating for the Shunammite woman.

Reminding the king of Elisha’s great deeds

Of raising her dead boy to life again

While also advocating that the king

Give back to the Shunammite woman

The land that she had left

And, even more, giving her back all the income

That her land produced in the time she was gone.

Radical provision.

A story of God providing

 

And so I wonder,

if the story might have more grace than we first might see.

If God’s interruption of Gehazi’s life

Was a catalyst for something new.

Something good.

 

Being open for God’s intervention

Washing ourselves in the Jordan.

It sounds simple.

Yet, just like with Naaman, it asks so much more of us.

It sounds like nothing heroic,

Except to speak up with courage when needed

and allow God to throw our whole lives into chaos

Rearrange our schedules again and again.          

Confronted by how little control we have,

And invited to offer our whole lives up to God.

 

This invitation, as hard as it is, is also a gift.

Let go of our efforts.

Trust in those of God.

And perhaps we will,

just like in the stories of Elijah and Elisha,

Be a witness to God showing up.

Be a witness to the impossible.

 

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit Amen.

Genesis 35: getting the details right

Reading through Genesis 35, two details struck me: the naming of the place, Bethel, and Jacob's renaming as Israel. Both of these namings were ones I was familiar with; the surprise for me in the text is that both are a repeat.

Jacob had named the place Bethel after his dream there when fleeting Esau. He even specifically moved to that place (El bethel) because that was where he'd met God. Why then is the explanation later in chapter 35 given about the place being given the name Bethel?

Jacob was named Israel after wrestling with God. Why is he then given the name a second time?

I don't know the answers to the questions, and I'm not sure if there are any obvious answers. Especially since the text doesn't provide contradictory information, but is simply repeating itself, the need for answers seems less. However, it does make me wonder about the way stories are told.

The lie of depression

The following is part of a series of posts that I found in my draft and are only now publishing.

The Banner published an article last year on depression that describes some of the difficult complexity of depression. What I appreciated most about it was the author's description of depression as a lie:

"Depression is a shape-shifter and it is a liar. The lies are probably the cruelest part of the illness. It tells you that everything you’re feeling is your own fault, or that what you’re experiencing isn’t real and the pain is only in your head. If you just tried harder, it says, the noise in your head would stop and your soul wouldn’t ache.

Depression is a lying illness, and its most sinister and dangerous lie is that this darkness around you will not end, that the pain is permanent, that there is no relief.

It lies. It lies about the most important truth that all new things begin in darkness, that dawn comes out of the deepest night, and that if the light isn’t there yet, then sometimes you have to reach into the darkness and pull it out." Theresa A. Miedema, "Me and the Black Dog" 

I am a bit disappointed, though, that she seems to emphasize what we have to do in the midst of depression - here it sounds too much like it is my own hope and my own strength that get me through depression. That, too, is a lie. At the same time, I can see how it is hard to talk about God's presence in the midst of depression, as it is hard not to blame God. Yet, the vision she gives of God at the end of the article -"a God who sees you, who knows you in all your passion, in your good moments and your bad moments—and who welcomes you as God’s beloved" - ought also to highlight how God can handle and even welcomes all of your anger and disappointment about how God is not intervening more powerfully to heal.

How I'd like to live my life - 2009 and now

These are words I wrote back in 2009:

I live in a community whose goal is to be a joy and hope to those around us. We invite others into our lives, whether for a coffee or a meal or a conversation or a chance to start over again. And simply by being part of this community, I get practice in being open and gracious to others - in ways that I couldn't on my own. and even as I know that it is not healthy to be always open and available for everyone all the time, I still wish I had the courage to be more caring and hospitable. I wish I wasn't scared of whether I should or could, but that I just did it - just reached out to others. 

And today? While I no longer live in that community, I feel like God has answered the prayer I gave above. In doing campus ministry, I have found a way to practice hospitality and being open, as well as sharing joy and hope with others. 

