WRITTEN THINGS
Sermons • Songs • Etceteras
Good morning, Beloved of God! And what a Good morning it is. Today we celebrate the Feast of Pentecost, the Birthday of Christ’s Church by the Power of Mother Spirit, and the Third in a Trinity of High Holy Days in the Christian Liturgical Year. With the Holy Mother and the Midwives, we witnessed the Very Good Love of Eternal God born in flesh at Christmas. With Mary Magdalene and the women who stayed, we tasted the everlasting goodness of the Bread of Life, the Living Water who is Christ, Resurrected at Easter. And today, with the 12 Apostles, a few other men, and at least a hundred Women, according to Acts 1, we are Born anew of Breath and Fire, formed into One Body — the Body of Christ, and His Second Coming— by the Indwelling of God’s Eternally Hovering Holy Spirit. Our Beginning, Our Brother, Our Breath: One God, now and forever. And so I pray: Holy Spirit you are welcome here As many of you know, I traveled down to San Antonio, TX at the end of April for a gathering of almost 200 visual artists and musicians by invitation of the Kairos Center for Religions, Rights, and Social Justice. We spent three intense days together, teaching and learning and learning how to teach and write Songs in the Key of Resistance: That is, new songs for a new generation of human and civil rights organizers, activists, and marchers for peace and justice. Since returning, I’ve gotten to teach and lead a number of those songs both here and at broader public actions like MayDay down in Salem, and will continue to do so. But for today, I want to tell you more about the last thing we did as a gathered mass of cultural organizers. We left before dawn on our final morning and headed up to the South Texas ICE Processing Center in San Antonio which detains, processes, and traffics thousands of people each month to other for-profit detention centers, which are really concentration camps for our disappeared siblings. We were invited there by a local pastor whose congregants have made daily presence at the facility a sacred act of worship, who asked to come not as agitators or protestors, but as family called in to offer presence, bear witness, and testify to who and what we saw, and to the power of testimony in itself. When we arrived around 9:30 that morning, we marched in silence from our buses to the facility about a quarter mile away and arranged ourselves in a wide horseshoe around the facility. We occupied every sidewalk to the end of the street so that every single one of our stolen siblings who entered the valley of the shadow of death could know: No están solos, No están solos “You are not alone, you are not alone, together we bring about liberation.” We prayed, we chanted, We raised our fists in solidarity with the detained, and looked in the eyes of every driver that came and went, filling and emptying their vans of God’s Beloved, not to shame them but to proclaim that we would not let them hide behind the blacked out windows of their 21st century death trains, and to plead with them by the Divine Power of Spirit humming and thrumming between us, to un-bury and resurrect their humanity from this cemetery of hate. And we sang. Over and over, we sang our songs of Freedom.
We were only supposed to be there for 30 or 45 minutes, but having heard and seen our convocation, someone from inside came out to tell us a man set for deportation would be in front of the judge soon, and if we could stay just a little longer it might save his life, so we stayed. And we sang.
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 "Saint Stephen" ©TheModernSaints (Etsy) This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on May 3, 2026. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here (sermon begins at 35:45). The sermon with captions may be viewed here or below . Scripture texts: John 14:1-14 | Acts 7:(1-54) 55-60 Good morning, Beloved of God, you whose heart and hearts may be troubled by this world. At least my heart is. Which is problematic in the face of Jesus’s opening instruction. “Trust me,” he says: “Do not let your hearts become agitated, trust me instead, and trust my father in whose house there are many rooms which I’m going to prepare for you.” We’ll come back to this in a bit, but for now I have to confess that I am troubled. My spirit is agitated and I have often found myself terrified of what is and is to come in this particular age of empires. Friends, I am troubled, because the times are troubling. And I am alive.
Even so, or better said and so, today I choose to venerate the Word -- the Living One -- who delivers an incomprehensible promise of union with him and the Great Father, Mother, Holy Other to his closest friends on the last and worst night of his life, his last words to them before he is executed as an enemy of the State; and I want to honor Stephen, a man whose story is a blip we rarely cover, but who is so rooted in this Christ and his Way that he faces his own killing and killers with supernatural clarity and empathy as they lynch him as an enemy of God and of Truth. Both of them, one killed by the state, the other by those who wish they had that kind of power, tenderly remind us that nothing is new under this blessed sun, and even here, even now, even amidst all of the escalating alls, we know the Way. To enter Stephen’s story, we must enter the book and world of Acts for a moment, which is the sequel to and the continuation of Luke’s gospel. It roughly covers the years 30-60 C.E., tracing the Life of the Apostles from the immediate aftermath of Jesus’s death and resurrection to the execution of Paul. But because It wasn’t actually written until between 88 and 90 C.E., nearly 60 years later, we are wise to hear these stories alongside those for whom they was written, with all the era’s grotesquely violent religious and cultural persecution, faction wars, social and cultural destruction, and ever-escalating political turmoil in mind. Those six decades saw some truly diabolical evil, including the crucifixions and killings of tens of thousands of Judeans as rebels against Rome, which culminated with the new Roman Emperor’s decimation of Jerusalem and razing of Solomon’s Temple to ash in 70 C.E., which settled once and for all that the world belonged to the Roman Empire, and as Brigitte Kahl writes, “proclaimed the emperors’ triumph not so much over a competing world power as over [the] rival worldview that people should be free to live in independence of imperial domination.” We aren’t then yet. But that plundered and pillaged Temple is at the heart of today’s story and its importance among the religious elite becomes the impetus for their own grotesque violence. See, Stephen will be stoned precisely because he proclaims the good news that neither that Temple nor any other house built by human hands can contain God, any more than God’s presence can be controlled or limited or withheld from anyone by anyone, not even those who lead in God’s name according to God’s law which they, like their ancestors, actively defy from within the Temple which has become their idol. God is in us, Stephen says. Indeed that word may become very good news to his killers or their descendants who remember his speech decades later in the wake of the Temple’s destruction, but for now his sermon is sacrilege, and punishable by death. But before we get there, let’s look at Stephen’s context in the early chapters of Acts, just after Jesus ascended.  "The Incredulity of Saint Thomas" (Caravaggio c. 1601) This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on April 12, 2026. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here (sermon begins at 35:45). The sermon with captions may be viewed here or below . Scripture texts: John 20:19-31 Peace be with you, beloved of God.
