Reign of Christ Sunday: “A Comeback for the Ages”

Super Bowl 51: the second-greatest comeback of all time. This Sunday, we talked about it alongside the greatest: the resurrection of Jesus.

Luke 23:33-43

On a day when we celebrate Christ’s comeback victory over death and evil and pain, it seems natural to talk about Super Bowl 51. 

28-3. 

One writer described it as, “In a comeback for the ages, Patriots beat Falcons in heart-pounding Super Bowl.” 

We all know the story that the writers sent to the presses after the game. But what you may not have thought about is the stories they didn’t write.

In a world with the Internet, gone are the days when sportswriters sent in their stories to be ready only for the morning papers. Sports writers today write their stories while the game is taking place, anticipating the final outcome the entire time. 

I found a video on this recently that reshaped how I saw Super Bowl 51, as I looked at it through the eyes of journalists who were preparing their stories as the game unfolded in real time (1).

The headlines that were published, we all know. “Tom Brady is the greatest quarterback of all time, and Bill Belichick is the greatest head coach of all time.” “Patriots were well-prepared for this stunning comeback victory.” 

But what about the ones that weren’t published?

In the video, writers describe the stories they had mid-third quarter. “The Patriots were outclassed, and couldn’t handle the [Falcons’] speed on either side of the ball.” “Three Big Reasons Why the Patriots Lost.” One described his article as “An obituary to a dream season.” 

Then the Patriots started to put points on the board, and they had to begin changing their stories about the blowout. Suddenly, it was tied 28-28, and writers everywhere pushed everything to the bottom of the page or just hit “select all-delete.” But a few just opened entirely new documents, thinking it’d be fun to go back and read the first stories later. 

They wrote: “The Falcons pounded the Patriots, abused them, and outsmarted them. They absolutely clowned them.” “The Falcons gave a preview of things to come on their first play from scrimmage, when Devont-a Freeman gashed the Patriots defense for 37 yards.” “The Patriots had been good at limiting that type of play this season, but they hadn’t played a high-powered offense like the Falcons’. It turned out the Patriots defense just wasn’t good enough to win a Super Bowl.” “After methodically marching down the field from their own 25 to the Atlanta 23, it appeared New England could still make a game of this. That’s when Robert Alford stepped in — literally. [He made an interception and ran for the end zone.] Tom Brady reached out in desperation, but came up short. Ultimately, so did the Patriots.” “Brady, despite his status as perhaps the greatest quarterback in NFL history, proved he isn’t a miracle worker.” “When James White and Danny Amendola are your best offensive weapons, you’re in trouble.” 

Just as this line is read, the video shows Amendola fighting his way across the goal line for the tying score.

Do you remember the first half of Super Bowl 51?

Any New England fan watching the game that night was writing their own story in their head. We were all thinking about what we’d say to our Patriots-hating friends and family. We were perhaps thinking about what we’d post on the Internet after the blowout. We were sad. We’d had a great season, and we were watching it go down the tubes in a spectacular fashion. 

But those stories were never published. Because it ain’t over ’til it’s over. And sometimes,   even when it’s just over, something else steps in and re-writes our stories of gloom into a tale for the ages. 

Today’s Reign of Christ Sunday, and the Gospel text is the crucifixion. 

The headline that never got published: “God Comes to Earth, Preaches Love; Death Defeats God in a Blowout.” 

But I’m guessing that you know that that’s not the story that went to the presses, and that’s why we’re here. 

Though the Internet is what’s caused sportswriters to write their stories in real time, humans have always looked at circumstances and written our narratives ahead of time. It helps us survive. We anticipate what will happen based on the information that we have right now. And truth be told, in reality, miracle comebacks are the exception, not the rule. Down 28-3 in the third quarter, the Patriots had an 8.4% chance of winning the Super Bowl. 

We’re always tempted to say, “Oh, the math nerds were wrong again,” but the reality is that they weren’t at all. The Patriots had an 8.4% chance, which meant that it was still theoretically possible, just unlikely. But sometimes the unlikely thing happens. 

Like a 25 point comeback. Like resurrection. Like hope and new life. The only way the chance of victory drops to 0% is if you stop playing. 

In the third quarter, down by 25, Julian Edelman looked up at the scoreboard and said, “This is going to be a hell of a story.” 

The truth was that a comeback was really unlikely to happen. 

But it did. It did because the Patriots believed it could, because some times the football bounced the right way, and because the Patriots weren’t so consumed with the crushing blows and slip-ups of first half that they forgot to play in the second half. 

