Author: harryjheintz

Mr. President,

 

In tweets and public comments made over July13-15, you said that Americans not happy with their country should leave it. I am not happy with my country and I am not leaving it.

 

I am not leaving it because is it my country. My father’s family line came here from Germany and my mother entered this country as an immigrant child from Italy. I am a patriot, which means that I love my country; I love it enough to recognize and admit its failures and shortcomings, to criticize it with the goal of making it a better country. I am a white American that recognizes my country’s long history of racism, including legal slavery for over two centuries. I recognize that when our greatest president, Abraham Lincoln, led us toward the emancipation of slaves and the abolition of slavery, he was assassinated by a man that believed that he would be seen as a conquering hero for killing Lincoln. My country produced both Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth. When my country finally abolished slavery—and that at the cost of a bloody war between two great regions of our country, the bloodiest war we have ever fought—it followed it with the Jim Crow era, which featured the systematic subjugation of African-Americans for another century, with thousands of lynchings, and not just in the south. In some ways, I am not happy with my country and I am not leaving it.

 

In my lifetime, which is the same span of years as yours, racism has continued. The civil rights crusade of the second half of the twentieth century produced some monumental results—and more bloodshed and violence. And now some of those hard-fought gains are in jeopardy of being lost as you laud “fine people on both sides.” I am not happy with my country just now and I am not leaving it.

 

I respect Colin Kaepernick and Megan Rapinoe for their courageous stands on behalf of millions of Americans that aren’t sharing in the American dream. They are patriots, in the tradition of the great prophets of the Old Testament that railed against Israel’s injustices and called the nation to honor its charter in pursuit of justice for all, precisely because they loved Israel. Biblical prophets would never say “love it or leave it,” or “my country right or wrong.” They would say something more like this: repent and makes things better, in the name of God, for friend, neighbor, and foreigner. When you try to bully Americans like Kaepernick and Rapinoe and Ocasio-Cortez and Pressley and Tlaib and Omar, I am not happy with my country and I am not leaving it.

 

Patriotism does not overlook the flaws and failings of one’s country. Love of country demands honest assessment and diligent work to improve that country, to seek, as our nation’s charter has it, “a more perfect union.” I love my country; therefore, I criticize it when it falls short of the ideals which have shaped its vision.

 

You campaigned for the presidency by criticizing our country. Your inaugural address has become known as the “American carnage” speech. You regularly criticize the congress and the judiciary system. You criticize the Department of Justice and the F. B. I. You criticize our immigration system. You criticize the press. You criticize members of your cabinet that you appointed to office. You criticize your predecessors in the office of president. You criticize just about everything. It is the inalienable right of every American to criticize it, to name its failings, and to seek for a better tomorrow. Being unhappy with our country is not sufficient reason to leave it. I am not happy with my country and I am not leaving it.

 

It is precisely because I love my native land that I resist your efforts to bully people into submission. It is precisely because I love my country that I cannot be silent when you provoke hateful racism and thinly veiled white supremacism and nationalism. It is precisely because I love my homeland that I have no intention of leaving it. Because I respect the office of the president of the United States, I object to how you are serving in it. These days I am not happy with my country and I am not leaving it.

 

 

An American patriot,

 

 

Harry J. Heintz

Whether one likes a given president or not, we are taught to respect the office. It is particularly so when we don’t like a president. After all, it is easy to respect the office when you like the current office holder. But what about when you don’t like or respect a given president?

 

I have about 120 books in my own personal library about American presidents. Most are biographies, though some are collections of letters and speeches. Over half of them are about Abraham Lincoln, my favorite president. I haven’t read all these presidential books, but I have read many and continue to read them. I also check out presidential books, both written and in audio (for driving time), from my local library. In the past six months, I have read a book comparing the presidencies of Lincoln, both Roosevelts, and Lyndon Johnson, a major biography of George H. W. Bush, and another biography of John and Abigail Adams (the first political power couple in our country). I just finished a new book entitled “Lincoln’s Last Trial,” about the last case Lincoln the Springfield lawyer tried in 1859 before becoming president. My presidential library includes both Republicans and Democrats. I like to read about our presidents—I am fascinated by the office of the presidency.

 

I say all this to indicate that I respect the office of the president of the United States. I have taken the public tour of the White House several times. I have visited over a dozen presidential homes and libraries and I keep a list of those I haven’t yet visited. I watch the “American Experience” biographies of our presidents on PBS. I watch movies that deal with our presidents. I respect the office—I am fascinated by the office of the presidency. On a recent trip to Washington, D. C., I spent over an hour at the National Portrait Gallery looking at every portrait of our American presidents hanging there, and reading the brief biographies of each one. If I am anywhere near Air Force One, I try to get close to it—I have twice.

 

I am deeply distressed when a president shows me no sign of respecting that office. This is not a matter of partisan preferences. For example, I didn’t vote for George W. Bush either time he ran (though I did vote for his father), and I think he made some serious misjudgments as president. But I never for a moment found him disrespectful of the office. To the contrary, I saw him doing his best to honor the office. When Reagan was president, so great was his respect for the office, that he never entered the oval office without a tie and suit coat on. While I can quibble that a president can be at the resolute desk with coat off, sleeves rolled up, and no tie on while still respecting the office, I am moved by Reagan’s sense of reverence for the office of the presidency and the oval room itself.

 

In terms of respecting the office of the presidency, I look for qualities like these in a president:

• humility;
• modesty;
• graciousness;
• honesty, but with discretion in knowing when the whole truth cannot be told;
• willingness to admit mistakes and learn from them;
• civil speech;
• familiarity with and respect for the Constitution, with an appreciative understanding of the balanced and distinct roles of our three branches of government;
• respect (if not always fondness) for the press;
• respect for our global allies, along with a willingness to befriend and negotiate with our global adversaries in the pursuit of peace and justice;
• honoring the traditions that have developed around the office over two centuries, while not being rigidly bound by them.

