Graduation Sunday: Changing the World

Roast-pork sandwiches, cheesy potatoes, sheet cake.

The delicious smells announce with great pomp and circumstance the arrival of graduation season – a springtime period for treasuring precious memories and dreaming high hopes: I’m going to change the world!

You hear that a lot this time of year – “I’m going to change the world!” – mostly from newly minted graduates eager to be influencers, difference-makers, legacy-creators. And why not aim for a life that makes a big splash? Everyone yearns for an adulthood – a life of faith – that  leaves its mark for the better and gives glory to God.

But that’s risky business. As the adage goes, the trouble with trying to change the world is that weeks can go by and nothing happens. Nothing changes! Thus anyone who wants to help the world, no less change it, naturally wrestles with feelings of being inadequate and ill-equipped for the task at hand – endlessly wondering if you’re doing enough, and surely certain that you’re not.

Those conflicting thoughts motivate one of two responses: either step up your game with renewed focus, or throw in the towel and admit the seeming futility of it all. Feelings of burnout don’t just arise from hard work and overwork. Sensations of futility also fuel burnout – the fear that all your hard work isn’t making enough of a difference and ain’t worth a tinker’s dam. So why why bother?

Lots of the Lord’s disciples feel like they’re not doing enough with their time, talent, and treasure, even as the world’s problems just keep gathering force like rumbling thunderclouds on a humid-summer horizon. And here’s the hard truth of our cold-hearted reality: the difference that any of our individual lives is likely to make – in terms of human history, cultural change, scientific evolution, social consciousness, relieving rampant suffering, or bringing peace to never-ending war – whatever you and I are somehow able to muster is roughly tantamount to throwing a very small stone into a very big lake.

Yet, the bathtime science of Archimedes confirms that, because that pebble now lies on lake-bottom, the water level has to rise – however minutely. But principles of fundamental physics aside, the rub lingers in your inability to measure that teeny-tiny rise in lake water. The stone is too small; the water is too big. But the sea does rise, despite its escape of perception. And that’s what’s so remarkable! Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there!!

What matters then, in the skipping stones of your worshipful work, is that, because you’re here – or there – and you’re doing good work, the water level must rise, even if only a smidgen. You have to believe that with the kind of divine faith that picks up where secular measurement leaves off.

Which suggests a question better than whether you’re doing enough to change the world. For a follower of Jesus, the more faithful question is for those with the courage to take it to heart. It’s the Holy Spirit’s tap on the shoulder and whisper in the ear: Are you doing your part with the gifts that God has given and Christ’s example directs? Where and how is the Spirit focusing your deep gladness – your passion, your gifts, your love – to feed the many social and political hungers of a broken and fearful world?

I’m reading to you from the Old Testament book of Proverbs. Listen for what can be the disturbing Word of the Lord in The Message translation of the Bible.

The words of King Lemuel, the strong advice his mother gave him:

“Leaders can’t afford to make fools of themselves, gulping wine and swilling beer. Lest, hung over, they don’t know right from wrong, and the people who depend on them are hurt. Use wine and beer only as sedatives, to kill the pain and dull the ache of the terminally ill, for whom life is a living death.

“Speak up for the people who have no voice, for the rights of all the down-and-outers. Speak out for justice! Stand up for the poor and destitute.” (Proverbs 31:1, 4-9)

Here’s the Good News of the Gospel, my friends: you don’t have to change the world. God in Christ Jesus already did that and continues to do that. You are made in the image of God, so you already change the world just by existing. Your behavior and action already impact those around you – hopefully in support of the Lord’s always good purposes. Each of us is a piece of “the world,” a single cell in the body of Christ yet one Body. The world isn’t out there somewhere. The world – the new world, the Kingdom of God – lies deep within you and me. And if we change ourselves, we change the world.

And along the road of change, along the Spirit-led path of honest, intentional discipleship, please try to avoid comparison.

Everyone’s threshold of what is “enough” of a contribution to the world is different. One person might take on multi-national corporations or immoral laws and regulations. Another might sponsor or adopt a child from a developing nation or become a foster parent for the little kid up the street. Yet another might simply sweep the street in front of the shop every morning.

For still others, all the activism they can manage is in trying actively to heal their own souls. By most biblical accounts, healing and redeeming is the goal of work that God desires for the world. Whatever your role, you have to measure success by how far the Spirit has taken you from your start and to resist comparing your forward progress with another.

So don’t underestimate your contributions and offerings, even if they don’t register on any Richter scale of accomplishment. Your efforts might only be measured by drops in the bucket, but that’s how buckets get filled – drop by drop, one at a time. Just because public opinion doesn’t noticeably shift and no one alerts the media does not mean your efforts are for naught. Service to God, widow, and orphan and neighbor, friend and stranger, is as much a mindset – a way of seeing the world and souls in it – as it is about anything you actually do. It’s the way of the Cross that writes the story of your living – ideally a continual responsiveness to all the small, daily calls to care for the world and the precious saints who call it home.

Maybe, then, we all do well to surrender the boundlessness of our aspirations. And maybe that feels like defeat. But it’s really a kind of liberation: sacred freedom that brings you back into the right relationship with yourself and with God, with the voiceless and down-and-outers, with the poor and destitute of body, mind, and spirit.

Indeed, with all Creation of Father, Son, and Spirit that is ever-changing by grace and grace alone.

Ancient words, ever true. Amen, and amen!

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on graduation Sunday, May 18, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Frederick Buechner, David Lamott, and Greg Levoy inform the message.

When Mother’s Day Is Hard

I lift up my eyes to the hills – from where will my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. — Psalm 121

For many of our friends and neighbors, Mother’s Day is not full of flowery, brunch-laden, gift-giving joy. The secular holiday instead stirs — for women and men — any number of hard, complex emotions for that remain difficult to process. And thus today we pray for all the women in our lives: Thanksgiving for those who in whatever ways provide maternal nurture, comfort for those whose spirits remain heavy, and healing for those whose wounds continue to fester.

For those women who have joined the saints in light and whom we miss dearly here on earth, we thank you, God, for the mothers of the past.

For every woman who is working today to put food on the table, we thank you for working moms.

For those women who have lost a child to death and must carry on, we thank you for spirits that are so strong.

For all the women who have desperately wanted to have children of their own but instead were called to mother others, we thank, Lord, for the mothers in spirit and deed.

For every woman who didn’t know her children, for every child who didn’t know his or her mother, we thank you for healing raw wounds.

