Archives for 2013

Looking for the Living

March 31, 2013 By Andy James

a sermon on Luke 24:1-12 for Easter Sunday
preached on March 31, 2013, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

The women who had made their way to Jesus’ tomb were startled enough by the two men in dazzling clothes who met them there, so I can’t imagine all the other emotions that came as they were confronted by these strange words. They had come to the tomb expecting to finish the work of burying Jesus that they had started so hurriedly on Friday evening and abandoned for the sabbath, so they figured that the dead Jesus would be exactly where they had laid him. But things were not as they expected. Not only was the tomb unsealed and the large stone rolled away, Jesus’ body was not there. Then to be greeted by these two strange men—it was quite a way to start the morning!

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

Our own search for Jesus can certainly take us to some places where that question might be in order. It’s easy to think that we’ll keep encountering God in our lives in the way we always have even when our world is changing quickly and dramatically right before our very eyes. It’s easy to walk away from God when things are going right and then come back when life takes an unexpected turn. But when we do this, are we not also looking for the living among the dead? Do we show up as the women did, at the tombs of our world, expecting that we can encounter God again just like we did before? Do we put God in the same box that they did, leaving no room for resurrection and new life?

Why are you looking for the living among the dead?

If these words weren’t strange enough, the two men in dazzling clothes continued on: “He is not here, but has risen.” All the assumptions that the women had made about this morning were turned on end, all because they had forgotten what Jesus had told them. In the midst of the chaos of his arrest and trial, they did not remember that he had told them that this kind of end was ahead for him. In the midst of his execution at the hands of the religious and civil authorities of the day, they had forgotten his promise that this was not the end of his story. In the midst of their grief, they could not imagine that anything more than death was ahead for him.

And so since they had forgotten, they went to the tomb to look for Jesus. They thought that he belonged there among the dead. They expected him to be there, right where they had laid him. But they were wrong. The stone was rolled away, the tomb was empty, and Jesus was alive and present in the world even though they had not seen him yet. They couldn’t look for him as they had done before—they had to see him in different places, in new ways, and maybe even right where they were.

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

It’s a fair question for us, too: where do we look for Jesus? Do we come to church, thinking that he has set up shop permanently and exclusively within these walls? Do we look for people who have a grand outward appearance of faithfulness, expecting that their holiness and virtue will show us the face of Christ? Do we seek out people who think like us, look like us, pray like us, speak like us, and believe like us? When we do these things—when we look for Jesus in all places where we expect to find him, in the halls that seem to hold religious power, in outward expressions of faithfulness, in people who are just like us—are we not looking for the living among the dead?

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

The women were not alone in this in their time. Even after they believed the news from the two men in dazzling clothes who met them at the tomb, the other disciples just didn’t understand it when the women told them. They called it nothing more than an idle tale—leiros in the Greek, literally meaning “nonsense”—except for Peter, who ran to the tomb himself to see it with his own eyes and then returned home, amazed and confused by what he had seen. The disciples were not yet ready to go looking for Jesus in new places.

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

It’s easy to get sucked in to this way of thinking, to join with the disciples and question how we might ever expect to see Jesus in our world. There is enough brokenness in our world to bring even the most confident and faithful among us to question how God is at work around us. There is enough war and violence in our world for us to reasonably wonder how the peace of Christ is actually taking root around us. And there is enough death in our midst to make us even wonder if the resurrection is real at all. And so we too often stand with the women, the disciples, and countless others who look for Jesus in the wrong places, who don’t understand how Jesus could be resurrected in the first place.

Yet those two men in dazzling clothes at the tomb call us to seek something different, to look for the living Christ in the real world, in the places where there is real and great need, in the places where something is deeply missing, in those places where we would least expect to encounter him, for he is present and alive and at work here and now, and we are called to join him as he works to make all things new. Maybe it is time to look for Jesus alive and at work in our world in new places, among the prisoners and the poor, among the homeless and harmed, among the sick and sad, among the destitute and depressed, among people who don’t look like us, act like us, love like us, believe like us, think like us, or dream like us.

It is there in those places, in the places we least expect it, in the places furthest from the tomb, in the places of greatest need, where we might just find Jesus. And so whether we have seen him yet or not, whether we have sought him in a graveyard or out on the streets, whether we believe or whether we doubt, may we go forth on this Easter day with our eyes and hearts open to meeting the risen Jesus in our world, wherever that search may lead us, ready to serve others and embody the fullness of his love to everyone we meet until he comes again in final victory to destroy death once and for all. Lord, come quickly! Alleluia! Amen.

