Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I identify my ethnic heritage primarily as Norwegian, but I am one-eighth Irish (as closely as I can calculate, anyway), and today's the day to celebrate it! I love St. Patrick's Day.

In the spirit of the holiday, let me offer you a couple of well-known Irish blessings.








And a joke from one of my pastors:

What's Irish and sits in the rain? Patty O'Furniture.

Yeah, I work with truly awesome people. Enjoy the day!

March 13 sermon

Text: Psalm 32
Preached March 13 at Gol and Hegre and March 14 at the Minnesota chapter retreat of the Society of the Holy Trinity


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

When I was a kid, we lived in an old house. My parents still live there. I think it was built in the 1880s. Fortunately, I didn’t have too much trouble with fears of monsters in the closet or other such things. But there was one thing that could throw me for a loop once in a while.

Our house had beautiful carved wood trim around all the doors and windows. From where I lay in bed, the angle was just right that, when I looked up at the trim around my door, it looked like a person. The points and curves of the molding looked like the profile of a very angry, very mean person scowling down at me.

Sometimes I would get up, turn on the light, and look at it straight on to assure myself that it really was just a block of wood. And my parents’ voices downstairs reminded me that I had protectors in the house who wouldn’t let the scary face get me. Other times I would hide under the covers and try to get the image out of my mind, but somehow this approach never seemed to work quite as well.

The psalmist knows all about scary images much worse than scowling men disguised as door trim and monsters lurking in closets. The psalmist knows that sin has a similar effect on us, and there are really only two ways to deal with our sin—we either confess it or we hide it. And, just like my ducking under the covers as a child, hiding from our sin doesn’t seem to work as well as turning on the light and exposing it.

“While I kept silence, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.”

The psalmist knows what it’s like to try to conceal our sin. It takes a lot of energy, consuming all our attention, draining our strength, exhausting our bodies. God’s hand becomes a crushing burden, heavy upon us.

Adam and Eve discovered this too, didn’t they? After they ate the fruit that was forbidden to them, the first thing they did was to cover themselves with loincloths they sewed from fig leaves. And, though today’s reading stops there, the story goes on. The next thing Adam and Eve did was to hide from God.

They heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden. The Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?” He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid…” (Genesis 3:8-10).

For the first time, Adam and Eve were afraid of God. Hiding their sin from God required hiding themselves from God. And thus the relationship was broken.

The apostle Paul understood that sin is not just something we do. Sin does something to us. It alienates us from God. It enslaves us to its tyranny. It subjects us to death.

Paul says in our second reading, “…sin came into the world through one man, and death came through sin, so death spread to all because all have sinned,” and “death exercised dominion from Adam to Moses, even over those whose sins were not like the transgression of Adam….”

God warned Adam and Eve that if they ate the fruit of the tree which was forbidden to them, they would die. This is the reality of sin and there is no escaping it on our own. This is what it means for death to exercise dominion. When we are hiding from God, hiding in sin, it consumes us.

Every sound, even the sound of God, becomes something fearful and terrifying. Every sound becomes the sound of a monster under the bed, lurking in the shadows. Death gets the final word, because we become incapable of hearing any other word. We cannot hear God’s word of forgiveness and new life, God’s word that would teach us the way to go. So death wins.

And, of course, our attempts at deception never work anyway. As the psalmist tells us in Psalm 139, God knows each one of us intimately, and we cannot hide from God.

O Lord, you have searched me and known me….You discern my thoughts from far away….Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me….Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?

The writer of 1 John tells us—and the order for confession reminds us—that “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.” And there is no fooling the God “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid.”

We don’t like feeling quite that exposed, do we? It’s very uncomfortable. We already said that, after their sin, Adam and Eve’s next moves were to cover themselves with loincloths and to hide from God. Their sin left them feeling exposed to the all-knowing gaze of God, and even itchy fig leaves and a hasty hiding spot are preferable to the kind of vulnerability!