This morning we get to peek into the mind, body, and heart of a man who’s been veiled in a very particular reputation over the millennia since Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection. He’s been known across time as “Doubting Thomas,” and to be honest, the first time I was tasked with it, I was not thrilled to preach about the disciple I was taught never to be like; the disciple I seemed to mirror anyway, in all the wrong ways. I have always doubted and always wanted proof because my faith has never been an easy blessing but something I’ve worked out in such fear and trembling that I was well into my 20s before I permitted myself to entertain what author David Dark calls “the sacredness of questioning everything.” It took a few more years after that to lose god altogether, which I did …about 10 years ago. And when I tell you I lost god, I mean it in the most literal sense: In the midst of 2016 Syrian civil war, as babies were washing ashore and being pulled from the rubble of bombed buildings, I laid awake at night asking some of the heaviest and hardest questions of my life. Questions about evil and suffering and why God never did anything about the world’s unmitigated grief and violence. And then I woke up one morning with an overwhelming clarity that it was because, simply, there is no god. It’s not that I stopped believing, but that god had never existed to begin with. And my life was a lie. The loss was exactly that sharp, terrifying, and painful, but it was honest.  " This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on Maundy Thursday of Holy Week, April 2, 2026. It was not livestreamed. Video and lyrics of the song "Judas" which I sang at the end of this sermon are below. Scripture text: John 13:1-17, 31-35 Good evening, Beloved. I know I say this about all the Holy Days, but Maundy Thursday is my favorite. Partly because it was entirely new to me in 2018 -- in my evangelical tradition, we didn’t mark the Last Supper, the night when Jesus spilled water and love for his disciples before spilling his blood. And partly because at that service, during the stripping of the altar, my friend Dave performed a song he wrote in which the chorus just repeated “If you can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, if you can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.” Amidst all the endless and extreme police violence against our Black siblings, it moved me deeply.
Which was weird, because at that point in my life, I was faithless. I had lost god altogether, and religion didn’t make a lot of sense to me. But that song, during the coming-apart, the taking-apart of the altar, rang like a bell in my body. I didn’t understand it, but I felt it. And it made me want to write a song, too. A song about grief and betrayal, about what it means to stay with someone during the breaking of their body and remain a witness to it all. About love and its lack. And believe me, I tried. Many times over the coming years. But songs are tricky. For me, at least, they aren’t so much written as they are born, and like babies, they’re rarely born on time. So I let it go. And I started another chapter because, and this is true, after that same Maundy Thursday service, as Dave and I talked about how powerful his song was, he said, “You should go to seminary.” Like I said -- I didn’t even believe in god, and I told him so! But he was insistent, like Pastor Kelly -- I swear they were in cahoots -- that there were more people like me in the pews than most church leaders wanted to admit, and they deserved pastors too. I told him he was bonkers, that it wasn’t gonna happen, and started seminary the next fall. Four years later, I was finishing seminary with my pastoral internship during which I was tasked with designing some kind of project to define my year and my pastoral identity. I stumbled upon what ultimately became mine somewhat accidentally -- or, perhaps a better word would be providentially -- when my supervising pastor Tom, a man who became a friend, confidante, mentor, sage, and father figure of sorts when mine was nowhere to be found; a man who doggedly championed me and made space for all my gifts to find breath and space and life in the congregation, invited me to sing for the first time on my other favorite liturgical Holy Day, All Saints Sunday. As I searched for a song to fit the day, what happened instead was that I wrote one of my own. Not long after that, I wrote another that followed the Baptism of Jesus and his first miracle at Cana, marking the beginning of his ministry. It had been a long time since songs came to me like that, more or less writing themselves. After Elijah was born and we moved from Nashville where I’d spent the previous 8 years as a professional recording and touring artist, I thought that part of my life was done. So I was surprised, delighted, and overcome, really, when a few songs of grief, protest, and sacred fury poured out of me in the wake of George Floyd’s murder in 2020. I was two years deep in seminary with that part of my self packed away, but in those long, brutal days when we were in the streets screaming for justice or spending overnights in church basements organizing mounds of clothing and food donations, and re-stocking street medics with necessary gear for the uprising that would and should not sleep, I felt deep kinship with the prophet Jeremiah who said, “God’s word is like a fire in my heart, a fire shut up in my bones, and I cannot hold it in.” Which is not to say I am a prophet; only that when Spirit moves, especially after years of drought, it’s impossible to contain. So I spilled, I sang, I wrote. And it felt for a moment like resurrection. But after that, songs went quiet again for another year and a half. Words wouldn’t come, and they can’t be forced. So I sang those old songs over and over, and I waited.
