St. Francis, and Blessing These Scruffy Animals

Me and the Little Miss Abby, leading worship together

St. Francis of Assisi

Text: Genesis 1:20-26

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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One week in October – on a Sunday morning and a Wednesday evening - every year, we take the time to worship outside. We do this each year to honor St. Francis, a monk who lived in the 13^th century, and was known for his deep love for creation. In this first week of October, some of us bring our pets with us, and it is funny and strange and sometimes a bit of a hassle, but we do it anyway because it is a holy time of remembering these creatures before God.

These creatures, who are so much a part of our daily lives that they know our routines sometimes better than we do ourselves. These creatures, who are so much a part of our daily lives, that when they are gone, we miss them deeply. These creatures, who in the span of ten minutes can take away, and then add to the burdens of our lives.

They take care of us. When I was growing up and we had cats, they were quiet, ever-present companions. I’ve had dogs lick away my tears and let me hug on them for as long as I’ve needed. Our current dogs bark at every noise, ostensibly to warn us of impending danger, just in case this is the one time that the dishwasher decides to go on the attack. (Anyone else have dogs that bark at the dishwasher?)

But we take care of them, too, and this is what we sign up for when we adopt an animal. God says in Genesis 1 that we are to have dominion over the earth. But dominion does not mean making every part of creation yield to our needs or demands. Dominion brings with it a great responsibility of caring for creation – our pets, the earth, the land upon which we live and work, and all the creatures that share this creation with us.

Our care for creation – including these animals – is one way in which we show our love for God. God is the giver of all creation to us, so it is fitting that – every so often, at least - we give thanks and praise to God outside, in God’s creation, surrounded by trees and birdsong, with the sky overhead, the dirt beneath our feet, and our scruffy animals by our sides. All of this reminds us that God loves us and we belong to God.

Our dog, Abby, often wakes me up during the night to go outside. Sometimes, it’s a quick trip outside – she does her business in an expedient manner, and we’re back inside in just a minute. Other times, though, she lingers. She sniffs the wind or the grass, she cocks her head to listen over the noise of the neighbor’s AC unit, she wanders over to look at something in the pool.

During these times in which she lingers, I am at first frustrated with her. I’m the crazy lady out in the yard at 3am whisper-yelling “ABBY. DO. YOUR. BUSINESS.” And you know how she responds? Usually by walking further away and taking even longer.

So these are the times when my patience is tested, when all I can really do is give in to the moment that has been given to me: a moment to look up at the stars, to feel the breeze, to find the moon hiding behind a tree or a cloud. It sounds sappy, I know – and yes, of course there are times when I’m still impatient – but more times than not, I am able to take those moments to behold the creation of God, and thank God for creation and for his love shown to me.

Thanks be to God for his great gifts to us – for creation, but especially for the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, in whom we are all made new creations.

Amen.

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And here's Mr. Charlie!

What Do We Learn from Those Who Go Before Us?

Granny taught me to love reading.

The Rev. Kathi Johnson

The Ascension of Our Lord – 8 May 2016

Texts: Acts 2:1-11 and Luke 24:44-53

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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Today, we remember the Ascension of Jesus. On our church calendar, Ascension actually falls on Thursday every year – forty days after Easter. Today we remember that Jesus not only lived among us, and was killed and raised to life again, but that he ascended into heaven, as our creeds remind us each time we say them.

The story of the Ascension of Jesus comes from three places in Scripture, and we heard two of them today: Acts 1 and Luke 24. The Gospel of Luke and the book of Acts were probably written by the same person, Acts being a sequel of sorts to Luke’s gospel. If we think of Acts as a sequel to Luke, then it makes sense that Acts picks up where Luke leaves off. The Gospel of Luke tells us about Jesus – his life and his work - and the book of Acts tells us what Jesus’ followers did after Jesus ascended into heaven. The hinge between the two is the Ascension of Jesus.

Right before the Ascension, Jesus is with the disciples, eating with them and teaching them. Luke tells us that Jesus opens their minds to understand the Scriptures, so that they can begin to see him as the One who has come in the name of the Lord, the One foretold by the prophets, the Messiah who is to die and be raised to life, who brings repentance and forgiveness of sins to all the world. And then Jesus commissions them: “You are witnesses of these things,” he says, and then he tells them that they will be clothed with power from on high.