But this God “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid” is also the God who is “faithful and just,” and who has promised to “forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” This God’s all-knowing gaze contains not just accusation and judgment, but also mercy and love.

So we don’t have to cower in our sin and deceit. We don’t have to escape the monsters and shadow-figures by ducking under the covers. Instead, we can expose what we would rather conceal. We can confess the sin we would prefer to hide. And, in doing so, we can be released from the burden of guilt and deception.

“Blessed are those whose transgression is forgiven,” the psalmist says. “Blessed are those to whom the Lord imputes no iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no deceit.”

Confessing our sin strips it of its power, like the scowling face in the door that suddenly turned back into simple wood trim when I took a closer look. Like the monsters in the closet that can only lurk in shadows and solitude. They disappear under the revealing scrutiny of light and the protective presence of parents.

Confession of sin is confession of faith. We confess our sin because God has promised to forgive us for the sake of Christ, and we know that God keeps his promises. We confess our sins because we know that God has both the ability and the desire to forgive us.

The psalmist, who knows the truth of this promise, continues: “Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not hide my iniquity; I said ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the guilt of my sin.”

Our own efforts to conceal our sin are doomed to fail. But when we confess our sin, God covers it effectively with Christ’s own righteousness. As Paul says in our second reading, "If, because of the one man’s trespass, death exercised dominion through that one, much more surely will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness exercise dominion in life through the one man, Jesus Christ."

Because of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God forgives our sin so that we can be restored to right relationship with God. We no longer have to hide from God; instead we can hide in God, so that the words of Psalm 139 no longer strike fear into our hearts, but instead become music to our ears:

O Lord, you have searched me and known me….You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me….If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.

Suddenly, God is protector rather than accuser! When Adam and Eve’s sin was exposed, God relented from the punishment of death which he had originally decreed. God provided them with clothing and sent them on their way in safety. Adam and Eve found grace and new life rather than death.

Of course, they also faced serious consequences. They were evicted from the garden and their lives became much more difficult. The blessing of God’s forgiveness does not mean that we never have to face painful consequences for our sinful actions.

But when we know that a loving and forgiving God is on our side, we are free to face those consequences in peace, trusting that God will walk with us through whatever mess may arise from our failures.

As the psalmist says,

“Therefore let all who are faithful offer prayer to you; at a time of distress, the rush of mighty waters shall not reach them. You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with glad cries of deliverance….steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the Lord.”

When we confess our sin and receive God’s forgiveness through Jesus Christ, God’s hand is no longer a heavy burden day and night. Instead, that hand supports and upholds us in the face of life’s trials. Death no longer has dominion, but God’s grace triumphs. We are freed to live in the joy and peace of God’s steadfast love, which surrounds us always.

And joy is exactly where the psalmist leads us: “Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, O righteous, and shout for joy, all you upright in heart.” Through Jesus Christ, God makes us the righteous. God makes us the upright in heart.

We are those who can be glad in the Lord and rejoice, for we know the gift of God’s forgiveness. We are those who can shout for joy. And so we do exactly that, saying, “Thanks be to God!” Amen.

Trip to the opera

Friday night was my night out at the opera. The Minnesota Opera's production of La Traviata was wonderful, not that I'm a particularly discerning critic.

The Ordway is a beautiful facility, and downtown St. Paul is lovely at night. The drive home in the snow and wind at 11 p.m. was slightly less lovely, but it was manageable.

In a feeble attempt to be slightly classier than usual, I traded in my increasingly large handbags for a smaller one. Sadly, this left no room for my camera, so you'll have to settle for cell phone pics.

View of the Landmark Center from inside the Ordway (hence the window glare).





View from my seat in the balcony. It's not exactly close, but it's not bad. The screen above the stage displays a translation of the Italian libretto as it's sung.





