The Fallacy of Better-Than: a sermon for the Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 18.9-14

9 Jesus told this parable to certain people who had convinced themselves that they were righteous and who looked on everyone else with disgust: 10 “Two people went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11  The Pharisee stood and prayed about himself with these words, ‘God, I thank you that I’m not like everyone else—crooks, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. 12  I fast twice a week. I give a tenth of everything I receive.’ 13  But the tax collector stood at a distance. He wouldn’t even lift his eyes to look toward heaven. Rather, he struck his chest and said, ‘God, show mercy to me, a sinner.’ 14  I tell you, this person went down to his home justified rather than the Pharisee. All who lift themselves up will be brought low, and those who make themselves low will be lifted up.”

Let the words of my mouth
    and the meditations of my heart
    be pleasing to you,
    Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

Is this a parable about our motivation for coming to church?

Well, probably not, since the Church, per se, didn’t actually exist in Jesus’s own time. The synagogue, yes; The Temple, yes; but not the Church.

Besides, Jesus does most of his ministry out and about, in the street, in the field, on a boat, in people’s homes, but much less often in the space people set aside for holy activities.

It’s probably not a parable trying to tell us to come to church in humbleness, stand in back, and beat ourselves on the chest because we’re so unworthy. I don’t think Jesus is being that specific with this metaphor.

Is this a parable about how we should pray?

That is, after all, the specific activity that the tax collector and the Pharisee are practicing in the parable. Is right prayer (orthodoxy… orthopraxy… orthoproseuchomy?) about posture and position, about the kinds of words we use, about beating ourselves down instead of puffing ourselves up?

Well, I think that gets closer to the point, but that’s not quite it.

Is this a parable about our public witness?

The displays of the tax collector and the Pharisee are very public. They’re highly visible. But one thing they’re not is in a crowded public space. I’ve argued before that what defines us as faithful is what we do when we leave the God-box, not what we do while we’re in here. I contend that the same thing applies here. The Temple ought to be a safe space to meet God, even though it wasn’t any more so in that day than our churches are today. Think about how many people would feel unwelcome if they walked in our doors today.

I think that starts to get us even closer to the point of the parable.

Jesus is talking to “certain people who had convinced themselves that they were righteous and who looked on everyone else with disgust”. Identifying that audience is important enough for Luke to write it down, which is different and more detailed enough to make the parable unusual. It certainly ought to be important enough for us to take note.

People who had convinced themselves that they were righteous.

It’s one thing for people to convince themselves that they’re right. We do that all the time. If we didn’t, we’d have no convictions.

On the other hand, maybe we’d be better off without convictions. What if we just had good ideas instead of convictions? Maybe we would actually be able to talk with each other instead of shouting at each other.

Faith, after all, isn’t being sure about what we know. Faith is the evidence of things unseen. It’s an act of hope in something we can never be sure of.

It is not the certainty of being right.

And it is not the conviction that we are righteous.

Because we aren’t, are we? Only One is righteous.

Lord, save us from self-righteousness. Remind us that we are dust.

Remind us that none of us is the Pharisee.

We are all, always, the tax collector.

That’s why it’s so strange when we put ourselves above someone else. When we think we’re better. When we think others aren’t deserving, aren’t good enough.

I know you’re familiar with the current far-right line of thinking that goes, “Tear down all the social welfare problems! The 46% of the population it reaches are lazy good-for-nothings who only want to bleed off what I’ve worked my whole life for!”

What a lie. And what a way to stomp people down, people who are made in God’s image, people whom God loves.

Shame on us.

We are all the tax collector. We are all poor. We say nasty things like that about people because we are trying desperately to hide the fact that we want to bleed social systems of every penny we can get for our own benefit, regardless of whether we need it or don’t.

Did we give over and above our taxes, or did we search for every loophole and deduction we could find? Are we giving generously to the church, or are we hoping someone else will cover our lack?

We are all the tax collector. We are all unworthy.

What makes us the Pharisee isn’t that we’re more righteous. What makes us the Pharisee is that we hide the ways we’re not righteous. We mask them with pride and overinflated stories of the good we occasionally do.