We lift our voices in praise to you, O God, who loves us totally, completely, and without condition. Like a Mother who will not forsake her nursing child, like a Father who runs to welcome the prodigal home, You are faithful still.

In Christ, by the Spirit, amen!

Related reflection: How to Handle Mother’s Day When It Feels Hard

Skin in the Game

Click the “play” arrow to listen to the audio version

Three of the four gospels each includes a version of this morning’s Scripture lesson.

When the Holy Spirit moves not one, not two, but three Gospel authors – Matthew, Mark and Luke – to add the exact-same scene to their narratives, that’s a reliable sign that the Spirit is putting divine emphasis on a particular story for holy reason – and that you and I do well to pay particularly close attention its takeaway.

Our scene opens at dinner with friends in the house of Levi, a new convert to discipleship who – upon receiving Jesus’s simple, two-word invitation to “follow me” – leaves behind his day job as a tax collector to become the Lord’s full-time follower.

Making that kind of life-change is jaw-dropping, but it’s par for the course: When you come to faith in Christ, you don’t just conveniently add him to your old way of life. You don’t just custom-fit him into your old ways of living. Accepting the Lord’s claim on your life means nothing less than complete transformation of your heart and mind, behavior and priority. To prove the point, Jesus this morning provides a helpful lesson in sewing fabric and a fruitful tip for curating fine wine.

From the Gospel of Mark, you are about to hear the unvarnished Word of the Lord, which bears full witness to his authority and truth. Please receive it as such, and let us pray: Again, O Lord, we ask that you touch our souls and spirits by the interpretive work of your Holy Spirit, that she may open hearts and minds to fresh understanding and deeper faith. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts together be pleasing and acceptable in your sight.

Click the “play” arrow to watch Mark 2:18-22 from the Lumo Gospel of Mark

Since our lesson opens with a question about fasting, let’s unpack that spiritual discipline first.

In the Old Testament, God commands God’s people to fast on only one occasion: Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the Jewish holiday solely devoted to making amends for one’s sin. But beyond that single day, the practice of fasting is strictly voluntary.

At times, according to Scripture, the Israelites fast to seek deeper, sharper focus on the things of God. They withdraw from daily routine and exclusively devote themselves to holy contemplation and meditation. Other times, fasting expresses grief and mourning. When a loved one dies, or a great defeat befalls a nation, or a spiritual clock tolls a time of repentance, God’s people enact sorrow and lamentation in the tearing of their clothes and entrance to a fast.

Jesus has no beef with any of that. But he does take issue with the Pharisees, the uber-conservative religious right of his day. The Pharisees create new laws that the Lord never imposes on his people. The Pharisees create their own traditions and thrust them upon the Jews – supposedly mandatory behaviors like fasting at least a portion of the day twice a week.

Then they double-down on their zeal for righteousness, teaching the faithful that fasting is such a righteous endeavor so as to earn special merit and status for the one who “eats light” and limits his or her calories twice weekly, foolishly believing that God’s peace and grace are somehow earnable and achievable, faithlessly denying that such divine gifts are never-to-be-earned, always-undeserved expressions of God’s love and mercy.

Jesus sharply criticizes the Pharisees’s zealous hold on traditionalism that seeks to conserve things not of God’s desire. Perhaps you know such souls: People who absolutely love all things old and adamantly refuse to make space for anything new. Tenacious conservatism writ large: “If it’s new, then it can’t be good. If it demands I change, then count me out.”

On the other hand, perhaps you know the soul who believes nothing but new is good. Unbridled progressivism run amok: The old is always outmoded and outdated. And if you don’t like the latest fad, or if the trending shiny trinket of politics and culture doesn’t memorize, just wait. What once was new will soon be old and ready for replacement with something else, the latest in all that’s “new and improved.” Thus it takes great discernment, nuanced wisdom, and inspired knowledge – the stuff of the Holy Spirit – to know when to remain in place and when to move forward.

If you are a conservative, you we must always ask: Exactly what is it that I’m trying to preserve and, more importantly, what’s driving my desire to cling to the status quo? Likewise for a liberal: Exactly what is it that you’re trying to change, and why are you so passionate for change? And the vital, even-better question that threads both sides of the aisle: Does the tradition to which you so fiercely cling or so desperately want to change give glory to God or merely service to self?

To drive home the point, Jesus shares these two short parables – one about cloth, the other about wineskin.

“I know you Pharisees aren’t tailors, but you should know something basic about sewing,” Jesus in as much proclaims. “If you have a pair of pants, and you tear a hole in it, and want to patch it, you don’t cut a new piece from a pair of new pants. You don’t slice into the new pants and add a piece to the old pants without first shrinking the cloth of the patch.

“If you sew an unshrunk piece of new material into the old piece, the patch will shrink when you wash the pants. And when it shrinks, it will pull off the threads of the patch, and the hole in your pants before you patched them will be worse than when you started.”

Lost to history is knowing how closely the Pharisees listen to that illustration. But their ears surely perk up at the next, because Jesus now challenges something more important to them than sewing. Jesus threatens to cut off their wine with practical reality.

Old wineskins made of goatskin or sheepskin become stretched, because the wine within continues to ferment, thus straining the leather to its limit. If you put new wine in that old wineskin, the new wine’s ongoing fermentation produces gases that stretch the already-thin skins ever more. So, pour in new wine, and you’re going to lose the wineskin, because it’s going to break. And along the way you also lose the wine. But put new wine in new wineskin, and you preserve the fruit of the vine for future benefit and enjoyment.

It’s not enough to talk about some kind of new inebriating wine, some collection of new ideas. For without new wineskins – without changed systems and structures, transformation cannot be deep or lasting. It’s unquestionable folly to talk about new wine without new wineskins, to talk about new life without new order.

Sadly, Christianity has not always nurtured the sweet fruit of positive impact. So-called Judeo-Christian nations around the globe are often the most militaristic, most greedy, and most unfaithful to the teacher we claim to follow. Our societies – here and abroad – are more often based not upon the servant leadership that Jesus models but on the common domination of control that produces racism, classism, sexism, authoritarianism, and any number of other -isms that sprout deeper fear and greater brokenness. 

That’s not to say our ancestors weren’t faithful, that our parents and grandparents weren’t good people striving to do the right thing, or that the Church hasn’t been a force for goodness and healing, justice and righteousness. But, with notable exception, we Christians aren’t producing radical changes in culture and institution, or operating all that differently than the world around us.

