SERMON, June 22 6 Pentecost

Jeremiah 20:7-13; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39

I read somewhere not long ago that most Americans have as their real dream the satisfied self. This hasn’t always been the American dream—but for many today it is. The goal of living has shriveled to this: leading a life that brings experiences and feelings of satisfaction. The satisfied self can find fulfillment in a variety of ways: material possessions, power, love, sex, food, drink, drugs, religion even. To this way of thinking when a person looks back over their life they can congratulate themselves when they see that they have been personally satisfied. It’s worth pondering really, what is my dream for a fulfilled life? What is yours? As death approaches what measures would I use to judge the quality of my own life?

The American dream of the satisfied self and the lessons we have heard today could hardly be further apart.

It’s probably a good thing that today is not Bring a Friend to Church Day or Evangelism Sunday. The other day I was talking to a young man who explained that he had been raised in a family that had no spiritual practices or church related experience. When it came to thinking about spirituality he had no thoughts at all. It hadn’t been part of his universe. He’d never thought about faith at all. It would be hard for a person with that kind of upbringing to walk into our service and hear these lessons. In fact, if we are honest it’s very hard for us—we who have been here more than once—who fancy ourselves to be followers of Jesus. It’s painful.

This isn’t the sweet and compassionate Jesus we like to think of. He isn’t gathering the little children to his side to bless them. He isn’t reaching out to raise the little girl up to new life or to tell the woman who’d touched his robe that her faith had healed her. This is a Jesus telling his friends and us that both promise and trouble lie ahead, there is hope and there is painful division. He’s calling them and us to single-hearted dedication. We hear the words about God’s counting the hairs on our heads (and depending on how much hair we have) we are comforted. We hear his promise to acknowledge all who acknowledge him, and we hear his words urging us to have no fear. But those words are enmeshed in a picture of life as a disciple that is filled with pain and loss.

"I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. "That’s where it really hurts. And, it seems so unchristian really! Christ the non-violent one, who stood silent before Pilate, and carried his own cross to the hill.

One translation I read of that line reads: “I have come to bring neither peace nor sword.” Neither peace nor sword—but the truth. And that’s where the sword comes in. The truth cuts deep—cutting us off from our comfort zone, cutting us away from the life of the satisfied self. Disrupting our ways of thinking and acting. Upsetting families, workplaces, communities. God’s love come among us is always “doing violence” to the status quo. Think about it. The truth of God’s love come among us offering us a choice. To choose Jesus’ way is to choose freedom and fullness of life that is deeper and richer than the wildest dream of the satisfied self. And harder too—in some ways. Because the choosing to be and become who our baptism claims us to be; choosing day by day to live a little more deeply into our identity as God’s beloved—God-bearers--this can be daunting and it can set us apart. Cause those divisions Jesus describes.

Perhaps some of you here today have known those divisions. Perhaps your faith has caused others to judge you—to step away from you. Perhaps you have made ethical decisions that have flowed from your faith—and these have caused disruptions to the way things “normally are.” I know people who have paid these costs for their faith—sometimes in the workplace. Many times the highest cost has come within their own family of origin.

One way I can understand Jesus’ use of this metaphor of a sword is that I know that love always brings risk. Loving another person will necessarily involve sacrifice—giving way to the other’s needs. There is no escaping it. To be a loving person is to put yourself in harm’s way. To love is to be vulnerable to another. To love another is to want the best for the other—to listen deeply, to serve faithfully, to take joy in your lover’s joy and suffer in your lover’s suffering. When I counsel young people for marriage it is clear to me that their love for one another will not only bring them to their knees at some point—each will no doubt be brought to their limits—they will someday somehow know pain as well as joy, loss and well as gain: these are connected. And, there will be separation. Their love for one another, their commitment to one another brings changes to their other relationships. Family patterns—say for example around Thanksgiving and Christmas or even the 4th of July will be disrupted. “My son who is expected to be here and always has—is now somewhere else with his wife’s or his partner’s family…” you know the story. Love brings sacrifice, separation, and new order of things.

Jesus is God’s love come into our world—offered to us. Nothing can remain simply as it was. To love in return will bring with it the risks and pain, the comfort and joy that love always brings.

