Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Children of the Spirit

January 12, 2025

Acts 8:14-17
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Jesus made a pretty good journey to see and hear John the Baptist.

According to Google Maps, that’s about a 95 mile journey. They estimate it would take 35 hours to walk that distance. Jesus probably spent four days on the road. I would guess he was hot, dusty, and pretty uncomfortable when he arrived.

But he had to see John.

As I remarked during Advent, John the Baptist was a celebrity at the time. He was a rock star. He’d… made a splash.

Sorry about that one.

The point is that people came to see him. Some were probably the celebrity seekers who have to get close to the Big Name. John the Baptist, Governor Pilate, it didn’t matter. Go and see. Some were certainly the suspicious religious authorities, the people who get perturbed when unauthorized people start saying religious things. Remember that John promised forgiveness with baptism, and forgiveness was something that happened when you made sacrifices in the Temple. I’m pretty sure there were priests saying, “That’s not right.” So they were there.

Some were the folks who desperately wanted some sense of God’s forgiveness, who were aware they’d said and done things they shouldn’t. Some probably wanted to turn their lives around. Some probably intended to go and do the same things again. People are people, after all.

Quite a few, I imagine, felt a gap in their spirits and didn’t know why. Quite a few weren’t satisfied with life in their land. Quite a few felt the need for a big change. Maybe this John the Baptist would bring it. Could he be the Messiah?

It was a crowd full of people asking very different questions.

Among them stood Jesus. We don’t know what questions rolled around in his head. I think we know he felt the need for a change, because he went down to be baptized, and changed his life.

Dan Clendenin writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “Jesus’s baptism inaugurated his public ministry by identifying with what Mark describes as ‘the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem.’ He allied himself with the faults and failures, the pains and the problems, and with all the broken and hurting people who had flocked to the Jordan River. By wading into the waters with them he took his place beside us and among us. Not long into his public mission, the sanctimonious religious leaders derided Jesus as a ‘friend of gluttons and sinners.’ They were right about that.”

Jesus’ baptism was marked by the presence of the Holy Spirit. All four of the Gospel writers described the Spirit descending “like a dove.” All four identified this moment as the beginning of Jesus’ teaching and healing ministry. All four mentioned the similarities between Jesus’ message and John’s. Not one said that Jesus ever baptized with water.

Jesus, after all, would baptize with the Holy Spirit.

Thought of as a dove, the Holy Spirit is a comforting presence, don’t you think? Doves make soft sounds. They don’t scream like mynas. They don’t fuss like finches. I agree that they don’t sing as sweetly as mejiro, but their gentle coo comforts.

The Holy Spirit means that we followers of Jesus are never alone. We don’t face the sorrows and struggles of the world unaccompanied. We don’t deal with sadness alone. We don’t bring our strength alone.

Is that different from anyone else? Honestly, I believe that God accompanies everyone, of every faith, and of no faith. Hopefully, we’ve been given a better understanding, and better understanding does mean that we should be better able to appreciate the Spirit’s presence, to rest upon the Spirit’s comfort, and to receive the Spirit’s support. I’m pretty sure that we Christians are as capable of closing ourselves off to the Spirit as any non-believer. I’m also pretty sure that when we open our hearts to the Spirit, we are filled to overflowing.

As Dan Clendenin continues, “Many malignant forces try to name and claim us. Baptism reminds us that first and foremost, above and beyond all other claims — however legitimate or oppressive — we belong to God. He knows and calls us by name.

“We don’t belong to our boss or the bank. We don’t belong to an abusive spouse or our addictive impulses. We’re not defined by sickness, success or failure. We don’t belong to the political propagandists or the advertising industry. We’re not the sum total of our poor choices, painful memories, or bad dreams.”

We are none of those things. We are children of the Spirit.

Around 850 years ago the abbess Hildegard of Bingen wrote:

O comforting fire of Spirit,
Life, within the very Life of all Creation.
Holy you are in giving life to All.

Holy you are in anointing
those who are not whole;
Holy you are in cleansing
a festering wound.

O sacred breath,
O fire of love,
O sweetest taste in my breast
which fills my heart
with a fine aroma of virtues.

O most pure fountain
through whom it is known
that God has united strangers
and inquired after the lost.

The Holy Spirit didn’t let either John the Baptist or Jesus alone. They were always accompanied by the Spirit – but they were also moved, led, driven by the Spirit. After his baptism, Luke wrote, Jesus “was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.” John the Baptist, as we know, didn’t preach in the towns. He baptized at the edge of the river, away from the cities and the villages. The Holy Spirit cares for us, but not necessarily for our comfort.

And… I should also mention the gap that our lectionary editors have left us in Luke’s account. You may have noticed that we jumped over verses 18, 19, and 20. Here’s what they say:

“And with many other words John exhorted the people and proclaimed the good news to them.

“But when John rebuked Herod the tetrarch because of his marriage to Herodias, his brother’s wife, and all the other evil things he had done, Herod added this to them all: He locked John up in prison.”

It was an odd place to put that part of the story. For one thing, you could read it that John had been arrested before baptizing Jesus, which doesn’t match any other gospel account. I don’t think that’s what Luke had in mind. Instead, I think Luke meant to highlight the risks of following the call of the Holy Spirit.

As Karoline Lewis writes at Working Preacher, “The imprisonment of John reminds us of what happens to those who tell the truth, or, to those whose words we don’t want to hear. This will certainly be the case for Jesus. Hearing Jesus’ first sermon, the hometown folks want to throw him off a cliff. Jesus will be rejected by his friends, his family, his community before he even does anything.”

The Holy Spirit may lead us into places we do not want to be.

That might be into a public space, calling for change in the way we assist those without homes. It might be into a family conflict, where nobody really wants to listen to a peacemaker. It might be into advocating at work for people who will be affected by some action of the company but whose voices have not been welcomed. It might be to learn a new skill, one that doesn’t come easily, to make a home a little brighter.

It might be to take on a new message and purpose in life.

Melissa Bane Sevier writes in her blog, “Purpose is something that unfolds over time. It is rarely something we can fully grasp at any one moment, because we never know what new episode is around the next corner, outside our current vision. What new opportunity, or new problem or challenge, may present itself tomorrow? In our rapidly changing world, it’s rare that many of us will stay in one job for our entire working life, or live in one place, as many of our parents or grandparents did. How do we find our purpose when we have less rootedness?”

Jesus took over a month in the wilderness to discern his new purpose. None of us will find it in a moment.

We are Children of the Spirit. We are created by God and we are adopted by God. We are strengthened and comforted by God. We are led by God.

Jesus joined us in baptism by water. Jesus also joined us in baptism by the Spirit. May we follow the Spirit as faithfully as Jesus did, as the Spirit leads us in our own unique and blessed journeys.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric sometimes makes changes as he preaches. Sometimes he even intends to make them.

The image is the Baptism of Jesus by Anonymous (19th cent.) – http://www.auctions-fischer.de/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12348872.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Mystery

January 5, 2025

Jeremiah 31:7-14
John 1:1-18

When I was in seminary, one of my professors had something useful to tell us about theological mystery, that is, the things we had to admit we did not know and probably would not know. “Before you call it a mystery,” said Dr. Carlston, “do the work to see what you can learn about it.”

Do the work before you call it a mystery.

I don’t know if it made the papers he read any better, but it certainly made them longer. His students couldn’t get away with writing, “It’s a mystery,” as the first and last line.

Do the work before you call it a mystery.

Like the ‘apapane trying to find the source of nectar’s sweetness, you may not have the resources to learn the truth. You may not be able to peer into the workings of leaves and chlorophyll, or the daily work that roots do to pull water and nutrients from the soil. The chemistry of it all might be beyond your education or the tools available. That’s OK.