The fallacy of thinking we’re better than anyone else is that we aren’t. We are all the same. We are all broken, bruised, sinful, unworthy wretches who ought to be falling to our knees, beating our chests and crying out, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

I tell you, this person went down to his home justified rather than the Pharisee.

Why is that? Why is one man justified and the other not? Is it because he isn’t so bold as to come close to the Mercy Seat? Is it because he beats his chest? Is it because he didn’t compare himself?

I don’t think so. Yes, I think the answer has to do with his attitude, but no, I don’t think it’s any single practice, or any combination of things he did or didn’t do.

And I don’t think it’s all about his humility, either.

All humility does is keep us away from pride.

And that’s the difference between true humility and false humility, by the way. False humility is being humble so as to make oneself appear more humble. True humility is being humble because I know what a wretch I actually am.

But the tax collector’s justification isn’t something he made happen. All he did was make room for it.

He stepped outside of pride and stepped into the mercy that was already all around him.

Because there is nowhere we can hide from God’s mercy. We build walls of pride and selfishness and ambition to guard against people and ideas we’d rather pretend aren’t really there, but ours isn’t a God who is stopped by walls. Ours is a God who could quite easily break down our walls like Jericho or suddenly appear as the Savior did to the disciples in the locked upper room.

But ours is a God who would rather be invited in. Ours is a God who desires to be in relationship with us: with me, with you, with every unlovable, despicable person ever created.

Because ours is a God who doesn’t see us as despicable. Ours is a God who sees us as we are created: beloved children, created in God’s image. And God doesn’t make mistakes.

You are not a mistake.

You are a beloved child.

Maybe that’s where our better-than-ness comes from. We are so scared of the ugliness we’ve created over years of practice and playground bullying that we can’t believe anybody else would be anything but ugly.

But God can.

You are not a mistake.

You are a beloved child.

And that pollster who called during dinner, trying to make ends meet below a living wage, probably not working enough hours to get benefits? You know, the one you hung up on after yelling at her because she interrupted your dinner? She’s God’s beloved child, too. She’s not a mistake.

The guy down the road you’re sure is selling drugs? He’s not a mistake. He’s God’s beloved child.

The woman you’re sure is cheating on her husband? She’s not a mistake. She’s God’s beloved child.

Not one of us isn’t. We just insist on treating each other like it.

But the truth is that you are beautiful. You are worthy. You are precious to God, and God wants you to see yourself that way.

And maybe, when you do, you’ll start to see your neighbor that way, too.

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

Patience and Persistence: a sermon for the Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 18.1-8

18 Jesus was telling them a parable about their need to pray continuously and not to be discouraged. 2 He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor respected people. 3  In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him, asking, ‘Give me justice in this case against my adversary.’ 4  For a while he refused but finally said to himself, I don’t fear God or respect people, 5  but I will give this widow justice because she keeps bothering me. Otherwise, there will be no end to her coming here and embarrassing me.” 6 The Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says. 7  Won’t God provide justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? Will he be slow to help them? 8  I tell you, he will give them justice quickly. But when the Human One comes, will he find faithfulness on earth?”

Let the words of my mouth
    and the meditations of my heart
    be pleasing to you,
    Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

It strikes me as odd that Luke introduces the parable of the Widow and the Unjust Judge by telling us what it’s about: Pray continuously and don’t be discouraged.

If he’s just going to lay it out, I don’t really need to be here, do I? Can I just go home and grill hot dogs?

Pray continuously… don’t be discouraged.… But when the Human One (the Son of Man; the Eternal Creator Become Flesh) comes, will he find faithfulness on earth?

Are those connected? Because it feels disjointed. Wouldn’t you want to encourage people positively instead of sowing the seed of doubt?

Will the Human One find faithfulness on earth? Will there be anyone left to witness? Are any of these disciples and followers really good enough to endure?

That last sentence is so disjointed that I wonder if we’ve had the ending quotation mark in the wrong place for years. I wonder if those are Luke’s words commenting on Jesus’s parable.

Remember, friends, there’s no punctuation in the original Greek. Or spacing. Or capitalization.

Will the Human One find faithfulness on earth?

The question is strong and pointed enough on its own, of course. And our other readings today have something to say about what will come of the human race, specifically of God’s people, as humanity continues to age.