Indeed, Christianity has shaped some wonderfully faithful saints, and some of those righteous disciples live and move at arm’s length in our community, striving to fashion new wineskins to cradle the truths we hold self-evident. But the powers that be – and even the Church itself – resist their Spirit-led, Gospel calls to reform. Consider the much-beloved St. Francis of Assisi. In his Middle Age time centuries ago, mainliners marginalized him as a fanatic, an eccentric, a kook, an oddball, a trouble-maker. Which explains why no pope before Francis ever took that name!

Even today, too many Christians keep Jesus on a pedestal, worshiping a caricature on a cross or a bumper-sticker slogan, while conveniently avoiding what Jesus says and does. “We love Jesus,” yes, but more as a figurehead than as someone whose will awaits our imitation. It seems like the more we talk about Jesus, the less time and energy we devote to what he said.

We Christians too often preach a Gospel largely composed of words, attitudes, and inner salvation experiences. People say they are baptized, saved, “born again,” yet the Holy Spirit continues her uncomfortable probing: Is your ego in check? Are you actually following Jesus? Do you love the poor? The widow and the orphan? The outcast and the stranger?  Are you patient and hopeful in the face of persecution? 

This Scripture lesson of Mark, Matthew, and Luke – and the challenges to discipleship that it wields – have been much on my heart in recent weeks. Among other things, the Lord’s instructions on sewing and wine-keeping have served as the guiding Scripture for Session’s several months of conversation around church staffing. The Lord’s caution about the dangers of putting new wine in old wineskins led the elders and me to make the changes that this morning’s bulletin announcement explains.

The creation of a new position – coordinator of congregational life, filled by our new friend Lee Ann Knutson – is a good-faith effort toward new wineskin – a changed vessel in which to hold fast to the traditions we hold dear, a new structure for stewardship of the gifts we already enjoy and the new gifts we’ve been given. In addition to Lee Ann as coordinator of congregational life, we also welcome Becky Benjegerdes as our new volunteer bookkeeper, even as we express our appreciation to Jim Johnson for serving in that role for more than two years. The fullness of grace that lies within this new wine remains a mystery. But without a little mystery, what need is there of faith?

The mixing of old and new is risky business, and change always rends with anxiety. In the presence of old and new, facing the reality of chaos and uncertainty which are the measures of our moment, the safe option is to reject the new and stick with the old. There are no neat-and-tidy answers, no sure rule of thumb – other than this: Jesus affirms both old and new, even as he challenges both conservative and liberal.

So never be so smugly sure you’ve chosen the right path. But remember that the liminal space of in-betweens and already-but-no-yets is the earthly life to which Jesus calls us. And none of us stands alone in times and places of uncertainty and change. Be assured that the Lord continues to abide, and that you and I have skin in the game. For the Good News of the Gospel is this: The Kingdom of God inaugurated in the coming of Jesus and the resurrection of Christ is far greater than anything that comes before.

And thus we sing: Walk with gladness in the morning. See what love can do and dare. Drink the wine of resurrection. Joy and peace shall never end. Amen, and amen!

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message in worship on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, May 11, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by R. Alan Culpepper, M. Eugene Boring, Pheme Perkins, Richard Rohr, and R.C. Sproul inform the message.

The Miracle Happens Again

My wife and I have this running argument. Well, argument might be too strong a word. It’s really more of an ongoing conversation.

Four times a year, at the start of each new season, we compare notes about which one is our favorite. After debating the question for nearly 30 years now, the answer always seems to be the same: Our favorite is whatever season is starting. That’s one of the advantages of living in this part of Creation. We get to enjoy the great changes of climate and nature that each season brings.

Truth be told, though, spring gets the edge in my book. There’s something blessed about watching the earth renew itself as it awakes from its winter slumber. Rain splashes down from wind-whipped clouds, and new life pushes forth from the warming ground. Where snow and ice once covered branches, buds of green begin to appear, offering the promise of growth and bringing vibrance of color to a dreary landscape.

It seems no mere coincidence, then, that spring also brings with it our celebration of Easter. We move from the dark shadows of Lent into the light of the risen Christ. A stone that once covered the entrance to a tomb has been rolled away. Risen life emerges, offering hope and promise to a weary world and declaring the majesty and sovereignty of God over everything, including the power of death. For as spring returns each year, so too does our celebration of the resurrection, and we are reminded of the resurrection we share through faith in Jesus Christ.

This annual cycle of death and resurrection is the pattern for God’s work in our lives: A constant rhythm of deaths and resurrections, of separations and reconciliations, of pruning and fruitfulness, of setbacks and growth, of disappointments and joys, of tragedy and triumph, and of challenge and accomplishment.

During those times of life’s challenges, we often are left to wonder how and where God is present through it all, and even strong faith gets put to the test. Weary souls and beleaguered spirits question if God has abandoned or if God is punishing. Yet the Lord is present through it all, even though we do not always sense divine presence.

Our Gospel lesson this morning tells of two others who had similar doubts. The men are walking the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus on the day of the resurrection, and they are discussing the events that had transpired in the previous week. Their hope once laid in Jesus being the promised Messiah, but like many of Christ’s followers – and even the apostles themselves, the crucifixion seems evidence that God’s plans have been thwarted. When the two encounter another traveler, they don’t realize that it is Jesus walking with them on that dusty road, just as we often fail to recognize Jesus walking with us. As with you and me, the two travelers are relying too much on what they can see and too little on faith. And so it goes.

Listen, then, to the Word that God has spoken – the God who always sees the big picture, even when you and I cannot.

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened.

While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad.

Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place.

“Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.”

Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight.

They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:13-32)

The irony is both puzzling and painful: the Lord is most present and most active when he seems most absent and most inactive.

God is present in our times of darkness in hidden and mysterious ways, as Scripture tells us time and time again. But human nature wires us to trust experience and feelings more than the promises of God. Blindness weakens confidence that Father, Son, and Spirit are ever-abiding. Some of the most formative spiritual development comes during the dark times of our lives: Times when you really do have to live by faith.

Think of the Israelites – God’s people in the desert – for 40 years believing that God has left them for dead while in reality God is transforming them, preparing them to enter the promised land not as slaves – unfit and unprepared for their new home, but as people of faith who put their trust in God.

Think of David, chased into a cave by his enemies, scared, frightened and alone. Yet cave-time is where David realizes that the only solid rock on which he stands the never-failing presence of God, who would transform him into a leader of a new nation.