 

 

Because I respect the office of the president of the United States, I am pleased with presidents that respect the office (even if I disagree with their policies), and I am displeased with any that do not show respect for the office.

[This sermon was proclaimed at Brunswick Church, Troy NY, on Pentecost, June 9, 2019.]

 

I don’t much like waiting. They have been waiting. We set the scene. In Acts 1, just as Jesus was about to ascend into the heavens, he told them to wait: “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” I have come to accept that waiting is a necessary part of life, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like waiting. When I am about to check out at Wegmans, I study the traffic patterns. I usually have maybe 5-15 items. As I approach the check-out lines, I survey the 15 items or fewer line and the 7 items or fewer line. There are four people in the 15 items line and just one in the 7 items line. I look quickly in the basket. I have 8 items. Now I am facing a weighty ethical dilemma. Do I pretend I have 7 items instead of 8? Do the cashiers really count them? What if I get in the 7-item line with 8 items and a person gets in line right after me and counts my items on the conveyor belt? Archibald Hart, then a professor at Fuller Seminary, suggested that pastors learn to deal with their impatience to see God work quickly by getting in the longest check-out line at the market and praying for all the people in a hurry to check out. I never mastered that spiritual discipline.

 

Waiting for God the Holy Spirit isn’t about whether I have 7 or 8 items in my basket. Scripture puts a high value on waiting for God to fulfill God’s promises. Isaiah tells us, “but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:31)

 

The embryonic Church was waiting in weakness, waiting in hope. Really, it was waiting with some doubt, as Ted preached here last Sunday. Count me among those that have doubted. Seven weeks before their world had been jolted into stunning reality, their dreams dashed, when their Lord was crucified on a Roman cross and buried in a borrowed tomb. That he had told them at least three times that this was coming was of no comfort in the reality of the devastating blow.

 

He gave them 40 glorious days, revealing his risen glory in multiple ways. Then–poof!–he was gone. This time not even in a tomb, where they could go with their spices and grieve. This time, gone in a cloud. “After he said this, he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight.” Do you understand the cloud? Neither do I. Let’s see, my iPhone and iPad are sharing information in a cloud. That’s as mysterious as Jesus’ ascension. Again, he is gone.

 

And they wait. The day arrives. Pentecost. A Jewish festival celebrating the early spring harvest. One of the big three festivals, which means people flow to Jerusalem from all over the world. People were pouring in across their southern border, their northern border, and their eastern border. Would this crush of humanity be for them intimidation or opportunity? They will not be intimidated by the global gathering, but will declare Good News to the world at their doorstep.

 

Rochester has a nationally renowned Lilac Festival every May. Last month’s came in an unusually cold, damp week. It was so cold and damp that they closed the festival on Monday. Then on Saturday afternoon, it turned warm and sunny. We quickly decided to go the festival. In Highland Park, the north side of Highland Avenue has 1800 lilac plants of over 500 varieties. The south side of the street has almost as many food trucks and vendors that week. Some people go to walk among the lilacs and some go to walk among the food trucks and eat some high octane junk food. We were hungry. We went another day to see the lilacs. And because it was finally warm and sunny, hundreds of people were crowding every walkway among the food trucks. We saw people of every skin color. And every hair color, including many colors God didn’t give them directly. We saw a high school couple on their way to the prom, he wearing a tuxedo and she a beautiful blue gown. Munching on carnival junk food. We heard numerous languages being spoken. We saw body art—some call them tattoos—of all colors and kinds. The next day I would be preaching from Revelation 7. “After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb.”  (Revelation 7:9) I thought, the crowd at the lilac festival walking among the food trucks looks more like the heavenly congregation in Revelation 7 than most churches on Sunday mornings. It was a multi-cultural festival.

 

But that lilac festival crowd couldn’t top that Pentecost on which the Spirit descended and the Church was birthed. “Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven…. Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs—we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!”  Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, ‘What does this mean?’” What does this mean? Opportunity. The world is at their doorstep.

 

The world is not orthogonally designed, with everything at right angles and perpendicular. It’s a world of circles and endless connections that aren’t always in straight lines. God is working with ever larger circles. From the beginning of God’s salvation story, God’s heart for the other, the outside, the foreigner has been clear.

• “I will make you into a great nation,and I will bless you;  and all peoples on earth

       will be blessed through you.” (Genesis 12:2-3)

• “And should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left—and also many animals?”
• “For my house will be called a house of prayer for all nations.” (Isaiah 56:7)
• “there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb.”  (Revelation 7:9)

 

Jesus in his earthly ministry honored the limits of living in one place at one time. He never traveled to Athens or Rome. Yet, he was always breaking boundaries by reaching out to outsiders: women, outcasts, diseased, people despised by the religious authorities. No wonder the religious leaders were always upset with him; he upset their rigid rules of exclusion. Then, when he left them he sent the Spirit and opened the floodgates.

 

The world at our doorstep, Brunswick Church. Russell Sage College, just a few miles west, has two cohorts of students from Lebanon and one from Thailand coming to study this fall. RPI, also a few miles away, has students from 44 countries, about one out of every seven students, studying here. In the last three years, two of those students from other nations have become followers or Jesus and been baptized here because of your welcome. The world at our doorstep is our opportunity.

 

The Church stands in danger today. The danger of seeking temporal power. The danger of seeking governmental favor. The danger of taking pride in our buildings and grounds. The danger of thinking our cutting edge ministries and programs will impress people. The danger of complacency. The danger of certainty that we have everything figured out. Religion has always tended to draw tight circles that tell us who is in the circle and who is outside the circle. God messes with those circles and keeps enlarging them to include people from all nations. Pentecost thrusts the Church out with Good News for all nations, all peoples, all tribes, and all language groups.