Good morning, beloved of God, you who bear God to this community in your many and varied bodies, you who show us who God is in your very flesh as it is today. I bid you good morning and declare it to be one, because we get to spend this time together.
Here at Augustana, we make a point every Sunday to affirm the vastness of God’s beauty, the fullness of God’s glory, and the divinity of God’s image as it is revealed in every one of us. We joyously proclaim that when we say “all are welcome as you are,” we mean it, and that when you’re here you’re home. And almost every week, we affirm to each other out loud that we are made in God’s image and are beautiful as we are. I’m grateful to be in such a community -- it is one of the reasons I so enthusiastically accepted your call. I am also hyper-aware, this week in particular, of how vast is the gap between what we speak, believe, and do, as a nation, society, and church. Because we are people living in both time and eternity, both on the ground and in glory, we live in tension between what is and what ought to be and where we fit on the bridge between them. And even though we love hard and love well, there will always be room, as the Apostle Paul said in 1 Thessalonians, to “Excel still more.” Excellence is often, I’m sorry to say, expensive and inconvenient. This is all especially real to me today because our Gospel is about more than the miraculous healing of a man born with blindness -- in fact, some suggest and I’m inclined to agree it’s not actually about that at all. It is, instead, about us, and our relationship to him. Let me start by saying that I am a disabled person whose home is full of disabled people.
Good morning, Augustana! And welcome to the end of the beginning, or perhaps the beginning of the end. Today is the culmination of the season of Epiphany, the celebration of the manifestation of God in Christ. And a curious end it is. After spending six weeks reveling in the magnificent vulgarity of God transgressing the boundaries of eternity to become flesh and blood in the birth of baby Jesus, a sacred transfusion of holiness into the humdrum of humanity; today we come to the mountaintop, alongside Peter, James, and John, to witness God transcend the boundaries of flesh and blood and earth and matter, to reveal Their blinding majesty in the transfigured Christ.
I, for one, love that every single year on Transfiguration Sunday we have occasion to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar in worship and wonder for a moment at the similarly magnificent transmogrification of a caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly. That story skips over the vulgarity of the process, even as it shows us in vivid color what a caterpillar must do to Become with a capital B. But we, friends, will not skip over it today, because it’s incredible and illuminating. See, in nature, metamorphosis -- which is the English translation of the Greek word MetamorPHOo, which our Scriptures translate as “transfiguration” -- is an extraordinary process of utter, total, disgusting un- and re-becoming, of death and resurrection, of transfiguring from one kind of being and body to another one entirely, through a four-stage process from egg to larva to pupa and, finally, winged adult. According to Wonderopolous, an educational hub created and designed for kids but is also perfect for my own grown-up imagination, it is “during this Pupa stage that the caterpillar’s old body dies and a new body forms inside a protective shell known as a chrysalis…. There the caterpillar's body digests itself from the inside out: The same juices our Very Hungry Caterpillar once used to digest all that delicious food as a larva, it now uses to break down its own body…into imaginal cells. These Imaginal -- or, imagined -- cells are undifferentiated, which means they can become any type of cell which come together to form the new body” from the sludge. What’s striking to me about that whole process -- aside from the fact that it’s magical and gross -- is that 80% of all animal species do it. Not in the exact same way, but they do go through metamorphosis. It also strikes me that biologically speaking, humans don’t -- at least not according to what we know so far. Except….we know it can happen. Because it has happened, and way more than once.  "30 years of light” ©2023 Adrienn Krahl This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on February 8 2026. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here (sermon begins at 46:30). The sermon with captions may be viewed here or below . Scripture texts: Isaiah 58:1-12, 1 Corinthians 2:1-16, Matthew 5:13-20 May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to you my God. Amen.
Good morning, Beloved of God. As we begin, I want us to hold this truth that adrienne maree brown articulated which has been rolling around in my body all week, all these past few weeks, for months, for the past 10 years: “Things are not getting worse, they are getting uncovered. We must hold each other tight as we continue to pull back the veil.” It’s hard to sit with all the alls and believe that things aren’t getting worse, right? And yet we know it’s true: the longer humanity perseveres, the more iterations of the cycle we have to witness and learn from: from hard fought revolutions and the periods of reconstruction and world-building that follow, to seasons of relative peace and progress when the ripe fruits of labor are sweetest and juiciest, to the momentary ease of napping in the expectation that it will always be this good, even as powers and principalities reorganize against us, until the time comes when we’re once again shaken from our slumber by the violence of unrelenting forces which demand from us an even more relentless hope. There is nothing new under the sun, nor is any of it especially surprising to our Maker, Mother God, nor even to students and survivors of history. Nothing that is secret will not be made known. Let us hold each other tight as we pull back the veil, because the things we have seen and have yet to see need all of our witness, all our prophetic and parental and personal presence and action. And let us be thankful and attend to God’s word, which remains both living and active across the ages, especially today. For in both Isaiah and Matthew, we are given clear permission and decisive instruction on what precisely is required of us in these moments of revelation and revolution.  “Ancient Spirit of Wisdom” ©Jassy Watson Art This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on January 4, 2026. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here. (It may viewed here or below. The sermon begins at 32:00.) Scripture texts: John 1:1-18 , Sirach 24:1-12 May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing to you Oh Lord, my pulse, my breath, my life. Amen.