Paul warns Timothy to “continue with the things you have learned and found convincing”

 because “There will come a time when people will not tolerate sound teaching. They will collect teachers who say what they want to hear because they are self-centered. They will turn their back on the truth and turn to myths.”

Our temptation, of course, is to read these verses and think, “That’s right! People are teaching all sorts of unsound doctrine and turning others away from Jesus.” And the assumption is that I have the sound doctrine and I have the authority and know-how to turn people back to Jesus.

Well…

1) If you’ve got the know-how, why aren’t you doing it? And,

2) What makes you right and other Christians wrong? Aren’t you reading the same Bible?

It’s a little weird, actually. There’s this really personal bit in Paul’s letter to Timothy. It’s a direct address, unlike Paul’s other letters to Corinth and Ephesus and all the other churches.

Paul encourages Timothy to continue in the things that he learned and that he found convincing.

Gosh, it’s almost as if Paul is encouraging Timothy to think for himself. As if Timothy should think critically when he confronts something outside his comfort zone, which the story of a resurrected Messiah no doubt was.

Critical thinking is outside of the comfort zone of the modern Church, which is reverting back to the Dark Ages and teaching that we should just shut up and listen to multi-millionaire megachurch pastors who play politics with some of the most dangerous and powerful criminals in Washington. Don’t think for yourself. Don’t try to make sense of the Bible. Just understand it the way I’m telling you and everything’s going to be alright.

Continue with the things you have learned and found convincing.

The prophet Jeremiah looks forward to a day when we won’t even need the Bible or the Torah or even prophets like him anymore. He shares this vision:

This is the covenant that I will make with the people of Israel after that time, declares the Lord. I will put my Instructions within them and engrave them on their hearts. I will be their God, and they will be my people. They will no longer need to teach each other to say, “Know the Lord!” because they will all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, declares the Lord; for I will forgive their wrongdoing and never again remember their sins.

That sounds like a pretty wonderful day, doesn’t it? A day when God waves a magic God-wand over the people, maybe after getting rid of all the heretics and pagans, and all God’s people suddenly just know God.

Except Jeremiah isn’t actually that specific.

He doesn’t point to this being a magic moment. He just says it’s coming. God is going to inscribe the Word on our hearts. Engrave it. You don’t do that with a pencil. This is a Word God is carving onto the people of God. It’s a Word that can never be erased or painted over.

Have you seen trees people have carved into decades ago? Some are better at covering up those wounds than others. There’s one huge Beech at Wesley Woods that kids have carved on for probably six decades. That fine Beech bark has grown around the carvings, scabbing and swelling but maintaining the marks that professed love and joy and playfulness in what must have seemed like harmless vandalism. It has made those marks as permanent as the tree. They will outlive all the original authors and only finally pass when the tree has fallen and crumbled back into the soil.

That’s the kind of mark God is writing on our hearts.

It’s not about memorizing verses or being able to drop names like Methuselah or Matthias. It’s not about knowing how many books or verses there are, or how many times Jesus said, “amen”.

It’s about God’s grace written on your heart.

And that’s not something that happened when Pastor JoeBob dunked you in Copper Creek. That’s something that happened when God imagined you, when your first divine blueprint was drawn. God’s Word written on your heart has never not been there. It’s written in your fundamental structure, probably encoded in your DNA.

It’s God’s grace calling you, teaching you without words what’s good and what’s bad, what’s right and what’s wrong, how to decide when the decision seems impossible, or when it seems the lesser of two evils.

You see, God is never like the Unjust Judge. God always listens. God is always with us. God’s grace is ever calling us.

But we aren’t always like the widow. We give up easily. We forget about Emmanuel, God ever present, never looking away, always calling to us, the Word of Creation written on our hearts.

I suspect that the real danger of failing at persistence is that when we give up, it’s not God who forgets; it’s us. If we stop begging for justice, God is still working for us. “Will [God] be slow to help them?” Jesus asks,

I tell you, he will give them justice quickly.

But people are hard to change, and if you haven’t noticed, ours isn’t a God who delights in manhandling people. God is a much more understanding Parent than I could ever hope to be. God hints, nudges, suggests, loves us into justice and mercy and forgiveness. God is nurturing us into perfection.