They go out toward Bethany, and Jesus blesses them, and while he is blessing them, he is carried up into heaven. Eventually, the clouds hide him from their sight, and so, there they are, standing around, looking up at the clouds. Eventually, they make their way back to Jerusalem, as Jesus has instructed, his words of commissioning and blessing still ringing in their ears.

Last week, I said that the word of Jesus is love, and the disciples have received that word, but now have also been told to wait for power from on high. And so, they wait.

One question that I have heard around the Ascension of Jesus is why did Jesus have to ascend at all? Or, why did he leave earth, instead of staying here, continuing to live among us?

Maybe he could have. I’m not sure how that would’ve worked or what that would’ve looked like. I do know that Jesus’ kingdom is not of this world – it’s like the old Advent hymn, “Prepare the Royal Highway” says: “His is no earthly kingdom; it comes from heav’n above. His rule is peace and freedom and justice, truth, and love.” Jesus trusted in the coming of the Holy Spirit to carry on the work he had begun – and, as he said, to remind his followers of what he had taught them.

From very early on in our lives, we are taught by those who are around us. Every so often, I will hear a piece of piano music and it hits me in such an early place in my memories, that I know it must be a piece that my mom or dad was practicing on the piano when I was an infant. We begin to learn very early on, and those memories stay with us.

As we grow older, and begin to gain vocabulary, those people around us as children begin to teach us words. And then we begin to learn phrases and sentences, and eventually concepts emerge. And all of this shapes us deeply, and it becomes a deep place of formation for us throughout our lives.

As I began to reflect again upon the story of Jesus’ Ascension, I began to reflect on this question: What have I learned from those who’ve gone before me?

My Granny Inglis taught me the song, “Que sera, sera - Whatever will be, will be.” From very early in my childhood, I remember my vivacious Granny Inglis belting out the words to this Doris Day song. She taught it to me, and we’d drive around town, running errands, singing together. Beyond the fun of singing with my Granny at the top of my lungs, the message of the song began to stick with me: “Whatever will be, will be.”

My mom taught me the phrase, “Trust the process.” I’m not sure when I began hearing this from my mom, but I think it was in high school, as I began to have deeper questions about all kinds of things in life. “Trust the process,” my mom would say, helping me to learn that sometimes the greatest growth comes not from resolution, but from whatever processes we go through before we reach resolution. (And sometimes, that resolution never comes at all.)

What has the Church learned from those who have gone before us? Those first disciples learned directly from Jesus that word of love – that we are to love God and to love our neighbors as ourselves. From very early on in the Church’s life, that word of love shaped and formed how we gather, and with whom we gather, how we serve others, and whom we serve. The first Christians met with Christ-followers of different socio-economic backgrounds, different nationalities, different walks of life, slave, free, male, female, Jew, Gentile - and they were unified by the love of Christ.

What has the Church learned from those who have gone before us? We look to the example of Jesus, and to the example of centuries of saints who’ve loved God and loved neighbor. Jesus’ word of love carries through the centuries to us, from the way he healed and taught throughout his life, to his death, his resurrection, and his ascension.

For it is because of his Ascension that we are gifted with the power from on high – the gift of the Holy Spirit. Next week is Pentecost, and on that day, we will celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit to those first Christ-followers.

But each day of our lives, we ought to remember and celebrate that because Jesus ascended, we have the promised Holy Spirit with us. The work of Jesus is love, the word of Jesus is love, and the Holy Spirit carries on the work and word of Jesus – in us, now. Amen.

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For You.

Given...for you.

B Lectionary 20 – 16 August 2015

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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As of this morning, we are now most of the way through what I call the “well-breaded section” of the Gospel of John, chapter 6. John 6 includes the story of the feeding of the five thousand and the story of Jesus walking on water, and then Jesus makes a long speech about bread, part of which we hear today, and the rest of which we will hear next week. It’s a lot of bread.