The hardest part of Jesus’ words today is I think the call to single-hearted, single-minded devotion to God and to living our lives as God’s people. If you are like me you want to live more and more integrally as a Christian. You want yourself to be transfigured more and more deeply by God’s grace. God’s spirit at work in us. But in the everyday I find myself confronted by so many choices, so much that entices me to live more like a person in search of self-satisfaction than anything else. What to buy and how much of it? Where to live and how big a place? How much of my wealth can I give away and to whom? How much do I overlook of what goes on in my workplace that is unjust? How do I find time for quiet and prayer when I have a job and family and, and, and… ? Am I called to forgive my sister-in-law for what she did to me? Do I speak up when demeaning jokes are made? All of these little choices are related to the underlying choice. Whose dream do I choose?

In truth I live much of my life in a multi-tasking way. I am often distracted. I get snookered into things that I know aren’t worth my time. I walk around thinking a thousand thoughts at once. I find it hard to choose the path less-traveled—often I choose to pursue my own interests. I long to lose my life for Christ’s sake—but in truth I keep hedging my bets and trying to find my own life—fill my own desires for self-satisfaction. This leads more to death than life—and I know it.

Perhaps in my two-mindedness you find an echo of your own. In this I can only throw myself on the mercy of the One who died with forgiveness on his lips and rose from the dead forgiving his friends. I trust that Christ’s grace exceeds his demands. God come into the world is more than the world can contain—more than we can grasp. The meaning of Jesus life, death and resurrection is something I can only faintly comprehend. His call to me to live beyond fear—to live with single-minded devotion and fearlessness—is a call I yearn to say yes to. over time I have said yes. And I have been changed as I have done so. I have tasted the true fullness of life. But I know I fall short—I domesticate his words—I take the easy way. This is who I am. When we say the confession together that “we have not loved God with all our hearts nor our neighbors as ourselves”—I know how very true those words are.

The good news is that as Jeremiah’s lament so clearly shows us, and as Paul’s description of baptism tells us: the mission is not mine to choose. The mission has chosen me—chosen us. We have been claimed by God—enticed by God—God is the one. God’s grace is already at work in us—enabling us to live into who we are—setting us free to become more and more God’s holy people. We are called to the fullness of life—not paltry lives of self-satisfaction—but lives where we lose ourselves only to find that we are forgiven, loved, and embraced. “Alive to God in Christ Jesus,” as Paul puts it.

--------------------------- Described in the book The Real American Dream by Andrew Delbanco as discussed by Miroslav Volf in “Sharing Wisdom” Christian Century, July 1, 2008, p. 37.

SERMON, June 15, 2008 5 Pentecost

Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7], Matthew 9:35-10:8 [9-23]

Consider for a moment this gospel. Jesus sends his friends out to proclaim the good news, to heal the sick, raise the dead, and liberate those bound up. This is their mission. Innocuous you might think. Doing only good. Bringing healing and good news and freedom to folks. All of it good—all of it central to the good news of God’s in-breaking kingdom—that realm of God Jesus always said was in our midst—happening now.

And yet, and yet. . . it’s clear as he gives his instructions to them that he expects not just a warm welcome, and thanksgiving. He expects trouble. With a message of good news, with healing and liberation they will get into trouble. I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves. Think of that image for a moment if you will. Sheep in the midst of wolves. Beware he says they will hand you over to the authorities and you will be flogged, and dragged before the powers that be—because of me. Because of my teaching, my healings, my liberating work, because of the good news of God’s love and forgiveness there will be trouble. Big trouble. Betrayals—brother of brother, parents of child, and children of parents. You will be hated by all.

What’s to hate here? What is it that makes us reject the good news? What is it inside us that makes us want to earn God’s love rather thsn receive it under the divine no-merit plan? What is it that refuses to accept forgiveness? What is it in me that wants to set higher standards than God apparently does about forgiveness? What is it? Is it that I am not ready really to accept the wrong I have done? Am I still blaming others, or am I just plain unwilling to look at the truth of what I have done? Or, maybe I’m so overwhelmed with my guilt that I can’t allow myself to accept God’s forgiveness. I prefer to live as unforgiven—there’s a certain comfort in that—I don’t have to move on. What is it?

What is it that keeps the alcoholic in denial? What is it about me as a young adult that made me refuse to hear the words of my own father when he spoke to me of his concern about the choices I was making and their potential to bring harm to my family? What is it?

What keeps us locked in prisons of our own choosing? What is it that makes it so hard to believe we’ve been set free? What is it that makes it so hard to accept the hand that reaches out to us to help and to heal? What is it that makes us shut our ears to the word that will set us free?

