A Better Inheritance • Luke 9:51-627/1/2025
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.
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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. Clothed in Dignity (Acts 9:36-43)5/11/2025
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. What If? (Luke 22:39-54)4/17/2025
What if? These past few days, I’ve been swimming in a deep sea of What Ifs? Even though I know it’s wiser to deal with what is; Even though I know that, especially in the face of chaos, loss, and grief, what if’s are almost universally more destructive than they are helpful…. I can’t stop myself.
Because this is The Night to which Lent leads us all, and this is the place where all our time and energy given to fasting and self-reflection, to contemplation and prayer culminates; the place where our story both ends and begins: In the garden with the disciples who have just been washed and fed; and given Jesus’s final and foremost Commandment to love others as He loved them. Here, the disciples will make the choices on which the rest of the dastardly story turns. And we, too, will be asked to decide who we are, whose we are, and what we’ll do when the Ruling Powers come for Christ among us. So I’ve been wondering what they might say now -- these twelve men who spent three years living and serving and ministering with Jesus, and learning how to Be from God Incarnate. What if they could go back, knowing what we know? What would they do?
Good morning, Beloved of God. Have you ever met someone who’s appearance, titles, or social status had you thinking they were one kind of person, only to learn they were the precise opposite? Or maybe you’ve been the person others assumed certain things about -- They saw your clothes, or your hairstyle, heard your accent or learned your job title, and their expression changed or they said, “Oh, you work there?” Have you ever heard people whispering about you behind your back, spreading rumors that couldn’t be further from the truth, while you had no way to set the record straight without making everything worse? It’s like when people find out I’m a pastor -- you, the bald lady? With tattoos up her arms and on her chest? Piercings all over her head? A PASTOR? Or this meme of Martha Stewart with Snoop Dogg -- “One of these is a convicted felon.” We all know who those who’ve never heard the backstory will assume is the One, right?
If you’ve ever categorized others or been categorized by them, and judged poorly according to untrue or inaccurate labels, then you’re in good company with the man at the center of today’s gospel. His name is Zacchaeus, which by the way means “Innocent and Pure” -- put that in your pocket -- His name is Zacchaeus and from the jump, Luke wants his readers to know what the crowd knew about him: He was an agent of the Roman state who, having risen in rank to chief tax collector, was living high on the wealth he’d stolen from the poor public. Let It Be (Luke 13:[1-5] 6-9)3/24/2025
Good morning, Beloveds. So, for those who don’t know, I am the youngest of four girls born within six years of each other. My mom and dad, who was a pastor, were well-known and beloved in our community, schools, and churches, and my sisters were all smart, gifted, dutiful daughters who excelled at most everything tried, which means I was born and raised simultaneously in the shadow of giants and under a microscope. At school, I was always welcomed as Melani, Michelle, or Charis’s sister and weighed against the standards they set. And anyone who saw or heard that I was a “Courts kid,” immediately clocked me as “Sam and Mary’s daughter,” a pastor’s kid, and graded me accordingly.
The problem was, I’ve always been the black sheep, from birth and even before. My conception was a profound and shocking accident -- or, like my mom always corrected me -- a miracle so determinedly willed by God that nothing could prevent me from becoming, and believe me they tried. I was born. Instead of being the boy they all hoped for, I was just another girl, but a weird one who dressed oddly, was overly-sensitive, and was insufferably dramatic. So I worked hard to fit in: I was a model student who excelled academically. A model PK who immersed herself in church and theology. And within our family, I became a shapeshifter, moving like smoke or water to fit into and fill whatever cracks, clefts, and crevices were left after everyone else took their place on the family stage. But I still didn’t. So I worked even harder to self-differentiate, and become a person with her own name and identity, instead of one who only existed in relation to someone else. I figured if I was gonna stick out like a sore thumb, I might as well paint the nail too. Instead of joining choir, I joined marching band. Instead of joining theater, I joined winterguard. Instead of singing the songs my sisters already sang better, I made up my own. I earned a degree in theology and then took my songs and myself to Nashville. And over time, I excelled at being different. But those times when I failed to meet the standard crushed me and stuck with me. The pressure to succeed was heavy, but the burden of failure was unbearable -- especially when my failure wasn’t something I did, but something I was. So, I think, friends, that I know something of what our beloved Fig Tree is going through in today’s gospel, and I bet some of you do too.  "Elegy" ©Jules Olitski (2002) It is Lent 2017. I am the office administrator at Redeemer Lutheran Church in north Minneapolis where I am a decidedly agnostic Lutheran still very much in the process of composting old beliefs, unsure if any type of faith might ever grow again. After two years in the congregation and one on staff, Pastors Kelly and Babette Chatman still faithfully welcome my unanswerable questions and deep doubts. They ask nothing of me but myself. Wounds are beginning to heal, scab over, and even scar. But I am fallow ground.