Blessed new year, friends, and welcome to 2026! All is not well. Yesterday, our authoritarian leader kidnapped another authoritarian leader and his wife, for committing the same alleged crimes he already pardoned another authoritarian leader for committing. As nations, and people, hang in the balance, to us a child is born. Last night, bombs our taxes pay for instead of healthcare and education rained down on our siblings in Gaza and Venezuela, killing God’s Image Bearers. And as the whole world looks on in horror at what demands deep analysis — why and how we got here, and what we ought to do to claw our way to some kind of sanity — to us a child is given. When everything in us cries out for justice, answers, a step by step YouTube video for saving ourselves and our neighbors, Christ comes, but alas: not as a king or a general; not as a professor with a syllabus, or a justice with a gavel. He comes as a baby, as A Word — a Living One, an ancient one, but still just a Word. Calling us to a different posture: of listening and hearing, not hustling. No, this Word will not be hustled. He will take decades to become the man who will stay dashing the expectations of those thirsty for war rather than a Way through. He will stay moving like Mist, like Mystery, like Mother, among those itching for a Master. Because he is, we’ll come to find, a Mama’s Boy, and She’s not so much visible in the color of his eyes and hair, as in the shuffle of his steps and the way he smooths his garments; in the tender way he holds his disciple’s feet as he washes them, and the way he cloaks his words in wait for ears to bend.  images L-R: "Tamar Belle-Fille De Juda, 1960” (Marc Chagall) | “Rahab” (artist unknown) | "Ruth Takes Away the Barley" (James J. Tissot) | “Bathsheba" (Marc Chagall: 1962–1963) This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on December 21, 2025. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here. (The sermon begins at the 41:49) Scripture texts: Isaiah 7:10-16 • Romans 1:1-7 • Matthew 1:(1-17) 18-25 Good morning, beloved of Christ!
This week I’ve been thinking a lot about ancestry. About how little I actually know about my own apart from each of my sets of grandparents, and the fact that I was named for my great-grandmother Amy. In fact, just this past summer I was talking to my parents about her over dinner, revisiting this old story they told about how her real name was Amelia Josephenie. But since my parents didn’t know that until I was 7 or 8 years old, they named me Amy Jo, as she was called, and I escaped being called such an old-timey name. I went on to share that over time, as I’ve grown older and wiser and, I like to think, more sophisticated, I lament my parents’ faulty knowledge. Because now, at 44, I would love such a beautiful and timeless name to be mine! Well, as I was retelling this, my mom was looking at me funnier and funnier, and by the time I was done, she said, “that’s not true. We never told you that! We always knew her name was Amelia, though they always called her Amy, and we picked Jo for your middle name because it was easy.” When I tell you, friends, how aghast I was! I swear I did not make that story up, and none of us know where the tale originated or how it became part of my personal lore. I suspect it was another one of my sisters’ tall tales, like when they all got together to convince me I was adopted. That was terrible. In any case, I have since learned through some digging that her full name was actually Amelia Henrietta Terry Craig, which is also beautiful, and makes me want to learn more about where she came from -- where I come from. But for today’s purposes, it just made me really interested in the part of Matthew chapter 1 that we skip over to begin at verse 18 in today’s gospel. So I’m going to take us back into it for a bit, not just because it lays the firm and vital foundation that Matthew’s entire gospel is built upon, though it does. What interests me is how much it tells us about who God is, and how God wanted to be known when God was born: Because Immanuel wasn’t born as some pristine out-of-nowhere starchild. He came as One who chose to make certain histories his own when he took on flesh and blood, and dwelt among us.  "Jesus Said Love Everyone" © J Kirk Richards A number of years ago I was sitting and talking with a very Calvinist family member about the nature of God and humans. Generally speaking, I hate those conversations because they aren't about contemplation, curiosity, or learning; instead, they're performative competitions to see who will say the "best" thing and who will say the "wrongest" thing. I especially hated these discussions with this particular person, because they were always trying, more than anyone else in the family, to prove they belonged: That they were smart enough, self-loathing enough, argued well enough to ride with the family. It often made them mean and cruel, both directly, in how they deliberately baited, mocked, and tried to humiliate me, and indirectly in how they egged others on to do the same. They were, I think, another black sheep in the world who found a place among my kin where, if they played it right, they could appear slightly more white next to me and a couple others, and they played as often as they could.