When you visit with folks who have faced great adversity and challenge, many tell stories of amazing resurrections that God brings to their lives from the ashes of adversity.

People who have lost their jobs suddenly realize that they really weren’t all that happy in that line of work, and God leads them to labor that better utilizes their gifts and talents, fulfilling the purpose that God has in store for them.

People who have faced a breakup or a separation or divorce realize that the relationship was not a safe and nourishing place for them to be, and God leads them to healthier, more faithful relationship. Or, separation unveils some rather unappealing aspects of themselves, and God leads them to change who they are and to shed those unappealing characteristics.

People facing illness discover the healing power of prayer, and oftentimes the recovery that God brings looks far different than what was asked and anticipated. The apostle Paul writes to the Corinthians about the challenges of life and how he views them because he walks with Jesus:

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’s sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.” (2 Corinthians 4:8-12)

In other words, our human weakness and the adversities of this life provide occasions for divine power to enter in and resume control.

Our willingness to submit to the power and will of God – as Jesus did in dying on the cross – allows us to die daily – to shed those things that aren’t so holy, so that we might experience new life daily through the transforming power of God.

It is our own insufficiency that reveals God’s sufficiency. And it is God’s sufficiency that deepens our faith, transforms our character, and eliminates selfish desires. A constant process of personal death and resurrection is required for us to be spiritually fruitful. Before his life could bear fruit in others, Jesus first had to die, and only after this, be raised in glory from the dead.

Jesus shares this message time and time again with the apostles, but they never truly hear what he is saying. And as a result, they scatter to the four winds after the Last Supper and are nowhere to be found at the crucifixion. Jesus wants his spiritual life in us to bear fruit by germinating and growing in others. But for this to happen, we must take the same path that Jesus takes – through “death” to “resurrection.”

If you want a spiritually fruitful life, it will require a series of “deaths” followed by “resurrections.” It involves setting aside the ways of this world, pruning our sinfulness from our hearts, so that power, truth and love can pour into us and then through us in greater measure to others.

Our culture proclaims that we can get what we want, we shouldn’t have to suffer, and nothing is worth losing our comfort over. But as the Gospel elsewhere proclaims, a vine must be pruned to bear fruit. That process of pruning can be difficult and painful, but parts of who we are may have to be pruned – trimmed from our lives and left to die – in order for us to flourish and be fruitful.

In a few minutes, we will gather around the table to celebrate the Lord’s Supper. As we heard in the reading from Luke, it was not until Jesus sits down at table with those two people on the road to Emmaus and breaks bread them when the people realize they are in the presence of Jesus. As we break bread today, remember that Jesus is present and active in our lives. Remember that Jesus is who sustains us. Cut off from Jesus, we are nothing. But when we abide in Jesus, Jesus abides in us, and resurrection is ours.

Have faith that the Lord is there and wait with patience for the transforming resurrections he will bring as you walk your own dusty road with Jesus. As the miracle of spring happens around us once again, let the miracle of the resurrection happen again in you.

To God be the glory. Alleluia! Amen!

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on Sunday, April 27, 2025 at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA.

You Remember, Don’t You?

This sanctuary feels so full on Easter Sunday.

The smell of fragrant lilies and the sound of alleluia choruses overwhelm the air. The faith community packs the pews, dressed in the spring hues of its “Sunday best,” and the familiar faces of visiting family and friends charge the atmosphere with good holiday energy. Easter Sunday intends to be jubilant, joyful – a festive opportunity for a weary world to begin again.

Yet, for many, grief tugs at the heart with cast-iron weight. For far too many, shame and guilt encroach upon soul and spirit when finding or feeling glad tidings of comfort and joy proves elusive or down-right impossible. So let’s make space this Easter morning for grief and joy, mourning and hope, for all these things can and do coexist in close proximity.

Feelings of grief are a healthy response to Jesus’s death on Good Friday. Lingering heartache and sorrow are valid emotions to bring to a tomb. Which is precisely the state of mind for the women of this morning’s Scripture lesson.

They have been with Jesus for the long haul – soaking up his teaching, learning from his example, and witnessing the relief and wonder of his healings. And, on Good Friday, from a safe distance, the women watch his agonizing death – until the time is right to do what their faith instructs: The anointing of Jesus’s breathless clay with oils and spices. Thus, when dawn breaks, they arrive at the tomb steeped in grief but well prepared to fulfill all righteousness.

May the Good News of the Easter story be this: No matter how you arrive this morning – whether immersed in grief, stunned in disbelief, or running in the direction of hope – resurrection is for you. Grief doesn’t have to stifle hope. And hope compels healing when grief overwhelms your moment.

Listen to the Word that God has spoken – to the voice of Creation and Resurrection that is close at hand – even if you don’t fully understand.

Luke 23:50-24:12

You remember, don’t you?

“Then they remembered his words,” Luke says of the women staring aghast into the empty tomb. Their recall isn’t instantaneous; their remembering takes some time – and some outside help from none other than angels. First comes terror, because it’s not every day that otherworldly visitors come calling. But then they receive a gentle word: Remember.

You remember, don’t you? That Jesus told you the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again? That spark of remembering gives the apostle Peter just enough hope to get up, run to the tomb, and seek more for himself. But the majority left behind dub such remembering “an idle tale,” sheer nonsense, delirious muttering.

Such assessment feels relatable in the context of our contemporary living. In a world beset by so much sorrow, so much suffering, and so much heartbreak, a glimmer of good news struggles to break through the gloom. A glimpse of beauty, a flash of loveliness, feels like foolishness amid so much chaos and bad news. Grief often clouds judgment, resists truth, and stirs distrust.

Let’s be clear: It is not wrong to sit or wrestle with one’s grief. Grief deserves our attention, because mourning is a bittersweet memento of love for another. And grief need not be ranked as “right” or “wrong,” worthy or unworthy, justifiable or ludicrous. Even when it comes to loss of the pettiest, tiniest, most-seemingly-insignificant things, grieving makes space for healing, for the better to blossom and flourish.

For the last few years, my own paltry grief lay – of all ridiculous places – in a stuffed animal of my daughter’s childhood.

At her birth nearly a quarter century ago, Mary received as gifts any number of stuffed animals that provided her crib-time comfort. And by Mary’s choice, one furry creature – a soft, pale-yellow lamb – became a nearly constant childhood companion. Just as the familiar stanzas proclaim, “Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.” Thus “Lamby,” as she came to be known, was ever-present around the house, clutched tightly by the scruff of her fuzzy neck in Mary’s tiny fist, snuggled warmly under Mary’s chin come bedtime on cold winter nights.