Except it’s not just any bread, as Jesus says in today’s lesson – take a look at the reading. Right there – right away – what kind of bread is it? (Living bread) And this idea of Jesus as the living bread is so important that in this one little section, the words “living,” “life,” and “live” appear nine times. Clearly, Jesus is not simply talking about sandwich bread that we grab off the grocery store shelf - what he’s talking about is a matter of life and death.

Before we can get to what Jesus means here, we have to recognize that the words coming out of his mouth are strange – he almost sounds cannibalistic, in a way, until we realize that when he talks about giving up his flesh for the life of the word, he’s talking about his death on a cross. And the flesh and blood that we are to eat and drink are found in, with, and under the bread and the wine that we consume here together.

For centuries, Christians have argued about the bread and the wine – do they actually become the body and blood of Christ? Are they just symbolic of Christ’s flesh and blood? Or, as a sort of middle ground, is Christ present in the bread and wine – but not on a molecular level?

This third conclusion is what Martin Luther came to as he wrestled with this sacrament five hundred years ago. By his lifetime, in the Church, Holy Communion had become a ritual that was done to benefit those who had died. The living didn’t even get to eat or drink! They would go, hear a service completely in Latin, and watch from afar as the priest handled the elements. The more times they did this, the more “credits” they got, which then benefited their loved ones who were stuck suffering in Purgatory…and on and on it went.

Luther saw Holy Communion as “food of the soul” because “it nourishes and strengthens the new creation”[1] – the new creation that each of us becomes when we are baptized. Holy Communion for us, then, is not a dead ritual in which you all stay removed from the elements. Holy Communion for us is a living ritual – you participate in the eating and the drinking of the body and blood of Christ.

Out of all the words we say on Sunday mornings (or Wednesday evenings) as we celebrate the Holy Meal together – there are two words that are some of the most important for us as we receive the body and blood of Christ together. Two words: “for you.”

When you come forward for Communion, you receive the bread as I say, “The Body of Christ, broken for you.” You receive the wine (or grape juice) as someone else says, “The Blood of Christ, shed for you.” By faith, we believe that we are receiving the body and blood of Christ, which was given for you…for each of you.

There’s an old prayer, found in some of the oldest prayer books of the Anglican Church. It’s called the Prayer of Humble Access. I grew up in the Episcopal Church praying this prayer before Communion: “We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy: Grant us therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us.”

This prayer reminded us on a weekly basis that we are not invited to this table by our Lord because we are more worthy than others, or because we are holier than others. We are invited because God loves us, and God wants to give us heavenly food and drink. Through this food and drink, our lives in God are sustained.

The life contained in this Holy Meal is one reason why we offer Holy Communion every week here at Our Redeemer, and during the week on Wednesday evening, too. Our gathering on Sundays and Wednesdays is not only a time for us to reconnect with one another and to welcome guests as we all attend a righteous pep rally together that sends us out feeling great for another week.

Our time together is a holy time. It is certainly holy in the reconnecting and the welcoming, but it is holy in our worship and praise of God, holy in our listening to Scripture, and holy as we share in this meal, instituted by Jesus himself, and handed down to us through centuries and centuries of men and women of God. We are connected to them in this meal – not only to each other – but to centuries upon centuries of the faithful, gathered in homes, in churches, in schools, in storefronts, in auditoriums, under trees, and around campfires. And in every place and in every time where the people of God have gathered, there is Christ, the living bread from heaven, with us.

There is another Communion prayer that I found, by a man named George MacLeod, founder of a religious community called the Iona Community: “The morning is yours, rising to fullness; the summer is yours, dipping into autumn; eternity is yours, dipping into time.”

In this Holy Meal of bread and wine – the body and blood of Christ – the eternal love of God dips into our time and our space. Together, we eat and drink, and are given life again by the Lord of Life.

Amen.

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[1] Large Catechism, Timothy Wengert edition, p. 469:23.

"Lazarus, Come Out!"