 

A few decades ago there was a TV program called “I’ll Fly Away.” In one episode, Lily, the housekeeper, tells her eight-year-old daughter Adelaine that a woman was hospitalized when her house suddenly settled two inches, scaring her nearly to death. She said, “It made me remember when we were building our church. We made sure to build a firm foundation. But still one windy day it pitched and swayed, such that I thought it had the Spirit of God in it.” Adelaine responded, “Don’t worry, Mama. The church ain’t settlin’, its movin’.”

 

What does this mean? God has entrusted us with Good News—the best news—that in the risen Christ, empowered by the Holy Spirit, God’s love is shared with every nation, tribe, people, and language. This church ain’t settlin’, it’s movin’. Let the Church be the Church.

 

 

 

 

 

Since becoming a pastor in 1974, I have included prayers for the president of the United States, and those in governing authority, in the pastoral prayers I have led virtually every Sunday. The apostle Paul wrote to Timothy, then bringing pastoral leadership to a local congregation, “I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for all people— for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.” I was taught that pastors should do this as regular practice and model it for the congregations they serve.

 

The week before Sunday, June 2, 2019, Franklin Graham came up with the novel idea of calling on churches to pray for President Trump. Why? It seems that Graham thinks Trump is being persecuted. Perhaps Trump gives Graham the sense of proximity to temporal power, and that must be heady stuff. I wonder if Franklin has forgotten how President Nixon did the same with Billy Graham, Franklin’s father. Nixon skillfully developed a friendship with Billy Graham and used it shamelessly for his own political gain. Doesn’t Franklin know that at least some of us pastors lead congregations in prayer for those in governing authority every Sunday? Did Franklin ever call for such a Sunday of prayer when Obama was president? I can’t remember him doing so. Did he?

 

When I lead congregations in prayer for the governing authorities, including the president, I lay aside any partisan views I may have. Since 1974, I have regularly prayed every Sunday for our presidents: Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush 1, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama, and Trump. Sometimes I mention them by name and sometimes I don’t. I also include the congress and the courts, at the federal, state, and local levels. I also customarily prayer for the leaders of other nations. I pray for elections in our country and other countries to be fair and peaceful. I pray for troubled places in our nation and beyond.

 

[Confession: When I am worshiping in other congregations and not leading the pastoral prayer, I listen carefully as I am being led in prayer by another. If those in governing authority are not mentioned in prayer, I miss that. If the world and its troubles are not mentioned, I am troubled.]

 

For 38 years those prayers were in one congregation. It was my intent to reveal nothing of my political views or what I may have thought of any of those presidents, but to lead prayer in a biblically faithful way. I knew the congregation included Republicans, Democrats, independents, liberals, conservatives, progressives, libertarians, etc. I wanted them to know that I was pastor for all of them. I did not give up my freedom to support my political convictions at the personal level, to vote in every election, and to think and care about national and global politics. I never told the congregation which candidate to vote for. Now that I am retired from being a pastor, I am preaching in different congregations almost every Sunday, usually leading the pastoral prayer. I make the same assumptions and follow the same commitment.

 

What I find so troublesome about Franklin Graham’s call to prayer is that it comes through as entirely partisan; it makes him look like a court magician, currying the king’s favor, like an in-house prophet who does the president’s bidding and says nothing that would trouble the president. Has he learned nothing from his father’s partisan attachment to Nixon? Eventually Billy Graham realized that Nixon had used him and said so. Will Franklin ever learn?

 

By the way, without any other prompting, I will continue praying for the president, those in governmental authority, and leaders of other nations this Sunday and every Sunday.

 

[This sermon was delivered at the Community of the Savior, Rochester NY, May 19, 2019.]

 

How do you think of the hereafter? Our views of what is to come are often far from biblical. All those stories of St. Peter standing at the pearly gates with a large book may make for good jokes, but are far from truth. Angels playing harps endlessly sounds kind of boring.

 

If you asked me 40 years ago to describe heaven, I probably would have answered in great detail. Now, I don’t have the same certainty. Streets paved with gold doesn’t mean much (as long as there are no potholes). My view has become more relational—and more comprehensive. It’s not pie-in-the-sky-bye-and-bye anymore, at least for me. The images given to John stir my imagination. A vast throng beyond numbering. People from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages; now that excites me. What is notable in the evocative words of the voice speaking in Revelation 21 is the quality of life: “See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples^, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.” That speaks to me.

 

At the center of the most sensual, spiritual-physical whole-bodied worship imaginable is a Lamb, a Lamb that was slain. Is any animal more vulnerable than a lamb? Then the Lamb speaks: “Behold, I am making all things new.” The verb is not past tense: I have made…. The verb is not future tense: I will make…. The verb is present tense in the active, continuing voice: I am making all things new. The scope of the work is not limited, but comprehensive: All things. Not some things. Not a few things. Not assorted things. Not favorite things. Not selected things. All things. All things new. Jesus is making all things new.

 

The word all occurs over 6,000 times in the Bible. Sometimes it is limited by context. Like all the people who are hearing this. Or all the people in the room. The word can be used in a limited way, but sometimes it goes beyond limits. My favorite concentration of the word all is in Colossians 1:15-20. Paul is describing the glory of Christ. Listen to the frequency and scope of all that we find there. “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him.  He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything.  For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.” Those alls don’t sound limited.

 

That reminds us of the vision God gave to Peter about God’s gracious inclusion of the outsiders called gentiles. “When they heard this, they were silenced. And they praised God, saying, ‘Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life.’” It shouldn’t surprise us. When God first called Abraham and Sarah to begin their faith journey, God said, “…in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” There is that word all word again, being used expansively again: “…in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

 

I don’t remember many poems I memorized in school, but I remember one from my middle school days:

“He drew a circle that shut me out–Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win: We drew a circle and took him in!”― Edwin Markham

Peter was given a vision of God’s inclusive love, even for the Gentiles, who once were seen as the outsiders to God’s covenant. At least by the insiders. But maybe never by God. I have this notion that God has always been drawing a wider circle that we have.

