Sermon for the Sixth Sunday of Easter
May 21, 2017
Good Shepherd Lutheran Church
Decorah, Iowa
Presiding: Rev. Marion Pruitt-Jefferson
Preaching: Amalia Vagts

First Reading: Acts 17:22-31; Psalm 66:8-20; Second Reading: 1 Peter 3:13-22; Gospel: John 14:15-21

When I was younger, I had a pretty significant fear of the dark. This fear would leave me almost paralyzed in bed. I would lie awake at night and imagine over and over that I was climbing out of my bed, walking down the hallway, and climbing into the warmth and security of my parents’ bed. In my mind, I would feel the hallway carpet under my feet, feel my hand pushing their door open, and visualize the edge of their bed. And then I would look around, see that I was still in my own bed and start the process all over again. At some point, the memory of how safe I would feel once I reached my parents bed would override my fear of my own dark bedroom and my fear of the unknown hallway and, with hope and confidence, I would leap out of my bed and run for their room.

As an adult, I’ve *mostly* overcome my fear of the dark, but fear of the unknown seems unavoidable. What will my identity be when I leave my job after 10 years? What will it be like to be in seminary? Will David and I and our boys miss our house? Will we like living downtown? How will our new place turn out? Will we have enough money? Will I be a good pastor?

It is easy to become captivated and frozen by the unknown. And my parents’ bed is a little further away now. It is not as easy for them to provide answers to these unknown questions as it was to provide refuge from the dark night. Plus, we’re all really tall, healthy people and I’m not sure their bed would fit all three of us.

Looks like I need to find another way of getting the comfort and confidence I need in order to get out of my imaginary bed.

I need God.

Our Gospel reading today says that God will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This Advocate is “the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him.” This Advocate is here for us. We know this Advocate because it abides with us; it is in us.

When I read this text, I got curious about the Greek word for “Advocate.” I did a little research (and consulted with Pastor Amy) and learned that the Greek word is parakleton – which is translated here as Advocate, but in other places as Comforter, and Helper – also, as one who comes alongside of us.

All of these translations are informative.. A “comforter” keeps us cozy in our bed, and sometimes we need that. A “helper” provides assistance. An “advocate” comes alongside of us to create a new way.

This understanding of the Spirit as “Advocate” feels especially helpful to me. It would have been easier to enter the unknown, dark hallway if I’d had someone alongside of me. God as Advocate, Helper, Comforter – God is known and unknown to us.

In our first reading, Paul tells the Athenians that he was convinced of their faith by seeing an altar with the inscription, “To an unknown God.” Paul preached, “What you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.” And then he speaks of a God beyond human comprehension, a God who gives all things, a God who creates from one blood all nations – a God unknown so that in fact we search for and like children walking down a dark hallway, grope for this God.

And yet, God is within us and within each other. What is both unknown and intimately known to us and invites us to challenge our fear of the unknown. By realizing the closeness of God – who in so many ways feels unknown to us we can dare to overcome our fears of what is no known.

There is great danger in not overcoming our fear of the unknown. It is not new for our congregation to hear a sermon that encourages us to overcome fear of the other. Pastor Amy preaches powerfully on this just last week, reminding how God compels us to welcome what is strange to us and to create a space of invitation, engagement, and connection.

We are here to live in community and in hope and confidence, not to die in fear of the unknown.

The events of our current society illustrate starkly the pitfalls of choosing fear instead of hope and confidence.

There are numerous illustrations of this, but the one I want to talk about this morning is the continuing deaths of black people, mostly men, unarmed, who are killed because they are perceived to be a threat. I believe we have to talk about this very painful subject in congregations like ours, which are mostly white, because if we are not walking alongside those in need, then we are lying in our own beds and ignoring the cries of God and our neighbor to be the Advocate that abides in us. Our pastors have preached on race and our bishops have directed us to dig into this conversation. Many in our congregation and community have been tackling conversations about race at a deeper level through guided study on white privilege and white supremacy. We are making some progress.

Yet here we still are.