We are at our mid-week check-in and I am lamenting to P.K. how distant I still feel from Easter or any kind of resurrection hope. Everyone around me is marching triumphantly toward Sunday morning; I seem to be marching toward a sure and un-raisable End. I tell him I’ve long-since surrendered to the disintegration of my faith and am committed to letting it run its course, but I am scared. What happens when faith dies? I have had so many of these conversations with P.K., but I am still taken aback when he simply asks, “Why?” “What do you mean?” “Why do you lament feeling distant from resurrection? Why are you afraid of a dead faith?” The Apostle Paul’s words from I Corinthians 15:14 ring in my ears as I stumble over my own: “Well…? Because…? You know…isn’t that the whole point of all this?” He shrugs. “Amy, you can’t rush resurrection.” Neighbors, Not Heroes • Luke 103/12/2025
Tonight I want to talk a little more about what it means to be and have neighbors, and what “neighboring” can look like in real life, because, as Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said when he preached on this text, that’s what Jesus did in this parable: He removed the Greatest Commandment from the thought exercises of theologians, and gave it bloody skin and broken bones instead. I’m going to dwell a lot on Dr. King’s lessons here, but first I want to tell you a story from my own life about a night that found me as both a neighbor to someone in crisis and as the someone in crisis who needed a neighbor.
It was sometime early last winter when my family and I were all jolted awake in the middle of the night by a major crash in front of our house. Someone had driven into the light pole and wrapped the front of their minivan around it, knocking it over.  Miércoles de Ceniza | ©rpphotos (flickr) This sermon was originally preached on Ash Wednesday (March 5, 2025) at Gethsemane Lutheran Church in Hopkins, MN. The service may be viewed in full here. The sermon may be viewed below. Gospel Text: Luke 9:51-62 Good evening, Beloveds. We are gathered tonight to confess our limitations, to renounce all pride and pretense, to remember our mortality as we embark on a 40 day journey following Christ to the Cross, where humanity’s faithlessness and duplicity will be laid bare and laid waste in Christ’s passion. I have always loved this season of the liturgical year, not because it ends at the Resurrection, but because it takes us to the very foot of the cross. To where the blood spilled by the powers and principalities of the earth and ether alike pools at our own feet and we are forced to reckon with the folly and fragility of flesh, and our brazen will to conquer it.
It is a journey to the deadest of centers, the holiest of in-betweens, that dark day when what was is gone and what will be has not yet risen. When God is dead, and we must bear its totality. It is not sexy. It is not hopeful. It is just, in the guttural poetry of Leonard Cohen, a cold and broken hallelujah. “Even here, even now, when all is lost and not yet found: God be praised.” These 40 Days are a practice of faithfully walking toward the most ruthless truth that whatever accolades or appraisals, felicities or failures, friends and foes we accumulate across however many hours or days or decades we have on earth, we are dust, and to dust we will return. No one — not even God Incarnate — escapes death.
Good morning, Beloved of God. Because today is all about how and when and to whom the Call of God comes, I want to start with the plain truth, that this week has been one of the longest years of my life. I have been overwhelmed by all that’s happening in the world and in this nation. Paralyzed by the enormity and rapidity of changes being made. I am deeply concerned for the safety and well-being of myself and my disabled family members, for my Black, Indigenous, Asian, and immigrant neighbors, trans and Queer friends and family, and so many colleagues for whom the growing litany of executive orders are indeed threatening to undo them. I am afraid -- afraid of speaking too boldly for fear of causing offense, and also ashamed of my own cowardice to speak Truth in a moment that demands clarity of vision, purpose, and direction for the sake of the most vulnerable. I don’t always know what to say, what to do, or how to do it all in love. And I am just as scared as a lot of you are.
None of this bodes well when you’re trying to write a sermon about the three call stories of the three radical church answers today’s lectionary texts. AMY COURTSSermons + Songs + Poems Archives
June 2025
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