Sermon: "The Poetry of Water", Psalm 65 (June 9, 2024)

You may not remember this about me, but I don’t especially like preaching on the psalms. It’s not because I don’t like them; I think that the Psalms are a beautiful showcase of the depth of humanity’s emotions. But the same thing that makes them beautiful to read is what makes them difficult to preach – they’re poetry. A poem can be challenging enough to understand when it’s in your native tongue, but it gets exponentially more difficult when it’s in an unfamiliar ancient language. The goal of poetry isn’t the same as prose: it isn’t to tell a story, but to convey an emotion or a deeper truth. It uses sentence fragments, metaphor, double-entendre, and ambiguity – all very advanced linguistic concepts – to accomplish this. The fact that poetry purposely uses language in an imprecise and subjective way makes it extremely difficult to translate. Many of the words used in the psalms have multiple meanings, or meanings that don’t make sense to us in the context we find them.

Sermon: “Like Re-Formed Clay”, Psalm 139:13-18/Jeremiah 18:1-10 (September 4, 2022)

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When you think about building God’s kindom, what sorts of metaphors come to mind? Paul uses gardening imagery: we plant the seeds and care for the plants, while God provides the growth.[1] Several of the prophets use a marriage metaphor to describe how God works together with the people,[2] and Jesus talks about the kindom of heaven in terms of a master entrusting his servants with his money.[3] In each of these images, the act of bringing God’s kindom to earth is depicted as the joint effort of partners. Now, granted, these partners have varying levels of responsibility and authority in each metaphor, but the general dynamic seems to be one of colleagues or teammates working together to accomplish something.

Sermon: “God’s Embassy on Earth”, Psalm 33:12-22/Hebrews 11:1-10, 13-16 (August 7, 2022)

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Over the past several years, Christian nationalism has been on the rise. And we here in the United States aren’t the only participants in this trend: the Wikipedia page for “Christian nationalism” lists Canada, Russia, the United States, and Yugoslavia as modern examples of countries that have, to one degree or another, embraced this ideology. In some cases, Christian nationalism emerges out of the best of intentions – a belief that Christian policies and laws would improve life for everyone. In others, it’s a tactical strategy – if an individual controls both the state AND the Church, then there’s very little that can stand in the way of their political aspirations. Regardless of where on this spectrum a person’s motivations lie, the objective of Christian nationalism remains the same: a blurring, if not outright removal, of the line between Church and state.

Sermon: "Ring, Ring", Psalm 139:1-10/Romans 8:28-30, 35-39 (June 19, 2022 - Rev. TJ Remaley's Installation)

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I’m going to take this opportunity to admit something that many of you may have already noticed by now: I am willing to go to great lengths in order to avoid preaching at Presbytery events. I’m not entirely sure why; it started because I hate having to come up with multiple sermons in one week, but at this point it’s as much about keeping my streak going as it is about anything else. However, when my good friend TJ asked me to preach on this important day, I said, “UGGGGGH, FINE!!” (which, you should know, truly is the highest form of praise coming from someone who hasn’t preached at a Presbytery event in 7 years.)

Sermon: "Standing in the Ravine", Psalm 42/Luke 8:26-33 (June 19, 2022)

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I feel like I say this a lot, but today’s gospel reading truly is one of the strangest stories we have in the Bible. Jesus encounters a man possessed not just by one demon, but by many. So many, in fact, that the demons refer to themselves as “Legion”, which is the term for a Roman military unit consisting of anywhere from three- to six-thousand soldiers. This man was not just possessed; he was absolutely overtaken by demons. And it only gets weirder from there: the demons essentially barter with Jesus and wind up in a herd of pigs, at which point the pigs rush off a cliff and into a lake, whereupon they drown.