While driving to convocation, I read a sign that said, “Don’t trip over something that’s behind you.” 

There’s a lot of stuff going on in all our lives. Most of us have at least one 28-3 scenario in our minds. And if you don’t have one and you need one, let me offer you the state of the church in New England in 2019, when I get told over and over that no one goes to church anymore. 

This is true of the church and it’s true of America: we’re not getting the first half back. The points that have been put up on us are not going to be subtracted. There will not come a day when suddenly young families everywhere begin to see church as a staple, the way they saw it in the 1980s. Some will, yes. But not the way they did back then. 

America is not going back to the way it was before we all lived in alternate realities with our neighbors, either. We’re not going to get less angry. We’re not going to suddenly get more bipartisan. 

But don’t trip over something that’s behind you. We’ve got the whole second half to go. 

The thing that I will say and must say every single Sunday I occupy this pulpit is in the front and center today: that the God who came to earth died. Dead-died. He was literally dead and buried. That game was actually over. And yet, here we are, and Christ is among us. 

So what are we afraid of? Death? Endings? 

Please.

Whatever story you’ve already written, whether about your own life, the life of a loved one, the church, the United States of America, or the world, remember the story of Super Bowl 51: “unlikely” doesn’t mean impossible. That an 8% chance of winning still means that if you game out that scenario a hundred times, the Patriots will still win eight of those times. And a 91% chance of victory still leaves the door open for defeat. Just ask the Falcons. 

Don’t trip over something that’s behind you. Because today, we celebrate the fact that when Christ was dead and buried, with a 0% chance of victory, God broke into human history and snatched life back from death. The crucifixion doesn’t look like a victory, but it is. It was a victory then, it will be a victory in the ever-after, and, despite what the scoreboard or the news or our lives say about the very real pain we see every day, it is a victory today.

The Patriots were down 28-3, but won Super Bowl 51, and those stories never got published. 

Christ’s heart stopped on the cross, but he rose again, and that is why we are here.
“Then the thief on the cross said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’”

Why, oh why, would we ever look behind us? Do not be afraid. Look to the future, and look to the cross and remember how that story ended, and gather just enough hope to keep playing.

To quote Mr. Edelman himself, your story, and the story of our church, is gonna be one heck of a story. Amen.

1. You can watch that video yourself here. 

“Not One Stone Will Be Left Upon Another”

Luke 21:5-19

As usual, it’s been a week. In the news, and in our lives. 

Whatever you’ve got going on in your own life, I just want us all to take a deep breath. [breathe]

Believe it or not, it’s been three years since the 2016 election, touted as the most divisive in modern American history. You know, except for all the others.

On that day three years ago, we all gathered in this place and read this Gospel text.
“When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.’”

And I told you one very simple thing: whether you are happy about the election of this President or whether you are afraid or angry or whether you are utterly indifferent, the message of the Gospel lesson is this: no institution, and no President, will save you. 

Now, three years later, I read this text and I think not of elections and government, but of the institution of the church. 

Here in New England, there’s a lot of fretting about the future, and with good reason. Take a drive through this Valley and you’ll find plenty of church buildings that are now functioning in many ways: day care centers, gyms, libraries, and even one now-defunct barbecue joint. We, here, fear the future and what it will bring for our small and mighty congregation, even as we today continue to function at an incredibly high level. If you question this, ask me about my schedule for today. We’re doing a lot, including feeding people on the street at Cathedral in the Night and helping people here in South Hadley restructure their financial lives at Financial Peace University. And, of course, we’re still doling out the word and the sacraments. 

And that’s just today.

Later this week, though, I’m going to go to our synod’s convocation and listen once again to all of our fears about the future. I’ll hear my colleagues wonder if they deserve a living wage, since their churches can’t or won’t pay them one for fear of the future. And I’ll once again give thanks for you, even as we have our own fears about what the future holds. 

“Jesus said, ‘Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and, ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them.” 

Anyone who says they have the silver bullet answer to how to save the church is lying. The church only has one Savior, and I am not him. If you are hoping that I will be the one to grow the church into what it used to be, I have hard news for you. I am not the savior; I am only here to lead you, together with the other leaders of the church, into whatever future our actual Savior holds. 

Not only will the institution of the wider church not save us, most days, I’m not even sure the institution itself can be saved. 

“This will give you an opportunity to testify.” 

The good news is, we worship a Savior who was raised from the dead. 

The Isaiah reading for today is full of words spoken to a people who were far more hopeless than we could ever be. They weren’t afraid of budget shortfalls and closing churches; they had already seen their place of worship desecrated and destroyed by enemies. Their religious life together was, but for the small remnant of people, over. But the Hebrew people has always been small and mighty, not unlike a group of Lutherans that I know.