Two Parades

March 24, 2013 By Andy James

a sermon on Luke 19:29-40; Luke 23:26-27, 32-38, 44-49 for Palm and Passion Sunday
preached on March 24, 2013, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

It all seemed very impromptu—a borrowed colt, some cloaks tossed along the road, disciples from the countryside converging on the big city as the main cheering section—but it was all quite a welcome for Jesus on his first recorded trip to Jerusalem as an adult. Whether it had been planned for months or organized on the spur of the moment, the signals were still clear on that Sunday just outside Jerusalem’s gate. Someone important was coming to town. Something big was happening here, and everyone needed to pay attention!

Organized or unorganized, planned or unplanned, it was quite a parade—while the balloons of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day certainly are far more spectacular, the fancy apparel of next Sunday’s Easter Parade down Fifth Avenue is far more fashionable, and the “popemobile” is the preferred mode of transit for religious figures these days, this parade that started out Jesus’ last week in Jerusalem was one of the most notable in all history, so much so that it gets acted out in churches large and small once a year! But even the simple trappings that marked this parade had deep and great meaning. When the people cried out, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” they welcomed a ruler not on a great white stallion but on a young colt. When Jesus rode into Jerusalem, he brought with him not a mighty army but a ragtag band of disciples who could barely make up their mind about how to organize themselves, let alone scheme to topple the great power of Rome. And the cloaks that covered the road to mark a pathway for the new king belonged not to the privileged and powerful but to the poor.

Just a few days later came a very different parade. That joyful crowd that had greeted Jesus upon his arrival in the city was transformed into an angry mob, crying out for his execution. The simple colt that carried him on the journey was replaced with an innocent bystander, a visitor from out of town, who was forced to carry the cross. And the cloaks that had once been tossed on the road to pave a highway for a king became Jesus’ own clothes, divided by lot among his executioners.

Things surely can change in just five days! It was no surprise, really. Over the course of this week, Jesus had managed to get under nearly everyone’s skin. This country boy came to the city and started calling out all the things that he thought weren’t right. This Jesus didn’t properly respect the religious leaders and civil authorities, and his strong words condemning all of them needed to be spoken behind closed doors, not out in public. He threatened the livelihood of a lot of people who made their living on a particular way of thinking about and living out Judaism that had taken hold in that day and age. Even his most trusted disciples seemed to have had enough of his teachings and denied having anything to do with him.

While that first parade had embodied the people’s great hopes of a Messiah who would transform the relationship between God and the people, this second parade made it clear that the people didn’t have a clue what this would really look like. They couldn’t imagine how a nonviolent revolt would actually change things. They couldn’t even dream about how a profound teacher and healer would show power in new and different and transformative ways. They couldn’t embrace the challenge of repentance and new life that Jesus had offered them because it would require them to clean house and make room for something new. Someone like Jesus just didn’t fit in their world—someone who gave up a simple life as a carpenter to take up a new and more hopeful way, someone who was willing to endure the criticism of his family and be shamed in his hometown to teach some fishermen, a tax collector or two, and some other nobodies about what God was doing in the world, someone who kept faithfully pushing and challenging and longing and praying and working for a new way.

Amazingly, though, even amidst all this opposition and confusion, Jesus didn’t give up on all that he had fought for. Even if his first parade showed how much people just didn’t understand what he was up to, even if the second became a gruesome procession to his execution and burial, these two parades embodied everything that Jesus stood for in his life and ministry. In them he made it clear that his way of life was not about holding tight to the old ways but about setting something aside to gain something new. In these two parades he made it clear that his brand of power was not about exploiting anyone or anything but about seeking the fullness of life for everyone. And in these parades he made it clear that he intended to die exactly like he had lived, keeping the focus not on himself but on God’s presence in his life and even in his death.

And so in these two parades, Jesus lived out this new understanding of power for everyone to see. Even after his faithfulness had been honored and celebrated as he entered Jerusalem, he gave up his power and chose the cross. Even after he had received everything that he had longed for, his life for others became so clear and deep and real that he gave up everything. And even after God had given him honor and glory in his life among us, Jesus let go of it all so that he could experience the full depth of our humanity—even death—and transform it into new life.