Do the work before you call it a mystery.

John’s Gospel opens with this profound section that, for nearly two thousand years, has swept its readers into the realm of mystery. As Meda Stamper writes at Working Preacher, “Because the prologue is poetic and mystical, it moves us in a way that transcends thought. The glory of the Synoptic angels and star is expanded into a view from before time into forever. Then the ‘we’ of 1:14 draws us into this cosmic love story of God and the world and every human in it.”

That’s the “we” of “We have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”

Now, it’s likely that when we’re done with this sermon, it will still be a mystery. But… let’s do the work.

The opening of John’s Gospel has roots in the life of Jesus Christ, of course. It also has roots in Jewish and Greek thought. The “Word” that was in the beginning with God strongly resembles the figure of Wisdom from Proverbs 8. In Proverbs, Wisdom labored beside God in the Creation of the world: “Then I was beside him, like a master worker.” (Proverbs 8:30)

Greek philosophers, probably somewhat later, developed the concept of Word, or logos in Greek, that connected the rational structure of the world with rational speech. Heraclitus wrote, “This logos holds always but humans always prove unable to ever understand it, both before hearing it and when they have first heard it. For though all things come to be in accordance with this logos, humans are like the inexperienced when they experience such words and deeds as I set out, distinguishing each in accordance with its nature and saying how it is. But other people fail to notice what they do when awake, just as they forget what they do while asleep.”

Philo of Alexandria, who was born about fifteen years before Jesus, incorporated that Greek idea of a rational universe expressed by logos, by Word, and wrote: “…No material thing is strong enough to bear the burden of the world. But the everlasting Word [logos] of the eternal God is the firmest and surest support of the whole. He stretches to reach from the middle to the edges and from the heights to the midst, uniting and binding all the parts with nature’s unfailing course. For the Father who begot [gennésas] him made him the unbreakable bond of all.”

Does that sound familiar? “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”

I don’t know whether John read Philo. I don’t think it matters. People were comparing the thinking of Greek philosophers and Jewish theologians in the first century, finding similarities between a rational universe that resembled rational thought, and a universe created through the exercise of Divine Wisdom. It seems John knew about that.

And along came Jesus.

During his life and ministry, it has to be said, people didn’t seem to make a connection between Jesus and logos, Wisdom, or Word. They knew him as a healer, storyteller, and healer. They began to ask questions about whether he fit the definition of a Messiah – and enough people asked that question loudly enough that the Romans stepped in to crucify him as an attempted rebel. As impressed by his wisdom as they were, even his closest friends don’t seem to have asked, “Are you the Wisdom who created the universe with God when it began?”

After Jesus’ resurrection, however, people began to ask that very question. They began to employ the phrase, “Son of God,” which might not have meant more than the idea that we are all children of God, but they meant something different. The Apostle Paul wrote the Colossians, “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him.” (Colossians 1:15-16)

Sound familiar?

Logos. Word. Wisdom. Son.

“God choosing to put skin on and walk among us,” writes Karyn Wiseman at Working Preacher, “is one of the pivotal points in salvation history, which begins with the redemption of the Hebrew people and continues in the story of Jesus, his ministry with his disciples, and his death and resurrection (verse 14). This point of Jesus being fully human and fully divine has been a bone of contention in history and continues to baffle some in the faith today. But for me it is one of the most important tenets of the faith — that God loved the world so much that God came to dwell among us, teach us, and die for us (John 3: 16).”

I can connect the dots from Jewish and Greek thinking to John’s opening words. I can connect the dots from the figure of Wisdom to the Apostle Paul’s declaration of “the firstborn of all creation.” What I can’t do is describe the process by which God’s grace became flesh and dwelt among us. It’s as mysterious to me as the processes of roots and light and chlorophyll are to the ‘apapane – and it’s possible that the ‘apapane has a better understanding of those things than I know. Christ’s incarnation remains, in great degree, a mystery.

The impact of the Incarnation, though: ah, that’s another thing. Dr. Wiseman is right. “This point of Jesus being fully human and fully divine has been a bone of contention in history and continues to baffle some in the faith today. But for me it is one of the most important tenets of the faith — that God loved the world so much that God came to dwell among us, teach us, and die for us (John 3: 16).” I don’t think I can put it better than that.

By whatever mysterious mechanism, God chose to be born as one of us, to live as one of us, to eat and drink and speak and listen and do all the things as one of us, to die as one of us. Why? To love us in a new and different way. To show us the depth of that Divine love. To invite us into that love now and for eternity.

Yes, it’s a mystery. But it’s a mystery of love, which always has some mystery in it. It’s a mystery that lifts and comforts the soul. It’s a mystery that invites us to keep looking into it, to learn more, and to encounter God’s love once again.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric preaches from a prepared text, but he is inclined to vary from it. Sometimes he thinks that’s better.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Gentleness

December 15, 2024

Philippians 4:4-7
Luke 3:7-18

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near.”

That seems like such a wonderful text as a basis for a sermon entitled, “Gentleness.”

It’s a pity that I’m preaching from the Gospel of Luke, isn’t it?

“John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, ‘You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?’”

Isn’t that gentle?

Well, no. Calling people snakes, especially in a religious context where “snake” summons up the memory of the snake that deceived Eve, is not gentle. “Who warned you?” is an accusation, and “the coming wrath” implies that we, those who have been addressed, have done something that will bring wrath upon us.

In other words, “You’re snakes, you’ve earned some fearful fate, and I can’t believe you were smart enough to heed a warning.”

Not gentle.

So… why were they there?

Melissa Bane Sevier writes in her blog, “So, all these people were coming to hear John and he called them a bunch of snakes.  Not very welcoming.  I have no idea why they didn’t just slither back to their homes to get away from his venomous rantings. There had to be something in his words that appealed to them, though, or they wouldn’t have kept coming in droves.”

John was a big name in the first century. When the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus wrote The Jewish War around the same time Luke was writing his Gospel, he gave John the Baptist three times as much space as he gave Jesus. In our day, I suppose we’d call John an influencer. His reputation drew people down to the riverbank from nearby Jericho, from Jerusalem at the top of the ridge, and all the way from Galilee. John packed them in even as he called them vipers.

When John answered the question, “What should we do?” however, he was a lot more gentle. In fact, he had a very light touch. The hardest thing he said was to give up a coat if you had two. As Richard W. Swanson writes in his blog, ProvokingTheGospel, “This isn’t a call to become a minimalist, however.  John is simply saying that everyone needs a coat, and if you have to look like a ‘minimalist’ to get that done, then share your extra coat.  We all need a coat.”

We all need a coat.

Then there are the other two groups. The soldiers are almost certainly not Roman legionnaires. These are the local soldiers, and we’d probably think of them more as police officers. They’re the ones who guard the officials, the ones who break up the fights, the ones who bring the defendants to face their judges. What’s the great temptation to poorly paid people given authority and weapons? It’s simple: “Pay me or I’ll have you charged. Pay me or I’ll beat you up.”

John’s prescription: Don’t do that. Be content with your pay. It’s not complicated.

What about the tax collectors, though? They did represent the foreign occupiers, even did their dirty work for them. First century Jews, along with a lot of other residents (but not citizens) of the Roman Empire, deeply resented Roman taxes and their agents. The third century Tosefta, which like the Mishnah recorded a lot of the thinking of the first century rabbis, states that a visit from a tax collector would render a house ritually unclean. You’d expect that John’s directions to those people would go something like this: “Give it up. Do something else. Stop.”

Instead: “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.”

John’s bark was a lot worse than his bite.