And what does God say to them?
“[My people] shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat; for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be, and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands. They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity; for they shall be offspring blessed by the LORD– and their descendants as well. Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear.” 

I am not the Savior. The Savior is my boss. 

When Christ said, “On this rock I will build my church and the gates of hell will not prevail against it,” he didn’t add, “Unless you don’t have enough people in worship and have budget shortfall; then it’s over.” These promises, my friends, are eternal. 

It has been said ad nauseam that every 500 years or so, the church undergoes a giant shift. The Protestant Reformation was our last one, and that occurred 502 years ago this year. It’s time.

The church of the future will not be like the church of the past. And no one person will build it. We will build it together. Yes, it will be hard. But this will give you an opportunity to testify. 

I say to you exactly what I said last week. Whatever you are feeling hopeless about — whether it is the state of the church or the state of the nation or the state of your own life — hope is there.

Last week it was the religious leaders and today it’s the disciples who miss the resurrection there, in their midst, in the person of Christ. The disciples are impressed by this giant building, built for God. But they miss God, who was standing there in the flesh right beside them. That impressive temple would eventually be torn down, and to this day, it has not been rebuilt. But the Jewish faith lives on, and Christ lives on, here, with us, in this place in bread and wine and in all of you, gathered here, small and mighty. 

My little flock, do not fear. Even if not one stone is left upon another of this building tomorrow, hope will survive as long as God is with us. 

So breathe. 

We are Our Savior’s people, and we will always be. So let’s look to the future with hope. Because institutions rise and fall all the time.
“But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.” 

Amen.

Veterans, Weird Questions, Finding Hope, and a Man Named John

My friends’ and my favorite photo of John — at breakfast with us, laughing and likely saying something funny right back.

Luke 20:27-38

Whenever Veteran’s Day rolls around, I always think of my favorite veterans: there’s some of you, naturally. There’s my dad. There are several of my friends, as I was part of the generation that witnessed 9/11 as teenagers and had many sign up for the subsequent wars after. 

And then there’s my friend John. 

John and I met in seminary. He always had a quick, sarcastic wit and an easy smile. He was a Marine who was severely injured in Iraq in the early 2000s. He almost died, but he didn’t. However, his injury took out most of his pancreas, leaving him diabetic. He always said he felt like he was living on borrowed time. In 2010, to our shock, that proved true. He died of complications from diabetes that year; it was our senior year of seminary.

I know: Memorial Day is really the right day to honor John now. But Veteran’s Day always brought up good conversations with him about war and peace and theology and service. Not a Veteran’s Day goes by, still, when I don’t think of him.

I don’t mean to start a sad sermon, of course. John would hate that, actually. This is a guy who named his cat Bertrand, after philosopher Bertrand Russell. 

What I want to do this morning is to tell you stories that would connect to this Gospel text.

Two stories come to mind. 

The first is this: John was boarding an airplane once, after his time in the Marines. He was a strong-looking guy, and he also often had a beard and long hair. He didn’t really “look like a Marine” in any traditional sense after he was discharged. John took his seat on the aisle of an airplane, dressed in a suit to travel, just like his mother had taught him. He said hello to the woman next to him and prepared to settle in. He leaned forward to place something underneath the seat in front of him. Just then, a high school ROTC corps came down the aisle to board, clearly on a field trip.

The woman next to him, mistakenly thinking they were active duty military and eager to show her gratitude, put her hand on John’s shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. “Excuse me,” she said pointedly. After pushing what she did not know was a Marine out of her way, she went on to thank a very confused high school ROTC unit for their service to our country.

The other story is this one: John and I were in the same group of seminary interns during our second year of seminary. As part of this group, we’d all meet monthly to do a site visit. We were at one church that had a lovely children’s area, complete with a giant mural with a beautiful nature scene. John and I were standing next to one another when John leaned over and whispered, “Yo, what’s with the creepy kid?”

I followed his gaze and indeed, there was a singular toddler in the mural, just sort of sitting in this beautiful nature scene. Thinking that this was the artist’s odd attempt to help children picture themselves in the scene, we giggled at the artist’s poor choice; the kid did look a bit out of place and creepy. 

Just then, one of our classmates raised her hand and asked, “Who’s the child here?” 

The pastor of the church who was showing us around said, “Oh, that’s Timmy. Timmy died of a rare cancer, and his parents dedicated this play area to his memory.” 