The Rev. Kathi Johnson

A Lent 5 – April 6, 2014

Text: John 11:1-45

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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Grace and peace be with you all, from God our Father, and from his beloved Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Another day, another long reading from the Gospel of John. Last week, we read all of chapter 9 together – the story of Jesus removing blindness from a man born blind. We won’t get to hear from John chapter 10 until after Easter. So, today’s reading from chapter 11 throws us forward a bit in Jesus’ life and ministry.

Part of what we skip over in John 10 is an episode in Jerusalem wherein Jesus causes some controversy by speaking openly about being the Son of God. Some of the religious people who overhear this pick up stones in order to kill him; Jesus is able to escape “across the Jordan,” where he has more support. We pick up the story today as Jesus is receiving news that his friend Lazarus – brother to Mary and Martha – is ill.

After a couple of days, Jesus suggests to his disciples that they return to Judea – that they go to Bethany because Lazarus has “fallen asleep” – and then John helpfully tells us (the readers) that Jesus really meant that Lazarus was dead, not asleep. The disciples, quite characteristically, don’t understand his meaning and so he spells it out for them: “Lazarus is dead.” And then he repeats his idea that they return to Judea.

His disciples, quite understandably, are a bit hesitant to return to Judea – and quite specifically to an area so close to where Jesus was almost killed not so long ago. But they decide to go back with Jesus, even if it means that they will die with him. So, off they go, arriving in Bethany after Lazarus has been buried – John gives us a helpful tidbit by sharing that Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days.

The thing with reading the Gospel of John is to pay attention to those helpful tidbits because they can speak volumes to us. John tells us that Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days because the Jews believed that, when someone died, their soul hung around the body for three days. So for us to read that Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days – that means he’s really, really dead.

Jesus visits with the sisters who have just lost their brother. They both proclaim their faith in Jesus by saying that they know if he had been there, then their brother wouldn’t have died. There is grief – the community turns out to grieve with the sisters. There are tears – we’re told that even Jesus weeps. There’s all this focus on the “if onlys” and “what ifs.”

And then Jesus does this remarkable thing. He stands outside the tomb of his friend and tells the men to move the stone. When Martha protests, he reminds her that even this can be used to show others the glory of God. He says a quick prayer. And then he yells to his dead friend, “Lazarus, come out!” as if he’s simply trying to wake up a sleepy teenager.

And Lazarus emerges, still dressed in the gravecloths, still wearing the strips of cloth put on him following his death. All we’re told about the next few minutes is Jesus saying to the on-lookers, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

This is the final sign out of seven signs that Jesus performs in the Gospel of John. These signs include things like the changing of water into wine at the wedding in Cana, and the feeding of the 5,000 – signs that show the glory of God to those around Jesus. As one of my seminary professors wrote, “In the signs, Jesus reveals his glory in concrete and material ways”[1] – in other words, he uses the tangible for his signs –  he uses water and wine, bread and fish, and mud smeared on the face of a man once blind, and strips of cloth hanging from the body of a man once dead.

And all of these stories in John are meant to show the followers of Jesus – including us – the work of God and the glory of God among us.

One of my favorite tv programs is a show called “Frasier” which tells the story of a psychiatrist who takes his practice to the airwaves by hosting a call-in radio program. Frasier is many things: intelligent, cultured, sophisticated. But one thing he is not is very athletic.

In one particular episode, we discover that Frasier has never learned how to ride a bicycle. Problem is, his radio station hosts a bike-a-thon each year to raise money for charity. So, in this episode, we follow along as Frasier tries to learn how to ride a bike – at age 40+. He tries really, really hard, but each and every time he gets out there to ride, he focuses on an obstacle – a large tree by the side of the bike path. And each and every time, he rides right into that tree.

The day of the bike-a-thon, he’s feeling pretty good about things. He’s ready to go. Until someone points out a mailbox by the side of the road…and as soon as the race begins, he heads straight into that mailbox, and he gets no further on his way.

That’s what happens when all we do is focus on our own abilities or our own vision – we get stuck. We keep riding into the same tree or mailbox and we get no further on our way. The disciples couldn’t see why Jesus wanted to go and visit a dead man. Martha was worried about what her brother’s grave smelled like. And yet look at the glory of God that is revealed in Jesus’ work when everyone just gets out of his way!