That might be a clue to his popularity. Yes, John’s rhetoric was harsh, but his advice was clear, direct, practical, possible, and dare I say it? Gentle. As David Lose writes at Working Preacher, “This feels more like the stuff of Kindergarten than Apocalypse.  Which may be Luke’s point.  Fidelity does not have to be heroic.  There are opportunities to do God’s will, to be God’s people, all around us.  These opportunities are shaped by our context: the roles in which we find ourselves and the needs of the neighbor with which we are confronted.  But make no mistake, opportunities abound.”

They came to John because they knew things weren’t right in the world. They came because they had lots of explanations for why things weren’t right, but they weren’t sure whether those explanations made sense, and they weren’t sure what to do about it if they’d known. They came because so much seemed beyond their power and their reach. They came because they were tired of being stuck in the wrongness, and they wanted to be part of the improvement toward right.

What should we do?

Like the nene who wanted to change the world, we start with ourselves. How can we, as Paul put it, let our gentleness be known to everyone? How can we see that we do not abuse the power entrusted to us by position, custom, or election? How can we see that we do not pursue our wealth and welfare to the harm of others? How can we see that everyone has a coat?

As Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “What John is daring to suggest to his listeners is that holiness is not the ethereal and mysterious thing we tend to make it.  If we’re willing to look closely, if we’re willing to believe that nothing in our lives is too mundane or secular for God, then we’ll understand that all the possibilities for salvation we need are embedded in the lives God has already given us.  There is no ‘outside.’  We don’t have to look ‘out there.’  The kingdom of heaven is here, within and among us.”

We all need a coat.

We start with ourselves because it’s better for us as well. I’ve borne the awareness of guilt a few times in my life – more than a few times – and it’s a burden. It’s a burden because I don’t like to be less than the person I want to be. It’s a burden because it takes up room in my soul that I’d like to give to something else, like awareness of God’s grace. It’s a burden because I try to justify this thing I know I shouldn’t have done, and that just gives me a brain spinning to no purpose.

That’s brought me to my own equivalents of a grouchy preacher speaking by a shallow river, because of the possibility that a confession and washing might just send that burden floating, then sinking, into the current, disappearing downstream, out of sight, and at last out of mind. The crowds came to ask, “What should we do?” but they also came so that they could do those things with freed spirits. As Troy Troftgruben writes at Working Preacher, “John’s message is more constructive than condemning—and more expansive than excluding. Repentance in Luke, after all, leads to joy and a life better aligned with God’s purpose. And that is good news.”

What should we do?

Be gentle first with ourselves. This is the gentleness, though, that faces reality and does not deny it. This is the gentleness that changes the bandages on the wounds even though it hurts. This is the gentleness that takes the soft brush to the grimy fingers so that the dirt comes free but does not break the skin. This is the gentleness that knows that however painful it is to face the sins of our soul, it is less painful than carrying those burdens, and that forgiveness brings joy.

Brings joy.

Be gentle as well with those around. I still don’t know how John got away with calling people snakes, but clearly he knew his neighbors better than I. Be gentle because you offer healing more than correction. You offer an opportunity to live better rather than a summons to self-destruction. You offer the promise of grace.

Let your gentleness be known to everyone.

The world wasn’t gentle with John, or with Jesus who came after. It hasn’t been gentle with a lot of people who came calling for repentance and declaring forgiveness. Not gentle at all.

May our gentleness be known to all.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric improvises when he preaches, sometimes intentionally, so what you read is not an exact match to the recording.

The image is La Prédication de saint Jean Baptiste (The preaching of Saint John the Baptist) by Joseph Parrocel (1693) – Own work, FFF72, 2015-07-18 14:28:26, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=41931511.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: What Really Matters

December 8, 2024

Philippians 1:3-11
Luke 3:1-6

The Apostle Paul was, it seems, accustomed to repeat himself. In chapter three of this letter, having spent some time telling the Philippians things he’d already told them, he wrote, “To write the same things to you is not troublesome to me, and for you it is a source of steadfastness.” After that, he told them some more things… that he’d already told them.

In some ways I can safely say that I emulate the Apostle Paul. Or in at least one. I repeat myself.

I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that I repeat myself before… probably in that sermon I titled, “Repeating Myself.”

No surprises today, I’m afraid.

We don’t know exactly when Paul wrote this letter to the Philippians, or what city he was in. He was in prison, but that doesn’t tell us much. In Second Corinthians, he wrote that he had “far more imprisonments” than some other people with whom he was in conflict. Apparently he had the capacity to annoy local authorities with his preaching – and he had the will to do so rather than stay safe and silent.

While it’s no surprise to find Paul imprisoned, he did set a different tone in this letter. For one thing, it sounds like he’d been held longer than he had previously, long enough for the Philippians to hear about it and start worrying about him, long enough for them to worry about his companion Epaphroditus as well. In the first century, jail was not a punishment. People were held for trial and after trial to await punishment, and Paul had experienced “countless floggings” in his career. This time, though, the possibility of execution loomed. “Living is Christ,” he wrote in verse 21. “Dying is gain.”

In the midst of all that, Paul wrote what is safe to describe as the most joyful of his letters, at least the ones we have. This is no Second Corinthians, full of contention and conflict. This is no Romans, dedicated to a thorough explanation of his ideas. This is not even Philemon, encouraging a friend to do something extraordinary. In Philippians, Paul rejoices in the faithfulness and compassion of this congregation he has loved and cared for.

As Carla Works writes at Working Preacher, “Joy permeates this letter. Paul will make use of the language of joy or rejoicing sixteen times. The apostle can have joy in the midst of suffering because of his confidence in God’s work through Christ. His joy is wed to God’s activity rather than to his own personal circumstances. Joy is an appropriate theological response. It is not joy because of suffering, but joy because those who cause the suffering will not have the last word.”

Joy is the first of things that really matter.

Another thing that really mattered, and really matters now, is the presence and support of other people. As Cheryl Lindsay writes at UCC.org, “Paul’s letters to the churches of his era and to the church today, remind us, across time and distance, that our faith is shared. Our journey is communal. If we are called to be a righteous branch, we recognize that branches are connected to a tree, bush, or vine.” Over the course of the letter to the Philippians, Paul mentioned four of his comrades in the gospel by name: Epaphroditus, Timothy, Euodia, and Syntyche. In fact, Paul routinely named other people as he wrote his letters, either because he wanted to greet them specifically in the church to whom he wrote, or because he was passing along the blessings of people with whom he was working at the time.

What really matters? Don’t do it alone. You don’t have to. And you shouldn’t. Get together, and stay together.

What else matters? Paul named something else in this one-sentence prayer that closed today’s reading: “And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what really matters, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvestof righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.”

Love. Love matters. Love really matters. Love. Agape. Hesed. Aloha. Love really matters.

This is the love that puts someone else’s welfare and interests at or above your own. This is the love that not only knows that we don’t have to do God’s work alone, this is the love that doesn’t let someone else do God’s work alone, either. This is the love that Epaphroditus demonstrated by coming to Paul and getting sick. This is the love that Paul showed by sending the recuperating Epaphroditus home, not just for his benefit, but to comfort the Philippians who were worried about both of them.

This love is not a feeling, but it nurtures feelings, doesn’t it? This love is audible in words, and it is visible in deeds. This love is tangible in making change in the physical world. This love tastes like my friend’s favorite meal. This love has the perfume of blossoms after rain.

These things make us feel good. They make others feel good. This is what love is. And: it really matters.

Paul’s prayer didn’t stop there, though. As L. Ann Jervis writes at Working Preacher, “Paul calls for love that is discerning and courageous, not simply tolerating everything in everyone; love that has insight and wisdom; love that reflects the moral character of God as reflected in Christ.” I’ve said it before, love carelessly expressed may not comfort, may not heal. It may, in fact, annoy, irritate, and mislead. People who dearly loved me have given me some real clinkers of Christmas gifts over the years. I love the people, but I do occasionally wonder how they thought I’d like… you know, that.