My colleague Lenny Duncan, who is a seminary student in Philadelphia, and who is black, and who preaches and speaks regularly and prophetically about violence towards people of color and LGBTQ people asked ELCA preachers to talk this week about Terence Crutcher. This week, a police officer was acquitted of manslaughter in Terence Crutcher’s death. The officer is white. Terence was black. Terence was unarmed and had his hands above his head when he was shot to death. At her trial, the officer reported that she was “scared to death” of Terence.

I don’t tell this story to judge the officer, or any police officer. I tell it because we are all accountable in this ongoing story. I tell it to remind each of us of the peril if we do not overcome our fear of others. These stories are the ones reported in the news, but most of us have our own stories of fear of the other to tell. All of us, whether we want to or not; whether we are aware of it or not, hold unconscious bias towards others. Let me speak plainly – in a town like ours, many white people are unconsciously afraid of black people. It’s not easy to say that. It doesn’t feel good. It is true. We can feel differently. We can learn from our children, who often are baffled by the prejudices of grown-ups. But in order to change, we have to talk about it. James Baldwin, the noted African-American writer and social critic writes, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

As followers of God, we are called to act counter to the way the world works. Our world teaches us to be afraid of what we don’t know.

God calls us to face what we must change. God has given us an Advocate through which we can advocate. God calls us to action. And God grounds us in hope.

What is this hope that is within us? Why do we dare to hope for a different world? Because we believe in a God who promises this to us. We are a strange bunch of people sitting here together in this room on Sunday morning. We could be cozy in our beds, could be out for a walk in the woods, could be volunteering on a community project. But we are here because we believe this God is real. We are here because we want to learn. We know this world can be different.

This is not easy work. It is not without the risk of peril. We do not do it alone. When I used to lay in bed as a girl, afraid to move, it was ultimately the knowledge that my parents’ promise of security and love for me would guard against any unknown danger in the dark. That love helped me to move forward.

In the same way, God’s ever-present love, known and unknown, and the promise of community move us forward.

In today’s first reading, Paul references a local poet. I found out this poet was Aratus of Soli and the piece Paul quoted is Aratus’ epic essay “Phaenomena” on the constellations and weather patterns. I was caught by this line:

“Make light of none of these warnings. Good rule it is to look for sign confirming sign. When two point the same way, forecast with hope; when three, with confidence.”

Our world is warning us about what happens when we remained rooted in fear of the unknown, rather than acting on hope and with confidence to advocate for each other. Our African-American neighbors need us to walk alongside them. God, through the Spirit abides within us and within our neighbor.

We begin by facing the unknown.

We remember that we are loved by and love God who is everything, who is our Advocate and who calls us to be advocates for each other.

Grounded in love, hope, and confidence, we act.

Amen.

Below is a letter from Bishop Steven Ullestad concerning the anniversary of the raid in Postville on May 12, 2008.

April 11, 2017

Dear Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

On May 12, 2008, my home town of Postville, Iowa was invaded by the United States government. Helicopters circled over the community. Roads were blockaded. Guard dogs were released. ICE agents in military gear of boots, flak jackets and machine guns entered the packing plant compound. Hundreds were arrested. Others fled into the neighboring corn fields, hid in their homes, or hastily left Postville for good. Families were separated. Because the raid occurred during the first shift at the plant, families with children were affected in far greater numbers than workers who were single. Many children were left without parents to care for them.

The next day, school classrooms were decimated. One class of 26 had 9 students attend school the day after the raid. Children, both Anglo and Latino, were awakened at night by nightmares, fearing that they or their family members would be arrested and taken away. Local businesses knew the economic impact of the chaos. Family members that remained were terrified of being taken, so they gathered at the local Catholic church for safety. They returned home after five days. Most returned to the church in a panic just a few days later when a train pulling box cars from the Iowa, Chicago, and Eastern railroad rolled through Postville. The railroad logo was IC&E. The assumption was that ICE agents were back to take them away in greater numbers in box cars.