Lamby even logged thousands of miles on family adventures in our blue Toyota minivan. When re-boarding the van after a roadside stop of whatever reason, both Julie and I shared responsibility for making doubly sure that Mary and her brothers were back in their seats – and that Lamby hadn’t been accidently left behind in the bathroom at Casey’s or in the reptile house at the zoo. No child left behind, no Lamby left behind! That was both goal and mantra! And woe be to the parent who’d allow that to happen!

Lamby “before”

Over the years, though, time and the elements began to take their toll. Lamby was looking more than a little road-weary. Her fur was mangy; her eyes were missing. Frankly, Lamby had been loved to death, and she had the scars to prove it. Then came last Christmas, and I had a gift-giving idea for Mary. A Google search connected me with a woman in Omaha whose restorative skills bring dolls and stuffed animals back to life. So, when Santa came sliding down the chimney at our house, his sack of goodies included a promise to pay the cost of Lamby’s refurbishing.

She’s now back from her “spa day” and looking mighty fine. And somehow, someway, as silly as it sounds, the world feels just a little less fearful, a little less broken.

Lamby “after”

With Lamby’s decay came a certain sadness. Indeed, her demise signaled that tender, precious years have passed in the blink of an eye: Mary grew up and moved out; the blue van got sold for parts and scrap. Julie and I had joined AARP, and our days of shepherding “littles” faded to specks in the rear-view mirror of parenting. Perhaps it really was time for everyone to move on, to let go of Lamby and release our death-grip on the past, and to slog ahead into a future of uncertain days. Even so, in the shadow of loss – which these days seems to envelop like a constricting snake, everything – even the small and obscure – suddenly becomes agonizingly precious, even as we pray – as we did last Sunday – for divine help in accepting the partings that must come from friends who go away; from children leaving home; from parents, grandparents, and siblings getting older; and most of all, from dear ones called to God’s self.

And from heaven comes the Lord’s response to our fervent prayer: Do not let your grief become your everything.

Grief is not terminal – a hopeless condition leading only to death. Grief is liminal – an uncomfortable space between past and present. And grief need not crowd out other truths: That you have loved and been loved; that you are loved and do love. That you are not alone. That there still is hope in the land of the living. That resurrection is for you, too! Even as you pray and wait – at the gaping mouth of your own empty tomb – for Easter to happen again.

You remember, don’t you?

Oftentimes it’s a memory that flares a glowing ember of hope into a rejuvenating fire: It is what it is – until, by grace, it isn’t. The Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God!

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on the Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Jeff Chu, Lisle Gwynn Garrity, Amy-Jill Levine, Lauren Wright Pittman, and Ben Witherington III inform the message. It is the conclusion of Pastor Grant’s Lenten series, “Everything in Between: Meeting God in the Midst of Extremes.” The video clip is from Lumo’s Gospel of Luke.

A Meditation for Palm Sunday

Today is a Sunday with a split personality. It is both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. Colors turn blood red in stark reminder of what lies ahead. Our worship starts with the upbeat Gospel telling of the party atmosphere that erupts when Jesus rides into Jerusalem. It’s a festive affair, complete with a parade route lined by palm branches.

But quickly the party’s over, and our Scripture lessons turn dark as we fast-forward to Friday and the stark story of the Lord’s passion and death. Yes, the story is harsh. But it is bearable only because we already know its happy ending.

Jesus doesn’t instigate his own parade. Instead, the force of his humble presence alone inspires the multitude to shout out and praise God. When the religious leaders try to silence the crowd, Jesus denies their censorship, proclaiming that strong emotion isn’t the point – for even the stones would cry out if they were silent.

It takes wisdom to know when our voice is needed and when it’s just noise. During Holy Week, between stony silences and snarky shouts, solidarity arises from the shared experience of witnessing what we humans can do to each other – and the lengths we go to make it all make sense.

On a borrowed donkey from a gracious neighbor, on crowd-sourced paths accompanied by loud rejoicing, Jesus weeps on arrival in Jerusalem. Jesus weeps, knowing full well what we humans are capable of doing to each other. The Lord rode right into what the stones of time have seen: criminalization and death-dealing decisions, dehumanization and denial of dignity, disregard for expansive beauty.

What would stones shout?

What do you shout? What do you silence?

Listen for the Word of the Lord …

Credit: Lumo’s Gospel of Luke

Mercy and Righteousness: Jesus Meets Zacchaeus

Wherever the Gospel story takes him, Jesus always seems to attract a crowd. And loudly from that crowd more often than not arises the clatter of grumbling. This morning, nattering and griping erupt over Jesus’s self-invitation to the home of Zacchaeus, the diminutive guest star of our Scripure lesson from the Gospel of Luke.

As a reviled tax collector, Zacchaeus extorts money from his neighbors in collusion with the ruling Roman Empire, using his position to oppress his own people and line his own pockets. Jesus would be in perfect character to call out such oppression, injustice, and outright theft. And yet, the Son of God and man offers mercy. Which in turn begets even-more mercy as Zacchaeus, unprompted, offers to rebate what he took – and then some. Perhaps within this cocky, arrogant, wee-little man shines a ray or two of new possibility!

Zacchaeus’s name derives from the Hebrew word for “fidelity” – faithfulness, and from the Hebrew word for “righteousness” – living in right relationship. But this Zacchaeus fella sure checks all the boxes of a scoundrel who is neither. With good reason, his community deems Zacchaeus a sinner, because he takes treasure from the Jewish people and sends their hard-earned shekels to Rome – minus a little off the top for his time and trouble as a stooge for the emperor. Zacchaeus is nothing short of deplorable, dastardly, and despicable.

So, it particularly galls the restless crowd that, of everyone clamoring for blessed attention that day in Jericho, the Lord chooses to stay with Zacchaeus. The good teacher Jesus wants to abide in the home of someone whose unrepentant swamp and cesspool are well-overdue for draining. At the get-go, Zacchaeus surely sees no need to repent. Before Jesus invites himself over, the vertically challenged Zacchaeus does nothing but climb a tree to get a better view, again setting himself above and apart. Zacchaeus admits no wrongdoing, resigns not his political position, nor confesses his sin. Still, Jesus says, “Let me abide with you.”

Jesus never calls out Zacchaeus with loud shaming or public humiliation. Instead the Lord rather seems to lean in gently. Facing heaven’s tender warmth, Zacchaeus climbs down, rejoins his community, and immediately pledges restitution and reparation – a two-pronged act of reconciliation with both God and neighbor.