What is it that makes us laugh in derision like the mourners in last week’s gospel lesson who stood outside the young girl’s home—refusing to believe Jesus when he said she was alive. Refusing to believe he would lift her up? What is it that makes us laugh like Sarah, who denied it, and like Abraham himself a bit later—laugh not in joy but in dismissiveness because we know better what is and what isn’t possible.

What is it? What is it that makes human beings turn on the one who comes proclaiming the good news? What is it about healing, about setting free, about raising the dead that is not to embrace?

I can’t fully answer my own question. But I have some clues. The good news always brings with it one thing: change. And change is something we seem to have a hard time accepting. Even when it’s for the best. Even when it sets us free—heals us—calls us out of our self-imposed prisons—even when it raises us from whatever death we’re living in.

Healing always involves change. Liberation means change. Raising the dead is big change. Proclaiming God’s love and forgiveness right here and right now means change.

Change means letting go. I have to let go of my illness when I am healed. Let go of my clutch on the past to move into the future. Let go of the known to step out into freedom. Let go of guilt or let go of resentment to accept forgiveness—to live as a forgiven and forgiving person. Let go of my fear that the good news is too good to be true. Let go of my fear of being disappointed, perhaps—maybe that’s where the laughter came from.

Letting go is risky. Of course not letting go is risky too—but somehow we convince ourselves that the known is safer than the unknown. So we clutch. We try to keep things the way they are or the way they were—who knows?

To proclaim the good news is to upset the powers that be. Even the very little powers that be. Because their job is to keep things under control—keep their power and their order and their structure. Love and forgiveness have a way of piercing through structures—a way of unsettling things we define as normal. We get afraid when newness comes our way. Fear can make us react in all kinds of destructive ways—betrayal of people and our own values—judgment and rejection of others—stopping our ears—running away—all these can be the fruit of fear. Hate. Hate can also be a fruit of fear.

Ultimately to be able to let go of our own efforts to control things—we have to be able to trust. And trust is not that easy to come by in our world today. Our institutions and leaders haven’t given us much reason to trust. Our culture pretty much tells us to trust ourselves. So, it’s hard to put our trust in the God who is in our midst—who is about the work of healing and restoring, freeing and reconciling—the One who brings new life. It’s hard really in our day to day lives to trust God.

Abraham and Sarah are great exemplars of the life of faith. In fact they are held up by all three Middle Eastern faiths as kind of our parents in the faith—Judaism, Islam, and Christianity—all three turn to Abraham and Sarah for inspiration. Even they laughed dismissively at God. They are really very human—very human exemplars. Both of them tried to keep the faith—to trust God and God’s promises—but from time to time they couldn’t do it. They took matters into their own hands and tried to make things work out by their own efforts. If you haven’t read their story recently I commend it to you. It reads like a good novel. It’s hilarious in parts, tragic in others. There is jealousy, lust, betrayal, rejection, manipulation, scheming, laughter, and oh, yes, trust. Our little snippet from the story this morning reminds us that after a slew of times when Abraham himself got in the way of God’s plans, now neither can trust God any longer because Sarah was just too old to have a baby. They knew about these matters. They were informed and consenting adults!

So they laugh dismissively when the angelic visitors tell them of the baby Sarah will bear. And later, when the baby is born they name him Isaac—which means laughter. Not dismissive laughter but the laugh of pure surprising joy! God’s laughter maybe. Isaac. “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” Indeed.

That’s one final point about the good news. It is wonderful. And it exceeds our pitiful tiny imaginative powers.

One thing lies underneath all our human reluctance to trust God. All the “what is it” questions I asked. Underneath all our fear, our efforts to control and make it happen our way, our stopping of our ears to the good news, our unwillingness to let go and to change—underneath all of that is amnesia. Really. . . it’s amnesia. We’ve forgotten who we are. We’ve forgotten whose we are.

The Eucharist is our most precious reminder. In the Eucharist Christ invites us to come together to remember who we are, and who God is, and how God loves and forgives us. No matter what. No matter our fear, our clutching, our guilt, our stuckness, our deadness—no matter our reluctance to trust. We are loved. God dwells within us. We eat the bread and drink the wine and inside our bodies goes the remembering—goes the truth of God with us.

Eucharist. Thanks be to God. Our calling is to live into the truth of who we are and to entrust ourselves to God’s grace—that we might open ourselves to receive the gifts of healing, forgiveness, love, and freedom and share them with others. AMEN, may it be so.

