Grace and peace to you in the name of Christ. Amen.
Gracia y paz en el nombre de Cristo Jesus. Amén.
On behalf of the congregation I serve, Iglesia Luterana San Lucas, I bring greetings on this festive day. San Lucas is a Spanish-speaking congregation of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America located near the United States-Mexico border in Eagle Pass, Texas. It is a ministry of welcome and faith formation and life together in the midst of poverty, injustice, and border uncertainty. Eagle Pass is right across the Rio Grande from the Mexican city of Piedras Negras, Coahuila. With many families on both sides of the river, it is a community bound by bridges. In many ways, it is not unlike my hometown of the Quad Cities, except you don’t need to show a passport or a visa to armed agents in order to go to Bettendorf.
It is an honor for me to be back here with you today “by the Mighty Mississippi.” I realize that when I started as a first-year student here at Augustana, most of the seniors graduating today would have been in kindergarten.
I’m filled with nostalgia of my time here as I return to campus. Augustana formed me in many and various ways, crystallizing a curiosity for learning, connecting me with a tradition of scholarship and discovery, and strengthening me with a community of faith and service.
For you getting ready to graduate today, it’s probably too soon for nostalgia. It’s more likely relief, or accomplishment, or fear and excitement as you imagine what comes next. Augustana is a part of your story. You are a part of Augustana’s story. It is all a part of God’s story.
I remember a storied piece of Augustana lore told to me by my late father, James Bailie, class of 61. According to Dad, a few prankster students got some feathers, and put them into the pipes of the organ on this stage here in Centennial Hall. You can imagine what happened next. You can imagine when the organist strikes the first chord: Piles of projectile plumage. Everywhere. I tell this story, not to promote collegiate mischief, but as a sign of God’s Holy Spirit.
A pastor I work with in Texas, when talking about the Holy Spirit, often says, “Look for the feathers.” In Christian tradition, the presence of God’s spirit is often symbolized by a bird, floating and maneuvering amongst us. “Come Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove.” Birds sometimes leave behind feathers as signs that they were there. So too it is with God. We can’t always see God among us, be we can see signs of the Spirit’s presence: Lives transformed. Families welcomed. Communities impacted. Feathers. Our lives become piles of projectile Spirit-signs: lessons learned, friendships cultivated, dreams inspired.
In today’s Gospel from John 14, Jesus promises the presence of the Holy Spirit. In his farewell discourse, Jesus prepares his disciples for time without him, after his death. They are in a liminal state, in-between, unaware of the future without their teacher, without their friend. In their uncertainty of what happens next, Jesus promises that they will not be abandoned. He will send an Advocate, a Comforter, a Guide, a Spirit of Truth, so that they will not be alone. And so it is with us. We are not abandoned. We are not alone.
The time around graduation is a liminal in-between time. You might not know what happens next. There’s anticipation and expectation. Farewells and finals. Sometimes our lives might feel strewn out like a stage full of feathers. Sometimes we don’t know what’s going on. Sometimes our plans don’t happen like we want them or how our families want them. Sometimes the Holy Sprit surprises.
I remember the day that I went to the Register’s office to undeclare my Spanish major. “When will I ever really use this?” I wondered. Now I function in Spanish almost daily as a pastor on the Mexican border.
God’s spirit surprises and changes us. My time after Augustana has led me to a variety of places and contexts: Seminary in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood, an internship in a bilingual and multicultural congregation on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and now parish ministry in Texas.
Two years into my first call as a pastor after graduating from seminary, I was serving a congregation in suburban San Antonio. The bishop’s office called me seemingly out of the blue saying, “We’d like you to interview in Eagle Pass.” “Where’s that?” I asked.
Eagle Pass is 140 miles west of San Antonio, across vast open spaces of cattle ranches, mesquite trees, and rattlesnakes. Sometimes it is 45 miles between gas stations. It’s 120 miles to the next closest ELCA Lutheran congregation. Ministry is meaningful and the people are welcoming, but the location can is remote and can be isolating.
I distinctly remember, as a geography major here at Augustana, being firmly admonished by Professor Norman Moline to never use the phrase “Middle of nowhere.” Every place, he told us, is somewhere for somebody. Even the smallest town is home for those who live there. Even the places uninhabited by humans are still somewhere for somebody. They are part of ecosystems and watersheds. Everywhere is somewhere.