With all the people God has to change to work toward out good, and, for that matter, to their own, is it any wonder that the Kingdom comes in anything but baby steps?

We are going to have to learn to be patient. God’s Kingdom doesn’t come overnight. It comes with every heart that is nudged and nurtured closer to God’s heart.

So let God start with you today. Let God turn you around. Let God remind you of the Word of Creation, written on your heart that is made in God’s own image, purchased at the highest cost.

Because God loves you that much, too much to let you go, too much to give up on you. Let God turn you around today and bring the Kingdom through you, and through all the wonderful gifts with which our loving Creator has uniquely blessed you.

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

Living in Exile: a sermon for the Twenty-First Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 17.11-19

11 On the way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. 12 As he entered a village, ten men with skin diseases approached him. Keeping their distance from him, 13 they raised their voices and said, “Jesus, Master, show us mercy!”

14 When Jesus saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” As they left, they were cleansed. 15 One of them, when he saw that he had been healed, returned and praised God with a loud voice. 16 He fell on his face at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. He was a Samaritan. 17 Jesus replied, “Weren’t ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? 18  No one returned to praise God except this foreigner?” 19 Then Jesus said to him, “Get up and go. Your faith has healed you.”

Let the words of my mouth
    and the meditations of my heart
    be pleasing to you,
    Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

Because it felt awkward, at best, to share on World Communion Sunday, I skipped over a very important reading last week, but I think it begins to move us in the right direction today.

And I’ll be sharing this reading from the New Revised Standard Version this week for the same reason most of y’all read the King James: I like the way it sounds.

This is Psalm 137, a Psalm of lament. Hear the poet’s tears this morning:

1 By the rivers of Babylon—
   there we sat down and there we wept
   when we remembered Zion.
2 On the willows there
   we hung up our harps.
3 For there our captors
   asked us for songs,
and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,
   ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ 

4 How could we sing the Lord’s song
   in a foreign land?
5 If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
   let my right hand wither!
6 Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,
   if I do not remember you,
if I do not set Jerusalem
   above my highest joy. 

7 Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites
   the day of Jerusalem’s fall,
how they said, ‘Tear it down! Tear it down!
   Down to its foundations!’
8 O daughter Babylon, you devastator!
   Happy shall they be who pay you back
   what you have done to us!
9 Happy shall they be who take your little ones
   and dash them against the rock!

We have a tendency, in the Church, to face tragedy and loss by claiming that “We’ll get through this” or that “God won’t give us more than we can handle”, but folks, that’s just not always true. Sometimes, we don’t get through it. Sometimes, grief breaks us down completely. Sometimes, we don’t come out stronger on the other side. Sometimes, we don’t get to the other side at all.

That doesn’t mean we’re not good enough. It means that what has happened to us was simply more than we could bear.

And philosophies like those also move us away from the healthy, God-given practice of lament.

It’s really simple:

When grief is overwhelming, recognize it.

When things look hopeless, name them so.

When the only response is tears, let them come.

When it seems like things couldn’t possibly get worse, but you’re afraid they will, say so.

Lament is not laying blame on God. Lament is not self-pity. Lament is not anything to be ashamed of.

Lament is recognizing when things are bad - really bad - and claiming the emotional response that naturally follows.

Sometimes, the grief does us in. Sometimes, it really is too much to handle. But grief is like any wound: if we can survive it, it will heal. The bleeding will stop; the pain will subside; we will find a new normal; we will begin to notice joy instead of fear.

The lament of the Psalmist reflects the experience of the powerful people of Judah, conquered and taken into exile by Nebuchadnezzar. What they see is hopelessness, nothing but grief in the midst of the loss of everything they knew as home.

But from the home that remains, a voice calls out to them: the prophet Jeremiah still remaining among the powerless and the lost of Judah, offering a word of hope from broken Jerusalem:

4 The Lord of heavenly forces, the God of Israel, proclaims to all the exiles I have carried off from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 Build houses and settle down; cultivate gardens and eat what they produce. 6 Get married and have children; then help your sons find wives and your daughters find husbands in order that they too may have children. Increase in number there so that you don’t dwindle away. 7 Promote the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because your future depends on its welfare.

