Don’t flay the sheep.

Nancy Drew and the Apostles’ Creed

The best thing that I saw during a long day of church today? During the one service I sat through as a worshiper (anonymous but for the clerical collar), I was most thankful for the 10 year old girl in the pew in front of me. Through most of the service, she was intently focused on The Password of Larkspur Lane, one of my personal favorite Nancy Drew mysteries. After the sermon, as her family stood for the hymn, she streched out on her back across the pew, still reading. Immediatly following the hymn, we launched into the Apostles’ Creed. I looked down and while her eyes were still focused on her book, she had joined us in saying the words of the Creed.

It was one of the best arguments I have ever seen proving that the pattern of liturgy enriches the worship life of children. No one asked her to put down Nancy Drew and stand up. Without thinking, she joined in the familiar words with the congregation, gathered there in that place and time, and in all times and places.

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Statement of Faith

I have been writing this week. For the past year, I’ve been engaged in a pursuit I fondly refer to as “Presbyquest.” Two years ago, I was ordained as a minister in the Christian Reformed Church in North America. For reasons that I’ll explain in a later post, I’ve been working on switching my credentials as a minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA). A brief way of explaining the difference between the two: the CRCNA are descended from the Dutch-Calvinist cousins of the Presbyterians and also a bit more conservative. Let’s just say it’s been a complicated and intricate task to navigate the switch; I have now spent several months engaged in ecumenical-Twister with a foot each in each denomination.

This past week, I received the very good news that I passed four of the required PC(USA) ordination exams. And suddenly, Presbyquest swung into swift action again—I had to write a “Statement of Faith” to present to a committee this coming Tuesday. Standing up and reciting the Apostles’ Creed, or even the longer Nicene wouldn’t do it. I needed my own statement.

Writing this page-long thing has been like pulling teeth. With my birthday approaching, I was struck by the fact that John Calvin, namesake of my seminary alma mater, wrote his Institutes of the Christian Religion (a very comprehensive, very good, very long statement of faith) when he was two years younger than me. Here I was struggling with a page.

This reminded me that (a) I am no John Calvin, and really don’t aspire to be, and (b) perhaps I should just get the page written and stop viewing it as my theological magnum opus.

Those illusions of grandeur put aside, I was free to deal with the more practical implications of the piece: whether or not my faith fits with the profile of an acceptable Presbyterian minister.

As a potential CRCNA minister, examinations of my faith tended to be more oral. In both cases, though, there are red flags. What you believe about the Bible, infant baptism, sin, and of course the biggies like the Trinity and Jesus.

But, there are differences. In the CRCNA, your examiners would make sure to ask what you thought about eschatology—the stuff coming at the end. If your car sports a bumper sticker that says “In case of rapture, this vehicle will be un-manned,” you’re in trouble. “In case of rapture, can I have your car?” might pass as long as your examiners have a sense of humor. I’m told the presbytery that examines me won’t care a bit if I leave the end times all together out of my statement, but I feel like I should at least put a little nod to it in there.

On the other hand, I have some colleagues in the CRCNA who would have trouble with the instructions to make sure that my PC(USA) statement uses inclusive language. In the CRCNA, inclusive language usually refers to humans—God loves humankind, rather than mankind. In what is a welcome change for me, inclusive language in the PC(USA) means God. They’ve already been through the inclusive language for people bit, and it’s old news. The goal now is to avoid pronouns and not call God “Father” to the exclusion of any other titles. I’ve been in some pretty heated CRCNA context debates about whether or not this is necessary, But, let’s just say that it has been a good thing for several months to say the Lord’s prayer frequently, talk about father, Son, and Holy Spirit, but not hear virtually every prayer addressed to “Father God.” There is such a good mix of images available!

I’ve been advised on changes by gracious friends among my Presbyterian cheer-leaders: Too much about the first person of the Trinity in draft 1. Don’t be afraid of using the word “sin”—although that advice led to a draft in which I overdid the sin part. Add the Holy Spirit to the sacraments. What about the mission of the church?