 

Renewing all things is the work of Jesus, but not his alone. From the beginning in Genesis 1-2, God has been calling us to cooperate in God’s work. To tend the garden. To name the animals. To reproduce. We are called to be participants in God’s work, cooperating with the Creator in the cultivation of all creation. We do not pretend to be God or believe that everything depends on us. But neither do we ignore the role God has assigned to us. In Ephesians 2:10, right after saying that we are saved by grace through faith, not by good deeds, Paul writes: “For we are what God has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.” We are created and saved to be doing good works in cooperation with God, even the work of the renewal of all things.

 

John is given a glimpse at a new heaven and a new earth. That could mean the present earth redeemed and made gloriously new or something altogether new. I don’t know, but I know that a biblical understanding of stewardship has to include this garden planet entrusted to us. We humans have made a mess of this garden planet. There are now used plastic bags littering Mt. Everest. A recent probe into the Mariana Trench, the deepest ocean bed on earth found used plastic bags, seven miles beneath the ocean surface. On the Cocos Keeling Islands, a chain of islands in the Indian Ocean, 260 tons of trash have washed up on its beaches. In the Pacific Ocean there is a growing island of trash halfway between Hawaii and California. That patch has almost 2 trillion pieces of used plastic. A smaller garbage patch has been forming in the North Atlantic. There is a distorted view that some Christians hold that says something like: God is preparing heaven for us, so its OK to trash this planet. I was raised in a church tradition that took that view. They thought Jesus was returning in the 1960s, and then the 1970s, and then in 1984, and then in 1988. If Jesus is coming any minute, who cares about the environment? If God is preparing a heavenly home for us and God really doesn’t care about this planet, we shouldn’t care about it either. Forget about Psalm 24:1: “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it…” Forget about tending the garden God gave us. We say, no. This planet is a precious gift from God, designed to delight the senses, stir the soul, and make life abundant.

 

Abraham Kuyper, the Dutch philosopher, theologian, and politician said, “There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!” Jesus says, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

This Easter season has been a season of life and of death. I think of Kendrick Costillo who took a bullet from a gunman in his STEM school in Colorado, just three days before he was to graduate from high school, and died while stopping the shooter from killing others. I think of Riley Howell, a student at UNC Charlotte. Already twice-wounded, he took down a gunman saving the lives of classmates, while taking a third bullet to his brain. I think of Rachel Held Evans, whose writings about her honest faith have deepened and broadened my faith. She dies at 37, leaving her husband and two young children, and thousands of us whose love for God has grown because of her courageous witness to it. We long for that day of newness when there is no more death.

 

How do we live in this world, with all its troubles, pain, and death? Jesus says that we do it in love: “… love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” In the midst of all that we cannot understand, we live in love. Love for God. Love for God’s creation. Love for neighbor. Love for self. Love for the other. Love for the outsider. Love for the immigrant, the alien, the refugee. We live in love with this vision held close: “I heard a voice thunder from the Throne: ‘Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood, making his home with men and women! They’re his people, he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes. Death is gone for good—tears gone, crying gone, pain gone—all the first order of things gone.” The Enthroned continued, “Look! I’m making everything new….’” (Revelation 21:3-5 from “The Message”) Jesus is “making all things new.” All things new! All things. New!

 

[The message below was based on John 21:1-19 and delivered at Parkminster Presbyterian Church, Rochester NY, on May 5, 2019.]

“Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God. Then he said to him, ‘Follow me!’” That’s a heavy message for a restored disciple from the risen Lord. Listen to more of that message from “The Message”: “Jesus said [to Peter], ‘When you were young you dressed yourself and went wherever you wished, but when you get old you’ll have to stretch out your hands while someone else dresses you and takes you where you don’t want to go.’ He said this to hint at the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God. And then he commanded, ‘Follow me.’” Hint? That sounds like more than a hint to me. It sounds more like, “Get ready to die.” And in the meantime, “follow me.”

 

This is our Easter season, a time of abounding good news for all in the resurrection of our Lord Jesus. Is it good news to be confronted by Jesus, the Lord of life, with the reality of the death sentence each one of us lives under every day? Is it good news to have some advance notice that we are going to die?

 

About a half year ago, it was noticeable that a friend was losing some of his mental sharpness. Last December he couldn’t be at home alone anymore. His wife, who still works outside the home, made the difficult, but wise and loving, decision to place him in a caring facility. I visit him there every so often. He has known me for only a short portion of his years, so it isn’t surprising that he doesn’t know me. Those words Jesus spoke to Peter hit me whenever I visit my friend: “’When you were young you dressed yourself and went wherever you wished, but when you get old you’ll have to stretch out your hands while someone else dresses you and takes you where you don’t want to go.” My friend is at the stage where he needs help getting dressed and eating. The death by which he will glorify God seems not far away, but we don’t know just when that day will be.

 

When I was pastoring, I made many visits over many years to people with diseases that were life-threatening. Some were older than I, some about my age, and some younger, some much younger. I have always had a measure of good health, through no merit of my own. But I know how quickly that can change—for me, for you. Leaving a visit with someone that has what looks to be a terminal disease, I often think that that person has an advantage over me in that I might think my health is a given and my days still many. After all, I don’t know what illness or disease may be at work in this mortal body right now. And you don’t know what life-threatening disease may be at work in you.

 

“Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God. Then he said to him, ‘Follow me!’” We don’t know how much time elapsed between Peter hearing those words and Peter dying. But the Book of Acts makes abundantly clear that Peter lived his life fully and faithfully in the interim. He delivers the first sermon of the baby Christian Church on the Day of Pentecost and 3,000 people respond and become followers of Jesus that day. (I keep hoping one of my sermons will have that effect!)