Confirmation of this remarkable turnabout comes in Jesus’s grand announcement: “Today salvation has come to this house.” Listen to the Word that God has spoken, even if you don’t understand.

Zacchaeus so captures your heart and inspires your mind, so as to tempt your hearing this story as absolution of one man’s individual sin. That’s not a bad thing, but Jesus says “to this house.” Salvation has come not to “this man” but to “this house” – a hint of broader and wider deliverance, a suggestion not of mere cleansing but also renewed wholeness. In the communal culture of Jesus’s day, salvation means wholeness resulting from belonging. By repenting, Zacchaeus had been delivered from broken relationship with his people back into the mended wholeness of community.

We obviously can’t know Zacchaeus’s response had Jesus tried loud condemnation and chest-poking. But it’s a safe bet, then as now, that shouting and finger-pointing get no one anywhere. What surprisingly seems quite muscular though – at least that day in Jericho, anyway – is winsome grace, gentle mercy, and a love so attentive, so amazing, so divine – and so offensive – that it healed a broken people and their fractured relationships. Righteousness, as it turns out, demands your soul, your life, and your all!

Some faith communities overemphasize a misunderstood righteousness, steadfastly and indignantly pursuing without nuance what they believe pure, holy, and “right” in the eyes of God. Other faith communities overemphasize mercy, advocating for compassion regardless of action or inaction, which surely feels like an affront to fairness. And in between are the rest of us, stuck in the loop of arguing about who is truly righteous, who should be “called out” or “canceled,” and who deserves mercy.

Those same deep divides and passionate arguments bubble to the surface in the tale of Zacchaeus, who outwardly carries labels of judgment that easily make him persona non grata. So let’s extend some mercy to the angry throng whose pockets Zacchaeus has picked – and whose sensibilities are offended by Jesus’s desire to overnight with Zacchaeus. Letting bygones be bygones is a heavy lift. But though mercy speaks softly, it carries a bigger stick with which to leverage the burdensome load of reconciliation.

Thus, as Zacchaeus scrambles to see Jesus, Jesus meets the tax collector’s gaze with seeking, with invitation, with mercy. And something changes: Zacchaeus gladly welcomes Jesus, promptly announces actions rooted in righteousness. And Jesus pronounces mercy and salvation not to one but to all. Perhaps no one practices righteousness in isolation, because righteousness hinges on the mercy of “right relationship.” And perhaps God’s overflowing mercy should always surprise and disorient, even unto pursuing righteousness and mercy with those with whom we disagree. That’s where real, lasting transformation begins. And thus we pray –

Loving God, week after week we return to this space, because we long to see you. Like Zacchaeus who climbed a tree to get a peek at you as you walked by, we come to this sanctuary hoping to get a peek of your goodness, of your joy, of your light. So speak to us through these ancient words. Let us get a peek of the love that abides here: A love so attentive – and so offensive – that it heals.

Maybe that’s why so many grumble, whenever the Lord draws near. The Gospel’s offensive is not who it keeps out, but who it lets in. That might not seem fair, but that’s indeed what makes grace so amazing.

Listen to the Word that God has spoken.

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on the Fifth Sunday in Lent, April 6, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Jeff Chu, Lisle Gwynn Garrity, Amy-Jill Levine, Lauren Wright Pittman, and Ben Witherington III inform the message. It is part of Pastor Grant’s Lenten series, “Everything in Between: Meeting God in the Midst of Extremes.” The video clip is from Lumo’s Gospel of Luke.

Lost and Found: The Parable of the Lost Sheep

Herding sheep is a never-ending task. As soon as one lost sheep is found, another wanders off. Or so I’m told – and perhaps you have experienced: Our lives follow a similar ebb and flow of aimless meandering and blessed rescue. One minute you’re feeling like the world’s your oyster and you’ve found your way, then in a heartbeat, you’re feeling lost and alone, right back in the pit of barely holding your own. The struggle is real.

The promise of this morning’s Scripture lesson – the Parable of the Lost Sheep – brings Good News: No matter how “lost” or “stuck” you feel, the Good Shepherd remains on the lookout.

The first audience to hear Jesus stake that claim is a rogues gallery of tax collectors and sinners, scribes and Pharisees. Luke makes no mention of shepherds or sheep ranchers loitering in the crowd. But when the religious types grumble about the Lord’s scandalous hospitality to sinners, Jesus employs a flock of sheep to proclaim rejoicing in heaven when just one lost sinner repents.

Jesus never defines who or what a sinner is. But given what’s known about the political and economic pecking order of Jesus’s day, these “sinners and tax collectors” probably aren’t social outcasts who live on the wrong side of the tracks but more likely schemers and ne’er-do-wells who violate long-held community standards of decency and expectation. In our day, “sinners and tax collectors” would be code for arms dealers, loan-sharks, insider traders, slumlords, enemy collaborators, or anyone whose illicit or immoral behavior is explained away by the majority as “just how things are done” or “simply how the world works.”

That understanding polishes an interesting lens through which to examine this Parable of the Lost Sheep in the Gospel of Luke: Who really are the lost, and who really are the found? Keep those questions in mind, as you listen to the Word that God has spoken in this Lenten season of repentance.

The theologian Frederick Buechner offers a provocative take on these parables of Jesus. He reads them as jokes about God – in the sense that the Parable of the Lost Sheep and its biblical cousins all essentially focus on the outlandishness of a God who does impossible and socially unacceptable things with impossible and socially unacceptable people!

The comedic aspect of parables is not just a spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine of hard truth go down. What’s comic is the human foolishness and idiocy that parables reveal. As my Grandma Fielder always wisecracked with a smile, “Sheep are stupid.” And as Dr. Buechner contends, “God is the comic shepherd who gets more of a kick out of that one lost sheep once he finds it again than out of the 99 who had the good sense not to get lost in the first place.” Imagine, then, his scene of heaven’s ironic humor at work among the “lost” and “found” –

When the star-studded, much-envied and -admired crowd of industry-captains and power-brokers all end up having better things to do than accept God’s invitation to “abide with me” and “come to the table,” the Lord is the quirky, unconventional host who goes out into the skid rows, soup kitchens, and charity wards and brings home a veritable freak show: The man with no legs who sells shoelaces on the street. The old woman in the moth-eaten fur coat who makes her daily rounds of the garbage cans. The old wino with his pint bottle in a brown paper bag. The drug pusher and the whore – the village idiot who stands at the traffic light waving at passing cars and trucks.