Christmas gifts are one thing. Day to day gifts are another. How often do we take on some regular job in the household firmly believing that we are providing relief or relaxation to someone we love? How often did we take it on because, well, it’s easier to do it ourselves than to share it? How often did we take it on because it’s something we were good at and the other person wasn’t, and we just couldn’t be bothered to teach it?

How often do we find ourselves unintentionally limiting the roles our loved ones can take on or the skills they can learn?

Did we ask?

It turns out that knowledge matters when we set out to love. It turns out that we can lovingly do exactly the wrong thing. It turns out that ignorance isn’t loving. Shouldn’t we care enough to ask?

Yes. We should.

Care enough to ask. It really matters.

Care enough to observe, as well. That’s where insight comes from. That’s what allows us to make those inspired guesses about things that will delight those we love. When we pay attention to what pleases those we love, we can make better and better judgements about what will please them next. Insight isn’t a gift that some have and some don’t. Insight is something you build from experience, observation, and consideration. Insight, like knowledge, takes work.

Do the work. It really matters.

What really matters?

Joy. Joy matters. Joy in the grace of God that rises above the current circumstances. Joy matters.

Togetherness. Togetherness matters. Living out our calling from God in company with others, supporting one another in righteousness. Togetherness matters.

Love. Love matters. Sharing and caring for others as we would have them share and care for us. Love matters.

Knowledge. Knowledge matters. Asking when we do not know, so that we can love well. Knowledge matters.

Insight. Insight matters. Paying attention to those we love so that we can love well without asking every question. Insight matters.

Paul repeated himself. So do I. Because it’s so important that we know what really matters, and that we do what really matters.

Love with knowledge and insight. Love together, not alone. Love God’s creation, and celebrate God’s joy.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric preaches from a text, but he does vary from it, as he has done today.

The image is Saint Paul Writing His Epistles by Valentin de Boulogne (ca. 1618-1620) – Blaffer Foundation Collection, Houston, TX, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=596565.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Signs and Times

December 1, 2024

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13
Luke 21:25-36

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

Isn’t that just how you were hoping to begin the Advent season?

I say this pretty much every first Sunday of Advent, because in the season in which we prepare for Christmas it seems odd to jump to the end of the book. Jesus spoke these words to his disciples in or near the Temple during what we know was the last week before his crucifixion. Why would we be here rather than somewhere in chapter one of Luke’s Gospel?

The answer, in brief, is that Advent is not about preparing for the birth of Jesus. That’s already happened. It’s not even really about preparing for the celebration of the birth of Jesus, though that closer. Advent is the time in which we prepare to celebrate the gift of Christ in the person of Jesus, a gift which was given us two millennia ago, a gift which remains given to us through history into the present, and a gift which will continue to be given to us to the end of time.

Which is why we’re in chapter 21, because here Jesus spoke about things that Christians have interpreted to take place at the end of time. Some of them, however, had already taken place. Earlier in the chapter Jesus spoke about the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. By the time Luke wrote his Gospel, according to scholars, the Temple had been destroyed. Jesus warned his disciples that there would be official persecution of his followers. By the time Luke wrote his Gospel, that had already taken place.

As for the signs and the distress and the roaring and the fainting, well, Catherine Healy writes in The Christian Century, “I am not a biblical literalist, yet the imagery in this passage gives me pause. As our planet gets hotter and tidal floods increase, aren’t we already seeing ‘signs in the sun [and] the moon’? And as rising waters drive more and more climate refugees from their homelands, it’s hard not to notice that ‘distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea’ is already upon us.”

It’s hard not to notice that, indeed.

Based on the way people keep trying to match signs and distress and roaring and fainting with historic events, it’s apparently hard to notice that… these things happen all the time.

I grant you that we’ve had an eventful few years here in Hilo, Hawai’i, but since I began serving as pastor here we’ve had earthquakes, a volcanic eruption that displaced two thousand people, a hurricane, at least a couple of tropical storms, a significant civil disruption, increasing political dissension in the United States rising to an actual insurrection event. Oh, and a global pandemic. I almost forgot that.

Come, Lord Jesus! If you want to return before Christmas, I’m fine with that!

The truth is that these “signs and times” aren’t useful to predict timing because they are so frequent. Karoline Lewis writes at Working Preacher, “Yes, Jesus speaks the truth, not about our future, but about our condition, the world’s condition, that never really changes. Perhaps this is the grief of this passage. That nothing ever changes. That God cannot prevent those who seek power from exercising power in the most inhumane of ways. That we still live have to prepare God’s way in spite of fear and foreboding.”

Come back before Christmas, Lord Jesus. I’m more than fine with that.

Except that… Jesus already has. That, I think, was the point he was making with his disciples two thousand years ago. You see, Jesus had already said something about when the reign of God was coming. He said it back in Luke’s chapter four, when he announced in the synagogue that the Isaiah’s promise of a year of God’s favor was fulfilled in their hearing. Or in other words: the Messiah was already present.

God’s promises were already present in front of the disciples who heard him say, “the kingdom of God is near.”

So near, disciples, that you’re part of it just sitting there.

“The season of Advent, as we reflect upon the coming of the Word made flesh and dwelling among us,” writes Cheryl Lindsay at UCC.org, “challenges us to make our love incarnate, our hope unmovable, our peace tangible, and our joy complete.”

That, after all, is what God did in the incarnate Jesus: rooted our hope, founded our peace, completed our joy, and embodied love.

I wish that Jesus’ presence meant that all the signs and times with their distress and roaring and fainting had been transformed into the vision of a Peaceable Realm described by some of the prophets. That, all too obviously, hasn’t happened. If a great outbreak of peace took place, it seems to me that that would be a much bigger and more visible sign of better times.

What we have instead is Jesus’ presence – all the time. As Audrey West writes at Working Preacher, “the apocalyptic vision shared by Jesus is assurance that even (especially) in the face of devastation—whether it is caused by nature’s fury or by human hubris—the reign of God will not be impeded. No matter how much it appears that the world is coming un-done, God’s way endures.” And: “Even during earth-rending moments, God is near.”

The age-old images of disaster and destruction will not, I’m afraid, tell us when history will end. They won’t tell us when Jesus will return. Partially that’s because they’re not much use as predictors, since they’re so common. Mostly it’s because Jesus promised to be with us always, and we trust in the promise.

Jesus has been with us through the earthquakes and storms and volcanic eruptions. Jesus has been with us through the political upheavals and pandemics. Jesus has been with us through the day-to-day blessings of our lives. Jesus has been with us at the birthday celebrations, at the achievements, and at the end of days when nothing much seemed to happen except the same-old, same-old. Jesus will be with us this Advent season and right on into Christmas.

Signs and times be what they may, Jesus is with us.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric frequently makes changes while preaching, accidentally and otherwise, so the sermon text will not precisely match the sermon as delivered.

The image is Jésus se promène dans le portique de Salomon (Jesus Walks in the Portico of Solomon) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2007, 00.159.177_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957468.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Light or Thorns?

November 24, 2024
2 Samuel 23:1-7
John 18:33-37

The authors and editors of Second Samuel have labeled this poem “The Last Words of David.” Ralph W. Klein has noted that this is the first of ten passages one might call “the last words of David.” There’s a part of me wondering if David kept talking in the hope that so many last words meant he’d never die… Well, no.

Among David’s talents in life was poet and songwriter. Seventy-three of the 150 psalms are credited to him, and the Books of Samuel contain other songs remembered as his work. If I were a monarch and a songwriter – I guess I claim one, but not both, of those titles – if I were both, I would be very pleased to write a song like these words in 2 Samuel to summarize the nature of my life as a king.