Now, the cynic in me reads these words and thinks, Well, of course Jeremiah doesn’t want to build any hope of return in the exiles. He and the people who remain in the land are now free to usurp the exiles’ place, to take power for themselves. Why should any of them want the exiles to remain?

But I don’t suppose the argument matters either to Jeremiah or to the exiles. They are a conquered people, fully aware that a more powerful force than Judah has them under its thumb. The possibility of return is so far removed from their reality that it is not even a dream, not even a glimmer of hope; it is an impossibility.

This is where you are, then, God tells the exiles.

You’re not going anywhere, and you need to get that through your heads.

So, in the midst of your grief, you’re going to have to go on living.

Not only that, but you’re going to have to support the place where you are. You’re going to have to not only support it, but you’re going to have to learn to love it.

Because this funny thing happens when we pray earnestly, honestly, sincerely for someone. It’s a thing that doesn’t happen if we pray against something. Do you see the difference? Have you experienced the difference?

Have you ever told someone, I’m going to pray for you, and then you’ve gone and prayed that God turns them to your way of thinking, your way of living, your ideas, your theology, your benefit instead of theirs? It’s an antagonistic prayer. It’s a prayer that assumes I’m right and you’re wrong. It’s a prayer that is, ultimately, against someone else.

That’s not praying for someone. If you’re going to pray against someone, you oughta at least be honest about it.

Wow, I really hate what you’re doing/saying/acting out right now; I’m going to pray against you.

That’s not what God instructs the exiles to do.

Pray for them.

Pray for the welfare of that city. Pray for its well-being. Pray for its prosperity. Pray for its people to fall in love, to enjoy life, to find their calling, to live fulfilled lives.

Pray for the things that are important to them.

Pray for their joy.

Because you’re there, God says, and they’re in charge. If they’re miserable, they’re going to make your lives miserable, too.

Remember: If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Same rule applies to empires like Babylon.

An empire won’t put up with a troubled state or an insurrectionist for long. Consider what Rome did to Jesus.

Friends I find this relevant because we are exiles.

This place, as the song goes, is not our home.

But we’re called to make the best of it. Because our home is coming. In fact, every time we bless the place in which we live, every time we bless the people who order our lives, we bring our home closer. We bring God’s Kingdom closer.

We are exiles.

We seek a better home. We are brought into God’s household not as citizens or even as sojourners with permanent resident status, but as children of God, joint heirs with Christ, the Son. Our Kingdom isn’t just a political system, the only beneficent empire in history, but our Kingdom is family.

And here, we’re just exiles.

And every time we proclaim love in the face of hatred;

every time we proclaim forgiveness in the face of injury;

every time we proclaim faith in the face of doubt;

every time we proclaim hope in the face of despair;

every time we shine light into the darkness;

every time we share joy in the face of sadness;

we not only proclaim, but we bring God’s Kingdom, our family, into clear focus.

Even living in exile like they did, we proclaim to the lepers, Welcome! God desires your healing! It doesn’t matter if you’re Samaritan, Galilean, Zionist, Roman, slave, free, woman, man, child, elder; God is with you and God loves you and God will heal you.

There is a time for grieving, and there is a time for proclaiming joy.

And even in exile, there is space for joy. When we survive this exile, when we fully realize God’s eternal Kingdom, there will be space for joy.

So let that joy spill over today. Share it in this broken world. Stop sharing fear, because fear isn’t part of God’s Kingdom. Stop sharing anger, because anger isn’t part of God’s Kingdom.

Start sharing thankfulness. Start sharing mercy. Start sharing love. Start sharing forgiveness.

And through you, God will break through the darkness and fear of this world and bring in the eternal Kingdom of the family of God.

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

a sermon for World Communion Sunday

2 Timothy 1.1-14

1 From Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by God’s will, to promote the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus.

2 To Timothy, my dear child.

Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.

3 I’m grateful to God, whom I serve with a good conscience as my ancestors did. I constantly remember you in my prayers day and night. 4 When I remember your tears, I long to see you so that I can be filled with happiness. 5 I’m reminded of your authentic faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice. I’m sure that this faith is also inside you. 6 Because of this, I’m reminding you to revive God’s gift that is in you through the laying on of my hands. 7 God didn’t give us a spirit that is timid but one that is powerful, loving, and self-controlled.