I love sitting in the back of the balcony: the view and the sound are perfectly fine, I like being able to watch the orchestra, I was on the end of a row with only four people who had to get past me, and there was no one behind me to kick my seat. Can't beat it for $20!

Weekly beauty: La Traviata

This week marks my second annual pilgrimage to the Ordway to experience a performance by the Minnesota Opera. Last year I saw La Boheme (Puccini) and this year La Traviata (Verdi).

So, in honor of this most glorious of art forms, I give you "Libiamo ne' lieti calici," the brindisi from La Traviata, featuring the sublime and unparalleled voice of tenor Placido Domingo. Soprano Teresa Stratas is pretty fab too. Not exactly edifying content for those observing certain Lenten disciplines, but nobody asked me when they should stage the production.

Ash Wednesday

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.



(Photo from Google images.)


The season of Lent began today with the observance of Ash Wednesday. It seems no matter how late it is (and it can only be one day later than it is this year), it always sneaks up on me.

I participated in worship at First Lutheran this evening (part of the chancel is pictured below). Now my nails are stained with ashes from smudging foreheads with the sign of God's mercy. Surely there is meaning in both smudged cross and and stained hands.





"Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin....Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me." (Psalm 51)

Chapel at St. Mary's Hospital

I've commented before that St. Mary's Hospital in Rochester is a beautiful facility. And I had heard that they had an amazing chapel. On a recent visit with one of my pastors, I finally got a chance to see it, and I was blown away!

I did my clinical pastoral education at Fairview Ridges Hospital in Burnsville, which was also a very nice facility. But the chapel there was intentionally inter-religious and quite simple, containing very little symbolism. It was really just a small, quiet room in which to escape the noise and activity of the hospital.

So, with that concept of a "hospital chapel" in my mind, I was not prepared for this....
















Stunning! It seats 400. Check out the 360-degree panorama views here.

World Day of Prayer

Friday, March 4, was World Day of Prayer, "a worldwide movement of Christian women of many traditions who come together to observe a common day of prayer each year, and who, in many countries, have a continuing relationship in prayer and service" (World Day of Prayer website).

The ladies of the Kenyon area celebrated with a program of worship, education, and fellowship, held this year at First Lutheran. At least eight churches of various denominations were represented.





This year's program was written by the World Day of Prayer committee in Chile, so we learned a little about life in Chile and sang some Latin American songs. The theme was "How many loaves have you?" based on Jesus' question to the disciples before he fed a multitude with just a few loaves and fish.





After the program, which was led by talented women from several different congregations, we enjoyed a time of fellowship, and it was a pleasure to meet some folks with whom I don't normally work or worship.

Weekly beauty: Elizabeth Vigee Le Brun

During my recent trip to Kansas City, I visited the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, my favorite thing to do in that city.

The Nelson-Atkins has several paintings by Pissarro, Van Gogh, and Monet that I could contemplate for hours, and I did spend some time with them. But on this trip, what really stopped me in my tracks was this painting, "The Duchess of Caderousse" (1784), by Elizabeth Vigee Le Brun:





When I say "stopped me in my tracks," I mean that quite literally. It probably took me 8 or 10 minutes to tear myself away. I love when art or music really gets me in its grip like that.

This is the same artist whose work jumped out at me for visio divina during my summer retreat. There is just something exceptionally compelling about her portraits of women. They seem to have so much more spirit than most other portraits of the same era. Their faces really say something. Further evidence:


"Portrait of a Young Woman" (1797)




"Madame Vigee Le Brun and her Daughter" (1789)


See more Elizabeth Le Brun (whose name seems to come in a million iterations) on Google.

How long is worship?

One of the most common concerns pastors hear from parishioners is that worship is too long. There could be many reasons for this concern, from restless children to Sunday schedules full of other commitments.

Much of it stems from a misunderstanding of what worship is. We forget that worship is not just some kind of show or lecture, but is, in fact, an encounter with the living God.