At first glance, this is also one of the least relatable stories in the New Testament. Demon possession isn’t something that we believe in so much these days – in our tradition, we’re generally suspicious of anything that ventures too far into the spiritual realm. But what if we change the way we read this passage, from a literal description of demons and possession to a metaphorical description of trauma and its impact? If we can reimagine this man’s demons as the personification of depression, or addiction, or PTSD, or abuse, or profound grief, suddenly it becomes a lot easier to empathize with him. If you’ve ever known depression, then you can relate to the man’s inability to take care of himself. If you’ve ever known addiction, then you can relate to his struggle to fulfill his responsibilities. If you’ve ever known any kind of abuse, then you can relate to his withdrawing from society.

This man and his legion of demons are a surprisingly accurate reflection of how trauma can affect human beings. So it’s comforting to know that, even when beset by whatever demons may haunt us, we’re never too far gone for Jesus to pull us up out of the depths of our despair and set us free. No burden is too powerful, no shame too deep, no pain too great for Jesus to relieve. Luke assures us that no matter what struggles we face, we never face them alone.

But there is a catch. The demons’ exorcism into the herd of pigs is probably not quite the final, resounding victory that it seems to be. This isn’t the first time that this man has struggled with these demons. When “Legion” sees Jesus, they react with terror because they already knew him – he had driven them out of this man before. Verse 29 says, “Jesus had already commanded the unclean spirit to come out of the man. Many times, it had taken possession of him…” but every time, it had returned with a vengeance to torture him again. This was not an isolated incident. I can only imagine how the man must have felt watching the pigs hurling themselves over the cliff: a mixture of relief and uncertainty, all the while wondering how long he had before the demons would return to torment him again.

This interpretation of the passage may be a bit unsettling…but it makes it even more relatable than ever. Few of our “demons” can be exorcised for good, either. Anyone who has grieved a major loss knows that you don’t “get over it”, you learn to live with it. Anyone who’s suffered from a mental illness knows that you don’t cure it, you manage it. Anyone recovering from addiction knows that sobriety isn’t an accomplishment, it’s a journey. The demons that haunt us can’t be vanquished once and for all by sheer force of will or perfect faith. They’re unwanted companions that we often must learn to live with.

But the demons’ persistence doesn’t mean that they’re ultimately victorious, either. Psalm 42 reflects the tension between the ongoing struggle with our demons and the recognition of God’s faithful salvation. The psalmist weeps, “My tears have been my food both day and night…My whole being is depressed; my bones are crushed.” But these laments are only part of the psalm. They’re balanced with reminders of the joy that the psalmist feels in God’s presence, the joy of God’s faithful salvation and the hope that God brings. The grief does not negate these statements of hope, and vice versa. They aren’t mutually exclusive. The certainty that God will help co-exists with the struggle to get through the next moment. In a life of faith, hope and despair are not opposites, but neighbors.

This can be a hard reality to accept. Those without faith often see it as evidence of divine abandonment, proof that God doesn’t exist or at least isn’t as powerful as we claim. Like the people in Psalm 42, they ask, “Where is your God now?” and it can be difficult to come up with a compelling response. One of the best explanations I’ve found actually comes from a song on one of my favorite ‘90s albums. In it, the singer compares herself to a frail flower in a ravine. The weeds and trees have grown wild around her, shielding her from the sun and the rain – all the things that she needs to thrive. She compares her experience of trauma to someone ripping the flower up by its roots and leaving it tossed aside in the ravine, cut off from its source of life both above and below. Although the words are very different, the content of this song sounds very much like what we find in Psalm 42.

As in the psalm, the singer also encounters skepticism from those who don’t understand her perspective. But while the psalmist doesn’t answer them directly, the singer does. She says, “Why do you ask/why I’m not blaming my God?/I’ll tell you what:/He was the only one there.” Having sprouted deep in the inhospitable ravine, this was not the first time that the flower had faced challenging circumstances. But every time before, the sun had been a source of life and healing. So even though the flower knew that it would probably continue to struggle in the ravine, it looked for a “piece of the sky” to give it the strength it needed to get through the moment. No matter how many times the flower found itself tangled in the weeds and overshadowed by the trees, the sun still found a way to provide help when it was needed most.