One year later, a service of prayer was co-sponsored by the Catholic and Lutheran churches. A news agency sent a helicopter to cover the event. As it hovered over the church, children, both Anglo and Latino, ran screaming into the church, “ICE! ICE! ICE!”

Though the town is on the road to recovery, these nine years later the journey is not complete.

For generations, there have been some Americans who have opposed the arrival of immigrants. Irish were feared to be more loyal to the Pope than the U. S. They were considered to be infiltrators with the sole agenda of destroying our country.   The Irish were treated with brutality until refugees and immigrants from Asia began entering our country.  The Irish were then deemed to be “European” and, therefore, acceptable.  Germans so threatened some citizens of this country that a new political party was started named “The Know Nothing Party.”   The next wave of anti-immigrant terror was directed at the German immigrants following the great World Wars.

We also remember all those who seek refuge in our country. These people, created in the image of God, know that a return to their homeland means certain torture and death. Men, women and children have heard of a land based on freedom, that welcomes the oppressed, that creates opportunities and encourages others into the journey of being the home of the brave.

The Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service was formed in response to these needs.  Our tradition is to welcome immigrants and refugees in keeping with the call from Holy Scripture.  Scripture is clear. God’s people are to provide for the well-being of immigrants and treat them as if they are citizens of our country. (Leviticus 19:33-34). Lutherans will treat the immigrants and refugees as citizens of this country because God’s Word calls us to be a welcoming people.

Immigrants and refugees have helped make this country great. The list of inventions and benefits to our culture is too long to include in this letter. Our towns and schools would be far less populated without the new immigrants and refugees. Hampton schools are one-third Latino, the kindergarten class is half Latino and half Anglo. Postville schools are almost half Latino. Minority enrollment is 59%, far above the Iowa average of 21%. These are but two examples from our synod.

Please join me on May 12th in remembering what happened at Postville and the historic commitment of Lutherans in this country to welcome immigrants and refugees. I invite you to engage immigrants and refugees in conversations about the current climate in our country regarding their presence in this land of the free. Ask about their hopes and dreams as well as their fears. Your congregation may choose to host a meal, inviting new immigrants and refugees to join you in sharing favorite dishes representing the various nations of origin.

Then, I ask you to pray together. Pray for open hearts and new opportunities. Pray for mutual encouragement and support. Pray that the words of Emma Lazarus that grace a plaque on the Statue of Liberty will still be true today. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

God bless you.

Your Partner in the Gospel,

The Rev. Steven L. Ullestad
Bishop

Sermon for Good Shepherd Sunday, May 7, 2017 – “The Living Gate”

Fourth Sunday of Easter
Good Shepherd Sunday
May 7, 2017
Good Shepherd Lutheran Church
Decorah, Iowa
Rev. Amy Zalk Larson

Click here to read scripture passages for the day.

Beloved of God, grace to you and peace in the name of Jesus the Good Shepherd.

This spring, Good Shepherd Sunday School kids learned about our Psalm for today, Psalm 23, and about how God is our Shepherd. Then for a field trip, many of the kids, teachers, parents, a grandma and I went to visit local shepherd Barb Krause and her sheep at Canoe Creek farm.

During our visit, we got to help lead the sheep from the barn into a sheep pen. The sheep didn’t really listen to us and it was a little bit crazy for a while. The sheep did listen to the voice of their shepherd, Barb, and eventually the sheep and the kids got safely into the sheep pen.

Well, all but one of the sheep got safely into the pen. There was one little guy who went the other direction out of the barn. Eventually he made it to one of the fences on a side of the pen, but he wasn’t at the part with the gate so he couldn’t get in. To get to the gate he would have to go down the hill, around the barn, and back up the hill. He couldn’t see the way in and Barb was busy helping the kids and other sheep, so he was stuck outside the pen for a while.

There were no visible wolves or thieves or bandits, but that little sheep looked so vulnerable outside of the protection of the sheep pen. And, he clearly wanted to be inside. He kept making this very loud crying sound over and over and over again. He kept running along that part of the fence trying to get in. The other sheep would come over to him and you could tell they wanted him inside with them. The kids and all of us wanted him in, too, but he wasn’t at the gate and we couldn’t get him there.