And so it is with God. Every place is someplace as the Spirit of God abides. No corner of the universe, no path untrodden or peril unknown, no parents’ basement or entry level position is away from God’s presence. God’s Spirit is with you.
My six years on the border have taught me that God’s presence has no boundaries. We try to build walls, but God’s love transcends our human divisions. In whatever language, God speaks.
God shapes us and forms us. God challenges us and guides us. God is present in the mess and the mystery. God’s Spirit is present in us and with us. Jesus says, “This is the Sprit of Truth.”
In another piece of Augustana lore, I invite you on a scavenger hunt this afternoon during Commencement. Take a look at the banner used in the procession. There’s a Greek word on it. Aletheia. It means truth. It’s the word used here in John’s Gospel.
As you celebrate your graduation from Augustana, the truth is with you. In the liberal arts tradition, we celebrate truth. Truth in classroom. Truth in the laboratory. The truth of creative art. The truth of life together in community.
Students of Augustana, family, friends: Today as we give thanks to God for the gift of education and the blessings of learning, we celebrate truth. We celebrate the truth of God’s love for each and every person here. We celebrate the truth of God’s abiding presence. The Comforter, the Advocate, the Guide is with you. You will not be abandoned.
The Good News for us today is that Jesus sends the Holy Spirit. You are not alone. We are not alone. However the feathers of your life may fall, God’s Spirit of love has been with you. God’s Spirit of peace is with you right now. The Spirit of truth will be with you forever. Amen.
I was invited to give the invocation at the Women’s March in the Plaza San Juan in downtown Eagle Pass. I hesitated at first, because I’m not a woman, but I accepted when I realized that several women from the community would also have leadership roles. I marched because I realize that injustice impacts all of us. I saw this as an opportunity to show a ministry of presence in the community. About sixty people marched today, January 21, 2016, in Maverick County, Texas. Here is what I prayed:
Holy God, we give you thanks. We thank you for this new day, for the freedom to lift our voices, and for the chance to be together today, marching for the wellbeing of our community and of this country.
Santo Dios, te damos gracias. Te damos gracias por este día nuevo, por la libertad para levantar nuestras voces, y por la oportunidad para estar juntos hoy, marchando por el bienestar de nuestra comunidad y de este pais.
Aunque soy hombre, recognozco la herencia de tantas mujeres valientes y fieles: Esclavas y sufragistas. Profetas y pacificadoras. Artistas y organizadoras. Abuelitas y activistas. Madres y soñadoras. Hermanas y heroes. Te damos gracias, oh Dios, por sus ejemplos y su testamonio. Y juntos marchamos hoy, en su memoria y en su honor. Juntos marchamos en paz. Juntos marchamos en solidaridad con mujeres en muchos partes, con esperanza por un mundo mas justo.
Although I’m a man, I recognize the legacy of so many brave and faithful women: Slaves and suffragettes. Prophets and peacemakers. Artists and organizers. Grandmothers and activists. Mothers and dreamers. Sisters and heroes. We thank you, God, for their example and testimony. Together we march today, in their memory and honor. Together we march in peace. Together we march in solidarity with women in many places, with hope for a more just world.
We lament hatred and prejudice. We lament nepotism and idolatry. We await equality and transformation.
Lamentamos odio y prejuicio. Lamentamos nepotismo y idolotría. Esperamos igualdad y transformación. Oramos por familias vulnerables en medio de temor. Oramos por migrantes y presos y personas sin seguro de salud. Oramos por paz.
We pray for families, vulnerable and in fear. We pray for immigrants, prisoners, and people without health insurance. We pray for peace.
Bless this march, oh Holy Spirit. Bless this country with a spirit of resistance and integrity. Encourage us to unite our message and to recognize the needs of our communities.
Bendice esta marcha, oh Espíritu Santo. Bendice este país con espíritu de resistincia e integridad. Empújanos para unir nuestro mensaje y reconocer las necesidades de nuestras comunidades.
En medio de injusticia y opresion, dános ánimo para no estar callados. Dános proposito. Dános un plan. En medio de venganza y violencia, dános sabiduría para responder con amor. En medio de homofobia, Islamofobia, y cualquier tipo de temor, guíanos para proclamar la dignidad de cada ser humano como tu creación buena.