It can be difficult to summon faith in God’s unfailing mercy when we find ourselves standing at the bottom of the ravine over and over again, ripped up by our roots, and unable to see the open sky. And when our personal traumas are compounded by the demons of institutionalized bigotry, social injustice, or systematic oppression, it can feel like no matter how much progress we make towards wholeness, we always wind up back where we started. It can feel pointless to keep looking for a piece of the sky when there’s so much standing in the way.

But the good news that we hear in the story of the man possessed by Legion is the same as the psalmist’s refrain: “Hope in God’s saving presence!” Faith is not a one-time fix for all that ails you, nor is it assurance of an easy life. It’s a promise that our pain will not have the final word, that our trauma does not get to define us, no matter how often it returns. And, importantly, it reminds us that our momentary healing isn’t the end of the story, either. If it were, then nothing could ever get better than it already is, and we wouldn’t need Jesus. The promise of God’s kindom is that, no matter how many setbacks we encounter, a better world is not only possible; it’s inevitable.

So, whenever you find yourself in that familiar ravine struggling to see even the smallest piece of the sky, remember how God has saved you in the past and lean on your faith in that promise. Keep going, keep hoping, keep looking for God. Because I promise you that God has been there and is there and will be there, whether you see them or not. Jesus never tires of banishing your demons, no matter how often they take hold of you. The Spirit never tires of sending waves of comfort, no matter how deep the ocean of your tears. God never tires of pointing out the small piece of the sky that you might have missed, no matter how many trees obstruct your vision. Keep taking that next step, fighting the demons, enduring the taunts of doubters, and searching for the sky, because no matter how many times you’ve returned to that ravine, it will never be for good. Hope in God! Our comfort and our help forever. Amen.

Sermon: “The Voice That Isn’t Quite”, Psalm 29:3-9/Luke 3:15-17, 21-22 (January 9, 2022)

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“Why doesn’t God talk to us anymore?” It’s a question that most people of faith have had at one time or another. I remember wondering it as a child as well as reflecting on it as an adult, and I’ve been asked it multiple times as a pastor. And to be honest with you, I don’t think I usually offer a particularly satisfactory explanation. Throughout scripture, we read about ordinary, everyday people seeming to have entire out-loud conversations with God on a regular basis, as if God had called them up on the phone. And yet, while hundreds or even thousands of different messages make their way into our consciousness each day, very few (if any) of them come to us as words booming down from heaven.

Sermon: “Half Glass Theology”, Psalm 22:1-2, 6-8, 11-18/Psalm 22: 3-5, 9-10, 19-24 (October 10, 2021)

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Before I begin, I’d like to acknowledge the irony of the fact that the week after I announce that I don’t like preaching from the Psalms, I preach from the Psalms again. Don’t let anyone tell you that the Holy Spirit doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Having said that, let’s hear what the Psalms have to teach us today.

Would you consider yourself a “glass half-empty” or a “glass half-full” type of person? I probably don’t need to explain what I mean; this proverbial phrase is pretty universally understood as shorthand to describe one’s outlook on life—a generally pessimistic person will describe a glass partially filled with liquid as “half empty”, while a more optimistic person will describe that same glass as “half full”. The idea, of course, is that our attitude colors the way we see our circumstances. A “glass half-empty” person will perceive everything around them with a tinge of gloom while a “glass half-full” person will see everything through rose-tinted glasses.

Sermon: "THOSE PEOPLE", Psalm 26/Mark 2:13-17 (October 3, 2021)

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Generally speaking, I don’t like to preach from the psalms. That doesn’t mean that I don’t like *them*; on the contrary, I think they’re a wonderful collection of writings that represent the human side of the divine/mortal relationship very well. But that’s exactly the problem: I love turning to the psalms for empathy and solidarity in my personal faith life, but when it comes to community worship, preaching from the psalms feels like centering the message on humanity instead of God. Preaching from the psalms feels self-indulgent.