But, now I have a page and with a few revisions by Tuesday, I’ll meet with a committee, and we will sift through my statement together, and I hope to move a hand or a foot a little closer to the Presbyterian side of the Twister-mat.

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How I Got a Website…

Up until now, my web presence consisted of a few records of my sorry but stubborn times in distance running, a few college and seminary alumni references, brief appearances on sites related to my work, and, most notably, my husband’s web page. But now, my husband has presented me with this website as a birthday gift.

The nice thing about getting a site as a birthday gift is that it means someone other than you thinks there is a good reason to add your voice to the glut of information on the web. Although, one’s spouse is probably a bit biased.

The downside is that it is something like getting a puppy. Now that you have it, you have to do something with it. I know this was Erik’s motive—to get me to write more.

And so, here it goes…an attempt to spend more time writing, if not for anyone else, then for me.

I have to say, though, that a puppy would not have been all bad because I think I could also use more encouragement to walk.

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Grace Before Judgment

• Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
• Loop CRC
• Hope CRC

Years later, after listening to Jesus’ stories, nurturing them in their memories, and retelling them to the community, the parable of the sower must have popped up alongside this parable of the wheat and tares for the disciples.
They are both about planting the seed;
they are both about fruits of the Gospel,
they are both about the germination of Jesus and his message in people’s lives.

But where the parable of the sower shows easily gauged growth,
the parable of the wheat and weeds reminds us of the slow, strange progress of the word.

Where the parable of the sower might produce eager, impulsive field-workers,
the parable of the wheat and weeds reminds us who owns the field.
Where the parable of the sower makes for easy estimation,
the parable of the wheat and the weeds calls for waiting on God’s judgment—and grace.

At first glance, the wheat and weeds is about judgment—where is the grace here? I have to admit, I don’t like these parables about judgment. They make my cultivated self-image of being a loving, accepting—even liberal—soul feel a little at odds with my sense of duty to believe the truth of the Gospel. I’d rather these judgment parables just stepped aside so that we can get to parables like the prodigal son and lost coins and bask in God’s grace and feel good about ourselves.

But this is a not just a parable about judgment and fire: it is a parable where judgment and grace are intertwined in the hands of the Master.

Read the rest of this entry. . . .

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Pentecost in the Middle of the Mess

• Numbers 11:24-30
• Hope CRC

Church, at its best, is supposed to “work” for you no matter what state you show up in. A little something for the joyful, the tearful, the contrite, and the proud. A piece here for the hesitant and there for the hopeful. Prayers for the needy, opportunities for the blessed. All one mixed bag of the Body of Christ, somehow served by the same service.

But in all honesty, there are Christian observances that seem to work better for certain emotional states. Christmas for the whimsically joyful. Easter for the triumphant. Good Friday for the mournful.

And then there’s Pentecost. Suddenly, in early summer/late spring—when plants and flowers are getting their earliest starts at brightness—churches break out the most lavish red and oranges they can find, drape cloth everywhere, light candles, spray bright flowers across the front. Pentecost is the triumphant cherry on top of the Easter-season Sunday. One bright, red victory to crown a season that celebrates the sweet success of God’s plan, the victory that we will ride on the back of all the way to Advent. It’s a great way to go out with a bang before the summer slows us down, Sunday attendance fizzles a bit, and the congregation looks a little wilted around the edges on hot mornings.

On Pentecost you would probably be wise to check any restraint, despondency or lackadaisical attitudes at the door. Bring them to church and you might be accused of stifling the Spirit—something we Reformed folk especially want to avoid being accused of. It is a holiday for the person who is feeling brave and bold, passionate and hopeful. Grumblers and those who are trudging through hard times might be a bit more comfortable back in the cold, hard reality of Lent.

Read the rest of this entry. . . .

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Blessing God

• Ephesians 1:3-14
• Hope CRC

Last October, after preaching at Hope, I raced out of the parking lot and jumped on the tollway going north to attend the wedding of my high school next-door locker neighbor and great friend Siiri Rimpila. In fact, Siiri did me a great honor—she asked me to help the rabbi who would be officiating.