Anyway, at that point in time I was deeeeeeep in agnosticism and everything was a question. Which, for me, was so liberating. I'd never had permission to actually question or doubt or altogether scrap religious doctrines or ideas -- at least, not the deep deep ones I was told hold everything together -- but then the bottom fell out and everything I knew was in dust and pieces and the only thing you can do at that point is sift through the mess to see why and how it crumbled, and decide if it's worth reassembling, and with which bits. It made it so much easier and funner to engage the topics at hand, because I had nothing theologically to win or lose either way. I was free. Suffice to say, my family was not with me on that journey. So as we "discussed" (read: as this family member worked to talk me into a "gotcha" corner), we came around to this idea that God loves us. People. And this was the one thing I was (and am) steadfast about: If God exists (and that's a big IF), and made us, and made us in God's own image (i.e. "like and of God"), then God definitely and irrevocably loves us, full stop. That, I had already decided, was my baseline. They did not agree. In fact, for the next ten minutes they argued that God hates them and all the rest of us, and that this is right and good and holy. They contended that they are actually so abominable and disgraceful, so full of sin and shame and garbage, that they deserved all the medical hell they'd recently suffered, and infinitely worse. And that the only reason they didn't suffer and die from all that painful agony, the months spent in the hospital, is because they are "saved by Jesus" who died in their place and made it so when God looks at them, God only sees Jesus. Which is good, because God does Love Jesus. God really respects Jesus for all that suffering he endured to assuage God's wrath and satisfy God's rage. And however much God hates and despises them and the rest of us -- and boy howdy, they said, God really does hate and wants to send all of us to hell forever -- God loves Jesus even more. And that's how they're saved; that's how all salvation works. God loves and respects Jesus more than God hates the rest of us. As I listened, it didn't so much as stun me as it did quiet me all the way to my center. I had no idea that was what they thought about themself or what they truly believed about how God sees them and me and everyone. I told them, softly then, "I don't really know what to say about that." Weirdly, that made them drop their guard. They weren't used to the other party having no rebuttal (or at least passionately agreeing, as the choir must). They weren't used to someone not knowing what to say next. So the energy shifted and got a little rounder. And that's how we left it. Me, in the dead silence of their truth -- them with its deafening roar. In the hours and days and years that followed, my only and abiding thought was and remains: What if they knew they are loved? And not just loved, but lovable. What if they knew in their belly that God and other people really do love them, Jesus aside, and all sin and humanness considered: God loves them. We love them. (( I )) love them. Fully, irrevocably, without condition or caveat, just because they are made of love and wonder and God, and are inherently and indelibly lovable. What would they be like if they knew they cannot out-run or out-sin or out-anything their belovedness?  “Christ of the Breadlines” ©1952 Fritz Eichenberg This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on November 23, 2025. The sermon alone may be viewed below. The full service livestream may viewed here. (The sermon begins at the 48:09) Scripture texts: Jeremiah 23:1-6 • Colossians 1:11-20 • Luke 23:33-43 Good morning Augustana and welcome to the Feast of Christ the King -- aka the Solemnity of Christ, aka the Reign of Christ, aka the Majesty of Christ Sunday. It’s the last day of the Liturgical year, and the culmination of our journey through Luke’s gospel, as we prepare once more to enter a season of waiting through the cold dark of night for Christ to come again and again and again. It is the newest Feast of the church year, instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925, but the reign of Christ is by no means a new idea or doctrine -- it is merely the Church's annual commemoration of the ancient and essential truth which was passed down through the ages and has long been a central tenet of Christian theology. It dates back to Cyril, the 5th century Archbishop of Alexandria, who served during a socio-political era marked by the peoples’ excessive debauchery and violence. To these he declared that Christ’s “dominion over all creatures is not seized by violence nor usurped, but [is] his by essence and by nature. His kingship is founded upon the hypostatic union -- [that is, the total and impenetrable fullness of both Divinity and Humanity extant in Christ alone.] And so, “Christ alone is to be adored by angels and men [as He alone] has power over all creatures.”
Of course Cyril’s proclamation was just a more-defined affirmation of the Nicene Creed we still affirm today, which was an elucidation of what the author of Colossians wrote in today’s second reading, which was, going back even further, a summation of what the Apostle Paul wrote in his epistles to the Romans, Corinthians, and the Philippians in particular. That said, Pope Pius XI’s reaffirmation and commemoration of Christ’s eternal reign was anything but incidental. In fact, his Quas Primas encyclical was written in the aftermath of World War I, which saw the violent fall of no fewer than four empires, and so was a direct confrontation and scathing criticism of the global rise in secularism, white supremacy, and ultra-nationalism. It was also a declarative summation and explication of all that ancient church wisdom up to and including, significantly, the work of Pope Leo XIII who consecrated the whole of humanity to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, in his 1899 proclamation that the promise and hope of Christ’s eternal reign belongs not just to “Christians” but to everything and everyone whom God created and imbued with Their divine image. And dare I say, beloved, we still need the promise and proclamation of Christ’s primacy now as much as ever, do we not? We, too, live in a moment in time when self-styled kings are working feverishly to establish and maintain their own dominion and rule. When religious leaders have aligned themselves with political ones, as Israel and Judah once did, not yet aware that their cooperation with the Empires of earth will only and inevitably lead to their and their peoples captivity and oppression. There are scores of pastors and preachers who’ve traded confrontation for collaboration in an attempt to install “christian” kings, to theologically and politically rule over the nations, despite that every emperor who’s ever been converted to Christianity has in turn, and invariably, converted Christianity to Empire.  “Moses with the Burning Bush” © 1963 Mark Chagall This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on November 9, 2025. The sermon alone may be viewed below. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here. Scripture texts: Haggai 1:15-2:9 • 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5 • Luke 20:27-38 Good morning, Augustana! I am excited to be with you again today, to preach God’s word. And so I pray that the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart may be pleasing to Creator God, Brother Christ, Spirit of Breath and Fire.