Here's another worthwhile post from Old Worship New, a blog I've referenced before, that elaborates beautifully. An excerpt:

We cannot expect worship to be a significant aspect of congregational life if we allow it to be approached as if it were as trivial in the grand scheme of things as many things are in our chaotic lives. It is not sitcom in which every problem is solved in 30 minutes, or a sporting event in which, on some occasions, we go into "overtime." It is not our play-date with Jesus....Worship is not like swimming lessons or soccer practice. It is not an activity to be planned or an event to be scheduled; it is not just one more thing that we pencil into our datebooks. Worship is a way of life.

The author quotes from Brian Wren's article, "Creative Liturgy," from The Episcopalian (1988), saying worship must be "long enough to bury Christ and me and resurrect us both again." It's right on.

There are some legitimate reasons to worry about worship being too long. There are many more reasons to worry about why we want worship to be shorter.

February 27 sermon

Text: Isaiah 49:8-16a
Preached February 27 and March 2 at First Lutheran


Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I’m sure it would come as no surprise to you if I were to tell you that our world isn’t perfect. In fact, it’s quite broken. Suffering is a reality, and God’s people are certainly not exempt.

Turn on the evening news, open a newspaper, or catch up online. However you stay informed, chances are that most of what you’re hearing isn’t good. And, of course, we all have personal connections to people suffering serious illness, grief, addiction, or some other kind of distress. Some of us are suffering in these ways ourselves.

It would seem there’s plenty to worry about. And we do. But we are not the first. God’s people have always known suffering, and God’s people have always known the anxiety that comes with it.

The Israelites of Isaiah’s time witnessed the complete destruction of their city when it was conquered by Babylon. Jerusalem was demolished, and the temple along with it. The great city of God and his holy dwelling place were in ruins, and the people were hauled off to Babylon in captivity. God’s people lived in a foreign culture, surrounded by reminders of their oppressor’s strength and their own defeat.

And in the midst of their defeat and pain, there was also worry: “The Lord has forsaken me,” they cried, “my Lord has forgotten me.” In the midst of their brokenness, the people of Israel felt abandoned by God. Away from Jerusalem, they feared they were “out of sight, out of mind.”

I’m sure we can relate in the midst of our own brokenness. We just confessed that we are captive to sin, in exile and alienated from God, surrounded by suffering as a result. And we are terrified.

We’re afraid our suffering means nothing to anyone. We’re afraid we are forgotten by everyone around us, and we are afraid we are forgotten by God. Our anxiety turns us in upon ourselves, narrowing our focus until we feel like we're living in isolation.

But God never forgets his people. Even when things seem bleak, God remembers. God asks through Isaiah, “Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.”

Last weekend, I visited my brother and sister-in-law, and met my newborn niece. I saw first-hand—and many of you know this better than I—that a nursing mother cannot forget her child. Newborns, especially, have to eat all the time, and they aren’t shy about letting everybody know it.

As impossible as it would be for a nursing mother to forget her baby, God says it is even more impossible for God to forget his people.

And God doesn’t stop there. God says, “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.”

It sounds a little like a tattoo, doesn’t it? Ask anyone who has a tattoo, and they’ll probably tell you its significance. Body art is almost never random or purely aesthetic. In most cases, it’s deeply personal and imbued with layers of meaning. Those names on God’s palms are not mere words. They mean something. God knows each and every one of us. No one is unknown to God.

And how many times a day do you see your palms? This is how close to God’s consciousness you are. Each one of you, and me too. God’s people are never “out of sight, out of mind.” No one is forgotten by God.

Like a mother who cares for her dependent, nursing baby, God has intense compassion for those who suffer. God hears his people and answers them when they cry. “In a time of favor I have answered you, on a day of salvation I have helped you….For the Lord has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones.”