Siiri is anything but Jewish—for those of you not familiar with Scandinavian names, her name is Finnish enough to pass in Helsinki, as are her looks—she is six feet of cheerful energy, culminating in one of the world’s greatest smiles, a halo of super-blonde curls, and the most unique, contagious laugh I’ve ever heard.

I had the privilege and honor of standing at the front of the aisle with the rabbi and Barry Levi, the groom, while Siiri’s sisters and then Siiri walked down toward us—Siiri grinning, and the rabbi (who barely came up to my shoulder) commenting to me that each sister was taller and blonder than the next. The ceremony was a beautiful blend of Jewish and Christian wedding traditions. One of the most important parts of a Jewish wedding is the “Seven Blessings.” The rabbi recited them in Hebrew, I repeated them in English.

The blessings are not just for the couple, but also for God. And although we Christians share the biblical idea and precedent of blessing God with Jews, it’s language that we are not entirely familiar with. But for Jews, it’s as familiar as our phrases like, “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” or “in Jesus’ name, amen.” “Blessed are you, Lord God…” begins Jewish prayers for the family, and in the synagogue, daily prayers and prayers for special occasions like holidays and weddings. “Blessed are you, Lord God…”

This is not just language of the Hebrew Bible, our Old Testament. It is also language of the New Testament. Ephesians, like so many other letters in the New Testament, is written to churches that are a great mix of Jew and Gentile, churches that knew this language of blessing from their roots or grafting to a Jewish heritage. And Paul opens with this familiar language of blessing—blessing God for blessing us. The NIV translates, “Praise be to God…” but it is the same word used in the following verses where we read that God has blessed us. “Blessed be God…”

To bless God is to praise God, but it is also more than that—it means that we announce, to God and to others, that God is good and great and holy. It means that we name God as holy. For God to bless us, astoundingly, means similar things—God calls us holy. In fact, our English word, “to bless” originally, long before Christianity came to Britain, had a meaning related to blood—to mark or consecrate with blood. That can only be linguistic providence, that a language culture so far from Israel understood this—to bless, to mark with blood—that the God who allows himself to be marked with blood on the cross also marks us with his blood to make us holy.

To say “blessed be God, who has blessed us,” rather than “Praise God, who blessed us” reminds us of the connection between God’s holiness and our own. In God’s holiness, we are holy. In God’s blessedness, we become blessed.

And although blessing God is not one of our most familiar liturgical acts, we haven’t completely lost the language. It still happens in our worship, even if blessing isn’t the exact language we use.

And I imagine that most of us still have moments where we break down in moments of extreme gratitude to God and, maybe not as eloquently as Paul, at least feel the same desire to praise and bless God. But I wonder what sorts of things usually compel us to praise God.

Perhaps my speculation about this comes from my own experience, and there are some of you more seasoned than I am who have traveled different and rougher roads and would have a different, more mature answer. I admit to a relatively easy life (for which I should bless God), and amidst the comfort, cushiness, and blessings of my own life, I find that the things I am inclined to bless God for are good, sunny days; a pleasant, close family; health; a near-perfect husband; general prosperity. I know that many of you have similar lists of blessings. Rightly so, I bless God for these things. But if these are the things that we are inclined to bless God for, what about when things aren’t happy, sunny, pleasant, and Norman-Rockwell-perfect? What do we praise and bless God for then?

These blessings are not, in the grand scheme of things, the largest, most important blessings God has given us. If these are the things we usually bless God for, our ability to bless God is in danger. These are good things, but can we bless God if they fall apart—if the sun disappears, the skies open up, and our basement floods?—if the economy takes a dive, and takes our prosperity with it?—if a loved-one suffers or dies?—if relationships that sustained us fall apart? Should these be the first things that come to mind when we bless God?