Aachen and Trier - a memory

I've been cleaning up old files and came across this unpublished post of pictures from a trip to Aachen and Trier - from right before we moved to Lansing. We took the trip to celebrate being together again and to allow me to see a bit more of Europe. Near the end of his university studies, Matthijs spent four weeks in Trier giving tours in the Cathedral. He would mention it every once in awhile, so I was excited about visiting this place in his past. 

We first headed out to Aachen, stopping along the way in Heerlen at a museum containing the remains of a Roman bath that is 2000 years old. In Aachen proper, we got to witness the German response to their win in the quarterfinals. It was impressive, although I have to say I'm glad not to have been there for the last match!

Then we headed to Trier. The following are some of the pictures from that time. I am reminded of the beauty that is so much a part of life in Europe. 

Looking through the pictures, though, it took me awhile to determine the significance of these last two pictures. It's a pretty enough view of the city, but not spectacular. And then I remembered. I'd booked a fairly nice room at a conference center in Trier, but it was a ways away from the train station. Unfortunately, I hadn't realized that it was up a rather large hill. Worse yet, there was no public transportation to get to the top. 

That hill (and the hotel booking) are remembered as one of our more spectacular failures at trip detail planning. I'm so thankful that we've had even more years to practice (6!) and that we've gotten better at it - having a car helps a bit, too :)

Enough time to waste?

Day care reopening has been the biggest shift in my life this past week. Time thus feels a bit more like a gift instead of something I have to carefully schedule. Time has also become something I can once again waste, which makes me feel guilty - how dare I waste this new gift from God?!? And yet, I also believe that God's gifts are abundant - and so there is enough even to waste it on sitting still, biking, reading, catching up, and ultimately resting. 

Learning to lament racism

When I first moved to Lansing, I attended a Black Lives Matter rally. A grad student came with me, and as we left, he talked about how profoundly affected he had been by hearing a parent talking about how they fear for the lives of their black children. This fear has stayed with me over the years and has probably most profoundly influenced my lamenting over racism.

Grey's Anatomy (screenwriter: Shonda Rhimes) provides a strong image of black parents having the 'talk' with their child. I am struck by the honesty about 'this is what you have to do.' It is not because it is fair or because it is good, instead we, your parents, are asking you to do this because we want you to come home safe. Because you matter so much to us and we want you to have a future.

What kind of world do we live in that so many fear that their loved ones won't come home safe?

Thankful for small and large joys

I've had a hard time these last few weeks, primarily on account of the challenges of life in a pandemic (still) combined with extra projects at work, along with a very strong desire to read or play computer games so I can finally "get some time for myself."

Normally this time of year - after the joys and challenges and hard work of the semester - I'd be going away for a few days for a vacation. Or at least planning and looking forward to doing that since I've learned that I do better if I step away a bit. Now we're in a pandemic, and the whole summer before us - a time when usually there's a lot of extra freedom for adventures and visiting - is a large unknown. And I'm finding it hard.

When I acknowledge that things have been hard, I give myself space to be a little less frustrated with myself when I don't accomplish as much as I wish I would each day (and so also try to escape from the frustration less). I also have space to acknowledge that in the middle of the challenges of daily life, there are a lot of small and large joys - often connected to the little whose presence is both exhausting and a delight.

So I give thanks for watching her jump in rain puddles (with either Matthijs or I as witness), for getting to plant tomatoes with her, for having her ask me to tell her stories about Jesus, for the fact that Matthijs and her bring me coffee (and cake) each morning as I work, for the joy I have in watching Matthijs and her together. To share that joy, here are a couple of pictures.

Our day out to a nearby state park (and no, it wasn't really warm enough to be in the water)

Jumping in puddles

My morning coffee and cake every work day.