SERMON, June 8, 2008 4 Pentecost

Genesis 12:1-9; Romans 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13,18-26

All three of the three great middle eastern religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam find their deepest truths in the story of Abram (who became Abraham)—all three hold Abram up as the model of faith—the man who left home in his old age for no good reason except that he trusted God’s call and God’s promises to him. This morning we hear just a snippet of the story from Genesis—how God spoke to Abram telling him to leave his home and his kinfolk—his father’s land which would have been his place, his identity, his future,--and go to the land that God would show him. I will bless you, and you will be a blessing to all nations—to the Gentiles would be another way to translate that word nations. So, the story says, Abram went—with his nephew, his wife, Sarai, and all their possessions and persons. Abram journeyed on by stages we learn in the last line.

And if you haven’t read the story recently it’s a good read. Worth your time—and saying that he journeyed on by stages is putting it mildly. Fits and starts, faith and doubt, belief and unbelief, trust in God and trust in self, acting nobly and with duplicity, sometimes waiting on the Lord and sometimes not—sometimes just trying by any means possible to stay alive and make the promises come true on their own—that was Sarai and Abram’s journey by stages. It has all the components of a good novel: jealousy, violence, trickery, suspense, sex, dangers seen and unseen, threats from without and within. It was a very human journey of faith. Very human. These are our parents—the models of faith for us-Christians, Jews and Moslems.

Paul uses the story of Abraham to remind us that the same God who gave life to the dead and called into existence the things that did not exist for Abram is the same God who raised Jesus from the dead. The God in whom we put our trust—our faith—the one to whom we give our hearts. This God who gives life to the dead and who brings new things into being is indeed good news for us—we who so often find ourselves near death of one form or another.

But, it’s radical stuff. This God and this faith. And these little stories from Matthew’s gospel make that clear—more than once. The good news about God is always breaking out of the box—creating an uproar, daring to go where it isn’t supposed to be, and companioning the ones who by all rights shouldn’t be at the table. The God who set Abram and Sarai moving into the unknown future that held promise not just for them, but for all the world is the same God who came among us in Jesus. Calling us out into the unknown, urging us to leave behind the comforts of the past, the comforts of home even to dare to trust the radical energizing making new love of God.

I love the way Jesus sees in these stories. First, he’s walking along and he sees a man called Matthew sitting by the tax booth. You’ll notice there is no judgment here. He sees a man called Matthew sitting by the tax booth. He looks him in the eye, no doubt, and says, “Follow me,” and he does just that. Later, when they’re eating a meal together along with others, the Pharisees see, and what they see is “tax collectors and sinners.” Bad people, whatever their sin is. It isn’t something you want to be around. That’s what they see. Jesus apparently sees disciples—followers. He reminds the Pharisees that what is essential is mercy, not sacrifice—mercy not, temple ritual. Mercy not even tithing. Mercy. He’s come for the sick he says—not the righteous—I suspect in that context he means self-righteous. Those who have it all together and know it. You know some of these people.

At any rate, what happens next is that a synagogue leader comes to him begging him to come and touch his daughter who is dead so that she will live. (There’s that definition of God again—the one who gives life to the dead). On the way there a woman who’s been bleeding for years and is ritually impure touches the fringe of Jesus prayer shawl and he turns and sees her. Who does he see? A ritually impure woman? No, he sees a woman of faith. He celebrates her faith and she is healed.

Risky kind of faith she had—it led her to do something that she shouldn’t have done—cross a boundary—this reaching out and touching. She put her faith in the God who brings life to the dead.

When they get to the synagogue leader’s home Jesus sees again. This time he sees the flute players and the crowd making a commotion. Folks mourning the dead. Really into death were they. Jesus dismisses them—sends them away. In spite of their derision, he knows their presence is not needed. It’s inappropriate. For God is the God who lifts up the little girl children and others who are of no real account and calls into existence things that did not exist. He reaches out to her and lifts her up to new life.

Simple little stories really—but all about how Jesus sees folks for who they are—not the way society sees them—and how seeing them he brings new life where there isn’t any. That new life is shocking though—it stretches the boundaries of decency and breaks the ways society is constructed. From the Pharisees who can’t accept that God would have a teacher sit companionably at a meal with outcasts and sinners—to the healing of the woman who was considered unclean—to the raising up of the little girl—this is God acting in ways that unsettle.