John and I could’ve melted into the wall in that moment. “We. Are. Jerks.” I whispered to him. “Yes, yes we are,” he whispered back. “Drinks after this?” 

Today in the Gospel lesson, some Saducees, or some religious folks, come to Jesus and ask him sort of a creepy, weird, off-the-wall question. The Saducees, Luke helpfully tells us, don’t believe that there’s any resurrection, yet here they are, asking about the resurrection in an attempt to show Jesus what a silly idea it is. 

Essentially, they say, “Look, if people get raised from the dead, what happens if they’re married, and then marry other people? Huh?” 

It’s worth pointing out that Jesus at this point is right between his triumphal entry into Jerusalem and the Last Supper. He is mere days from his own resurrection. And according to John’s Gospel, he is the resurrection and the life, which adds even more irony to the story. 

They ask a weird, trapping question about the resurrection, only to miss the resurrection, in the flesh, in their midst. 

Can’t say I blame them. I miss the resurrection all the time. We all do. 

We look with doom and gloom at the future of the church. We look at the impending doom in our own lives. We fail to see or even look for hope, instead getting caught up in the details: but how will we pay the bills? How will we make it? And if there is a resurrection, how would it even work? 

We’re not so unlike the lady who pushed the Marine out of the way to thank the ROTC kids. And we’re not so unlike me and John, getting caught up in the details of a painting of a kid, yet missing the hope of the resurrection in this play area dedicated in his memory.

When John died, it was the first time I lost a friend to death. I’d lost loved ones, sure. I’d even had people that I went to high school with die, but I wasn’t close with them. But John was my friend. And when he died, it was easy to focus on all that we had lost.

John was a marathoner, and when I first started running over ten years ago, it was him who encouraged me. When I posted my finisher photo after my first half marathon on Facebook, he immediately popped up in a comment: “Great time!” Mind you, my time was not great. John was just kind. When he died, I couldn’t cry until one day, about a week after his funeral, when I was running, and it all hit me at once. Running helped me grieve. 

Now, every time I run a race, especially a long one, I think of John. He was on my mind a month ago when I ran the Hartford Half Marathon. When I crossed the start line, I looked up and thought of him. I pointed to the sky, took off, and ran my best race yet. It was awful to lose a friend in that way, but over time, I’ve begun to see the resurrection manifest itself. John is in my steps and my heartbeat whenever I run. 

My friends, the resurrection is here, in our midst. Don’t miss it. 

Those that we have lost are still with us. Christ is still with us. 

My favorite thing to say to people when they tell me that the church is dying is, “Oh, yes. And I can see why Christians would be worried about death. Our faith is all about how death is the very end of things, right?” And I wait for their reaction. To date, I’ve yet to have someone not understand what I mean.

No, we’re not unlike the Saducees, asking all the questions about the details, sometimes in good faith and sometimes not. We’re not unlike the lady who pushed John the Marine out of the way to thank the group of high schoolers wandering by in training uniforms. And we’re definitely not unlike John and I, giggling quietly in our jerkdom and missing a very sweet gesture by grieving parents. 

We have this tendency to get caught up in what’s wrong or what we think we “should” do and very much miss God’s hope and presence in our lives. So don’t do that. 

God is here: in wine, in bread, in water, and in the people sitting around you. God is here, in your breath and in your heartbeat. God is here, offering life, offering hope, and always, always, offering another chance to recognize what’s right in front of you. 

Thank God. Amen.

All Saints Sunday: Bless Your Heart

Myth: “Bless your heart” is an insult. 
Truth: It can be, but the truth is more complicated. It’s often used affectionately, especially among Southerners. 

Luke 6:20-31

People accuse Southerners of being passive-aggressive compared to people from other places, and I can’t say that that’s exactly wrong. As an example, I’ve had many an argument with those from the North and Midwest about the phrase “bless your heart.” 

“It’s just another way to tell someone to…” … hmmm, there are children present. To tell someone to go… away. People think it’s an insult.

In fact, when I googled a more polite way to express the sentiment “go away,” “bless your heart” even came up in my google search. That translation was posted by a Northerner, of course. I can’t blame them, though. That’s probably the only way a Northerner who thinks they know it all probably ever hears the phrase.

For you Northerners who are humble enough to learn, however, I can tell you that the truth is that “bless your heart” can mean many things, and only one of the options is an insult.*

*I usually explain it this way: it’s not unlike saying “you poor thing.” You can say it sincerely or sarcastically, and the meaning is all in the tone.