Your kingdom come, your will be done: theory vs reality

Awhile ago, Mockingbird posted an article by Grace Leuenberger about how the current situation reveals some of our assumptions about control. While we pray for God's will to be done, what we really want is to make the plans ourselves and then expect God to come through to make them good. As we continue to practice 'social distancing' (stay home, stay safe here in Michigan),

her words feel even more true today as I struggle with giving up some of my desires again today:

"Your kingdom come, your will be done. Many of us have prayed this prayer. But I wonder if I prayed it like it was a joke. True, but with an asterisk. True, but able to be retracted. True, but with a laugh. True, but. Maybe we’re finding out all of this—this life, this world, and the chaos of it all—really was about Christ and his kingdom. But the joke has turned out to be not so funny. Why? Because . . . I think many Americans—myself included—are seeing how accustomed we became to being king, how much we made our independence essential to our existence. . . . Maybe our independence is not essential to our wellbeing. Maybe travel is not the only way to see and understand more. Maybe investing in stocks and 401Ks isn’t the way to a secure future. Maybe the people we’ve looked past are the ones whose lives will point us most to Jesus. Maybe the prayers we only half meant are the prayers God will answer most clearly. Maybe these days will prove to be Kingdom-building, Kingdom-coming."

Maundy Thursday - Thoughts on John 13

Two years ago I preached a sermon on John 13:1-15,34-35. The following are some thoughts from that sermon:


A number of churches and people continue the ritual of foot-washing on Maundy Thursday. If you have ever participated in a footwashing ceremony, you know that it’s a bit of an awkward experience. Feet are known, at worst, for their smell and, at best, for their usefulness in getting you around. There is something uncomfortable about getting on one’s hands and knees and touching someone else’s foot – or having someone touch your foot.

When we read this passage, we can easily gloss over the awkwardness of the footwashing. As everyone wore sandals and the roads were dusty and filled with garbage and animal dung, foot washing was an ordinary part of life back then. But if we look at the text, it doesn’t sound like what is happening is ordinary in any way.

The text describes in detail the foot washing. It describes how Jesus lay down his clothing to put on a serving towel. Within a few hours from this moment, Jesus’ clothing would be replaced with the kingly clothes in which the soldiers mock him and then his clothes would be stripped from him on the cross. Like Jesus lays down his clothing to wash his feet, Jesus, as the good shepherd, would lay down his life for his sheep. [cf John 10]

Jesus lay aside his clothing, poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. We recognize the strangeness of the actions through Peter’s interruption. Peter asks: Lord, are you really going to wash my feet? Even after Jesus assures Peter that he will later understand, Peter still adamantly refuses to have Jesus wash his feet. Even when Jesus makes it clear to Peter that refusing to have him wash his feet was the same as refusing to have any part with Jesus – even then, Peter doesn’t stop protesting. The protest simply shifts from Peter demanding that Jesus not wash any of him to demanding that Jesus wash all of him.

Peter’s response is perhaps not the most surprising part of the passage. After all, we, too, have the tendency to extremes. Often we live as people who don’t believe we need our feet washed – we act as if we’re fundamentally good folks who just happen to have some quirks. Or, we tend towards the other extreme – overwhelmed by how we have failed or seeing ourselves as worthless in God’s eyes. We so often forget the role of water in our lives – the power of the baptism in which we are brought into the community of God and Jesus’ continued ability to wash us of our sins.

The surprise in the passage is how Jesus responds. He does not sigh in exasperation at Peter’s extremes, nor at how the disciples don’t seem to recognize who he is and his love for them. Instead, Jesus simply explains what it means to follow him.

After showing them what love looks like, he explains that they, having had their feet washed by their Lord and teacher should now go out and wash one another’s feet. Later in the text, he puts this slightly differently. Just as Jesus had loved them, so they are to love one another.

Jesus’ love extends grace to them as they don’t understand; yet the grace also includes the invitation given in the footwashing – that they might have a part in him. While Jesus is not standing in front of us with a bowl of water to wash our feet, the invitation to have a part with Jesus extends also to us.

Having been washed by Christ, we are then invited to do as Jesus has done. Jesus has washed away the smelliness of our sins but has also reminded us of how our sinfulness doesn’t define us. We, just like our feet, have a purpose. We are to love as Jesus has first loved us.