And so as we mark this week of two parades—a parade of simple celebration upon the arrival of a humble teacher into the holy city and a procession unto death and execution at the hands of the powers of the world and people like us, even us—may God give us the strength to give up our power as Jesus did, to let go of the life we have known in hopes of finding something new, and to make room for the great transformation that awaits us by nothing less than this great power revealed in weakness and shown in Jesus Christ our Lord. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Wet

March 17, 2013 By Andy James

a sermon on Isaiah 43:16-21 and Psalm 126 for the Fifth Sunday in Lent
preached on March 17, 2013, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

The other day, I met a friend in Manhattan for a cup of coffee after work. He needed to run a couple errands, so I joined him in wandering around Manhattan as we talked. Most days at this time of year, this would have been a refreshing way to spend a late afternoon, with a gentle, crisp breeze to keep things cool but not cold and the late afternoon sunshine taking the edge off the wind.

But sun was not in the cards for us that afternoon—it was overcast and gray. Even worse, though, it was a drizzling and misting day, raining just lightly enough that you didn’t really need an umbrella most of the time, but as we walked along, we ended up getting soaking wet—not just our coats, not just our shoes, but everything, soaked to the bone.

As I pondered this text over the last few days, this soaking mist kept coming back to me. Usually we think of waters much like we hear in our reading from Isaiah today, rushing around, pouring into our lives, changing things quickly. We look for waters that will quench our thirst and bring us a taste of new life. We seek the full promise of Isaiah’s prophecy:

I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

We long for new springs that will not damage us or destroy us, hoping for the presence of God to bring waters that will make a way where there was no way, quench the thirst of a dry land, and refresh the people of God. We look to be refreshed and renewed by the memory of who God has been and what God has done, to once again set aside the former ways of destruction, the frustrations of exile, the mourning and crying and pain of the past, so that we can embrace this new thing, a way opening up through the wilderness, the possibility of new life breaking through into the weariness of our world. We seek something so easy and so dramatic that everything changes, that everyone stops and takes notice—like in Isaiah’s world, where even the wild animals pay attention, give their honor, and share the gift of life in this new water, and all people are enabled to declare great praise.

But when we look around us, when we stop and wander around in hope of finding something that has eluded us, more often than finding gushing springs of new life, we find what seems to be a dreary mist—yet before we know it, we are soaked through and through. And we just don’t know what to do with that—while I know of few people who don’t appreciate a good wet shower or a nice rainstorm from inside, most of the time we’re just ready to dry off and dry out already! Yet God’s new thing is sinking into us anyway, soaking us like a drizzly New York day, getting us wet whether we like it or not, calling us to set aside where we have been and keep our focus on where we are going.

I love these words from Isaiah, but something is missing in them. When I read more closely, I realize that Isaiah isn’t worried about convincing people that this is the right thing. He doesn’t seem to be concerned that they might be anxious about taking a new path. He certainly doesn’t worry that God’s people will share the emotions that I feel almost every time I face a new way—that strange blend of deep and real and true excitement mixed with a healthy and honest dose of fear. And he doesn’t spend a lot of time wondering how to get them to accept this challenge—it seems almost a given that they would welcome this new way.

And that makes a lot of sense in the original context of the prophet’s words. The people of Israel were desperate to be back in control of their own destiny, to set aside foreign leadership and feel that they had power again, to come back home and get things back to normal once again. They were ready to sing songs of praise and joy, as in our psalm for today—they were like those who dream, with mouths filled with laughter, tongues with shouts of joy, and praises echoing among the nations.

Yet for us, the promise of something new is not always so joyful. Since we are generally well-off and without difficulty, change means that something that has at least felt settled in our world will have to be made new. We are afraid of what this new thing will mean for the past and present that we know and love—or that we just know and expect to not love! We struggle to change our plans and our ways to make space for something more than what we have always known. And we wonder how much we will have to change in order to adapt to the new thing. How soaked will we be when this drizzle ends, and how much drying off will we have to do? Can we just stay a little dry and keep even a little of this new thing out of our lives? Or even better, can things change without getting us wet at all?

The reality is that God’s new way changes everything about us. We spend these forty days of Lent preparing for Easter not because we like to beat ourselves up, not because we need to know what it is like to be thirsty every now and then, and not even because we are sinful people who need to change our ways. No, we set aside this time of penitence and preparation because the new thing ahead—the Easter of joy and gladness, this new day of resurrection—inaugurates a new way of life in our world, and we have the opportunity to join in.

When the new thing that God is doing really sinks in, when the little drizzle of grace that we sometimes even struggle to feel on our faces starts to soak us through and through, when we recognize how the waters of baptism have seeped into us and changed us as much as we might have tried to resist them, we start to perceive what God is doing in our midst. We start to see the way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. We see a new path emerging just where we thought we were staring into an abyss. We watch as God opens unexpected doors, offers us unusual opportunities to give honor and praise, and shares the crisp gift of the water of life with us all.