Sermon: "Life On the High Seas", Psalm 107:23-32/Mark 4:35-41 (June 27, 2021)

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Earlier this week, the Treasure Valley had an intense (albeit, relatively brief) windstorm. Some people reported retrieving their garbage cans amid unrelenting gusts of wind that blew dust in their mouths; others ran outside to move their cars to places of shelter for fear that they’d be damaged. Many southwestern Idahoans lost power.

The largest casualty at my house was an inflatable wading pool, recently purchased in anticipation of the 100+ degree days looming this week, that flew into the blackberry bushes and is now sadly no more. 

The pool in question

I sat in my living room on Tuesday night, watching the tree branches and hammock whipping around violently and wondering how much actual damage this storm would cause when all was said and done. I was grateful to be in the relative safety of my home, but even though I knew I’d probably be fine, it was scary to watch the storm wreak havoc outside. I could only imagine how it would feel to be somewhere that I couldn’t escape the storm’s wrath, where I couldn’t even rely on the ground beneath my feet to remain steady, like the disciples in the gospel reading.

Sermon: "Delighting in the Caretaker", Psalm 147:1-11 (February 7, 2021)

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Normally, I avoid preaching on the psalms. Not that I have anything against them; they’re beautifully expressive poetry that, over the course of 150 chapters, conveys the full range of human emotion. They’re incredibly useful for personal devotion. Not to mention that the psalmists wrote in such a liturgical style that the psalms are a wonderful resource for worship planning. It’s just that to me, the psalms often feel…well, repetitive. I mean, how many ways can you say, “God is awesome,” or “Everything is terrible, God,” or “Save me, God”? They’re obviously important texts, but psalm sermons can get bland if you’re not careful. So, in what’s perhaps a personal pastoral shortcoming, I generally avoid them for preaching purposes.

GUEST Sermon (Donna Oyama): "Singing in the Time of Covid", Psalm 100 (August 30, 2020)

Pastor's note: Many, many thanks to Donna Oyama for agreeing to lead worship and share a message this past week while I was on vacation. (She says she said "yes" because God was pushing her to challenge herself; I think it was because God knew her voice needed to be heard!)

When she told me that she was going to be using Psalm 100 as her primary passage, I was delighted. I bet Donna didn't remember, but that was the scripture I used in the very first sermon of this series way back in the middle of June! Her words created the perfect bookend to our summer series by reinforcing many of the themes that we've touched on over the past 3 months with brand new illustrations that never would have occurred to me...and I didn't have to say a thing! The Holy Spirit was definitely moving this week.

I'm grateful for Donna's willingness to share her gift with words this week, her sign language skills with us every week, and her faith in our community every day! -- KSW

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Over the past few weeks, Pastor Katey has shared a series of sermons about a number of favorite hymns. I would like to offer one more reflection on the topic before we move on to something else.

When Katey asked congregation members to submit their favorite hymns for her sermon series, I told her I have too many to single out only one. Even so, I am amazed at how many of my favorites she has touched upon this summer. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.” Each of these holds a special place in my mind and heart. I even learned a couple hymns that were new to me. “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” is an old favorite for many; I was only vaguely familiar with it. 

Through hymns we celebrate, we praise God, we beg forgiveness, we plead for miracles, hope, comfort, and mercy. We all have our favorites. We love to sing along with the choir, or in the choir. We love to hum along when we don’t know the words. We harmonize. We clap our hands to the up-tempo songs, and close our eyes to enjoy the comfort of the quieter ones.