The God of Israel has spoken;
    the Rock of Israel has said to me:
“One who rules over people justly,
    ruling in the fear of God,
is like the light of morning,
    like the sun rising on a cloudless morning,
    gleaming from the rain on the grassy land.”

Is not my house like this with God?
    For he has made with me an everlasting covenant,
    ordered in all things and secure.

If I were David, that’s how I’d like to be remembered.

As Kathryn M. Schifferdecker writes at Working Preacher, “The light of morning, especially after a good rain — that’s what a God-fearing king is like. In the semi-arid land that is Israel, rain is a very precious resource. A good, soaking rain during the night, and then the sun rising to bring forth grass and grain and fruit from the earth — these are priceless gifts of God. And so is a good, just king, one who rules in the fear of the Lord. Both enable life to flourish.”

If you’re struggling to imagine this, think of what rain brings in Kona rather than Hilo, and it will make more sense.

“Is not my house like this with God?” David asked, rhetorically, I’m sure. But it’s a question that has a complicated answer. David lived for many years as an armed rebel opposed to the established government. In order to support himself and his army he became a mercenary, and contracted with the nation’s enemies. After the death of King Saul and most of his heirs, David used military force to subdue other claimants and gain the crown. David committed rape against Bathsheba and murder against her husband Uriah. David’s apparent failure to hear the complaints of the citizens primed the rebellion of his son Absalom. In their next book, 1 Kings, the authors of 2 Samuel described yet another attempt by one of David’s sons to usurp the throne.

In writing these “Last Words of David,” he was wearing rose-colored glasses that I’d describe as more rose than glass. Valerie Bridgman writes at Working Preacher, “As a former hospice chaplain, I know that when people come to the end of life, their memories often soften to ‘clean up’ the messiness of their lives.”

In this poem, he cleaned up the past, for sure. As he “cleaned up,” he managed to tell the truth. The characteristics of a good ruler, a proper leader, are as he described. They seek to bring justice to their people. They start with what we would think as structures to define liberties and responsibilities, that seek to prevent people from being injured by others, or being so heavily burdened that they lapse into poverty. The laws you’ll find in Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy provided that framework. Among the obligations you’ll find there is to make sure that widows, orphans, and foreigners had access to food, and that they were not denied shelter.

Beyond structural justice comes the resolution of disputes, both those we call crimes and those we call civil complaints. Some of those – probably most of those – would have been resolved within the villages or the family groups without ever coming to the King. Respected adults in the clan or a council of elders would have resolved the questions of disputed property lines, who owned the stray goat that turned up in somebody’s herd, and what should be done about the fight between those two guys. It was the more difficult cases that went to the monarch, who had to discern truth that others were not able to.

Ah, truth. Another essential characteristic of just leadership. One mentioned by none other than Jesus himself. Cheryl Lindsay writes at UCC.org, “Jesus prioritizes truth to such a degree that he frames his life’s ministry, from incarnation to this moment and beyond, to his act of testifying to the truth. Truth is so important to Jesus that he told the Samaritan woman at the well that the test of worship is the measure of spirit and truth. Above all, therefore, the good news is centered, anchored, and rooted in truth. This is our test; let it be our testimony. Testify to the truth.”

We might, with Pontius Pilate, mutter, “What is truth?” at this point and leave the room. Jesus didn’t answer Pilate’s questions at any point thereafter.

I think we can do better than Pontius Pilate.

In the Last Words of David, we have the truth about leadership, power, and authority. It is founded in justice. Further, it stands upon accountability. That’s what it means to rule “in the fear of God.” David the King, when he was doing well, realized that he needed the support of his officials and his people. He took care to listen to their concerns. Several of the stories about David are not about how resolute he was, but how willing he was to change his mind when someone brought him new information. If you’re going to be rigid as a leader, then you’d better be right every time, and who does that? If you won’t learn as a leader, frankly, what good are you?

David’s capacity to change his mind was one of his best qualities.

David described himself in this poem as “the oracle of God,” that is, one empowered to speak on God’s behalf. That doesn’t sound particularly humble, and it wasn’t. He called himself the man God exalted – again, not humble. He called himself the anointed of the God of Jacob, and if you were wondering if he’d found humility yet, no.

All these titles, however exalted, did reveal another truth. It was God who spoke. It was God who exalted. It was God who anointed. David might have been king, but God made him so.

He was accountable to the people and to those around him. Most of all, he was accountable to God.

His greatest successes took place when he remembered God’s authority over his. His greatest failures took place when he believed he had more authority than God.

Rulers who acknowledge no accountability to others are not like the light of the morning shining upon grassy meadows drinking in the night’s rain. No, they are like the weeds and thorns that nobody wants to touch because they injure you. They are like the things cut and gathered and burned because there’s nothing more to be done with them.

Good leadership brings light. Poor leadership brings thorns.

Those are the standards for us to use in evaluating our leaders. Do their stated policies promise light, or do they promise thorns? What experience do we have of them? Did their leadership shine, or did it cut and pierce? Did they strengthen structures of justice or did they dismantle them? Did they make decisions based on fact and fairness? Did they tell the truth? Did they acknowledge accountability to others? Did they claim to be more than they were?

Light? Or thorns?

These are also the standards to use in evaluating our own leadership. Have we illuminated? Have we encouraged? Have we assisted the people on the margins? Have we been humble before God? Have we told the truth? Have we diligently worked to understand the truth?

Light? Or thorns?

Pilate never learned the truth from Jesus. He crowned him with thorns, not light. Three or four years after sending Jesus to the cross Pontius Pilate was ordered back to Rome to explain why he had executed a group of Samaritans. We don’t know what happened with that. The Emperor died before Pilate reached Rome, and no record survives.

Thorns. Not light.

Jesus went to the cross wearing thorns, and rose from the grave to enlighten the world. Jesus did not reach for the temporal power of a Pilate or a David or an Emperor Tiberius. He simply told the truth.

Let this be our leadership, and let this be our leaders: Tellers of truth. Builders of justice. Wise and discerning souls. Open to learn. Accountable to those they lead and to God.

Light. Not thorns.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric sometimes improvises while preaching. “Sometimes” means “every week, at least a little.”

The image is King David by Peter Paul Rubens (by 1640) – Corel Professional Photos CD-ROM, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10324682.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Not Neglecting

November 17, 2024

Hebrews 10:11-25
Mark 13:1-8

The Book of Hebrews is not the most accessible of the writings of the New Testament. The author spent a lot of time bringing up passages of the Hebrew Bible that most people have never heard of. Just as one example, Sunday School teachers haven’t spent much time of the priesthood of Melchizedek in Genesis 14, while the author of Hebrews spent a fair amount of time reflecting on it.

However, I’m going to give you my one-line summary of the Book of Hebrews. Ready? OK. Here it is:

It’s all about Jesus.

I suppose a little expansion might be helpful…

Are you worried about who to pay attention to? Pay attention to Jesus. Are you worried about death? Life comes from Jesus. Are you worried about forgiveness of sin? That comes from Jesus. Are you worried about whether you should be making sacrifices? Don’t worry: Jesus has made the last sacrifice and no more are required.

Or more simply: It’s all about Jesus.

As Christopher T. Holmes writes at Working Preacher, “The point is clear: Jesus has removed all obstacles that might keep the hearers from entering into God’s presence. The problem, as the exhortation in verses 22–25 makes clear, is with the hearers’ willingness to keep drawing near.”

Let me re-read that exhortation:

“…Let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

Amy L. B. Peeler writes, also at Working Preacher, “’Are there any verses in the Bible that explicitly tell us to go to church?’ Students have raised this question several times in my classroom, and rarely is there an occasion where the answer is so straightforward. Hebrews 10:25 is just that verse…” Dr. Peeler teaches, incidentally, at Wheaton College in Illinois.