In the midst of injustice and oppression, help us to not be silent. Give us purpose. Give us a plan. In the midst of vengeance and violence, give us wisdom to respond with love. In the midst of homophobia, Islamophobia, and all sorts of fear, guide us to proclaim the dignity of every human being as your good creation.
We pray for the new leadership, in every level of government, so that each person of Eagle Pass, of this country, of the whole world, may truly live with liberty and justice. We pray with hope and faith.
Oramos por el liderazgo nuevo , en cada nivel del gobierno, para que cada persona en Eagle Pass, en este país, y en todo el mundo, pueda vivir verdaderamente con libertad y justicia. Y oramos en espíritu de esperanza y fe. Amén.
Here in Eagle Pass, we’re in the midst of getting ready for Christmas. Our blue Advent candles are getting lit. This year we had Noche de Talentos, an open mic night for the holiday season, celebrating the many gifts in our community. In our multigenerational spiritual formation time on Wednesday, we wrote Christmas cards for families in immigration detention through Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service’s #HopeForTheHolidays program. A cadre of parishioners scooped up turkey and trimmings while volunteering for the local Feast of Sharing at Thanksgiving. For the second year, I was invited by the City of Eagle Pass to pray the invocation for the lighting of the Christmas lights downtown in Plaza San Juan.
Approaching my sixth Christmas as pastor here at San Lucas, it is my privilege to serve alongside people for whom immigration is not an abstract political issue, but rather a daily reality. Anxiety is high; uncertainty abounds. As we remember the ancient holy pilgrims María and José, we also remember immigrant communities today and those seeing welcome and new opportunities. My hope is that San Lucas can be a sanctuary of peace and hospitality. At the beginning of this year, we installed signs at each entrance to prohibit weapons in the buildings, in accordance with a new Texas law allowing open carry at churches. Powers and principalities…
Looking back, 2016 has been a year of challenges here at San Lucas. A few emotional funerals marked the death of several beloved saints. We had an incident of vandalism and another of theft. With sporadic denominational funding and fewer mission partner congregations sending support, our financial situation has been nebulous, to say the least. Some of our buildings were without electricity for a few days in October as we waited for some checks to clear. Thankfully, the office remained with power, protecting refrigerated food pantry inventory. Perhaps I have been too much of a martyr, triaging other expenses before my own paycheck, for months at a time.
Yet even in the midst of irksome tasks and weighty responsibilities, hope permeates San Lucas. Perhaps more than ever, I feel God’s presence in the ministry here. We’re in a context of poverty and corruption that so desperately needs to hear the Good News of Jesus. In August, after hearing local news reports about increased migrant deaths in the arid stretches of Maverick County, we installed several water stations, in cooperation with the South Texas Human Rights Center. Our food pantry received over 68,000 pounds of food in the fiscal year. We partnered with Cross Trails for summer Day Camp. We’re getting started in advocacy, especially around health care, immigration, and the environmental impacts of a new local coal mine. We’re in the nascent stages of building a chicken coop for the poultry who found their way here. I have been doing some mission exploration scoping potential possibilities for ELCA presence in nearby Del Rio. A meme with a picture of tostadas from our San Lucas VBS snack helped ignite the conversation around the budding #decolonizeLutheranism movement.
On behalf of all of San Lucas, I am grateful for all of the prayerful support we receive. (You can donate electronically at http://www.sanlucas78852.org/donate). This was the first year that members have used numbered offering envelopes. With a spirit of accompaniment and mutuality, we long to be financially self-sustaining, but that is still not the case. The generosity of so many individuals and congregations helps continue the ministry of San Lucas. Thank you. Thank you for your gifts.
Pastor Paul Bailie
Por parte de mi congregación, la Iglesia Luterana San Lucas, en Eagle Pass, Texas, les mando saludos y bendiciones. Gracia y paz en el nombre de Cristo. Amen.
On behalf of my congregation, San Lucas, in Eagle Pass, Texas, I bring you greetings and blessings. Grace and peace in the name of Christ. Amen.