 

Before we get to that day on that beach, we take a closer look at that day in its context. John is writing his gospel some decades after Matthew, Mark, and Luke. John was the longest living of the original disciples and was ending his long years as a prisoner on the island of Patmos. He is able to take a longer view of the ministry of Jesus. When it comes to telling us about Jesus appearing and ministering to the disciples after Easter day, John wins. Mark says nothing. Matthew gives five verses. Luke gives four. John gives a chapter and a half, a whopping 33 verses. Only John gives us the narrative we have today.

 

The narrative unfolds in three movements. On a beach, the risen Lord appears to seven disciples. That it was on a beach is not insignificant. Good things happen on beaches. I love beaches. But it is curious that the risen Lord isn’t appearing in Jerusalem. He could be confronting Herod and Pilate with his good news. Or the high priests on duty in the Temple. He could go to Rome, the greatest city of its day and confront the Roman Emperor, the Caesar. Instead he appears on some unnamed beach in the backwater region of Galilee.

 

It is on a beach on the shore of the Sea of Galilee that these disciples see Jesus, but don’t realize that it is Jesus. That is a fairly common experience in the gospel accounts of Easter morning. They are all having trouble believing what seems unbelievable. Jesus gets their attention with a simple question: “Friends, haven’t you any fish?” That’s got to be a little embarrassing—perhaps humiliating—to seasoned fishermen on the body of water they regularly fished, where some once made a living. That leads to a breakfast of grilled fish and toast. “Jesus came, took the bread and gave it to them,…” There is something here we cannot ignore. Jesus shows up in ordinary places doing ordinary things for ordinary people that can often be clueless. I think that hasn’t changed. Jesus still regularly reveals himself in ordinary places doing ordinary things for ordinary people that can often be clueless.

 

The second movement deals directly with Peter. We remember that a short time ago in Jesus’ hour of need, Peter denied knowing Jesus three times and then wept bitterly when Jesus locked eyes with him. With three questions—really one question asked three times—Jesus restores Peter. Why three asks of the same question? I don’t think that was lost on Peter. Or on us.

 

The third movement is that sobering word to Peter: “…when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.” Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God.” Happy Easter, Peter. And, by the way, you’re going to die.

 

Without Good Friday, we have no Easter. Without death, we have no resurrection. Our faith conquers death, but it doesn’t ignore it or pretend it doesn’t exist. The sting is gone in the victory of Jesus, but the pain lingers. The apostle Paul says that he dies daily in following Jesus. Late in his earthly life he writes: “I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death.  For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” (Philippians 1:20-21.) Knowing that we are meant to glorify God in our dying can liberate us to glorify God in our living.

 

 

Jesus shows up in ordinary places doing ordinary things for ordinary people that can often be clueless. I think that hasn’t changed. Jesus still regularly reveals himself in ordinary places doing ordinary things for ordinary people that can often be clueless.

 

 

A few years back Tim McGraw sang about a man that found out that he had an illness and his days were numbered:

He said “I was finally the husband That most of the time I wasn’t
And I became a friend a friend would like to have
And all of a sudden going fishin’ Wasn’t such an imposition
And I went three times that year I lost my dad
I finally read the Good Book, and I took a good, long, hard look.”

And I loved deeper And I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying
And he said “Someday I hope you get the chance To live like you were dying
Like tomorrow was a gift And you’ve got eternity
To think about What you’d do with it
What could you do with it What did I do with it? What would I do with it?”

 

Jesus does Peter a favor by reminding him of his mortality. “Then he says to him, ‘Follow me!’” He speaks the same reminder to us and then charges us to follow him in whatever the day holds for us. After all, our days are numbered. This is not another fish story.

 

[Two days after I finished my sermon preparation and a day before I preached this message, Rachel Held Evans, an author who writings have greatly influenced my faith, died at age 37. Like Peter, Rachel lived and died to the glory of God.]

[This word was proclaimed at Community of the Savior, April 12, 2019, and in an earlier version at Brunswick Church, Good Friday, 2002.]

 

“A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished. Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.”  John 19:29-30

 

One does not use this word, it is finished, for something menial or trivial, but for something major, something momentous. It speaks of completing what one set out to do. Something demanding. Challenging. Physically and mentally exhausting.

 

It is a word that Micah Herndon may well have used last Monday in Boston as he crossed the finish line of the nation’s most venerated marathon—the Boston Marathon. Marine Micah Herndon ran the race not for any personal glory, but for three fallen Marines who served alongside him, but didn’t come home from their assignment in Afghanistan in 2010. “I run in honor of them,” Herndon said. “If I get a heat cramp while running … or I am getting exhausted, I just keep saying their names out loud: Ballard, Hamer, Juarez…. I run for them and their families.” Tattooed on the back of his hand were three names: Ballard, Hamer, Juarez. Laced on his running shoes were three names: Ballard, Hamer, Juarez.

At the 22-mile mark, one leg began cramping, then the other. For four miles with both legs cramping, Herndon kept running. As he approached the finish line on Boylston Street, within 100 yards of the finish line, he fell to the pavement. He started crawling. He crossed the finish line in 3 hours and 38 minutes, on his hands and knees, repeating the names of his fallen Marine buddies: Ballard, Hamer, Juarez.

Jesus does not run this race for himself, but for others, for his sisters and brothers, his family. Jesus’ words from the cross begin with concern for others, not himself. He is not running this race for himself:

• For his accusers and tormentors, he prays: forgive them…
• For the penitent thief, he assures: today you will be with me in paradise….
• For his aging mother, he speaks to a disciple: take care of her….

 

Then the words get more personal:

• My God, why have you forsaken me? This is no role-playing. O answer is given him.
• I am thirsty. His human weakness is on full display.

 

Then the word that John, the last of the gospel writers, puts last on the Lord’s lips:

• It is finished!

 

In translation we have three words; for Jesus it is but one word. There is a visceral power in saying it in the original: Tetelestai. The tense is perfect, a completed action. Not past tense, merely denoting something that once happened, but perfect tense: a completed action with continuing benefits. Tetelestai. Finished. Completed.