We see that little sheep everywhere in our world today – in people desperate to get into places of rest, safety and community. He is the Syrian seeking refuge, the unaccompanied minor fleeing violence in Guatemala, the unemployed worker searching for dignity, the mother who can’t get access to health care.

We want those sheep to have a resting place where they can go in and out and find safe pasture; yet there are so many barriers. How can we help these sheep get to a gate? How can we help that gate to open to them?

Sometimes each of us are that little sheep. Sometimes we feel cut off from others and from God, at the mercy of thieves that kill and steal and destroy the abundant life God longs for us to have – thieves like cancer, anxiety, grief, heartbreak. We run ourselves ragged trying to find a way into nourishment, to peace, to community.

We wonder if there is some gate, some path, some answer that we’re missing – something we just haven’t found that could help us and the world we love. Of course, we know there’s always something but it can feel like a long way around, a winding path to get there. And, we’re not always sure if we have enough energy or commitment.

Jesus says he has come so that all may have abundant life: that all may have peace and wellbeing and enough.

Yet, how do we access that and make it available to others? How do we get to the gate ourselves and help others find it?

In our Gospel reading today Jesus says, “I am the gate.” That means that the gate is not a spot we have to find. The gate isn’t a thing that sits waiting for us to take the right path, overcome the obstacles and get to the correct spot in the fence. The gate is the Good Shepherd who is always searching for all of us, always working to draw us all into God’s abundance.

The gate is not a fixed, rigid place but a living shepherd who is alive and on the move – always opening space for us all to experience the life God wants us all to have. The gate is Jesus’ own body which is broken open for us all.

Jesus offers his very body as space for reconciliation with God and one another, as space for us to enter into abundant life.

Jesus also draws us into his body so that we, too, become an access point for others – so that we can make God’s abundance available to others.

We don’t have to feel powerless as we see all the sheep seeking refuge and peace. Yes, there are so many barriers; but we are now part of the broken and risen body of Christ, the body that has overcome even death itself, the body that cannot be stopped from working reconciliation and new life for all of creation.

Christ’s body is alive and at work in the world and we are now part of that. We now share the work of making abundant life, wellbeing, refuge, safety and rest available to all people.

This metaphor of Jesus as the gate is not a well-loved metaphor; it’s much less popular than the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. We never celebrate Gate Sunday or sing hymns like The Lord’s My Gate. The image of Jesus as a gate can feel narrow and exclusive – as if Christianity is some kind of gated community.

Yet the gate, the access point, is not a fixed spot but a living body. The gate is a broken yet risen body, a body that cannot be contained, a body that is always breaking open for all to know God’s abundance.

Today as we celebrate Solveig’s baptism and new member Sunday; we give thanks that together we are part of Christ’s body opened for the sake of the world. As we celebrate Good Shepherd Sunday and all the wonderful hymns about our shepherd, we remember that the shepherd is also the gate for us and all people.

Let’s take a moment for silent prayer.

Sermon for Sunday, April 30, 2017 – “Beyond Words”

Third Sunday of Easter
Confirmation Sunday
April 30, 2017
Good Shepherd Lutheran Church
Decorah, Iowa
Rev. Amy Zalk Larson

Click here to read scripture passages for the day.

Beloved of God, grace to you and peace in the name of Jesus. Amen.

There are times when words don’t work – when they just don’t help us to make sense of things.

Words don’t always work for you students even when you have great teachers, even when you’re trying hard to understand, even in confirmation class here (maybe especially in confirmation class here!).

Words fail us when a baby is born, love unfolds or healing happens; and the experience is just beyond description.

Words fail when there’s a difficult medical diagnosis, or that terrible phone call comes, or the fog of depression descends.

And sometimes there are just too many words – tweets and texts and emails and posts and breaking news updates. We get an information overload and can’t keep up with all the words that come at us all the time.

Words don’t work for the disciples on the road to Emmaus. They’ve had a very long weekend and they’re in the middle of a very long day – the day of Jesus’ resurrection. Nothing is making sense.