Growing up in the South, I think, makes it clearer that the phrase can be used in absolutely genuine love and concern. When you’re a child, after all, and you come to your grandmother with a skinned knee and she says “Bless your heart,” you can safely assume she’s not insulting you.

Another option for “bless your heart” is that you’re being lovingly patted on the head — for many varying reasons. Which, even at its harshest, is still very different than being told to [blank] off.

Today, Jesus moves through a lot of “blessed”s in the Gospel passage, and it’s kinda hard to figure out what he means by “bless your heart,” what his point is, and why we would want to read this passage today, as we remember the saints who have gone before us. 

Bless our hearts. Saints & blesseds, what does it all mean?

People, especially here in Catholic country, often have a bit of a complex when it comes to calling their loved ones “saints.” It’s one of the biggest differences in language that we have as a result of the Reformation; for Roman Catholics, the emphasis is often placed on famous saints who have been canonized by the church. As good Lutherans, however, we emphasize the we are all both saints and sinners.

Still, because of the visibility of icons and our own weird and selective sense of humility, we hesitate to call ourselves or our loved ones saints. What does it even mean to be a saint?

There’s a Reader’s Digest story that Delmer Chilton of Two Bubba’s and a Bible told this week on the podcast that goes like this. 

A little boy was out trick-or-treating in a Superman costume. He came to the door of one of his neighbors with his mother, who was holding his pumpkin for him. The neighbor asked why his mother was holding the boy’s candy. The boy didn’t hesitate to answer: “Because it’s heavy!” 

“Heavy?” the neighbor said. “But you’re Superman!” 

The boy leans in somewhat conspiratorially and whispers to the neighbor: “It’s just pajamas.” (1)

Bless his heart. 

We’re just like him when it comes to calling ourselves or our more imperfect loved ones “saints.” Told of God’s grace, we at best think of ourselves as forgiven sinners, but not saints. Not worthy of recognition as models of faith. Like “bless your heart,” we struggle to define what a saint is, other than that we aren’t saints ourselves.

But it seems to me that if there’s one message in the Gospel passage that’s especially relevant for All Saints’, it’s that Jesus is saying loud and clear that saints aren’t going to look like you’d expect them to (2). We think of passages like this as being about who’s getting in to heaven, but given that Jesus doesn’t make any such claim in the text, we’re free to think of it in bigger terms than who’s going to heaven.

It’s about what God’s reign on earth looks like, and what it looks like to live as if God’s love has made a difference. It’s not just pajamas. 

This whole day is about how we are stepping into this tradition, this stream of faith, that has been flowing for thousands of years before us and will keep flowing when it is our names that will be spoken in November every year (3).

Before an Auburn football game one year, then-head coach Gene Chizik addressed his team in the locker room of Jordan-Hare Stadium. He talked about tradition. 

Coach Chizik’s words were simple: “This place was great way before you got here.” 

He said this not to make the players feel unworthy, but to wake them up to the opportunity they had to carry on a tradition that was far bigger than they were: that they  can be an example of what it means to carry this great tradition forward. They get to wear the uniform no matter what; now it’s their chance to set an example of what makes this tradition great.

This is true of us, too. The church was great way before we got here. 

It’s not just pajamas.

An alb is what we all wear whenever we serve in worship; it’s the garment of all the baptized. When we bury our dead, we put a white pall over the casket, also symbolizing baptism. We are marked with the cross of Christ forever, with everyone who has gone before us and with everyone who will follow us.

That uniform is real, and we get to wear it no matter what. It was great way before we got here. We are saints. And now we carry this tradition forward: to do crazy things like loving our enemies. Being generous. Being joyful. The church’s legacy throughout the centuries isn’t untarnished, but it is ours. No human has been perfect, but we have all been loved. 

Bless our hearts.

It’s a lot to take in, and we probably feel unworthy and will always wonder what, exactly, it means. But I think Luther said it best when he wrote, “When I look at myself, I don’t see how I can be saved. But when I look at Christ, I don’t see how I can be lost.”

So that’s it.

Let’s speak the names of those who went through the waters of baptism before us and who now rest with God. We’ll light candles to remember them, then, surrounded by those candles that remind us of the great cloud of witnesses, we will gather around the table again, just like Christians have for well over 2,000 years now. Then we will leave to continue the legacy of Christ’s church for another day. 

Bless our hearts. Amen. 

1. I listen to “Two Bubbas and a Bible” just about every week. You can find it here.
2. This snippet also comes from Delmer Chilton of “Two Bubbas and a Bible.”
3. The “stream of faith” metaphor is from Nadia Bolz-Weber, who used it at her ELCA Youth Gathering talk in 2012.