The text notes that this is a new command, but it is hardly a new idea. Loving one’s neighbor was an important part of the Old Testament law. [Leviticus 19:18, 35] The newness of the command is not in what it is telling us to do but about how we are to go about it. Because of Jesus’ love for the disciples – and us – we are able to go out and live fully into the impossible command of loving our neighbors – not on our own strength but because of Christ’s deep love for us. Just like Jesus’ feet were anointed, so Jesus’ footwashing anoints us to the work of sharing the good news.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

2 Kings 5 in the time of COVID-19

When I started washing my hands so much that they dried out for the first time in my life, I started pondering 2 Kings 5, especially v. 13 where Naaman's "servants approached and said to him, “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean’?”” 

The following are some of my thoughts: 

If I had been asked to do something hard,

I would have done it with conviction.

Especially if it meant saving someone’s life.

Luther argues that we are not to flee from plague.

We, especially us in ministry, are to ‘remain steadfast before the peril of death.’

Tending the sick would be like tending Christ himself. 

But instead I am asked to wash my hands again and again.

Singing some silly song so I do it long enough.

And to stay home and stay away from other people.

Where are the heroics in that?

It seems so little.

And even almost cowardly.

As if I’m afraid of illness and death.

Yet if it’s so little,

Why do I chafe under these requirements?

Why do I protest against it so strongly?

Why do I want to turn away in anger, like Naaman in 2 Kings 5?

If I had been commanded something difficult, would I have not done it?

How much more then, when only this little is being asked of me?

Wash, be clean, keep others clean.

Wash and be clean.

Rearrange the way you look at the world.

For Naaman, the command was an invitation.

Humble yourself,

wash yourself in the dirty river of this other country,

follow the seemingly arbitrary commands of this prophet and his God.

Recognize that all your best efforts cannot save you.

God alone does the impossible.

Wash your hands, stay home.

Let go of your plans.

Recognize how little control you have over the future.

Deny yourself

Trusting that God can use this seemingly small effort to save lives.

Naaman returns to the prophet healed.

Deeply thankful, ready to make a great sacrifice.

Except he is not allowed to pay for the gift he received.

A reminder again

that no matter how mighty we are

God does not need our help.

God meets us in our humanity

The gracious gift of a piece of earth so that we can align ourselves with God

While not needing to give up everything in our lives.

An ancient sort of technology.

Allowing Naaman to remain with those he cared about.

While continuing in thankfulness for the gift he received.

Our gifts today are internet, computers, zoom and Netflix,

Keeping us connected to those we love

Allowing us to keep meeting together.

For the request to stay home is hardly easy.

Being human means being in community.

The lack of physical presence

Requires each of us to go a little against who

We are created to be.

Naaman didn’t learn humility in a day.

It started with the quiet voice of a servant girl

And the humility required to listen to her.

It all began with a stranger.

A foreign captive in Naaman’s house.

Who spoke up and was heard

Who brought words of hope

A promise of the impossible

In a time when distancing makes helping hard

When every other could be a potential threat

And even those I love

Are disrupting the order of my life.

How does one keep loving and listening?

When I’m turning in on myself

With barely enough energy left over for me,

How do I care for those who are part of my communities?

my next door neighbors?

Let alone the foreigner

and the potential threat.

This illness that spreads through being connected.

How does my physical distance

Not become emotional and spiritual distance?

But that is not what the servant girl did.

She spoke up.

Naaman listened.

Elisha intervened.

God acted.

And so the impossible happened.

Stay at home. Help others.

It sounds so simple.

Yet, just like with Naaman, it asks so much more of us.

It sounds like nothing heroic,

except to throw my whole life into chaos

Rearranging all of our schedules,

Cancelling all my plans,

Confronting me with how little control I have,

Offering up my whole life to you.

The command has become the gift.

Let go of my efforts.

Trust in those of God.

And look forward to the day when this experience

Is behind us.

When we once again live fully in community.

And this experience is like the dirt that Naaman brought home.

A complicated piece of truth

To remind us of what we ought to be bowing down to.

Not our own control and plans.

But the one who controls all.