The day began with the women of their group running from the tomb claiming they’d seen angels who said Jesus was alive.

But, as we learn earlier in Luke, the disciples think the women’s report is an idle tale – empty words. Others go to the tomb and find it empty but don’t see Jesus or angels, so there are conflicting reports; the disciples don’t know what to believe. As two of the disciples walk along the road to Emmaus they talk about all the things that have happened and try to make sense of it all.

As they’re talking and discussing, Jesus himself comes near and goes with them; but their eyes are kept from recognizing him. He asks them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?”

The question stops them in their tracks. They can’t believe someone hasn’t heard about all the things that have consumed their life and become their world, the things about Jesus that had once given them reason to hope, and now cause to despair. They tell the stranger everything about Jesus: his teaching, his death, the women’s strange claims of resurrection. The stranger then starts interpreting the scripture to them, going all the way back to Moses; but still they don’t understand, still they can’t recognize that it is Jesus.

It isn’t until they insist that this stranger stay with them as evening falls that things begin to change.

Nothing makes sense, but they know the importance of kindness and hospitality. Nothing makes sense, but they know this stranger needs a meal and lodging. So, they insist that he stay and he does.

After a long, confusing day full of lots of words …

            kindness is extended,
            a stranger is welcomed,
            a meal is shared.

These simple practices of hospitality and community provide an opening in all the confusion, a pause in the endless talking, that allows the disciples to become aware of a truth that is beyond words. Jesus is alive and is present with them.

As soon as they recognize him, Jesus vanishes. But these disciples have been given all that they need.

They realize that he was with them all along, that he has opened the scriptures to them and set their hearts on fire.

In that simple meal, the disciples experience the truth of Jesus found in all of scripture – the truth that God is at work even when everything look hopeless, that God brings life out of death, that nothing can separate us from the love of God.

So often we are like the disciples on the road to Emmaus. We fail to recognize that Jesus is now always present with us and always working new life for us. We get stuck in our heads, consumed by our confusion, so focused on words (says the preacher fully aware of the irony here).

We think we have to get our thinking straight, get everything all figured out, come to correct understandings; and then totally miss God’s presence with us everywhere. Like the disciples, we need practices that provide a pause in all the words, that get us out of our heads, and provide an opening for us to encounter Jesus.

We need Sabbath rest in which we can turn off the incessant noise and tune into people, nature, and the life-giving Word of God.

We need to practice hospitality in daily life and in service to others. As we do, we will encounter Christ in strangers and those the world considers to be last and least.

And we need to gather around the table each week where Christ breaks bread, blesses us and shows us that he is present and working life through simple, broken things.

These are the practices that we commit to as Christians when we affirm our faith as Ava and Keaton will do today. We commit:

to live among God’s faithful people,
to hear the word of God and share in the Lord’s supper,
to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed,
to serve all people following the example of Jesus,
and to strive for justice and peace in all the earth.

Even when nothing makes sense, especially when nothing makes sense, we need these life-giving practices of faith.

These practices help us to recognize and encounter Jesus. They help us to taste and experience the truth of Jesus found in all of scripture – the truth that God is at work even when everything looks hopeless, that God brings life out of death, that nothing can separate us from the love of God.

As Keaton and Ava confirm their faith, let’s all recommit to these practices and then let’s come to the table to taste and see Jesus.

But first, let’s take a moment to pause in silent reflection.

Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter
April 23, 2017
Good Shepherd Lutheran Church
Decorah, IA   52101
Rev. Marion Pruitt-Jefferson

First Reading: Acts 2:14A, 22-32; Psalm 16; Second Reading: 1 Peter 1:3-9; Gospel: John 20:19-31

Beloved of God,

Grace and peace to you from our risen Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Today is the second Sunday of Easter, and I would guess that by now most of the goodies in the Easter basket have been eaten, the guests have gone home, the lilies are fading, and nobody is interested in eating any more leftover ham.