Through Isaiah, God tells the exiled people of Israel that he will set them free and restore them to their home. God says to the prisoners, “Come out,” and “to those who are in darkness, ‘Show yourselves’.” God leads his people to freedom and safety, and provides for them throughout the journey:

“They shall feed along the ways,
on all the bare heights shall be their pasture;
they shall not hunger or thirst,
neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down,
for he who has pity on them will lead them,
and by springs of water will guide them.”

What a promise of relief! What a contrast to the dreary, painful trek into exile! What a picture of God’s abundance and protection!

Jesus paints a similar picture. “Look at the birds of the air,” he says. “They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” And “consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field…will he not much more clothe you…?”

We do not live in isolation. We live under the watchful, caring gaze of our Father in heaven, this God who remembers each and every one of his people, who has inscribed us on the palm of his hand. This God who suffers as we suffer, who is as full of compassion as a loving mother. This God who, through his Son, bids us “come out” of captivity and be restored to our home with God. This God who provides for us and sustains us throughout our journey.

God remembers each of us, and so we, too, remember. We remember what God has done for us, and we live in peace, responding with thanks and praise: “Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing!” Isaiah tells us that God’s people, along with all of creation, sing and rejoice in response to God’s goodness.

The joy of God’s care and our freedom from worry doesn’t mean we live in a constant emotional high. It doesn’t even mean we will always be happy. Suffering, as we said, is a reality, even though we are remembered and loved by God.

But there is a difference between happiness and peace. Happiness is fleeting and superficial. It depends on the external circumstances in which we find ourselves. When things go well, we are happy, and that is certainly not a bad thing! But it’s difficult to be happy in the midst of illness or economic need or other suffering.

We can, however, find peace and joy even in the midst of suffering. These things do not depend on our external circumstances. They depend only on faith and trust in God’s goodness and love. When we know that God is on our side, we can be at peace even when things seem bleak.

The psalmist paints us a picture of what it might look like to live in God’s peace: “I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.” It’s an image of serenity and contentment, of comfort and security. It’s an image of letting go of that which is outside our control.

The psalm also encourages us to recognize God as the source of our joy and peace: “O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time on and forevermore.” Neither Isaiah, nor the psalmist, nor Jesus himself offer us a promise that all will be well in this very moment. But they do offer a promise that God will be with us in the midst of our distress, that God will care for us and comfort us, and that God will make all things new.

God remembers each of us, and so we, too, remember. Not only do we remember what God has done for us, but we remember those around us, those who are also beloved of God. We do not live in isolation, but we live in the midst of a world in need of our love and service. Living in God’s care is not about detachment from the world, but about attachment to Jesus and his teachings, and to the needs of our neighbors. And so we reach out to share God’s love with others.

I said earlier that worry is inherently individual and isolating. It turns us in upon ourselves so that we are blinded by the fear of being forgotten. We are blinded to God’s presence and compassion. And we are blinded to the needs of the world.

This is not how God wants us to live. God remembers us—all of us—and so should we remember one another. God has compassion on all who suffer—and so should we be full of compassion.

Isaiah tells us that God’s servant is given “as a covenant to the people.” God’s people do not seek only their own good. They seek also to bless others with the love of God. God’s love is not about isolation, but about community.

Jesus tells us in the gospel reading to “strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness.” God’s kingdom is about freedom. Through Christ, God sets us free from captivity to sin, and reconciles us to God and to one another. In the same way, God sets us free from worry by assuring us of his sustaining presence even in the midst of our struggles.

And as we are set free from worry, we are set free for service. We are set free to strive for the kingdom of God, so that all people may come to know God’s righteousness and justice and mercy and love.

We remember those in need because we know God remembers them, just as God remembers each one of us. You are not alone, and you are not forgotten.

You are loved by a God whose love is more intense and more personal than a mother’s. You are loved by a God who pays attention even to the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, and who watches over you with even more care. You are loved by a God who has inscribed you on the palm of his hand, always to be remembered.

Thanks be to God! Amen.