But why would people “neglect to meet together,” as the author of Hebrews put it? Well, first of all, gathering for religious purposes looked a lot different in the first century.

The weekly Sabbath meetings of the Jewish synagogues were the exception, not the rule, among first century Mediterranean religions. Most devotional activity for Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians consisted either of rituals performed in the home, or of bringing an offering for sacrifice in public. Public sacrifices, however, weren’t held one day a week. There wasn’t a set time when everybody crowded into a building to pray together. In fact, they rarely went into a building. Sacrifices took place outdoors. Most people never entered a temple building proper.

There would have been a few times during a year when everyone came out to worship, but those would have been festivals. And again, the activity of most “worshipers” was probably watching a parade going down the street to one of the temples.

When the author of Hebrews commented on “some” who didn’t gather, “some” was “most.” Jews who lived someplace other than Jerusalem had developed weekly gatherings for prayer and study in synagogues, a distinct difference between them and the others around them. Christians continued the practice.

Like the synagogues, the meetings of Christian communities had a different purpose than the great festivals of the Greeks or the triumphs of the Romans, or even the rituals of the Jerusalem Temple. The author of Hebrews noted it here. We gather “to provoke one another to love and good deeds… encouraging one another…”

That has remained the reason for the Church’s existence in the nearly two thousand years since.

Why do we gather? To provoke one another to love. To provoke one another to good deeds. To encourage one another.

That’s one of the reasons that the pandemic was so hard on us. In the presence of a virulent and dangerous disease spread primarily through the breath, it wasn’t safe to get together. “We stay separate now,” read one version of a common saying, “so that when we gather later, we will all be here.” Two years ago on this day I was home in bed sick with COVID. I recovered. Have we forgotten that over a million Americans didn’t? That over seven million have died across the globe?

We had good reason to keep apart. But it was hard.

It was hard because the ancient Hawaiians were right: “ha,” spirit, breath, is something that two human beings share with one another for the good of both. When sharing breath became hazardous, we lost something that sustained our spirits, something that needed no words to take place, and what could we share over the wires? Words.

Words suffered as well. I was in my forties when I learned something very important about communication, which is that communication hasn’t happened until it’s gone two ways: forth and back. Without response, communication hasn’t really occurred. Which is why parents get so insistent on getting a response from a teenager.

We used the tools available to us to stream a worship experience to you and to anyone else who chose. It was my decision to use a broadcast-style technology, to use a format that gave worshipers little ability to respond during worship. Mostly I made that choice to keep it as simple as possible for you. I wish I’d created some other more interactive ministries, more than a Bible Study, but alas, I didn’t.

Now that we’re back together, we’ve continued the live stream for the simple reason that people still find it useful. Some work Sunday mornings. Others can’t physically make it to worship. Those people – you people – are important, and giving you an opportunity to celebrate God’s grace is important. We will not neglect you.

Don’t neglect, however, to take up what opportunities come your way to provoke others to love and to good deeds, and to encourage them in the faith.

That word “provoke” provoked a fair amount of discussion during Bible Study this week. It seems an odd word to use of love. Katherine Shaner writes at Working Preacher, “Instead of asserting a community built on sameness and good feeling, the preacher seems to note that provocation and exasperation is part of being a community. She exhorts us to build a kind of community gathering that relentlessly, even irritatingly, suggests that actions of love and deeds are not what create faith, but are rather the responsibility of the community which needs to gather because of their faith in the great high priest — a faith God gives.”

Can we be a provoking community, one that doesn’t settle for a little bit of love? Can we be a community that expects more of ourselves than just a good deed or two here or there? Can we be a community that asks, “How can we do this better? How can we make this good available to more people? How can we equip people to live their lives in fullness?”

It’s the irritating sand in the oyster shell that provokes it to produce a pearl. It’s those pesky other nene that allow us to fly with less effort. It’s those sometimes irritating other Christians who provoke us to do good.

Let us not neglect to gather, to provoke one another to love and good deeds, and to encourage one another.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes while preaching, and so although he wrote the sermon you just read, it sounded different when he said it.

The image is by Perennis – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=81995586.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: House Devoured

November 10, 2024

Ruth 3:1-5, 4:13-17
Mark 12:38-44

Our Every Member Canvass is coming up, beginning once we’ve approved a budget at the All Membership meeting next Sunday. In one sense, that makes this story of the widow’s two coins just a little early. In another, of course, God’s call to generosity is evergreen, always in season.

So. Give everything you have to the Church of the Holy Cross. Down to the last two pennies.

I’m kidding. Unlike some of Jesus’ contemporaries, the scribes he criticized so harshly, the ones who devoured widows’ houses, I’m kidding. Unlike some of my own contemporary religious leaders, who call for major donations while buying mansions and private jets, I’m kidding.

Keep the last two pennies.

All right, I’m kidding again.

But you see the problem, right? It’s a good thing for people to be generous to their faith community, to their neighbors, and to strangers. Love makes the world go around, as the saying goes, and giving goes with love. Do you love someone? You give them what they need. You give them what will delight them. Do you love God? You give God things. You give what will delight the Holy One.

Like two small coins. Or as we might translate it, she gave “her whole life.” That’s how it reads in Greek.

Having warned of religious leaders who devoured the houses of widows, Jesus watched it happen right in front of him, recognized it, named it, and, I would guess, wept.

D. Mark Davis writes at LeftBehindAndLovingIt, “In a profound way, she [the widow] is acting with nobility and self-sacrifice and she is contributing toward an unjust system. She is giving all that she has and she is abetting a system that will take away all that she has. It is truly a tragic situation facing the widow, because her means of practicing true piety is at the same time a system that is devoid of justice and will, in turn, exploit her.”

As it did.

It wasn’t supposed to. The Law and the Prophets of ancient Israel made abundantly clear who was to be protected and cared for in that community: the widows and the orphans. Oh, and the foreigner, too. As Sung Soo Hong writes at Working Preacher, “If the leaders had kept the Law (for example, Deuteronomy 24:19–20; 26:12–13) and feared God, who is portrayed as the ultimate defender of widows in many passages of the Hebrew Bible, the widow in our passage would have not become that poor. The widow’s extreme poverty is the evidence that the leaders have failed.”

And they still invited her to put money in the treasury.

Debie Thomas asks at JourneyWithJesus.net, “Should we cheer or weep in the face of this story?  Or — here’s a third alternative — should we call out (as Jesus did) any form of religiosity that manipulates the vulnerable into self-harm and self-destruction?  Any form of piety that privileges long-winded prayers over works of compassion and liberation?  Any version of Christianity that valorizes soul-killing suffering as redemptive?  Any practice of faith that coddles us into apathy in the face of economic, racial, sexual, and political injustice?”

My answer to Ms. Thomas’ question is: Yes. We should call it out.

Don’t give us your last two pennies.

I say that despite having a certain amount of anxiety about the financial situation of this church. The pandemic has been hard for us. We have spent more than we brought in for four years for several reasons. Our expenses, as you might expect, haven’t gone down, and some have gone up. Insurance has been a major headache. Our income has suffered. During the pandemic we lost revenue from rentals of space on our campus, and that hasn’t yet returned to 2019 levels. Our members maintained faithful levels of giving, for which I’m grateful, but there have been fewer of them. Mercifully, we lost very few people to COVID in this church, but some people moved away, and other people’s health deteriorated, and some precious people died. I’m afraid that during COVID none of us in leadership here, starting with me, figured out how to welcome new people into this congregation through the virtual space. We’re delighted that new people have joined in the last year, but that’s still nearly four years of losses to make up.