I’m always struck by the ability of other Christians to bless God in bad circumstances. During seminary, I got to know a man named Zaichhawna Hlawndo. (We called him Zaia because that was just easier). Zaia was a Christian pastor from the Mizouram state in India. You got the feeling talking to him that things were not particularly easy where he lived and ministered—Christians dealt with poverty, some hostility from neighbors, difficult prospects for evangelism. But Zaia was a very joyful man, and he would describe worship services that bubbled over with joy about God’s blessings. I remember one class where he described a typical worship service. It included, he said, what can only be described as mosh-pit up front during the singing. Pure, unbridled blessing of God, with voice and body. I can imagine Pastor Zaia breaking forth into some wonderful blessing like this one in Ephesians. I can imagine him doing so in a way that was heartfelt and genuine. Honestly, I have a hard time seeing myself, I have a hard time imagining many North Americans breaking into this kind of blessing with that sort of genuineness.

Maybe it is easier for me to imagine this as genuine blessing from Zaia because I think he might have had his priorities straight. Zaia, like Paul, knew that there was something greater than general happiness to bless God for. In this blessing, he pours out a blessing for God because of God’s redemption. If you strip everything else away, that blessing of grace and redemption is still there. However bad things get, that blessing is still there.

In fact, maybe the best time for praise and blessing isn’t in the middle of perfect happiness with the world around us. Martin Buber, a twentieth century Jewish philosopher, wrote: “Praise happens in the matrix of pain.” Praise happens in spite of, in the middle of the pain that we might experience in life. There is a raw truth to the kind of praise that we hear from Job, the Old Testament man who has everything, and winds up reduced to nothing, when he says that he lives with hope, in spite of everything, that he will still see God in his life. True blessing, too, comes from the mouth of one like Job who still calls God holy when things are at their worst.

When everything else is stripped away, then we can bless God for the big things. When everything else is stripped away, it is easier for us to answer Q & A 1 of the Heidelberg Catechism—“What is my only comfort in life and in death? That I am not my own but belong, body and soul, in life and in death, to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ…”

What does Paul bless God for, then? Broadly, for redemption—that’s what’s at the heart of the blessing in verse 7—redemption in Jesus Christ. But it’s not just redemption from sin, death, even hell. It’s redemption with purpose and hope. It’s redemption that doesn’t just save us—it’s a redemption that blesses us and makes us holy.

The broad redemption in this blessing covers at least five specific things (there could be more—I have to tell you this gets a little tricky—Paul was so excited as he blessed God that he produced one of the most remarkably long sentences in the Bible—verses 3 to 14 are one sentence—generations of readers, preachers, New Testament scholars, and translators will be lining up in heaven to ask Paul how on earth he could do this to them!)

The five broad things are these—(1) God has chosen us from the beginning of time to belong to him (in other words, God elected us); (2) that God, from the beginning, chose us not just for salvation, but to be his children; (3) God redeemed us through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ; (4) God revealed all of this to us; (5) and that we can hope for everything to be brought together under Jesus Christ—and that we are being used for God’s glory to accomplish this. There is a sermon in each of those five things. But notice this—at the center—number 3 of the 5—is redemption. But it’s not couched in just being saved from sin or death or hell. The blessings of redemption are all positives. God elects us and adopts us—we are blessed because God chose us and because God knows us intimately. And God draws us into this plan of redemption in a way that extends beyond our individual selves—God gives us knowledge of the plan, and God gives us hope that everything will finally come together for good under Christ. Not only that, but we are being used, together, to make that happen. God invites us into the grand plan. The blessing of redemption is not just about being saved from something—it’s about being made part of something big and wonderful.

And what we are a part of goes beyond ourselves. Ephesians is the book of the New Testament with the biggest emphasis on redemption of the community rather than redemption of the individual. The church is not just an association of individuals, but a body—many parts that make up a whole—many parts that don’t function without each other. The redemption Paul blesses God for is not just his redemption—he calls it our redemption. And he specifically includes the church he writes to—when you heard and believed you were brought into this redemption. It’s not just redemption for me—it’s redemption for the whole church. We aren’t saved alone, we are saved together.