So as we make our way through these final Lenten days, as tomorrow night we begin conversations about our future as a congregation and wonder what new path God may offer us, as we look for a way forward for our congregation and even more for the life of faith in the midst of a world that is changing even as it is longing for something new, may God’s amazing grace soak us through and through so that we may be a part of the springs of new life in our weary world, the way of hope in the wilderness of our lives, the rivers of justice in the desert of our world, and the gift of the water of new life for all those who seek something new.

So may we be wet with the abundant mercy of God’s love, now and always.

Amen.

New

March 10, 2013 By Andy James

a sermon on 2 Corinthians 5:16-21 for the Fourth Sunday in Lent
preached on March 10, 2013, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

I’ve long been a fan of new things. As my car gets older, for example, I find it tough to keep investing in expensive but necessary repairs—at least until I calculate how much more a new one would cost! I remember that my mother gave me a long talk once, telling me that there was some value in old things and encouraging me to put up with older things for a bit longer before getting something new. I’ve gotten a little more practical as I’ve gotten older and had to pay for all my own new things, but that doesn’t keep me away from my love of the new—after all, according to some of you, my mantra is, “When in doubt, throw it out!”

So maybe it is my affinity for new things that makes our text from 2 Corinthians one of my favorites. All six of these verses are rich with the core tenets of our faith: justification, sanctification, reconciliation, you name it! But because I like new things so much, I am immediately drawn to verse 17:

So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation:
everything old has passed away;
see, everything has become new!

This idea of the new creation is a powerful one. It points us to a new and different way for us in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. But this new creation is not just a fresh coat of paint on the walls of our lives or even a complete makeover of a few rooms—no, Paul insists that the new creation is an entirely different way of life rooted in Jesus Christ. This new creation demands that the old way of seeing and doing be set aside to make room for transformation. As Paul says it, we no longer “regard [anyone] from a human point of view.” Because our vision of Christ has been transformed, because our vision of him has been enlarged, because in his death and resurrection everything about him is different, we have to change how we see others and our world. As commentator Paul Sampley puts it, “Something so fundamental has changed in such a profound fashion that the old ways of looking, perceiving, understanding, and more profoundly, evaluating, have to be let go and replaced with a new way of seeing and understanding.” (New Interpreters’ Bible, Volume 11, p. 93)

This new way is the new creation—what I think is simultaneously the most wonderful and the most challenging element of the life of faith. Even with my love of new things, I’m not always convinced that I want to live the new creation. As wonderful as it is, it is also really hard! First of all, it’s hard to let go of the old way of life. I for one know that a more human point of view easily creeps into my relationships with others. I quite easily put the emphasis on what is best for me rather than what is best for the other—or I wonder why they aren’t doing exactly that and doing what is best for me after all! I look at people I disagree with or just don’t understand and prefer to have nothing to do with them rather than taking Paul’s call to reconciliation seriously. And I look around and wonder what good the old things might have, how any redemption might be possible in them, and think about my great mantra, “When in doubt, throw it out.”

Our world doesn’t make it any easier for us to set aside our human way of living, either. We are trained from our earliest days to make decisions about the “right” way—the right people to hang out with, the right clothes to wear, the right place to live, the right food to eat—and those who choose a different way are easily left out. We choose who to consider safe and who to make suspect on the pretense of safety—but the all-too-human characteristics we check never tell us the full story. And some lives seem more valuable to for one reason or another—because of their practice of faith, their wealth, their wisdom, their health, their skin color, their choice of friends or spouses—when in fact the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus show us that everyone is beloved by God, no matter what.

If letting go of the old wasn’t hard enough, embracing the new creation itself is equally if not more difficult. This new thing encompasses everything—it’s not just a little corner of our world, something to do when it doesn’t get in the way of what we like, or limited to whatever time we choose to commit to the church. This new thing is a radical departure from everything that we’ve gotten used to. It requires that we be open to reexamining the whole of our lives through the lens of the death and resurrection of Jesus. It insists that we set aside those things that just don’t measure up to this standard and instead focus on the new things that embody the way of Jesus in our everyday lives. And it demands open hearts and minds that aren’t just looking to recreate the past or hear only what we want to hear but that are truly open to seeing things differently and taking a new path for a new day.