What happens when we allow Jesus to rejuvenate us? What happens when we are unbound and set free, like Lazarus, coming out of his tomb? What work will God do in us when we have shaken off fear and faithlessness, and have set our minds on the things of the Spirit?

Let us set our minds on the Spirit, which is life and peace. Amen.

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[1] Cynthia Briggs Kittredge in Conversations with Scripture: The Gospel of John, p. 34.

How Social Media Helps Me Mourn With Those Who Mourn

#PrayForWest

Last night, Hubby and I went out for a late dinner, following a powerful worship service that included many prayers for the people of Boston. We got to the restaurant, ordered our drinks, and did what has become fairly customary for us: pulled out our smart phones. I perused Twitter while he looked at Facebook.

I'll note here that, generally, I'm not a fan of sitting and staring at a screen when sitting across the table from someone. But this screen time has helped us become kinda like the couple that sits and reads the morning paper together. We share the stories we are reading on our screens; we talk about things we see; we show each other pictures.

So, last night, pretty quickly, I began to see a number of tweets regarding the explosion in West. The number of tweets grew pretty quickly and became more urgent sounding each time I checked. Pictures started appearing, to the point where our dinner conversation surrounded the event that was unfolding just down I-35 to our south.

We got home, and found a news station that had the story on, and I returned to Twitter, adding Facebook to the mix. What I was seeing was staggering - the destruction, the flashing lights, the people - my God, the people! And I started to tweet what I was seeing, what I was feeling, the horror that was trying to overtake me again - and you know what? Others were doing the same thing.

Hubby fell asleep with the news still on. The news continued...and continued...and continued, and so I continued to post prayers, observations, and reactions on Twitter and Facebook, and others engaged those posts in various ways. 

What emerged for me was the sense that it wasn't just me, sitting there in our house, watching horror unfold in front of me while I faced it alone. What emerged for me was the sense that others were out there too - in some cases, on the other side of the world! - watching the same horror that I was, struggling to make some sense out of it, trying desperately to offer prayer and comfort, too. What emerged for me is something akin to the idea of mourning with those who mourn.

I have done this many, many times through social media. I have cried upon reading about someone's diagnosis or death. I have prayed with and for those who have just lost their job, or have had to put a pet to sleep, or who are struggling to care for an aging parent. I have wept - wept so very hard - in the face of some of the burdens we share with one another through social media. And, last night, I wept again, seeing more destruction, more pain, more shock, more horror. Again.

Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of joys that are shared, too - plenty of times when I have rejoiced with those who are rejoicing. I have celebrated with others about new jobs and new babies, new houses and new cars, newly-found freedom and newly-claimed strength. I have said prayers of thanksgiving for all these things, and more. And I have received many, many well-wishes and congratulations via social media in my own times of joy.

But at times like last night, facing horror yet again, I can honestly say that I am grateful for the connections I've made and maintained through social media. I am thankful we can inform one another. I am thankful we can pray for and with one another. I am thankful that I can mourn with those who mourn.

#PrayForNewtown

Today is one of the saddest days our country has faced collectively in a while. News of death, and in this case, the deaths of so many children - it has broken our hearts together. And so, for a time, for a long time, the pieces of our hearts will again lie scattered on the floor.

The grief is palpable. As I ran around today, doing things, grieving inwardly, I thought about why my own heart is so touched by this grief. I decided that it's because this type of event is universal. This shooting could have been at the school around the corner from my house, or down the street from my church. This shooting could have been at my stepson's school or the schools where our family members or friends' kids attend, or where my friends or church members work or attend.

But beyond that, it is the age-old grief of Rachel, weeping for her children. Weeping for the loss of life so young. Weeping because this is senseless. Weeping because death seems to come to us too often - just when we think we've caught our breath, there is more death waiting to greet us.

Oh, my friends. It is a challenge to live. It is a challenge to continue to live with hope and faith when death not only greets us, but spits in our faces. It is such a challenge to claim life - joyous life, loving life, life hidden away in God.

But that is somehow what we will do. The death doesn't get to win. Let us choose life.