But it’s not just about the church, either—the church is blessed to be a blessing to the world. We bless God, bring God glory, when we work together with God’s will. The church is used to the glory of God when its work is not just to save individual souls, but to save the world. This blessing starts with heavenly things—we receive heavenly blessings, but those blessings bring glory to God when they come together in God’s will—to bring us into the great plan for God’s world. When Paul describes redemption as a heavenly blessing, he is not discounting earthly blessings—he finally brings the two together in the end. All things, he says, are supposed to come together under Christ. It is our privilege, part of God’s blessing to us that we are able to work with God.

This redemption, its broad scope, and all the positive benefits we get from it, this is our primary reason to bless God. Redemption doesn’t mean that we won’t hit rough spots, but it does mean that we always have reason to bless God.

If we want to bless God, then, for these things, Paul has given us reason and scope to bless God in any setting—in moments that are ordinary and unusual, personal and communal, awe-inspiring and mundane, filled with happiness and filled with suffering. In all of these moments, we can cling to, and even catch a glimpse of the wonder of our redemption because redemption remains with us no matter what situation we find ourselves in.

We can bless God everywhere, at any time—all of our work, our play, our relaxing, our striving, all of that can be part of God’s will for the world. All of these things can glorify and honor the God who redeems us. It’s not just overflowing words of praise that bless God, it’s also lives that overflow with service and attentiveness to God’s will. When we bless God, and call God holy, it’s a reminder that we are God’s holy children—blessed and called to work with God.

We can bless even in the midst of pain—because our blessing doesn’t depend on our happiness. It may not make less of our pain to bless God, and it won’t make less of our yearning for a world where God removes every pain and wipes every tear. But even that hope for God’s kingdom to break in is a reason to bless God. That hope is something to cling to in the midst of the worst.

We can bless God for every good gift—for health, for families and friends, for good, sunny days. And as we bless God for these things, we should recognize that every good thing is coming together under Christ, that this movement toward wholeness is part of our redemption. Every good thing is a reminder of the broad scope of our redemption. And every good thing is a glimpse of God’s great plan.

Let us bless the Lord:
Blessed are you, Lord God, King of the Universe.
You have given us every good thing,
But in your great mercy,
you have blessed us with a great redemption:
You called us your own holy people,
and redeemed us in Jesus Christ.
You call us to work for your glory,
And you are calling us together into your kingdom.
For these great gifts, we bless your Holy Name.

Amen.

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Carrying Christ, Traveling Light

• Mark 6:6b-13
• Hope CRC

For those of you who have yet to take this year’s big family summer vacation, here is a quick cautionary tale about packing light—Packing light can be taken too far. Five years ago, my family knew things had gone too far when we found my dad sawing off the handle of his toothbrush. He was thrilled to report exactly how many ounces this subtracted from his camping gear. The basement had become the staging ground for the Schemper family sojourn over the Sierra Range—8 days, from Kings Canyon over the mountains, ending with a summit of Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the continental US, then a quick descent toward Death Valley. Dad had spread out tables with equipment and provisions. He was checking the soundness of our packs, making menus, and plotting courses on maps. But most importantly, he was weighing everything. He had devoured a book on “light-hiking,” hiking fast, with very little weight on your back—hiking without the latest tools and gadgets from REI or the North Face—hiking in a pair of running shoes—because without the extra weight, you didn’t need the ankle support. Everything went on the scale—journals, underwear, flashlights, plastic forks, and toothbrushes.

Now, I must admit, as is frequently the case, that my Dad was right—sawing the toothbrush handle may have been a bit much—but 3 days into the trip, we were glad for light packs. And hikers fitted out with all the latest and greatest gadgetry looked surprised and impressed by the big, happy, family, hiking in the back country in their gym shoes.

And perhaps, on a very simple level, Jesus was simply telling his disciples something similar—you don’t need a lot to venture out on the road preaching and healing. Just get up and go—maybe he was promoting an outdoorsy, simple, nomadic evangelism, back to basics evangelism.