It is ironic that we should have spent this time focusing on singing during this time of COVID-19. Medical experts warn us that singing is not safe, that it can spread the insidious virus faster and farther than talking. In fact, singing these days is downright dangerous. In March of this year some sixty members of the Skagit Valley Chorale met at a Mt. Vernon, Washington church to rehearse. Skagit County had not yet reported any cases of the virus. Chorale members practiced social distancing and followed other safety measures. Unbeknownst to those present, one member had been infected with COVID-19. Fifty-three choir members became ill, some seriously enough to be hospitalized. Two died.*

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 tells us there is a time for everything. Specifically, verse 7 says, “A time to be silent, and a time to speak.” This time of COVID seems to be one of those times when we need to be silent, at least where singing is concerned. 

That does not mean that we cannot search for other ways to offer songs and praise to God. As a congregation, we have already begun to use silent, sign language responses to the familiar liturgy of the worship service. You have watched and contemplated the lyrics of hymns as Sylvia played and I signed. I sometimes sign to music when I am alone; and now you know a song to sign, too.

(I have enjoyed signing for you by the way. Sign language holds a special place in my life, because in a way, signing gave me my voice in the world. But that’s another story for another time.)

As this time of quietness continues, we can find still other ways to “sing”.

The first alternative to singing that comes to my mind is through instrumental music. Percussion, piano, organ, strings—although nothing that involves blowing air into an instrument, please. Shucks. I guess that rules out pennywhistles and kazoos. But I have my shaker eggs, and a friend has a potato, so it’s all good.

We can listen to our favorite recordings.

We can sing in the shower.

We can write songs and poems to be sung later.

We can choose our favorites from the hymnal and ponder the words. If you’d like to make it a Bible study, there is a good resource at the back of the Glory to God hymnal; a lectionary index beginning on page 968. A quick Google search could also help you out.

If you are like me, you can sing in your mind as  Corinthians 14:15 suggests. “I shall sing with the spirit and I shall sing with the mind, also.” Of course, singing with your mind involves using that blessed annoyance called the earworm to your advantage.

Way down deep in the recesses of my mind lives a disc jockey, spawned and mentored by the likes of Wolfman Jack. (Kids—if you don’t know who that is, ask your grandparents.) My DJ sits in the radio studio of my brain surrounded by his thousands of records from all eras and genres. He is mischievous. His goal is to drive me bonkers.

Ordinarily, my DJ chooses a relatively harmless song to play. The song becomes my background music for a few days. I often ignore it, but it returns to my mind when I’m not thinking of something else.

Other times, the DJ decides to entertain me with that inane little ditty involving three generations of a family of dangerous sea animals. Kids love it. I’ll spare you the earworm and not name the song, but for those of you who have it figured out, it’s already streaming in your mind, right? I can hear my Wolfman wannabe howling with delight as the silly children’s song loops round and round and round, never ending, driving me to distraction.

Once in a while, the DJ chooses to play something I need at that moment—a hymn, a favorite oldie, some calming classical music. It is as though he has actually listened to God’s advice and has given me something worth pondering for a change. Once I have enjoyed the selection, I am able to make a request to the DJ to play my hymn of choice to sing in my mind.

Today’s Scripture reading, Psalm 100, tells us to “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord...” We often think of making a joyful noise as singing. But consider this. The Message version of Psalm 100 says, “ On your feet now—applaud God.” There just might be other ways to make a joyful noise.

Walt Whitman’s poem, “I Hear America Singing” speaks of workers across this land who sing through their work. It isn’t a long poem, so I can share it with you.

“I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, 
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.”

We, too, can sing. We can applaud God, as we go about our daily lives.

When I use geometric shapes to piece together a quilt, I sing the orderliness of God’s creation.

The neighbor who shares those ubiquitous tomatoes and zucchinis from his garden sings God’s bounty and abundance.

A piece of artwork, a culinary masterpiece, or a garden landscape--each sings the beauty of His world.

The school volunteer who sits and reads with children sings God’s love for His children.

Demonstrators marching against injustice to the oppressed sing God’s justice.

Those who minister to children locked up at the border sing His compassion.

Oskar Schindler who employed Jews in his factory to save them from the deadly horrors of Auschwitz, sang God’s concern for the oppressed.