This new way is always rooted in where we have been even as it points in a new and different direction. In his reflections on this text, my friend Casey Thompson suggests that Paul’s own life and ministry show him the way to the new creation.

Everything old to him is now new—mourning and crying and pain are no more. [Paul’s] life of persecuting Christians has given way to a life of pursuing Christ…. When grace unlevels Christians like this, they find themselves singing in a jail cell like Paul. Everything is now oriented from a God-drenched point of view, even though they once saw everything from a human one. They start describing whole new worlds, worlds that are conceived in imagination, but birthed by lives of faithful discipleship. (Feasting on the Word Year C Volume 2, p. 112-114)

Imagination and faithful discipleship are two of the most important characteristics of those who serve as leaders among us. Later today, as we install our newly-elected deacons and ruling elders, we recognize this challenge for their service with a seemingly simple question:

Will you pray for and seek to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination, and love?

Imagination, you see, is an integral part of what we do as the people of God as we live into the new creation. We imagine the world that God desires for us. We imagine how we might be more faithful disciples as we journey together on the road of service in the church. And we dream about how we can be a part of God’s new thing that is already happening all around us. We need all these other things that we ask of our deacons and elders—energy, intelligence, and love are critical to the life of leadership in this place—but without imagination we get stuck right where we are, moving nowhere new, repeating old mistakes, seeing people just like everyone else instead of like Christ.

Imagination isn’t the easiest thing for us. As children, we are encouraged to think outside the box, to dream about a different way, but then we are taught to color within the lines, to set aside our dreams and temper our visions with reality, to turn off our imagination and focus on reality. It’s no surprise, then, that imagination isn’t the easiest thing for us. But again Casey Thompson offers us a different way. He insists that the new creation that Paul describes here “is conceived in imagination—and imagination begins in prayer, in the images that God plants within us.” (Feasting on the Word Year C Volume 2, p. 114)

This way demands a lot less talking and a lot more careful listening, a deep attention to the nearly-unnoticed shifts within us. This way may not seem to be as productive, and we may not see immediate results at all, but it even when we can’t see it, it is making space for God to show us something new. In these days when we as a congregation are listening for God’s guidance for the path ahead, as we gather together to listen carefully to one another and explore the possibilities of something new for us, as we long for the new creation to become real here and now, for us in this time and this place, prayer and imagination must stand at the center. We must pray for God’s presence and guidance with us along the way—and we must make space for God’s imagination to take hold in us and through us. So I for one pray that you will join in this time of listening and speaking, in this practice of prayer and imagination, so that together we might gain even a little glimpse of a new way ahead and be a part of this new creation ourselves, building on what we have been to emerge to something new.

So may God’s grace abound all around us, may imaginative visions of love and grace and justice and peace shine brightly, and may God open our hearts and minds and guide our feet as we journey together the path of this Lent and the days ahead. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Promises, Promises

February 24, 2013 By Andy James

a sermon on Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18 for the Second Sunday in Lent
preached on February 24, 2013, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

Last Sunday was the first Sunday in Lent—but perhaps more importantly to some people, it was the last night of the third season of the British drama Downton Abbey. For those of you who don’t know the show, it tells the story of the Crawley family, great lords and ladies of the English countryside, all centered around their beautiful estate, Downton Abbey. The story begins with the sinking of the Titanic—and with it the closest heirs for the Crawley family fortune, title, and home. In those days, none of Robert Crawley’s three daughters could inherit the estate, so the family soon learned that the home and title would be passed on to a middle-class lawyer from Manchester. I won’t give away any more of the plot, but the plight of the Crawleys seems much like that faced by Abram in our reading from Genesis today.

Abram, too, was lacking a direct heir—but he and his wife Sarai had no daughters or sons, and his heir was set to be a slave born in his house. By the time of our story today, God had offered him two promises of something more that he already was. First, God told the childless Abram:

I will make of you a great nation.

Then later, God promised Abram,

All the land that you see I will give to you and your offspring forever.

These first two times, Abram believed God right away and followed God’s instructions. Still, though, he was childless. God again came to him with words of promise.

Do not be afraid, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.

But after all that he had been through, after two promises that seemed no closer to reality after all this time, after confrontations with kings and rulers in the land that God had supposedly given to him, Abram was much more skeptical:

O Lord God, what will you give me,
for I continue childless, and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus?
You have given me no offspring,
and so a slave born in my house is to be my heir.

As the Dowager Countess of Downton Abbey might say, at least it wasn’t going to be a solicitor from Manchester!