 

What does he mean by it: Tetelestai–finished? We have come to call the work of Jesus on the cross the atonement, the making at-one what was separated by sin; bringing together what was apart. The Church over the ages has developed theories of the atonement, a handful or more. We’re not dealing with theories tonight. We are dealing reality wrapped in mystery.

 

I know this: Jesus is not satisfying the wrath of an angry God, but magnifying the grace of the loving God. This is not the heavenly Father punishing the undeserving Son. This is God-in-flesh so intimately identifying with us, that God-with-us experiences first-hand the brokenness of our world. The weight of our sin. God-with-us is so with us that God-with-us experiences in this hour separation from the Father.

 

In agonizing human weakness and frailty, we hear his cry: Tetelestai. It is not a whimper of defeat. Jesus is not throwing in the towel. He will cross the finish line, even crawling in unimaginable pain.

 

It is the cry of one completing the assigned task. Tetelestai. It is a word we might hear from a ship’s captain coming into port after braving all the ocean could throw at that ship. Wind and water battered, but home. Storm worn and scarred, but home. Tetelestai. It is the cry of the marathoner after months of grueling training, finally completing 26 miles and 385 yards, covered with sweat, muscles cramping, joints trembling, sight blurred: Tetelestai. It is the cry of the climber taking that one final step to stand on a lofty summit. Tetelestai. Finished.

 

Tonight we see Jesus in his full vulnerability. We ponder his passion, that is, his suffering. Passion is not just liking something a lot; it is being willing to suffer and die for something. The earth quakes. The women weep. The men flee. In the eye of the storm of the ages, in the epi-center of the quake, Jesus cries: Tetelestai. Journey completed. Promise kept. Work done. Vision realized. Hope secured. Salvation secured.

 

We will not try to explain the unexplainable; but we will proclaim the undeniable. Jesus has conquered. To the glory of God, for the redemption of the world. Tetelestai. Finished.

 

See from his head, his hands, his feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

 

 

Growing up in Los Angeles in the 1950s as a kid that loved baseball meant picking a Major-League team far away to root for and follow. Most of my baseball buddies and I chose one of the three fabled New York teams. Each had a great centerfielder: Willie Mays of the Giants, Mickey Mantle of the Yankees, and Duke Snider of the Dodgers. It was the golden era for baseball in New York, especially for the Yankees, who seemed to win every year. As a classic baseball song said it years later, “Willie, Mickey, and the Duke….”  I chose Duke Snider and the Flatbush based Bums, the loveable losers, whose battle cry was, Wait till next year!

 

Then, in 1958, the unbelievable happened. The Dodgers moved to LA. I guess that helped me believe in prayer and a loving God. While Brooklyn wept, LA rejoiced. I would get to see Duke Snider, #4, he of the prematurely graying temples and towering home runs, play in my town.

 

About the same time, a technological miracle was unfolding: the transistor radio. It didn’t need to be plugged into a wall socket. It was lightweight and smaller than any radios we had ever known. And most had ear pieces (not called earbuds back then) which you could put in one ear and listen privately. These radios would revolutionize how people listened to baseball games and other sporting events. As transistor radios got smaller, people would take them to games and listen to Vin Scully, the Dodgers legendary announcer and the poet laureate of baseball broadcasting, as they watched the game in person. When Vin said something funny, thousands of people laughed at the same time.

 

I saved up my paper route money to buy one. My parents took me to Fedco, which was the Costco of that day. I looked at all the transistor radios and held them before making my choice. When it was bedtime and the Dodgers were playing, I could put the transistor radio next to me in bed, easily hidden from sight, pop in the ear piece, and listen to Vin Scully. In my imagination, I was at the game. I could see the contours of the playing field and where the players were positioned. I could smell the hot dogs, popcorn, and spilled beer. If the Dodgers were losing, I would root silently, so as not to alert my parents to what I was doing. (I wonder if they knew all along what I was doing.)

 

And I would think, if I were really at the game rooting at the top of my lungs for Duke Snider to get the big hit that would bring victory, would Duke hear me? How could he resist getting the big hit if he heard me rooting him on? Would my one voice somehow add to the persuasive force of the crowd? Surely every voice mattered. The more the better. Surely Duke wouldn’t let all of us down. He wouldn’t let me down, would he?

 

Now I live in a different part of the country. I have adopted an east coast team, though I still keep an eye on the Dodgers. Duke Snider is dead, though enshrined in the Hall of Fame. Transistor radios have been replaced by information technologies we couldn’t have imagined back then. Baseball is still a frustratingly wonderful game. I still love following the game.

 

And I think about the nature of prayer. Make no mistake, my rooting for Duke to get the game winning hit was a rather pure form of prayer, though not always addressed to God. At least, not directly. My view of prayer has been changing gradually over the years. Now it is less asking God for what I want, though that still creeps in. Especially when I am praying for healing and sustaining grace for friends with serious health challenges. I don’t bother praying for good parking places. Or for my team to win a big game. There is too much serious trouble in the world than for me to be praying for trivial matters for my own convenience. I am trying to see prayer more and more as entering into the life and work of God. Like a kid rooting for Duke Snider to get the big hit, I want to be another voice in the crowd praising God and entering into the life and work of God. I want to enter into the wondrous relationship of God the Trinity. I want to be a part of the movement of transforming love that Jesus is leading. I pray not so much to change God’s mind, but to seek to align my mind with God’s mind, my will with God’s will.

 

I have my forms of prayer, mainly following the pattern of what we call the Lord’s Prayer, and my personal customs and habits, which help me to be more disciplined. Forms and practices help my wandering mind to focus better. But, more and more, I am seeing prayer as entering into the life and will of God—great and glorious mystery—humbly and gratefully. Every day. Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as in heaven….