Before I begin, I’ll just note how rare it is for me to preach more than one, never mind all three, lectionary texts at one time but I will today, and for good reason, so buckle up and hold on tight because we’re gonna do some time traveling, and we’re going to start with a little imagination exercise I heard a few years ago when the hosts of one of my favorite podcasts made a whole episode about how truly bonkers the notion of time travel really is: Imagine, they said -- and I invite you to do so now -- imagine a person from the from Bronze Age stumbling upon a portal to Now, a fantastical time when all information, knowledge, and wisdom from every age, civilization, and empire that’s ever been -- including their own -- and every human advancement, from paper and ink to digital art and auto and air travel, and doctors who can replace a person’s heart with someone else’s, and computers and the internet through which we can organize people from all over the world for time-coordinated actions of global resistance to tyranny, or conversely teenagers can create mountains of dank memes; is available to them and everyone else they encounter, every moment of the day through a little black mirror of lights and sounds and moving pictures that fits in the palm of their hands and in the so-called pockets of these leg contraptions called pants. Imagine they’re stuck here for a decade or two, and somehow, against all odds, they learn to live with us — to speak our languages, grasp our technology, and participate in our cultural rituals like baptism and beer pong. And when they return to their own timeline with their iPhone that somehow remains connected to our modern satellites which can transmit all that Wondrous Reality Beyond to their community way back then, they are not immediately detained and executed but survive to share the mysteries of ages beyond, and try to explain it to all their neighbors. Imagine them attempting to explain the fact that other worlds exist beyond this one, beyond the moon, billions of lightyears away, and we know it because humans created tools that allow them to peer into the past, present, and future, through long metal tubes with a pieces of glass on each end which, when you look through them, can make imperceptibly tiny things huge and bring infinitely far-away things up close. “Look, let me show you,” they would say. “And let me tell you about how they’re learning to reconceptualize time altogether through the theory of quantum physics.” As they tell their tale, they gain a following of devotees who truly believe them, and think they must be some kind of god from beyond, which they kind of are. But along with the fanatics are groups of people who haven’t lost their minds but are actually reasonable and understand how asinine these claims really are. So, for everyone’s sake, they set out to prove the traveler is a charlatan and liar, with “gotcha” questions that’re sure to be their undoing -- questions that will be, of course, rendered meaningless and nonsensical in light of the truth. I bet some of you can see where this is headed, but let’s not get there too soon.
Good morning. I have spent much of this week with one question in mind which is this: how the heck do you preach one last sermon? Do I try to encapsulate every word of counsel or encouragement I’ve ever offered, or summarize all that I hope and pray for you as you continue to bloom and become long after I’m gone. I considered doing one more deep-dive word nerd study just for funsies. I also considered trying out a Greatest Hits type sermon where I lay out one more time all the things you’ve heard me preach during our two years together. That would be fun, right!?! Rattling off sermon points like one of those hit mash-up songs from a decade ago — a decade ago!?! — a decade ago. I’m aging myself, I know.
But I ended up doing what I always try to do, which was to listen for Spirit’s whisper through the cacophony of All the Things happening in and around me and let me tell you what a cacophony it has been and remains: from prepping a house for sale to donating bags and bags of our life to thrift stores, to attending one last Bishop’s Theological Conference with pastors John and Lydia and other clergy from our Synod, to attending a vigil in Appleton in solidarity with and for the protection of our immigrant siblings, to my last rehearsal ever with my beloved Simple Gifts family (one of whom is playing violin today — thank you so much, Nate), to commending our beloved Wes Lindstrom’s life to God’s eternal rest and Bishop Yeheil Curry to his new call as our Churchwide presiding bishop, this week has been loud. And Spirit is often too quiet to hear until I hunker down and feel for Her breath, but as I did, the Word She gave me to give to you, to us, on this brutiful day, is as simple and obvious as it is profound. Faith. Just: Faith. Of course, there is no “just” to Faith. That word alone feels at once full to overflowing with infinite meaning and possibility, and conversely, emptied, drained, utterly flattened by overuse, misuse, and abuse. Which is unfortunate for us Lutherans who confess as our most fundamental identity that We are God’s Alone by Faith Alone through Grace Alone, by nothing but the power of Christ Alone, lest any of us should boast. And what a bold and brave proclamation that is, especially at a time when Faith is being weaponized as both shield and sword against our most vulnerable neighbors — immigrants, Trans folks, the poor, homeless, the sick, the starved, occupied, exploited, bombed, and slaughtered, all across the world —with so-called faith underpinning it all. And so, given that today’s Gospel revolves around this messy word Faith and its unmatched power in the lives of the beloved, I want us to dwell not on what Faith is but what Jesus tells us true Faith Does. Because it’s not any of that.  "Homeless Jesus" by sculptor Timothy Schmalz This sermon was first preached at Gethsemane Lutheran Church in Hopkins, MN, on September 21, 2025. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here. The sermon alone is below. Scripture texts: Amos 8:4-7 • Luke 16:1-13 “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” For those who’ve never heard those words before, they were written by Feminist Poet, Author, and civil rights activist Audre Lorde in her 1979 essay of the same title. In it she writes at length about the systems and structures of power under which all managers and marginalized people are held captive and turned into each other’s enemies, by the masters of wealth, class, and politics. She rightly recognizes that, “The master’s tools may allow us to temporarily beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.”