And you can’t help but wonder what this God might be doing among us today. In what ways might God be disturbing the waters of our complacency, challenging the boundaries of what we’ve always believed, been taught, accepted. It’s easy to sit from our vantage point and criticize the Pharisees, and the mourners at the little girl’s house—but not so easy to admit to our own rigidities and easy acceptance of death. Not so easy for us to handle the radical call of God’s mercy in our midst in our own lives and communities. This may be the central issue facing our Anglican communion today.

With whom would Jesus be eating today? Where? What sorts of people would he be seeing for who they really are, and calling to follow him, raising them up to new life? In what ways does the good news of God’s mercy challenge us to move out into the new thing God is doing?

I recently read Desmond Tutu’s book No Future without Forgiveness about the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa—and I can’t help but think of how radical an act it was for the leaders of that country to embrace a new way of living together in which truth and mercy came before justice really. There was a justice of a sort, but not the kind we traditionally think of it. There could be no reparations really for all those decades of apartheid. No eye for an eye justice was possible—so they dared to trust something new.

What radical acts of mercy and love God is calling us to here—calling you in the community of Cloverdale, me in Santa Rosa. Us in this poor hurting, divided, judging, violent world of ours. To what acts of mercy and healing is God calling us in our families? In our neighborhoods, among our friends? In what ways is it time—God’s time—for barriers to fall—for us to see one another with the eyes of Jesus—and to know each one as a beloved child of God period. If we are honest, you and I are ourselves poor, hurting, divided, judging and capable of violence—aren’t we? God looks at us too, with eyes of mercy—always.

It is not left up to us to make it happen on our own. Our calling is to entrust ourselves to God—God’s mercy—God is the one who brings life where there has been death, unity where there seems to be only division, the new thing where none is imaginable. Like Abram and Sarai we are meant to be a blessing to our world—through the grace and mercy of God. So, let’s hold on to Matthew, the synagogue leader, the woman with the hemorrhages—all of them gave themselves over to that mercy, and were able to step out in faith from what was familiar into God’s unknown. No doubt, like Abram and Sarai, they journeyed on in stages. This is good news. Indeed.

SERMON, June 1, 2008 3 Pentecost

Deuteronomy 11:18-21, 26-28; Romans 1:16-17; 3:22b-28; Matthew 7:21-29

Years ago I worked at a retreat center in Southern California. Every year a group of Jewish women would come on retreat. One year they asked if they could nail a mezuzah on the doorpost of the main entrance to the retreat center. Perhaps you are familiar with mezuzot. Tiny parchments usually in a special little case (ours was ceramic). On the parchment is the Jewish prayer the Shema: “Hear O Israel, the Lord your God is One. Blessed be the name of his glorious kingdom for ever and ever. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your might.” That mezuzah was a sign of blessing—and of commitment too—to the One God. It stood at the threshold of the retreat center. People passed by on their way in, and on their way out as they left the retreat center and returned to their daily living. Anyone knowing what a mezuzah is upon seeing it, would immediately know that it contained those words—the words of God that God urges the people to put in their hearts and souls—bind them as a sign on your hand and on your forehead says the text.

Decades ago it wasn’t that strange to find an open Bible in the living room or dining room of a home. Children memorized scripture and knew the stories from the Bible. I knew a woman once whose house was full of little snippets of the Bible. Some of them were ceramic renderings of certain biblical passages—others were simply handwritten on post-its or pieces of paper taped to the mirror in the bathroom for example “ Jesus said, I am the light of the world” or “God sent his only Son into the world not to condemn it….” or on the refrigerator “Father, forgive them.” These little notes were everywhere, you couldn’t avoid them if you went into her house. It seemed a bit much to be honest. But, there was no doubt that her home was filled with words of God and about God. In Hispanic cultures where I grew up most families had pictures of the Virgin of Guadalupe, or Jesus in their homes, as well as some little prayer space or home altar—visible to those who entered.

You and I—most of us-- live in a different world today—and mostly in the homes of Episcopalians I visit there aren’t many open Bibles on display. And few children I meet these days can quote passages or even tell stories from the Bible very well—many adults can’t either for that matter. Many of us weren’t raised that way—immersed in the word of God--having our imaginations inspired by Biblical narrative.

And, while I have known folks who can do a lot of quoting of Scripture but not much living the life of a Christian—[sometimes it is all show and no substance!] I wonder if we haven’t lost something worthwhile. Our passages form Scripture this morning certainly emphasize how important it is for us to be steeped in the words of God. But, even more vital is the call to a living faith—a living relationship with God. In Deuteronomy God urges us to choose—choose life or death—both set before us. Real life—the fullness of life—is found in obedience to God’s commandments—and that word obedience means to listen deeply and hard. Listen intently and responsively with ears turned to the divine word. Death results from our following other gods.