 

 

After two presidential elections in the last two decades having the candidate that lost the popular vote winning the electoral college vote, and hence the presidency, there is much discussion about whether the electoral college has outlived its usefulness. There were three much earlier elections where that happened, but there was never a gap between the popular and electoral totals like that in 2016. Candidate Clinton led in the popular total by 2,854,903 votes (65,845,063 to 62,980,160), while candidate Trump won the electoral vote by 74 (306 to 232). Clinton beat Trump in the popular vote by 2.1%; Trump beat Clinton in the electoral vote by 14%.

 

In 2000, the gap between Bush and Gore was thin. In the popular vote, Gore won by .5%; in the electoral vote, Bush won by 5 votes, just 1% more than Gore. The determination of the Bush-Gore contest finally went to the Supreme Court and was decided there by one vote; a 5-4 decision stopped any further recounting of the Florida vote. In one sense, one state decided that election. In another sense, one Supreme Court justice decided which candidate would be president. The final Florida vote, as determined by the Supreme Court in that 5-4 decision, had Bush winning by 537 votes out of almost 6,000,000 votes cast. Florida has 25 electoral votes. A fair split might have had Florida’s electoral votes cast 13 for Bush and 12 for Gore, reflecting how close the popular vote was. That would have had the candidate winning the national popular vote also winning the electoral vote. Even if Florida’s electoral votes were split 20 for Bush and five for Gore, Gore would have become president. In the current system, if Gore has won 300 more votes (out of 6,000,000 votes cast), he would have taken all 25 electoral votes.

 

Trump gets credit for campaigning better than Clinton by targeting several “in doubt” states and pouring time and resources in them. As the electoral college system now stands, over 40 states are not in play in most presidential elections. They are reliably blue (Democrat) or reliably red (Republican) states. There is occasionally a landslide (Nixon in 1972, Johnson in 1964, and Reagan in 1984) in which the great majority of states vote for the same candidate, but there hasn’t been a landslide in over three decades. Generally, a handful of states determine which candidate will be president. In 2000 it was one state (Florida); in 2016 it was three states (Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin).

 

I have lived in three states as a voting American. All three reliably vote for one party, which means a smart candidate has no reason to pay much attention to the state in which I now live, New York. The so-called purple states (such as Florida and Pennsylvania) get the attention. Trump won largely by beating Clinton in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin by a cumulative total of 80,000 votes. That means that, usually, my vote doesn’t much count. After the primary season, the two major party candidates have no need to visit my state, with its 29 electoral votes.

 

It seems to me that this is counter to what a democracy ought to be and do. Some argue that the electoral college protects the citizens that don’t live in major cities. In fact, it gives their votes more weight. I think that every vote ought to receive the same voting value: one person, one vote with one value. When the electoral college was established, only white landowning men could vote. Women couldn’t vote. Blacks couldn’t vote. Renters couldn’t vote. Fortunately, though taking much too long, we righted those wrongs and gave all citizens the right to vote, which is democracy 101.

 

My vote should count the same as a rural vote in North Dakota or an urban vote in New York City. I live in a suburb of Rochester, NY, which puts me in neither a metropolis nor a rural town. I simply want my vote to count as much as any other American’s vote; not more and not less. This shouldn’t be a matter of which voting system favors Republicans or Democrats. It should be a matter of voting equality.

 

It seems to me there are three ways to make electing presidents more fair. The first is to scrap the electoral college and go to a national popular vote. We have already done that for our senators. They were once elected by state legislatures; now they are elected by popular vote. It seems to be working fine this way.

 

The second is to do away with “winner takes all” voting. Maine and Nebraska already do that. Hence, there is incentive for a candidate that might not win all the electors in Nebraska to try to win some of them. The obvious way to do this would be to use congressional districts. Of course, there is controversy about extreme partisan gerrymandering, which lets the majority party in the state government divide congressional districts to favor its interests. Both parties have been guilty of extreme partisan gerrymandering. That troubles me, but doing away with winner takes all statewide voting would still be an improvement over the current system. Candidates would have motivation to visit states where they may not win a majority of the votes, but could win some of the electors.

 

The third way is to have a state’s electoral votes committed to whichever candidate wins the national popular vote. For that to happen, states with electors totaling 270 would have to agree to it. Currently, 11 states with electors totaling about 170 have endorsed this approach.

 

North Dakota has about 760,000 residents and three electors. That means each North Dakota elector represents about 253,000 people. New York has about 19,540,000 residents and 29 electors. That mean each New York elector represents about 673,000 people. That is unfair.

 

I don’t believe that areas of land should have votes. Acreage should not have votes. If I live on ½ acre and my neighbor lives on 10 acres, his or her vote should not count more than my vote. Only citizens should have votes: one citizen=one vote. Rural votes should not count more than urban votes. Small state votes should not have more weight than large state votes. Each citizen voting should get one vote with all votes having the same value. I believe the founders had reasons for choosing the electoral college. But they also thought they had good reasons to prohibit women and blacks and non-land owners from voting. Time has shown us better ways. We have moved toward a “more perfect union,” guaranteeing all citizens the right to vote and have their votes count, enlarging our understanding of being a democratic republic. I believe it is time to change or eliminate the electoral system now in place. One person, one vote, with each vote having the same value sounds sensible, practical, and fair to me. What do you think?

[This is taken from a sermon delivered at Community of the Savior, Rochester NY, March 17, 2019, based on Psalm 27.]