Within a great banquet hall, God shows each and every greasy one of them to seats ringing tables covered in fine linens. Candles flicker; champagne flutes bubble. On cue from the host, the live chamber orchestra in the gallery strikes up its first tune, “Amazing Grace.” How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, once lost but now found. It’s no laughing matter, but sometimes, you just have to laugh: Just exactly who are the lost, and who are the found? Perhaps all are lost until all are found!

Much was lost, and many were found, last September in the Carolinas, as an endless deluge from the swirling clouds of tropical storm Helene laid waste to the region. Heavy rain pummeled roofs and saturated the ground; fierce winds roared, tossing mature trees like spent matchsticks.

Then out went the electricity, then the water, then cell service. Creeks and rivers swelled with destructive force that swept away everything – homes and cabins, entire communities, and human lives. Landslides and sinkholes only added insult to injury. Thus I reached out to a boyhood chum who with his wife lives in the area.

Thanks be to God, they were spared the worst, but as they and their neighbors ventured out in search of family and friends, everyone found themselves carefully navigating a maze-like wasteland – downed trees or power lines, or washed-out roads forcing course corrections with alarming frequency.

Step by tenuous step, loved ones were located – greeted with sighs of great relief and anxious questions of urgent need: Do you have enough drinking water? Need any food? Got a place to stay? Though relief supplies were still days away, neighbors helped neighbors survive. Churches opened their doors. Firefighters and first responders persisted. Helicopters air-lifted water-logged souls to safety. Surely no one would remain a lost sheep. None would rest until all were found, one by one, even unto death.

Lisle Gwinn Garrity, Lost and Found, SanctifiedArt.org

Theirs was the pursuit of the shepherd, so singularly focused on the one who is lost, vulnerable, and at-risk. The good shepherd steadies the lost sheep on his shoulders and steps forth from the chaos. His gaze finds yours, and the artist hopes you’ll hear him whisper, “I will never stop searching for the lost. I will never stop rejoicing when one is found. That’s how much you mean to me: I know you by name.”

Who are the lost, and who are the found? Each of us, in various seasons of life, precariously stand somewhere on the spectrum of lost and found. Lent extends an invitation to consider where you exist on that spectrum in this moment, and where God might be seeking you in your midst of sun or storm, and where God might be calling you to search for others with the heart of a shepherd. Indeed, none are found until all are found.

Listen to the Word that God has spoken.

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on the Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 23, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Fredrick Buechner, Lisle Gwynn Garrity, Joely Johnson, Amy-Jill Levine, Mork Mindy McGarrah Sharp, and Ben Witherington III inform the message. It is part of Pastor Grant’s Lenten series, “Everything in Between: Meeting God in the Midst of Extremes.” The video clip is from Lumo’s Gospel of Luke.

Rest and Growth: The Parable of the Fig Tree

Master gardeners well understand that their plants, trees, and bushes need rest, nutrients, and time – and hungry growers also need their flora to produce fruit and vegetables. Both needs are true in the biology of horticulture – and so also in the discipleship of those who sow, tend, and water their faith. To flourish and grow in belief, you and I need rest, nutrients, and time – and we need to produce the spiritual fruit that the Lord requires of us. 

If you’re forever striving for even-more growth without taking time to rest, you’ll burn out. And if you’re only-ever resting, you won’t grow and bear fruit. Those seemingly opposed divine truths of our humanity are what a lone fig tree serves up in this morning’s Scripture lesson: Expressions of the in-between times of nurture before fruit, where the ground is  fertile for repentance and transformation. Let us pray in preparation to receive the Word of the Lord in the Gospel of Luke –

Creator God, your Word is like soil – something in which to root ourselves. Your Word is like the sun – big enough to touch everything with its warmth. And your Word is like a gardener – a love that prunes and encourages, waters and delights, seeds and tends. So, as we now turn to your Good News, please warm our bones, tend to our broken pieces, and show us how to grow. With hope we pray.

You need not be a tree-hugger to identify with this hapless fig tree: Human worth is too often measured by what you produce. Rest is allusive in a world that’s forever sprinting. Demanded outcomes lack support and resources. And, like the fig tree, many of us are feeling our way through in-between seasons when the chapters of our lives feel undefined and uncertain, when we doubt whether personal and spiritual growth will even take place.

In this our moment of anxious days and sleepless nights, perhaps we do well with the mindset of a gardener – and with putting the Master’s skills into more-regular practice: Abiding in patience, hope, and trust; strengthening roots in well-tended soil; exercising discernment, and demonstrating resilience.

Asparagus is my favorite vegetable. But we’ve never grown much asparagus in our garden, because it takes time – usually a couple growing seasons from planting to first harvest, and I just don’t have the patience.

Asparagus needs a year, then at least another, to concentrate its efforts on largely invisible work: Taking foothold in the soil, spreading its roots, gathering strength to flourish. Asparagus, like the fig tree of our lesson, cannot be rushed. The lack of asparagus in a fledgling bed – as with a young fig tree’s lack of fruit – is not a sign of failure. Maturity requires time and care, attention and patience.

Please don’t for long imagine Luke’s vineyard owner as God. Resist the temptation of hierarchical thinking that the most seemingly powerful figure in a parable must always be God. Doing so with this parable runs afoul of the psalmist’s declaration of the Lord as “merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” (Psalm 103:8) And surely a call to faithful waiting seems more apt and necessary for God’s ever-impatient people. As God reminds Habakkuk, “There still exists a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end, and does not lie. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.” (2:3)

Faithful waiting doesn’t mean doing nothing. A gardener waters, weeds, and fertilizes. Nothing is wasted. Down below the surface, the fig tree isn’t just gathering strength; it also is building relationships. Soilborne fungi are finding homes in its roots, boosting the tree’s capacity to resist disease and take in nutrients. In return, the tree feeds the fungi. Neighboring insects – ants and beetles – spread those helpful fungi, break down organic matter to enrich the soil, and reduce disease-causing pathogens.

Perhaps this parable is better read as a gentle rebuke against those of us who are all too comfortable with our on-demand, instant-gratification culture – and who believe the lie that we control more than we actually can and do. Thus comes our Lenten invitation: Repent and believe the Good News! Slow down. Do your part. Remember the promise. Whether asparagus or fig, the harvest will come in its good time.