This sounds like a good strong dose of divine judgment—My Way or the Highway, says God. But really, I think the words are more about the results of our choosing to be in relationship with God (Hear O Israel, the Lord your God is One…. Love the Lord with all your heart….) contrasted with the results of living with our ears attuned to other gods—and our minds and lives given over to their ways. Life and death. In another passage God says, “I have set before you life and death, choose life.”

It seems so simple really—but in truth, most of us have tasted both life and death through our choosing. Life when we are attuned to the One God—death through our listening to, attending to, following other gods. These gods are multiple today as they were in the days of these Israelites living in Canaan. Think of them: the god of consumerism, the god of success, of work, of achievement, of having it my own way, of control, of addiction, the list goes on and on. The little gods that entice us into their worlds and following them we come up empty, hurting, longing for the real One and with our fists full of something more like a virtual reality—ultimately empty.

Jesus too has some hard words for us—calling us to consider our lives—not just our words. Whereas in Deuteronomy we’ve heard how important God’s word is, now we hear that our words, even when they are “Lord, Lord!” may mean nothing when it comes to a real relationship with God. We know of course that real intimate relationships cannot be built on words alone. Someone who says, “You know I love you,” and then hits you, or ignores you, or shuts you out or betrays you is not a lover—not someone in a loving relationship. Furthermore, Jesus says, doing spectacular deeds isn’t enough either to build a loving relationship. This is perhaps like the husband who forgets his wife’s birthday and then a week later sends her a dozen roses and offers to take her out for dinner—in three weeks when he can fit it in his schedule. Or the wife who gives her husband an elaborate surprise party when what he would really like is an intimate dinner for two.

We know all this about words and the real work of relationship—and we know that beneath showy deeds and events there sometimes lies a relationship in trouble.

Our beliefs do shape our practices. What we really honestly deep down believe does form us as persons and forms our choices too. If you want to know what you really believe—not just what you say you believe—consider your own behavior—your choices, your actions. Those will tell you what you really believe and trust. It’s a good thing from time to time to take stock of our lives—and our relationships and see how they reflect the faith we proclaim. How much does what I do flow from my belief in God—my giving my heart to God? How much flows from fear, or habit, or “the ways things have always been in our family,” what my boss said, or a word from one of those lesser gods.

This is heavy stuff. All this emphasis on our actions –how we live our daily lives—as what’s most important. It’s a bit scary. If you are like me, you know you don’t measure up as a very good follower of Christ. I do things every day that show me that I haven’t really trusted the One God or the ways of Jesus. I make judgments of others, live less generously than I might. I get distracted and forget who I am and that I am loved by God. I forget that others are too. Sometimes fear is my little god of the moment. It’s no wonder that the mezuzah goes on the doorpost—that place of transition—of moving from one place to another, one life to another—one world to another. Those are so often the places of anxiety and stress—the transitions—when I get exposed for who I really am. There maybe more than anywhere else I need to be reminded of the Shema.

So where is the good news in all this? The good news is very good news indeed—as Paul says in that remarkable line: “I am not ashamed of the gospel: it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith.” The good news is the power of God. What Jesus is talking about is how the actions of our lives will flow out of our inner selves—our inner lives of faith. How our love of God will naturally be reflected in our lives—our lives will honor God as we let the power of God—the love of God—into our innermost selves. We don’t need perfect faith or perfect lives to be loved by God. And God’s love when we open ourselves to it—will do the transforming work. Remember, scripture is full of people like Peter who failed to keep the faith and yet was transformed by the power of God to become the rock of the church.

The words of God are important. Knowing them, having them in our hearts and on our lips and foreheads and hands is to live marked by that central relationship. Loving, speaking, thinking, serving flow then from our insides out. God’s power is what we put our trust in. Our actions—and the house built on rock—flow out of that relationship. It is all that matters. We have come here this morning to be fed—and as we eat the bread and drink the wine, let us remember the God who is One is with us—within us—at work even now. Tell your children, write these words on your gates and doorposts. The gospel is the power of God for salvation. That’s the good news. Indeed. --------- Mezuzah painted by Irina Smilansky @ ir4uk82@walla.co.il with the Hebrew letter shin "Shomer dlatot Israel" "Keeper of the doors of Israel"