Perhaps, but I am fairly certain that none of you will go home after this sermon and strap on your sandals and grab your walking stick and set out for the next village to preach on the corner. (Although, God works in mysterious ways and maybe, for someone, this will be the moment when you realize that God is calling you to mission work).

If Mark is not just issuing packing instructions for missionaries, then what does this passage mean for us—well off-Christians, not necessarily called to missions or street preaching?
Those first disciples were not just examples and prototypes for people called to missions or evangelism—Jesus’s instructions were for them, but Mark knew they were so important that they should be written down for all of us to hear. What does it mean when we hear Jesus telling us to take to the road, to travel light—with sandals and a walking stick, but no money, no food, no change of clothes, to set out on absolute faith to preach the gospel and heal people?

A clue comes from another lectionary passage for the day: 2 Corinthians 12, where we find a well-loved, well-worn verse: God says to the apostle Paul: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in your weakness.” Paul has been describing his reasons to be proud of himself, but he pulls back, and mentions that he also has a great weakness, a “thorn” which God gave him to keep him humble. But it is in that weakness that he hears those wonderful words—“My grace is sufficient for, for my power is made perfect in your weakness.” God’s grace sufficient for the task of Paul—Paul who was Saul, the man who ran down Christians with eager, zealous, righteous anger, a rising star of the religious authorities of his day. The man who was called to be Paul, called to bring people to Christ with the same fervor. By God’s grace, Paul had the strength, and gifts, and ability—in spite of his weakness—to travel the roads God called him to. And Paul knew that it was only by God’s strength that he could do this—even though Paul must have been a wonderful preacher, a church planter and church growth specialist extraordinaire. At the end of his rope with frustration, with the limits of who he was and what he could accomplish, the only thing Paul could hold onto was God’s grace.

It doesn’t take long to come to the end of your rope is all you have is the clothes on your back and a walking stick. Jesus’s packing instructions leave the disciples with very little to cling to. Because Jesus sends them out with virtually nothing, they can’t fall into the trap of thinking that they are doing things by their own power. You are what you own. The shedding of clothes and possessions is a symbol of the shedding of self. You go out with nothing. Every night of lodging, every meal, is a gift. Every miracle is done in Jesus’s name.

What is important is not that the disciples bring themselves, their own possessions and gifts and powers to the task. What is important is that they bring Jesus to the task.

It is also too narrow to think of these as packing instructions for missionaries. But they are packing instructions for the missions to which each of us are called. I mean mission in the broad sense—the journey of our lives—our callings—not just careers, but family, friends, volunteer work, passions and hobbies, and even the way we interact with the check-out person at the grocery store.

God calls us to these things because God knows we can accomplish them. But how well we do is not just a matter of “doing our best.” In fact, there are times when, no matter how hard we try, our best is not enough. We don’t realize our full potential if all we bring to the task is ourselves. The best gift we bring to any task, and the only thing we can finally rely on, is the grace of Jesus Christ.

One of the greatest stories of the church is the story of the life of Augustine—a man who had amazing gifts, but finally could only rely on Christ.

Augustine lived in the 300s, in northern Africa—it’s a story from a faraway place, but it’s a familiar story—small-town, talented boy making a great life for himself in the big city. Augustine rose from small beginnings, went to the city, was educated in the best schools, showed incomparable talent and intelligence, lived and partied well, moved to the capitol city to begin a great career. He knew he had potential, and he was eager for all the prestige his gifts would give him.

One day, walking down a city street with friends, he saw a drunk, sitting on the curb, begging for money. Maybe the man looked like a failure, but Augustine was stunned to realized that the man was happy—look, he said to his friends, that guy has what he wants. All he needs is enough money for some booze, and he’s just delighted with life. We have so much more than he does, and so much more potential, but we aren’t happy. We are longing after success. But, when we are successful, will we really be anything more than that drunk on the curb? Is our success really anything more than cheap intoxication?