8 So don’t be ashamed of the testimony about the Lord or of me, his prisoner. Instead, share the suffering for the good news, depending on God’s power. 9 God is the one who saved and called us with a holy calling. This wasn’t based on what we have done, but it was based on his own purpose and grace that he gave us in Christ Jesus before time began. 10 Now his grace is revealed through the appearance of our savior, Christ Jesus. He destroyed death and brought life and immortality into clear focus through the good news. 11 I was appointed a messenger, apostle, and teacher of this good news. 12 This is also why I’m suffering the way I do, but I’m not ashamed. I know the one in whom I’ve placed my trust. I’m convinced that God is powerful enough to protect what he has placed in my trust until that day. 13 Hold on to the pattern of sound teaching that you heard from me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. 14 Protect this good thing that has been placed in your trust through the Holy Spirit who lives in us.

Let the words of my mouth
    and the meditations of my heart
    be pleasing to you,
    Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

Once upon a time, there was God. God, out of loneliness or boredom or curiosity or pure artistic flair, decided to create.

And there was stuff. And God, whose opinion is infallible, said it was good.

And there were a whole bunch of mornings and evenings; a lot of days.

And then, somewhere between 3000 and a few trillion years later, there was this guy named Jesus. He was the kind of guy we’d expect to be a jihadist today, because we’re big fans of racial profiling, and he was of half-middle eastern descent.

The other half of his ancestry was God.

This Jesus guy walked around, did the kind of stuff that only God can do, and tried to convince people to be nice to each other for a change, for which blasphemy and insurrection he was assassinated on a cross.

His followers saw him walking around a few days later and started telling people about it.

And the Church was born.

This Church did a lot of things, not the least of which was to multiply like a household of rabbits.

They broke bread together, each time discovering that the bread and the wine they were consuming were, in fact, that Jesus guy still finding a way to get into their heads and hearts.

They thought that was so cool that they kept doing it. They were known for it. They did it so often, and made that connection between bread and body, cup and blood, so definitively that people started calling them cannibals.

But that didn’t stop them.

Even when the reformers started ripping the Church into different groups, they didn’t stop. Every time they got together, they proclaimed and shared the body and blood of Jesus.

Nothing stopped that practice, and the Church was enriched and maintained, even during her darkest hours, by so physically, so fundamentally taking Jesus into their bodies that every cell, every neural pathway was shaped by Jesus.

Maybe that’s a little glorified, but it is, in fact, the practices of the Church that keep her being what she is: the Body of Christ, redeemed by his blood.

In every age, people recognized how important that practice was.

But then something weird happened. America. Westward expansion. The unavailability of clergy to preside over the table. People had made the practice into such a ritual that they were afraid to celebrate the meal without an official.

So churches started receiving Jesus only when a circuit-riding pastor would happen into town, and that happened only infrequently. And that circuit-wide practice of communing over the body and blood became a practice itself.

The meal was no longer the regular nourishment of the Church; it was a special occasion.

And even when pastors started to become available for local congregations again, they had long forgotten how important, how vital that reminder of Jesus inside them was. They kept up the practice only occasionally, at special events, maybe quarterly.

And that is one reason why the Church is withering today. We have lost our grip on so many of the things that the Church once knew was so important, so vital, so life-giving.

Paul writes to Timothy and advises him:

Protect this good thing that has been placed in your trust through the Holy Spirit who lives in us.

And he is speaking of the teaching of Jesus Christ, and him crucified, resurrected. But that’s because the practices of the early Church were easier to continue than the theology. The story kept having to be re-told, and still does, every time we share it.

But today, two millennia on, we have lost touch with so much. The Church isn’t relevant to younger generations because we’ve become preoccupied with growth and money.

We’ve forgotten our roots.

So today, let’s reclaim the foundation of our faith and practice. Today, on World Communion Sunday, let’s join with congregations of all stripes and flavors, all around the world, and remind ourselves just how beautiful, just how relevant, just how powerful Jesus-inside-us still is.

Let’s commune together friends. Let Jesus bring us back to life.