And friends, her words still ring true. In view of our culture’s dominant economic, social, and political systems, social transformation can feel impossible to those who recognize that it relies upon a kind of reversal these systems are not designed to create or even tolerate. Which means that so long as we, whether by ignorance or intention, remain participants in the current order, which may appear at times to favor us while oppressing others, or vice versa, none of us will ever really be free. Put another way: As it has always been throughout history, including when Jesus lived and taught and died, so it remains: Our world and its institutions are built to work more like casinos than cathedrals of liberty. Some individuals will always be allowed to get lucky and win big, if only to keep everyone else hopeful enough to spend more, but the House will always win. And none of its tools or games -- even in the best and most skilled or sly hands -- will ever be able to take the house down. Before you ask what any of this has to do with us, let me tell you it has everything to do with Jesus’s parable in Luke 16. Because what we see happening in today’s text is precisely what Audre Lorde wrote about:  “Christ Breaks the Rifle” © Kelly Latimore Icons This sermon was first preached at Gethsemane Lutheran Church in Hopkins, MN, on August 31, 2025 in the aftermath of the mass shooting at Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis, MN. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here. The sermon alone is below. Amy opens with the song“A Kin-dom Here” [by Amy Courts] and closes with “Flags” by Brooke Ligertwood from her album of the same title. Scripture texts: Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 • Luke 14:1, 7-14 . **Poor sound quality during the livestream of the sermon and songs could not be corrected.** Beloved, I begin here today, not at the pulpit but with a guitar and a song because today is brutal. This week has been brutal. As a mother, a neighbor, a pastor, I just haven’t had words. And so often, when I am without words, Spirit sings to me and in me and for me, birthing pleas and prayers for some way forward -- this, a prayer written in the wake of another act of barbaric violence, because all my hope for whatever else is to come is rooted in my desperation for a better Kin-dom -- one birthed in us and by us. I want to trust the birth pangs, that Life will make its way when death is all around.
In truth, I spent a lot of this week crying -- in my car, in my therapist’s office, at the piano, in bed, in the shower… just crying with grief for parents who lost whole universes this week, and whose universes survived but not without injury or trauma, and listening to songs on repeat that helped me cry more. As I cried, Spirit reminded me of so many weeping mothers in Scripture — like Jeremiah 31:15, which Matthew quotes early in his gospel, describing the terror of King Herod’s slaughter of all the baby boys in around Jerusalem: “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” I clung to the promise of Isaiah 2, when the Temple of the Most High is finally established, and where, from God’s throne on high on that Holy Mountain, God judges between the nations, not to usher in new waves of death, but to instead settle their disputes. Then, instead of warring, the people, “will beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks.” Can you imagine? Weapons of death turned into tools of life? I dug into Hebrews in which the author, probably Priscilla, tells us how to Live when death and destruction abound.  "The Body of Christ: We All Belong" ©️Gary Thomas This sermon was first preached at Gethsemane Lutheran Church in Hopkins, MN, on November 17, 2025 as part of our August sermon series, "The Body of Christ." The full livestream of the service may be viewed here. The scripture text & sermon alone are below. Scripture text: Ephesians 1:15-23 Good morning, beloved of God. Today as we dive into the meat of Ephesians 1 and the culmination of this Pauline author’s greeting to another Beloved Community, it behooves us to do so with eyes as wide open as he prays their hearts will be. For this is more than a salutation from a writer to his readers; it is, in all its flourish, a bold proclamation of one thing and one thing only, which is that in Christ, our kin, sits the fullness of Creator’s majesty, glory, and power. Which is why this passage is typically reserved for the final Sunday of the liturgical year, when the whole Story of God, from the garden to Christ to his already-but-not-yet eternal reign is celebrated at the Feast of Christ’s Reign. And I’m glad for the gift it is to us today, because we live in a moment in time when the reminder of Whose we are and, in turn, Who we are and are made to be, cannot be rendered too often. It is no secret that across world theaters, self-made kings and despots are rising like the heads of hydra to besiege all that lives, compel submission, and destroy anything that stands to resist their rule. The weight of it all can feel unbearable, and a great many of us feel more helpless and hopeless than ever.
But, take heart, Beloved, because it is neither a new moment, nor even a particularly surprising one.  "Saint Martha Taming the Dragon" © Sue Ellen Parkinson, 2021 This was the first sermon I ever preached, on November 3, 2019 at the annual women's retreat for Redeemer Lutheran Church in north Minneapolis. It can also be read with greater context at Church Anew's blog. Gospel Text: Luke 10:38-42 Seven years ago, just a couple months into my seminary career, I was invited to preach my first sermon at my church’s annual women’s retreat. I was super hesitant, but when Pastor Babette asks you to preach, you do it. Not because she’s bossy but because she’s the boss who usually knows what you need to do before you do, and so she is how you figure out what you need to do. Of course I said yes.
When, a few days later, a member of the planning team told me the weekend’s passage was Luke 10:38-42, about Mary and Martha, I visibly cringed and invisibly gasped, because seriously? Another women’s retreat concentrated on this story of Martha the distracted busy-body who needs to be more like her sweet sister, Mary, always sitting at Jesus’ feet when there’s work to be done? Gag. I am an Enneagram 4 and the youngest of four sisters, and I need exactly no one and nothing telling me to be more like my sisters (sorry, not sorry). Still, I decided that if I was ever going to be a preacher-pastor I'd have to preach some texts I don’t like and I might as well practice with women who love me. So I dug in, intent on finding something new and powerful for Mary and Martha, and discovered this incredible public theologian named Mary Stromer Hansen who literally wrote the book about these sisters and this passage. Her stunning, elucidating work helped me to love this text. It turns out that what we’ve been handed (especially women and Queer folks) is full of garbage mythology and patriarchal projections onto history which strip two radical sisters of their agency and place within their context. Reality, as usual, is much more complex and far more beautiful. So I invite you to come with me into this flashpoint in Martha's life -- and stay close, because it involves a good bit of Greek.