But in the church we are not done with Easter. We continue to sing and shout our Alleluias. We praise the Risen Christ in our hymns and in our liturgy. As Pr. Amy encouraged us last Sunday, we keep practicing resurrection. We claim that joy, even though we have considered all the facts.

The mood of the Gospel reading for today is a bit different than last Sunday. The great joy of Jesus resurrection has been told to the disciples, but instead of running into the streets to announce this good news, they are hiding behind locked doors.

They’ve locked themselves in a room, scripture tells us, because they are afraid of the Jews. That makes perfect sense since the authorities may very well have wanted to do away with them in the same way they did away with Jesus.

But I think that the disciples were suffering more than just fear. They were also suffering deep grief. The One to whom they had dedicated their lives – who had loved them so passionately and taught them so wisely, had suddenly been torn away from them. His death had completely knocked them off their feet. And mixed in with their grief, was the guilt and shame of having betrayed him. They had failed Jesus. They had denied him and abandoned him to die alone so that they could save their own skins. As darkness fell on that first Easter day, it was not only the doors to the house that are locked, their own hearts were locked as well.

In spite of those locked doors, and the guilt and shame of their failure, Jesus finds a way to reach them. Suddenly he is there in their midst. I imagine there was a brief moment of terror for the disciples – because one thing we know from all of the accounts of the Risen Jesus is that it’s really difficult to recognize him at first. He appears to be a gardener, a fisherman, a fellow traveler, maybe a ghost. But Jesus chooses to reveal his identity to them by showing them his wounds – his pierced hands and side.

Jesus does not come in power and might and flashes of glory, but in the vulnerability of his broken body. Jesus speaks gently to them and offers them Peace – Peace to melt the fear and shame and guilt that holds them bound. And according to John’s telling of the story, he breathes on them the Holy Spirit, and sends out in his name.

That’s what happens on Easter. The second half of the story takes place a week later – on the “second Sunday of Easter.”

What’s surprising to me here is that nothing seems to have happened during that intervening week. There are no scriptural reports of the disciples leaving that locked room to go out and announce the good news. They’ve seen Jesus, they’ve received the Spirit, they been given a commission, but they are still stuck. The doors to the house remain locked and their hearts remain closed. What that says to me is that the disciple’s realization of what Jesus’ resurrection means for them doesn’t take place in a single moment – but unfolds over time.

So Jesus comes to them again. He doesn’t scold them for their inaction, or reprimand them for their continued fear. His words to them are Peace. And while this time its Thomas’s turn to see the Risen Christ – make no mistake about it – they all need to see Jesus just as much as Thomas does. They all need to be moved out of hiding in the light of the new day. They all need to open the doors to their hearts, so that they can fully receive the love and peace and mercy that Jesus brings.

I am deeply touched by this story because it shows me how very human the disciples were – hiding behind locked doors, stuck in their grief and fear and failure. I know what it feels like to be in that place – living in a kind of physical, spiritual and emotional lock down. I would guess that many of you may know that experience as well.

Five years ago, my 16 years of service as pastor at First Lutheran came to an unexpected end. I was filled with grief at the loss of my faith community, and with guilt and shame in what felt like an irredeemable failure. I retreated into our house so completely that people actually thought I had moved. It felt like the end of ministry for me.

But it wasn’t. And that’s the other reason I love this story, because it reminds me so powerfully that even the most painful endings in our lives are always subject to the power of the resurrection. It proclaims to me that there is nothing that can stand in the way of God’s life-renewing love and mercy in Jesus Christ. Not locked doors, or fearful hearts, or crippling grief, or the guilt and shame of failure. Jesus just keeps showing up. He keeps coming to his disciples, in his brokenness and vulnerability, offering them his body, blessing them, filling them and sending them out.

That is the pattern of resurrection living – a pattern we participate in every week. We gather here in our own brokenness and vulnerabilities, bearing on our hearts the marks of grief and fear and failure. And Jesus comes to us, offering us his broken body. When we open our hearts and hold out our hands – we receive the perfect love that casts our fear….the peace which passes all understanding….the life which never dies – Jesus own body and blood broken and shed for you, for me, for all.

Amen.