Gifts, talents, great potential and privilege, but there was always something missing—no matter how good his life looked, there was a great hole in the middle. And Augustine slowly began to figure out what it was…

At age 43, reflecting on his early life, he wrote this: “Our hearts are restless, Lord, until they rest in you.” God was the missing piece—success was just one more thing that he tried to fit into a hole that could only be filled by God. And it wasn’t until God fit into that hole that Augustine’s life was complete—that his calling clear. With God, he was the person he was meant to be. When he brought Christ to the task, his gifts and abilities fit together perfectly to support the journey God called him to.

One thing I find interesting is that Augustine never hits absolute rock bottom—except spiritually. He has success within his grasp. He has overwhelming gifts—intelligence, education, connections, and a fabulous mother who prays ceaselessly for him. Jesus does not pull him out of the gutter. But Augustine still realizes the truth of what Paul writes: that the success he experiences in the journey God calls him to is impossible unless he brings Christ to the task.

Sometimes, when we hear, “My power is made perfect in weakness” we assume that it must be a weakness that is great and obvious, especially to the eyes of the world. But we are all weak, even if we are weak in some hidden corner of our lives which others never see. Maybe we’ve learned how to compensate for our weakness—maybe we can disguise it from others—or maybe we just ignore it—maybe we figure we can pull ourselves away from weakness on our own.

What’s amazing, though, is that God actually wants our weakness out in the open. God doesn’t want the strongest—because it’s easy to hide weakness behind strength. God wants people who admit that no matter how good they may look, there’s weakness on the inside. God wants people who know that no matter how capable they seem, their best is just not enough.

Jesus’ advice to travel light, then, saves us from the need to be humbled. It’s advice to the weary traveler, like Augustine, who finally puts down all the extra gear—the ego, the weighty expectations of success—and finds that the only equipment necessary is the grace of Jesus Christ.

In fact, we can’t truly know our vocation until we set aside the weight of ourselves. Rowan Williams, archbishop of Canterbury, points this out in a sermon on vocation. He says that if you really get down to it, we often see our callings as weighty, unwieldy things that God drops onto us—a role that we have to play whether we want to or not. Perhaps there are other things you could do, but God has called you to this (burdensome) task.

But to be called by God, he says, is not so much about being cast in a role—it’s about being called out to, being named. God says—this is who you are supposed to be. And in that sense, it’s freedom—we’re called to be what we are supposed to be. We can shed every other expectation placed on us and step into our own skins. (To go back to the analogies about hiking, anyone who’s spent a day with a 40 pound pack on their back knows that your body suddenly becomes your body again the minute you shed the pack. Talk about freedom—you may be tired and sore, but without that extra weight, you worry that you might just float away.)

What is the first thing we are called to, then? The first thing God says to us when he names us is—you are mine. You belong to Jesus Christ. Erik and I just spent 2 days with his mother’s big, warm, extended family on the Moe family farm in Chetek, WI. One of the great highlights of the weekend was the baptism of the newest family member—Brooklynn Marie. At the end of the baptism, they did something that I thought a the time was a little time-consuming—you may have seen here how the pastor will say to a baby who’s been baptized—“ child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever” Well, Brooklynn heard something like this 8 times—3 ministers, her parents, and her aunts and her uncle (who are her godparents) all held her in turn and made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and said, “Brooklynn Marie, you are Christ’s own, marked with the cross forever.” But we can’t hear that too many times. We can’t have the cross marked on our bodies and souls too often. Because that alone is our calling. That is the first thing we are—children of God, marked with the cross, and the grace, or Jesus Christ. It’s only when we hear that call from God that everything else about who we are and what we are meant to do falls into place.

That we belong to Christ, that we only know who we are by his grace, is finally all we have to offer—to others, and to ourselves—as we set out on the journey’s God calls us to. Jesus’s directions for the journey are simple: Packing everything we think we might need will only weigh us down. But carrying Christ will free us to go where God calls us.

May God give each of us the grace to set aside everything that weighs us down. Glory be to Jesus Christ, who calls us and frees us to be ourselves.
Amen.

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