The budget you’ll see in the mailing from our Moderator, Stefan Tanouye, projects a substantial deficit. I simply don’t know how to cover it. Except.

To ask you.

Sometimes when strangers ask me what I do for a living (which isn’t often; most people in Hilo recognize me for some reason), I’m tempted to say that I’m a professional beggar. I literally ask people for money, money that I live on, every week. You might say, “No, pastor, it’s the lay reader that says such things,” and you’d be right, except for one thing:

Where do you think the invitation to the offering they read comes from?

That’s right. The professional. The professional beggar.

That’s OK. I signed on for this thirty-six years ago. Frankly, I just wish I was better at it.

If I was really good at it, do you suppose we could afford a mansion for me and a private jet?

I really do wish I was better at begging because it really isn’t about me. It’s about the church. It’s about maintaining a space in which we can worship. It’s about providing compensation for the hard work of the people who make the music, print the bulletins, and clean the floors. It’s about making spaces available for people to support one another through hard things, for celebrating the blessings of life, for learning about God and God’s world. It’s about having the means to assist those who are hungry, homeless, or hurting. It’s about providing nourishment for the soul, perhaps starting with actual bread (or breadfruit; this is Hawai’i, after all). It’s about sustaining ourselves in a community living out its mission as part of the Body of Christ.

That’s worth begging for.

What do you think? Is it worth giving for?

That’s a good ending, don’t you think? “This church is worth begging for. What do you think? Is it worth giving for?”

I’d like to end it there, but I can’t.

You see, it’s not just religious leaders like me who devour widows’ houses. It’s other leaders, too. People who underpay their workers, and perhaps have either not read or simply ignored these words from Deuteronomy 24: “You shall not withhold the wages of poor and needy laborers, whether other Israelites or aliens who reside in your land in one of your towns.” People who reduce the taxes on the very wealthiest and pass on the debt to future generations. People who separate fleeting refugee children from their parents and essentially create orphans when they neglect to track either the children or the adults. People who lie as casually as I drink coffee.

The United States has re-elected as President a devourer of widows’ houses. Plain and simple. Already his followers have sent messages to African American children telling them to report for sale as slaves. Already his followers have sent messages to women: “Your body. My choice.”

I have no words of comfort about this, and I have no patience with those who deny the extraordinary risk now faced by a number of people. What rights will be maintained by LGBTQ people? The Constitution, I’ll remind you, makes no guarantee about the rights of women except the right to vote. Religion is protected by the Constitution – but who defines religion? May not a Congress or a court conclude that “religion” must meet certain criteria? As for race, well. The Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution guaranteeing equal protection under the law did not protect American citizens of Japanese origin – including children – from being incarcerated during World War II. Oh, and having that upheld by the US Supreme Court.

I am not optimistic.

I will also not give up the faith. I will not surrender in advance. I will not permit the widows and orphans or our day, the most vulnerable of our neighbors, to have their houses devoured by a government unrestrained by moral sense, sound judgement, and effective oversight, without my voice raised in protest.

I do not expect to succeed. Jeremiah didn’t. Hosea didn’t. Amos didn’t. Elijah didn’t. The nations they sought to guide went their own way. Others preserved their words and stories because, it turned out, they’d been right all along to plead for the welfare of the widows and the orphans, the most vulnerable of their societies.

Jesus didn’t succeed, either. Perhaps if the Temple scribes of his day had given up devouring widows’ houses, the calamitous war with Rome wouldn’t have happened, and the Temple would be standing on Mount Moriah today. But Jesus didn’t persuade them. He went to the cross instead.

He transformed that failure into the possibility of new life.

Don’t give us your last two coins, people. We need the money, but more than that we need to be faithful to our obligation to care for one another. Don’t help us devour your house. Do help us maintain this house as best you can, but no more.

As you do, watch and see where the other devourers approach. Watch, see, name, protest, and act.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes while preaching, so the prepared text you have just read will not exactly match the video you (may) have just watched.

The image shows the widow depositing the coins with Jesus watching. One of the 5th or 6th century mosaics in the Church of Saint Appolinaire in Ravenna, Italy. Photo by Sailko – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=28214920.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Not Far

November 3, 2024

Ruth 1:1-18
Mark 12:28-34

We’ve taken a few steps since last week’s Gospel lesson, set in Jericho along the banks of the River Jordan. Jesus had climbed the slopes from there to the environs of Jerusalem. He entered the city in that great Palm Sunday parade. He’d come back to the Temple the next day and overturned the tables of the money changers.

Mark sets this story on the next day, Tuesday, which began with the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders challenging Jesus’ authority to do such things. That wasn’t a good start, and the conversation deteriorated from there. Representatives of various schools of thought as well as various places on the political spectrum tried to trap Jesus into a statement that would put him in legal jeopardy on the one hand or cost him the support of the crowds who’d cheered him on the other. Preferably both at the same time.

Those efforts had failed.

“One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’”

Up to this point in Mark’s Gospel, bad things have happened when Jerusalem scribes have been present. Jesus had his arguments with other religious leaders in Galilee, but when a group of scribes from Jerusalem showed up in chapter three, they accused him of being in league with demons. So you‘d expect another “gotcha” question from this man.

He didn’t ask one.

He asked a big question, for sure. Three centuries later, a rabbai named Simlai would count 613 mitvot or commandments in the Hebrew Bible. Most of those, obviously, amplify or provide detail of one or more of the Ten Commandments with which we’re familiar. To choose one within the ten, or within the 613? That’s a big question.

But he seems to have been interested in Jesus’ answer, not in setting Jesus a trap. At least I think so, in great part because, unlike his responses to the bulk of the challenges Jesus received in chapters eleven and twelve, Jesus answered the question. Sort of. He cheated a little.

He replied with two commandments.

Both were near-quotes from the Scriptures first century Jews held in common: the five books that begin our Old Testament, known then and now in Hebrew as Torah, or Law. “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength,” comes from Deuteronomy 6. “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” comes from Leviticus 19.

As Cheryl Lindsay writes at UCC.org, “This exchange reminds the observer that the good news as shared by Jesus was not a clean departure from Jewish law. Rather, it was an amplification of it.”

When the scribe wholeheartedly agreed, Jesus told him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.”

Not far.

Jesus’ basic message, as Mark described it back in chapter one, was, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” In one sense, then, Jesus could have told anyone that they were not far from the reign of God. It had come near, it has come near, to everyone.

But I don’t think that’s what he meant. I think he had a much older idea of the reign of God in mind, a reign of God in which people live out the commandments. What’s the first step toward that?

Knowing how to get there. Love God. Love your neighbor.

That’s how we get there.

As Amy Lindeman Allen writes at PoliticalTheology.com, “The greatness of the love commandment lies not in its surpassing value over and against all of the other commandments of Jewish law but, rather, in its ability to hold up all the rest. It’s less about beating out all of the other candidates and more about helping them to do their jobs.”

Love of God is the foundation for the commandments against worshiping other gods, against worshiping idols, against making false promises in God’s name. Love of neighbor is the foundation of keeping the sabbath, of honoring parents, of the prohibitions against murder, adultery, theft, lying, and coveting. “Love does no wrong to a neighbor;” wrote the Apostle Paul to the church in Rome, “therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.”

Love sounds simple, but exercising it affects everything we do, everything we say, everything we plan, everything we set aside. Love enacted requires patience, effort, resilience, and resources. Love made manifest may call for commitment, hardship, even sacrifice.

Love looks like Ruth.