 

I find not waiting for the Lord to be easy. “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” That is how Psalm 27 ends. It sounds great; I have memorized these words. But I don’t much like waiting. When I am about to check out at Wegmans, I study the traffic patterns. I usually have maybe 5-15 items. I survey the 17 items or fewer line and the 7 items or fewer line. There are four people in the 17 items line and just one in the 7 items line. I look quickly in the basket. I have 8 items. Now I am facing a weighty ethical dilemma. Do I pretend I have 7 items instead of 8? Do I cover one item with another, so it looks like there are 7? Do the cashiers really count them? What if I get in the 7 item line with 8 items and a person gets in line right after me and counts my items on the conveyor belt? Will she call for the store manager? Archibald Hart, then a professor at Fuller Seminary, suggested that pastors learn to deal with their impatience to see God work quickly by getting in the longest line at the market and praying for all the people in a hurry to check out. I never mastered that spiritual discipline.

 

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”

Maybe waiting for the Lord isn’t about whether I have 7 or 8 items in my basket. But maybe it is.

 

If I can avoid waiting, I do. There is a really annoying commercial on TV these days. I don’t look up when its on; I don’t even know the product it is trying to sell me. But it blares these words at me: I want it all and I want it now. I talk back to the TV. “I don’t want it all. But what I do want, I want now.”

 

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”

 

Psalm 27 unfolds in three movements: the first is confidence in God, the second sees that confidence shaken, and finally that confidence renewed.

Confidence: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid”? (v. 1)

Confidence shaken: “Do not give me up to the will of my adversaries, for false witnesses have risen against me, and they are breathing out violence.” (v. 12)

Confidence renewed: “I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” (v. 13)

It culminates in this charge to us: “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” (v. 14)

 

Waiting is part of living. We have little choice about that. But we have choices about how we wait. Waiting can be passive or active. Is our waiting merely biding time passively or are we waiting in active, hope-filled ways? Biblical waiting is active, hope-filled waiting. It is not withdrawing from the messiness of life, but actively participating in the messiness of life with the sure and certain hope that God is faithful and God honors his promises. Listen to these two descriptions of biblical waiting:

• “…but those who wait for the Lordshall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Is. 40:31) That doesn’t sound passive, but rather muscular.
• “…but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.  For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” (Romans 8:23-25) Active waiting can be gut-wrenching. Jesus knew that kind of waiting, as have saints through the centuries.

 

 

The Bible is a wait-y book. God’s people are waiting all the time. We see…

• Abraham and Sarah waiting decades for the promised son;
• The Israelites waiting in Egypt for deliverance for 400 years;
• Judah waiting in captivity in Babylon for 70 years;
• Paul waiting in prison, again and again (the New Testament would be shorter if he weren’t waiting so much in prison cells, writing his letters to churches);
• Jesus waiting as he fasted in the wilderness. and Jesus waiting for the cross awaiting him in Jerusalem;
• The Church waiting almost 2,000 years for Jesus to return in glory.

 

My childhood church was in the fundamentalist mold. We were always being told that Jesus was coming very soon and we better be ready. Our waiting was fearful and life-denying. Don’t be caught doing something as worldly as going to see a movie in a theatre. What if Jesus came at that moment and left me behind? It better be a good movie, I thought. Waiting wasn’t positive. It was meant to scare us into being good little Christians. It didn’t work. “The Sound of Music” came out and all the faithful snuck out to see it. I guess they figured Jesus would understand if he returned right after the opening credits.

 

Our posture for actively waiting for what is to come is active engagement with this messy world now. Our waiting is doing the work of Jesus in lifting the fallen, welcoming the stranger, the alien, healing the broken. It is that fast we read about on Ash Wednesday:

“Is not this the fast that I choose:  to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,  and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them,
 and not to hide yourself from your own kin? Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly….” (Isaiah 58:6-8)

 

The family of William Hoover Jones has been waiting for nearly 70 years. Jones enlisted as a young black man to serve in the Korean War, leaving his home in Rocky Mount, NC. Shortly after arriving in Korea, his family was informed that he was missing and presumed dead. Eventually, they set a military headstone for him over an empty grave near their home. Recently, forensic scientists working on remains returned to us by North Korea identified remains of Hoover Jones. Soon this will happen, as reported in Time, March 11, 2019:

“Before Hoover is lowered into the ground at Arlington National Cemetery, seven soldiers will fire three volleys for a 21-gun salute. A bugler will play taps. Six soldiers will remove the flag covering his casket and make 13 triangular folds. An officer will kneel before Hoover’s eldest sister Elizabeth and hand the flag to her. Two other folded flags will be handed to his other surviving sisters Thelma and Ida. They will be told, ‘This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army in appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.’ Their brother will finally be laid to rest. And for Hoover Jones and his family, at least, the Korean War will be over.” Their waiting has not been in vain.

 

On a recent Sunday, Rachel and I walked on holy ground. We visited the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery AL. That memorial names the over 4,000 African-Americans that were hanged, burned, or drowned by white Americans after the Civil War. Their families have been waiting for them to be remembered. Their waiting has not been in vain. We are going to remember the violence that was done to black Americans by white Americans and work for a better day. As we wait, we will work for that better day.

 

Our world was rocked again by an act of violence, this time in Christchurch, New Zealand, just a few days ago. This time it happened in two Islamic houses of worship. Last fall it was a synagogue in Pittsburgh. And not long ago it was a church in Charleston, South Carolina. I could add so many more to the list. There seems to be a growing fear of the other. The other may be of another national origin or another skin color. The other may be an immigrant, an alien, or a refugee. As I understand the Gospel, Jesus came for the other. The outsider. The Immigrant, the alien, the refugee. We are gathered in a house of worship right now. It is no safer than a movie theatre, a restaurant, a battlefield, or our homes. It is a dangerous world, with too much fear of the other. We ask again the most frequently asked question in the Bible: How long, O Lord? How long till you bring home all your promises? How long till the day of the Lord finally happens? How long till peace and justice reign instead of fear and hatred?

 

We are waiting for God to make everything new, to bring the new heaven and earth to reality. And we are waiting for Jesus to return in glory. Since we don’t know when he will return, how shall we wait? Will our waiting be passive and fearful or active and hope-filled? In our waiting, will we do the work to which God is calling us?

 

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”