The food bank volunteer who packs and distributes boxes of needed commodities sings His command to feed those in need.

When former President Jimmy Carter helps build houses with Habitat for Humanity, he sings dignity for those who are struggling and need a hand up.

Sister Helen Prejean whose story is told in Dead Man Walking, sat and prayed with death row inmates as they were about to be executed and sang His mercy.

The songs we sing to God, the joyful noises we make are as many and as varied as the people who inhabit the earth. So make a joyful noise! Find your song. Share your produce. Make a quilt. Paint a picture. Volunteer where there is a need. Sing God’s mercy, His love, His compassion, His beauty, His abundance. Belt it out when no one else is around. Sing it in your mind! Whatever your song and however you sing it, God hears you. Amen

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*LA Times, CDC

(c) Donna Oyama, 2020

Sermon: "Make A Joyful Noise: This Is My Song", Psalm 33, 10-16, 20-22 (July 5, 2020)

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Independence Day weekend is often a complicated thing for churches to navigate, and I’m already worn out from…well, life these days. I’m sure you are too. So I’m gonna go ahead and make this easy for all of us. Instead of building up to the message with a clever metaphor or a cultural reference or something, I’m just gonna get straight to the point of telling you what the scripture reading and the hymn are teaching us today. Here it is:

It’s not wrong to love your country. It’s wrong to assume that God loves it more than others.

Sermon: "Make A Joyful Noise: Joyful, Joyful", Psalm 100 (June 14, 2020)

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While my heart is full at being able to worship with you in this beautiful space once again, it’s impossible to forget that everything’s different now. When we first went into lockdown at the end of March, we told each other, “Don’t worry; it’ll just be a few weeks before we’re back to normal.” As we approached Easter, we reassured ourselves, “It’s an *authentic* Easter, hearing the Good News while hiding away in our homes. When we get back into the church building, we’ll have a REAL Easter celebration, with singing and bells and hugs and joy!” And yet, here we are, halfway through June, and we’ve been told on no uncertain terms that although we can begin to gather again, we must continue social distancing and refrain from singing together—ESPECIALLY in Church. None of us want to be in the news for becoming a hotspot for the virus’ spread. So, many of us are still staying home, and those of us who are physically gathered still remain physically distant from one another. While it’s wonderful to be back in this sacred space, it feels like a far cry from the Easter Celebration that we’ve been waiting and hoping for. We’re navigating a new worship experience, one that’s quieter, lonelier, and more technologically complicated than we’re used to.

Sermon: "The Three(ish) Stages of Life", Acts 2:42-47/Psalm 23 (May 3, 2020)

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Psalm 23 may seem to be a pretty straightforward description of God’s care, but it’s not quite as simple a passage as we might think. If we look closely, we can see that there are actually three distinct movements that grow naturally out of one another and reflect the rhythm of human life in relationship with God.

Sermon: "Sensing the Sacred: A Clean Slate", Psalm 51:1-17/2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10 (February 26, 2020--Ash Wednesday)

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Lent is such a rich liturgical season, but it’s one that we often struggle to embrace. Most of us know the overarching themes—penitence, solemnity, self-discipline, sacrifice—but our understanding often doesn’t go much deeper than a superficial awareness of those buzzwords. This is the result of historical Protestant suspicion of all things Catholic: mid-week observances and liturgical seasons reeked of popery, so generations of Protestants have rejected anything associated with Lent or its rituals beyond normal Sunday worship. Although the pendulum has begun to swing back the other way and we’ve begun to reclaim these ancient traditions, we’ve lost a lot of the understanding that comes with consistency. As a result, we’ve inherited a pre-Easter that’s heavy on asceticism but light on pretty much anything else.