“If you have come here to help me you are wasting your time, but if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” These are the words of Indigenous Australian artist, author, and poet Lilla Watson who, in 1985 delivered that timeless and transcendent message at the UN Decade for Women Conference in Nairobi just four years after I was born, in 1985.
It wasn’t until many, many years later, probably about 10 years ago, that I read her words for the very first time. And when I did, they vibrated and echoed in my bones like a trumpet through a canyon, and I understood -- viscerally, if not yet intellectually or practically -- that she was preaching the Law of Love and speaking gospel truth. Her words recast Scripture for me in a way that utterly transformed my theology, my actions, my whole person, and grounds me still to this day in a vision of Christ and eternal salvation through the lens of Mutual Liberation in the right here and now. So I was thrilled to find today’s epistle is Galatians 5:1 and 13-25 which opens with this trumpeting proclamation from St. Paul: “It is for freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to your own enslavement… You were called to freedom, beloved siblings, not to give you an opportunity for self-indulgence, but that through love you may become slaves to each another.” Across that canyon of two thousand years and countless empires raised and felled, Paul’s words resounded and rhymed and were echoed in Lilla Watson’s. And both, of course, were echoes of what Christ said -- and didn’t say -- in today’s gospel. But to hear them like the bell they are, I want to go back a bit for a birds-eye overview lest we forget how we got to the Samaritan village in the first place.
Blessings, beloved siblings, and Happy Birthday to the Church of Christ! Today we celebrate the Feast of Pentecost, the Birthday of Christ’s Church by the Power of Mother Spirit, and the Third in a Trinity of High Holy Days in the Christian Liturgical Year.. With the Holy Mother and the Midwives, we witnessed the Very Good Love of Eternal God made flesh at Christmas. With Mary Magdalene and the women who stayed, we tasted the everlasting goodness of the Bread of Life, the Living Water who is Christ, Resurrected at Easter. And today, with the 12 Apostles, a few other men, and at least a hundred Women, according to Acts 1, we are Born anew of Breath and Fire, formed into One Body — the Body of Christ, and His Second Coming— by the Indwelling of God’s Eternally Hovering Holy Spirit. Our Beginning, Our Brother, Our Breath: One God, now and forever.
Today we are invited to cease any efforts to wrangle the wind and instead practice presence: To dwell within the ineffable who dwells within us by the promise of the Son who was indwelled by the Father in whom he also dwelled. If it all sounds and feels chaotic and confusing: congratulations and welcome to Pentecost! We are in Very Good company as we enter the scene and witness Spirit, who comes more like a crashing hurricane or a raging fire than a balloon that flits and floats and weightlessly falls into the eager arms of those She has come to transform. Before we go further, a word about my use of feminine pronouns for Holy Spirit.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fashion this week. About what we wear, what it means, and what it communicates to others. And this week was chock full of fashion statements from across the world. Which may sound unrelated to scripture, but I promise you it’s not, so stick with me. Last Monday was the annual MET Gala fundraiser where celebrities dress -- or, more precisely, are dressed by some of the world’s most distinguished designers -- in extravagant, over-the-top suits & gowns, paying homage to the year’s theme. And with five Black men chairing the Gala for the first time ever this year, its theme was, “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” and the dress code was “Tailored for You.” Inspired by Monica L. Miller's book, Slaves to Fashion: Black Dandyism and the Styling of Black Diasporic Identity, the Gala was an unapologetic, emphatic celebration of Black dandyism, which “is at its core,” Ty Gaskins writes, “a fashion revolution, a movement steeped in history, resistance, and pride. … a cultural statement, an act of protest, and, above all, an enduring celebration of individuality.” And wow, was it ever all that! Then on Thursday, in a much different but no less extravagant event halfway across the world, white smoke billowed from the chimney of the Sistine chapel, and Cardinal Robert Prevost was named Pope Leo XIV. In the eternity between the release of white smoke and Pope Leo’s presentation on the balcony, I openly wondered to my clergy sisters why it was taking so dang long, while the former catholics among us explained that popes wear really big outfits so it takes a long time to get dressed. And when he finally did step onto the balcony in different robes than Pope Francis had worn, we listened intently to MPR’s discussion of how some popes choose their robes as they do their names, both a reflection and declaration of who they are and intend to be as pontiff. Pope Francis, you may recall, was always robed in the white minimalism of his Jesuit roots which spoke to his intentional kinship with the poor and powerless. The new Pope -- the first born in the US, progeny of Black Haitian and Creole ancestors, whose spiritual roots lay in the Augustinian tradition -- chose to wear more traditional papal garb: a cardinal’s white cassock with attached red pellegrina, under the same ornate red and gold stole donned by Popes Francis, Benedict, and John Paul before him. It was kind of a let down, if I’m honest. But even prior to the week’s events, I was already on a journey into the significance of fabric and flesh which began as I thought about Peter and Tabitha in our Easter stories. In last week’s Gospel, when he recognized Jesus on the beach, Peter's immediate reaction was to cover his nakedness and jump in the lake. That reminded me of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden where they were unclothed and unashamed until they believed the lie that God was withholding goodness and beauty and fullness from them, and ate the fruit. Then, as Genesis 3 tells it, “Both their eyes were opened, they realized they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves together to make coverings for themselves.” When God called out looking for them, and Adam said they were naked and afraid and so they hid, God’s reply was a simple but telltale question: “Who told you you were naked?” I guess they didn’t know how perfectly clothed they’d always been in God’s love and goodness. |
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