Abram’s frustration made sense. He had done everything that God had asked of him. He had left his home and his family to wander around the desert, following God’s promise of land and offspring. All he had to show for it was a still-barren wife, some unpleasant encounters with rulers who didn’t welcome an outsider’s claims on their land, and one brief blessing from Melchizedek, a priest of “God Most High” of ancient Canaan.

After Abram voiced his frustration with God’s timetable for fulfilling these promises, God didn’t leave him out in the cold. Instead, God took him outside and told him,

Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.
So shall your descendants be.

God didn’t offer him any new sort of word, and Abram didn’t have any sort of grand epiphany. Yet when God addressed Abram’s frustrations directly, something shifted. Abram finally understood the nature of this promise, and God finally got through to Abram. As scholar Walter Brueggemann puts it:

The new promise for his life is not any expectation of flesh and blood. Rather, [Abram] has come to rely on the promise speaker. He has now permitted God to be not a hypothesis about the future, but the voice around which his life is organized… He did not move from protest to confession by knowledge or by persuasion but by the power of God who reveals and causes [this] revelation to be accepted. The new pilgrimage of [Abram] is not grounded in the old flesh of [his wife Sarai] nor the tired bones of [Abram], but in the disclosing word of God. (Genesis, Interpretation Commentary Series, p. 144, 145)

In this third promise, then, God recognizes how Abram is changing in response to all these promises, so God names Abram as pleasing in God’s sight.

Even with this critical turning point, this is not the end of this moment of God’s promise with Abram. God again promised land to Abram, and Abram again asked for a simple sign to make everything clear. Once again God responded with honesty and hope, telling Abram in the verses we skipped in our reading that his descendants would face trials amidst their rejoicing, while still assuring him that his descendants would possess a great land stretching across much of today’s Middle East.

These extravagant promises and Abram’s trusting response set the stage for the rest of the incredible story of God’s people that unfolds throughout the Old Testament into the life of Jesus and all the way into the church today. While these promises may seem to be many thousands of miles and many millennia away from us—even more distant than the world of Downton Abbey!—they are actually still pretty important today. This promise of land to Abram and his descendants has shaped millennia of conflict over the land now known as the Holy Land to three religious traditions. The difficulty of many couples to have children is an unspoken challenge for many families in this day and age, even if we long emphasize a male heir quite as much as Abram or the Crawley family did. And we Christians often rightly wonder how these promises first given to Abram make sense in our own tradition. So as we approach these words of promise, we carry all this history and hope with us—even as we too long for a new way of promise and new life.

Ultimately, though, God’s promises to Abram were less about the promises themselves but about the new life that promises can bring. Abram took up a new path in embracing these promises, not in doing something good and right and true but in embracing God’s call to a new and different way of life that affirmed that he was a righteous, beloved child of God and invited him to trust God’s future above anything that might have made him question the uncertainty around him. When Abram trusted God and gave up his confidence in and reliance on his own way, he stepped fully into the possibility of what we Christians have later named as the new creation, where we too give up control and trust that God will do something new and better and greater in us and through us and even sometimes in spite of us.

Ultimately, then, these promises are for us too—not the explicit promise of land and descendants but rather the promise of new life where we are beloved children of God and can trust that God will journey with us all along the way. Lent is as good a time as any to trust God’s promises so fully, so deeply, that we emerge as God’s new people, loving as God loves, trusting as God trusts, and living in faith as God lives in faith. Lent is a good time to look back on these promises anew, to ask good questions of God, to look for better signs and seals of these promises in our lives and our world, so that our faith might be deepened and we might, with Abram, have the depth of our faith reaffirmed by none less than God. It is a good time to wonder what these promises look like in our own time and place, to think together about what it means, as Walter Brueggemann again puts it, “to trust God’s future and to live assured of that future even in the deathly present.”

Next week, we will begin a series of conversations about just that as we welcome our congregational consultant Bill Weisenbach to preach and give us an overview of the assessment and discernment process that is before us in the next few months. So this Lent is a good time to work on letting go of the things that keep us from the way of life that God intends, to release the ties that keep us bound to the past, to trust the promises of God for the future, and to listen for the new word of promise for today and tomorrow and beyond so that we can be open to the new way that is emerging before us.

So as we walk these Lenten days together, as we remember all the promises of God to Abram and sort out the promises of God for our own day and time, may we know the presence of God with us on this journey and keep walking in faith, hope, and love until all things—even us!—are made new. Lord, come quickly! Amen.