It’s a funny thing. The word “love” appears only once in Ruth, toward the end of the story, which we’ll read next week. As the book begins, Ruth did not claim to love her mother-in-law. She did not say anything, in fact, about her motives. She said, “I will not leave you,” rather more poetically and emphatically than that. It must have been a hardship. As Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “I think it would be safe to say that Ruth’s pledge of fidelity is not made to a companion who is, at this point in the story, easy or fun to be around. Naomi is bereft, depleted, forlorn, and bitter. It’s possible that she’s suffering a full-blown crisis of faith, imagining that the God she thought she knew has withdrawn his love, and cursed her with unspeakable suffering.

“Ruth’s vow, then, is a vow of tenacity, fortitude, and sacrificial loyalty as much as it is a vow of affinity, affection, or ‘love’ as our culture might describe it.  It is the vow of one grief-stricken, traumatized, and profoundly vulnerable woman to another.”

Or to put it another way: she was not far from the realm of God.

With the love that God has for us, love displayed to us so thoroughly in Jesus, we are never far from the realm of God. But we are closest to living the reign of God when we love God and one another. When we, to borrow Paul’s words to the Corinthians, show patience and kindness, when we act without envy, boastfulness, arrogance, or rudeness. When we restrain our irritability over not getting our own way, when we keep no record of wrongs, when we rejoice in the truth. When we bear all things, believe all thing, hope all things, endure all things…

Then we are not far from the realm of God.

Not far at all.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes while preaching, sometimes from choice and sometimes from chance.

The image is The Seven Works of Mercy by Karl Gritschke. Photo by Alexander Rahm – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3544487.

It is a representation of a painting on a wall of the Dialog Hotel Neuendettelsau. The “seven works of mercy” according to Matthew 25:34-46 and Tobit 1:17, are:

  1. Feed the hungry,
  2. Give the thirsty drink,
  3. Accommodate strangers,
  4. Clothe the naked,
  5. Visit prisoners,
  6. Heal the sick, and
  7. Bury the dead.
Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Mercy

October 27, 2024

Hebrews 7:23-28
Mark 10:46-52

The healing of Bartimaeus has some distinct differences from other healing stories in the Gospel of Mark. Just to start, Mark knew – and so we know – Bartimaeus’ name. Most of the time in this book we never hear the names of those healed. We don’t know the name of the first person Jesus healed in the synagogue in Capernaum, nor the name of the man whose friends lowered him through a hole in the roof of a house. We don’t know the name of the man whose demons Jesus banished into a herd of pigs.

Until… Bartimaeus.

Bartimaeus took more initiative than most of the others. People tended to bring their family members and neighbors to Jesus for healing. Bartimaeus, however, shouted from his place at the side of the road. Those around him – presumably his friends and neighbors – tried to silence him rather than assist him to Jesus.

This is also the first time that someone has sought healing using a Messianic title. “Son of David” meant someone who was part of the ancient royal line descended from King David. To call someone “Son of David,” declared them to be the legitimate ruler of the nation. It was a cry of rebellion against the Herodian kings and the Roman Empire.

Which is probably why they tried to silence him. “Son of David” was dangerous talk.

As Matt Skinner writes at Working Preacher, “For Bartimaeus, the title obviously indicates that Jesus is God’s designated agent, and it introduces the notion of Jesus as a royal figure, an image that becomes very important when Jesus enters Jerusalem (11:1-10), goes on trial (15:1-15), and dies (15:16-32) as a king. Bartimaeus, despite his blindness and all its connotations of spiritual ignorance (compare 4:12; 8:18), sees the royal dimensions of Jesus’ identity. As the story progresses, we discover that Bartimaeus also discerns that Jesus is specially able to show mercy and heal.”

Not only does this story offer plenty of contrasts with Jesus’ other healings, it offers a lot of contrasts with other events in this chapter, chapter ten of Mark’s Gospel. That question Jesus asked Bartimaeus? “What do you want me to do for you?” It’s the same question Jesus asked James and John in verse thirty-six. James and John, remember, asked for positions of power and privilege. Bartimaeus asked to see again.

Go back a little further in chapter ten and you’ll find that conversation between Jesus and a wealthy man. Jesus asked him to sell what he had and follow him. The man went away grieving, for he had many possessions.

Bartimaeus had one possession: a cloak. As Luis Menendez-Antuna writes at Working Preacher, “The cloak here is not only an aesthetic garment. For individuals living below poverty levels, the cloak is a piece that provides warmth in hostile weather conditions, a valuable piece that would allow them to sleep at night or to throw it in front of them to collect money. The garment is also a sign of status and power… the garment represents the little power he owns.”

Did you catch it? When Bartimaeus made his way to Jesus, he cast the cloak aside. As the story ended, Bartimaeus did what the rich man had not done: he left behind his possessions and followed Jesus.

And as D. Mark Davis observes at LeftBehindAndLovingit, “The last time someone shouted outside of Jericho, the walls fell down.”

There was something else Bartimaeus shouted. It wasn’t just the title “Son of David.” He called for mercy. In Greek, it’s only two words: “Eleison me.” “Mercy me.”

If that word “eleison” sounds familiar at all, it’s one of the most ancient Christian prayers. In Greek it goes, “Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison” – “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.”

Have mercy.

Mercy.

The curious thing that stood out to me in this passage, among all the other curious things, is that this is the last story Mark told about Jesus’ ministry before his entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. The colt, the cloaks, the leafy branches, and the shouts of Hosanna – they’re the next thing in the book. So Mark used this story to close his account of Jesus’ words and actions prior to the climactic events of Jerusalem. The thing I noticed is that Mark also opened his account of Jesus’ ministry by describing a healing, the casting out of an unclean spirit in chapter one.

In Mark, the first thing and the last thing Jesus did was heal. Acts of power and compassion. Deeds of mercy.

Mercy.

Eleison.

There are a lot of ways to understand God. God is the great Creator, the Power that grants existence not just to the world but to the universe. God is the figure of Wisdom and insight who promises success and prosperity to those who follow. God is the freedom-granter, the Law-giver, and the community organizer who doesn’t just rescue people from slavery but gives them the structures which will permit them to live well. God is also the Judge, frequently the irritated judge, who responds to human rebellion and sin with warning, decision, and consequences.

God is all of those things. Emphasize one too much and you will have a distorted theology, and heaven knows we’ve seen that often enough. Jesus, however, demonstrated a fundamental quality of God in the way that he lived his life and exercised his ministry. Mark picked up on it and made sure we’d see it.

Mercy. God as revealed in Jesus Christ is merciful.

Think for a moment about the saints we honor today, the people whose loss we mourn but whose lives we celebrate. Why? Were they movers and shakers, wealthy and powerful? Did they speak and the world listened? By and large, no.

But I’m pretty sure that along the way, they gave us mercy.

They dried our tears when we wept. They sat by us in the storm. They showed us the way when we were lost. They fed us good things when we were hungry. They pitched in when we needed help. They gave us words of wisdom when we were confused. They visited us when we were sick. They did things for us and for other people because they cared.

Very few of them would have been called “great” by the world. You’ve heard people scorn the merciful as weak and inconsequential. You’ve heard them praise strength and power and ruthlessness.

The world doesn’t know what greatness is.

Think about these people you honor today. They had successes. They had achievements. They had triumphs. We honor them for it. But are those the things that won your heart? Are those the things you miss?

Isn’t it the deeds of love and mercy that made them great to you?

It’s the deeds of love and mercy that made them like Jesus.

As you come forward to light candles in their memory today, let your memories of their compassion be strong and bright. And as you return from lighting that candle, let your commitment to their compassion be stronger and brighter yet. Let their deeds of love and mercy inspire you to your deeds of love and mercy. From the first to the last, let the healing of the earth be your goal and your desire.

Be like Jesus.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes while he preaches, and he certainly made some changes this morning.

The image is “The Healing of the Blind Man of Jericho,” by Unknown artist – Codex Egberti, Fol 31, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8096753.