Sermon: "Clear the Fog", Psalm 112:1-9/Matthew 5:13-20 (February 9, 2020)

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Today’s gospel reading, from the so-called “Sermon on the Mount”, is an important one. In it, Jesus offers a job description to all those who would call themselves his followers. As usual, his sermon is peppered with metaphors pulled from everyday life in the first century C.E., and given that he explicitly interprets those metaphors in verse 16, we can probably assume that Jesus expects all of his listeners to get what he’s trying to say.

Sermon: “My House, My Rules”, Psalm 15/Micah 6:1-8 (February 2, 2020)

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By invoking the image of a courtroom, today’s reading from Micah seems to be implying that we’re criminals. I mean, why else would God have brought us to court? There’s no way that God would wrongly accuse us. Besides, as good Calvinists, we believe in total depravity; we already know that we’re as guilty as guilty can be. So it’s natural that we, the readers, would identify our role in this metaphor as the corrupt defendants facing the righteous plaintiff, submitting to the rage and punishment of a God who’s been unapologetically wronged. It’s just a matter of time before they lock us up and throw away the key.

Sermon: “When Christ Turns Away”, Psalm 27:1, 4-9/Matthew 4:18-23 (January 26, 2020)

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“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?...Of whom shall I be afraid?” Sometimes, it seems like scripture is telling us that the mark of true faith is a lack of fear. There’s even a rumor that the Bible says “Do not be afraid” 365 times, one for each day of the year. While that’s a pretty dramatic exaggeration, this phrase certainly is a common refrain throughout scripture. It’s no wonder, then, that we fall into the pattern of thinking that as long as we follow God, as long as we live a life of faith, we will never be afraid. We’ll have everything we need: safety, shelter, victory, comfort…a life entirely free from fear!

Sermon: “Making Room in God’s House” (a.k.a., "Invitangelism", "Think Bigger", or "The Parable of the Architect"), Isaiah 49:1, 4-6/Psalm 40:1-4/John 1:35-42 (January 19, 2020)

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A new parable: there once was an architect who needed to design and build a house for her own family. She, her spouse, and their two children had been displaced by a natural disaster a few years back, but the time had come for them to return to their hometown, to rebuild and start again. She was full of hope as she sat down at the drafting table, but as she considered everything that needed to go into this new house—her spouse wanted a large kitchen, her son wanted a bedroom with enough space for all of his toys while her daughter wanted one as far from her brother as possible, not to mention her own need for an at-home office—she began to become discouraged. She felt that after everything they’d been through, she didn’t have the strength to create a new home for her family, one that would meet all of their needs and help them feel safe and secure again. But, they needed somewhere to live, so she did the best she could, and they began construction.

Sermon: “Imago Dei: In the Image of God’s Body”, Psalm 139:13-18/Luke 1:26-33, 38 (December 15, 2019)

(Week 3 in our Advent series on how we reflect God's Image--
previous weeks' sermons can be found here and here)

*To expand upon the disclaimer in the sound file: this was a particularly challenging sermon to write because everyone has a different relationship with their body, and I know that talking about bodies can be painful for different people in a million different reasons. In addition to the footnote I added below, I want to reaffirm here: your body is holy, not because of what it looks like or how it works, but because of what you use it for. And as long as you're using it to love others and share God with the world, you're doing it right.

If you're still in the middle of coming to terms with what your body is or isn't, what it can or cannot do, know that God is with you in that journey, and that no matter where you end up and what you discover, God will still love, cherish, and value you just as much as when God knit you together in your mother's womb.  --KSW 

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Human bodies have long been a point of contention in Christian communities. Although we worship an incarnate God, our own bodies have at times become targets of disdain and disgust. Historically, certain groups have seen the body as inferior to the spirit because of its finite and corruptible nature. They see physicality as something impure to be endured and transcended if at all possible. Individually, many of us see our own bodies as an inconvenience or a burden. For some of us, chronic illness or even just normal aging can make us question if having a body is worth the pain that we suffer because of it. Whether for functional or aesthetic reasons, most of us have been unhappy with our bodies at one time or another.