It is precisely as we heard earlier from the second letter of Peter: “The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”  Ancient words, ever true: A story of surely being on the way but definitely not yet being there, a faith journey of messy middles and nuanced surprises. The writer Anna Strickland paints with words a vivid picture –

“So much of the beauty of the world comes from the in-between spaces. In the space between night and day, the sun and atmosphere collide into a dazzling display of color. Waterfalls span the space between cliffs and the river below with astonishing power. Mangrove forests, beaches, and bayous exist entirely in the space[s] between land and water. The edges of things, the mixing spaces, … are the most interesting places on earth.”

And yet, we feel compelled to exist in categories – pigeon-holing “sacred” and “secular,” “female” and “male,” “left” and “right,” “right” and “wrong,” “black” and “white”; compressing the beauty and complexity of the whole spectrum of being into just two words.

Oh, how good it is when you set aside the boxes we construct and follow the lead of our Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, who created night and day and everything in between; land and water and everything in between; you and me and everyone in between. Again quoting the Reverend Ms. Strickland, “The Alpha and the Omega is surely with us in the space in between.”

The seemingly small minority of patient and gracious folks who tend and water, nourish and grow, in those in-between spaces just might turn out to be the best hope of our fallen and divided world.

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be wholly pleasing and acceptable to God the Father Almighty. Amen, and amen.

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on the Third Sunday in Lent, March 23, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Jeff Chu, Hannah Garrity, Lisle Gwynn Garrity, and Anna Strickand inform the message. It is part of Pastor Grant’s Lenten series, “Everything in Between: Meeting God in the Midst of Extremes.” The video clip is from Lumo’s Gospel of Luke.

Faith and Works

Dr. David Moessner was one of the seminary professors who taught me the New Testament. Though he had the kind heart of a pastor, Dr. Moessner was nonetheless an intimating figure – not only because his scholarship was so rich but also because he read Scripture in its original Greek with the same ease that you and I read English.

His teaching style always invited seminarians to read aloud the particular Bible passage of the day’s study. My classmates and I shared various English translations, and Dr. Moessner followed along in his beloved biblical Greek. Occasionally, he would interrupt the reading with a bracing judgment: “That’s a horrible translation” – faulting not the talent of the reciting student but the choices of the Bible’s English translators.

As I last week began revisiting our Scripture lesson for this morning – Luke’s account of Jesus’s visit to the home of Mary and Martha, I got to the last verse and wanted to join Dr. Moessner in throwing a red flag: “That’s a horrible translation.” So I’m reading to you what for me anyway is a better, more helpful translation of this story from the English Standard Version. For our nourishment, may the Holy Spirit release the infallible Word of the Lord veiled within the fallible language of women and men.

Now as they went on their way, Jesus [and his disciples] entered a village. And a woman named Martha welcomed [Jesus] into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to his teaching. But Martha was distracted with much serving. And she went up to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-42)

Lauren Wright Pittman, Mary & Martha, SanctifiedArt.org

“Mary has chosen the good portion” – that’s the more helpful translation that unlocks some deeper understanding of this classic parable. In many translations, Jesus proclaims that “Mary has chosen the better part, which creates a dividing crisis of faith: Martha is wrong for doing, and Mary is right for being. But in its original text, Mary chooses “the good portion,” and Martha’s tasks are labeled “ministry.”

Maybe then Mary stands in our sted of faith-filled desire to know God intimately – up close and personal. And maybe then Martha mirrors our good works: Our hands and feet, minds and hearts, serving as gracious responses to desperate prayers for “thy will to be done and thy Kingdom to come.” Both are needed, and both are good. On the bottom line, faith is seasonal: Times for doing and times for listening, times for practicing and times for learning. 

Hearing Jesus proclaim Mary’s choice as “better” makes a value judgment – one being more valued or important than another. Dripping with condescension, “better” forces the black-and-white worldview of either/or, this or that, them or us. Thus arises overly simplistic discernment: One choice is better, one worse, so choose the better. Yet the whole of the Gospel proclaims Jesus blessing both doing something and sitting there: Carry out the work – the ministry – that God calls you to do, and find direction and nourishment for that work – that ministry – in staying joined at the hip with Jesus.

Perhaps in this particular visit, Jesus is encouraging Martha to slow down, to be present, to shed distraction and worry. Perhaps in this moment in his ministry, Jesus needs disciples who can truly hear him and learn, so that when it’s time to take action, they will know what to do. Steve Hartman of “CBS Sunday Morning” shares a poignant tale of what that looks like.

Disciples who truly hear Jesus, and who eagerly learn from Jesus, know precisely the faithful response, when times are tough, and it’s time for fruitful action and ministry.

More often than not, we never seem to know what we are doing, and sometimes we think the Bible, like a rulebook, is going to end our confusion – as if a story like Jesus’s visit with Martha and Mary is going to provide a crystal-clear moral lesson that points us in the right direction. Thanks be to God, we’ll finally know what we’re supposed to be doing.

But then, once you and I start thinking that we’ve nailed it, we begin to judge the actions of others, and the moment you starting doing that is when you’ve once again lost your way. Because once again you’ve lost the plot and missed the point.

So maybe choosing the good portion isn’t about choosing between action and contemplation. Maybe it isn’t about working in Jesus’s name versus sitting at Jesus’s feet, since discipleship has always been a combination of the two. Maybe, as another observes, choosing the good portion is not judging the actions of others through the lens of your own personality. Because when you do, your judgment distracts you from the main thing: the Gospel in Christ Jesus around which we live, move, and have our being.

That is the Good News of grace and mercy, listening and learning, loving and serving around which we gather – the main thing that can never be taken away, because the Holy Spirit is always forming who you are, and as flowing water smooths the rough, jagged edges of a rock, the Spirit slowly and sometimes imperceptibly shapes us into the glory of God.

That is why we gather here: Not merely to spend time sipping coffee with friends and neighbors and savoring some tasty breakfast treats. We come to remember our story – our story of redemption and transformation, and the story of God and God’s people will stand. And unlike so much else in earthly life, it will not be taken away. So, hear Jesus calling your name, and take it from there. As with Jesus, turn your face toward Jerusalem, set your sights on the Cross, and abide in Easter’s promise of resurrection.

Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on the Second Sunday in Lent, March 16, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Nadia Bolz-Weber, Karoline Lewis, Lauren Wright Pittman, and Mindy McGarrah Sharp inform the message. It is part of his Lenten series, “Everything in Between: Meeting God in the Midst of Extremes.”