I’m a Quad City native, formed and nurtured in the faith here at St. Paul. It’s good to be back today. Thank you for your prayers and for your support. Juntos somos la iglesia. Together we are the Church.
I serve a Spanish-speaking Lutheran community along the Mexican border in South Texas. We worship God and study the Bible. We feed over one hundred families each month with our food pantry. We’ve just started maintaining water stations for migrants crossing the dry Texas backcountry. Life at San Lucas is beautiful and life-giving cross-cultural ministry, but not without frustrating challenges:
Poverty and unemployment.
Unexplainable immigration laws that separate families.
Local political corruption and injustice.
Sometimes, we just don’t know who to trust. During my time in Eagle Pass:
County commissioners were indicted for such crimes as currency smuggling, tax evasion, bribery, conspiracy, and fraud.
The school district police chief was arrested shoplifting at Walmart.
The sheriff’s department can’t seem to find financial documents for the entire year 2010.
There’s little accountability. Nepotism abounds. Power corrupts.
In today’s Gospel, we meet a woman who is likewise fed up with injustice. She’s bold, audacious, and persistent. She’s deliberate and faithful. Like too many women of the Bible, we don’t know her name. We don’t know her reason for needing to speak to the judge.
But we do know that as a widow in the ancient world, her livelihood would have been rather precarious. Without a first-century version of Social Security, Medicaid, or CHIP, she would be vulnerable to impending poverty and the first-century versions of payday lenders and exploitative elder abuse. Hers is a voice from the margins.
Yet in the midst of everything, she shows steadfastness, persistence, and determination. She protests. She agitates. She resists. She speaks truth to power. Deep in her heart, she does believe, she will overcome some day. What does she want? JUSTICE. When does she want it? NOW!
When the Bible talks about justice, it’s communal and collective. When the Bible talks about justice, it’s about how society treats people often marginalized: orphans, widows, foreigners. Biblical justice is less about punitive punishment, giving people what they deserve. Rather, it’s about God’s abundance, giving more than anyone deserves. More grace, more forgiveness, more reconciliation.
I’m always moved by scholar Cornel West’s quote: “Justice is what love looks like in public.” This widow was seeking some public love, public accountability, public action to make things right. Justice is far more than a food pantry or a water station. It’s systemic. It’s on a much grander scale. When we seek justice, we do more than write a check or donate old clothes. Seeking justice, we challenge our leaders and we challenge ourselves. We ask difficult questions:
Why are people poor in the first place?
Why does a Black life, an undocumented life, an Iraqi life, a transgender life, seem to matter less than a white one or a blue one?
Why do our Lutheran congregations far too often not reflect the demographics of our neighborhoods?
From the margins, this unnamed widow asks difficult questions. She seeks a public answer. She looks for justice. She is persistent.
And then, “Here comes the judge!” This judge is a guy with power and privilege. He plays by his own rules. He is full of his own ego. We know the type. He’s in charge even when he’s not. He says what he thinks, even if it does damage. He doesn’t care about widows, orphans, immigrants, or anybody but himself. He’s arrogant and superior. He doesn’t show mercy or grace. Finally he grants this woman justice. It’s not because he’s compassionate or loving. Rather, it’s because he’s just tired of being bothered.
The Bible says this is a parable about the need pray always and not lose heart. When we pray, we make known the needs and hopes and joys and struggles all around us. We pray for those near and far. We do pray for justice. Prayer is advocacy, but prayer is more than a Christmas list or a fast-food restaurant order. It’s not a monologue or soliloquy. Prayer is conversation. It’s a two-way street. We speak to God, but God also speaks to us. It’s a chance for us to open to God’s transformation.
Let’s flip this parable around. Rather than seeing God as an arrogant judge who gets annoyed by our prayers, let us instead imagine ourselves as the judge and God as that persistent widow, calling us to justice, inviting us to prayerfully listen to the voices around us. We don’t need a law degree, or a black robe, or a Senate confirmation to be a judge. The truth is, we all judge people all the time.
Maybe you roll up the windows and lock the car doors when you drive down Pershing or Gaines, south of Locust.
Maybe you clinch your luggage when you see somebody in a turban or hijab at the airport.
Maybe you laugh at the girl with clothes not as cool or trendy as yours.
“Here comes the judge.” But like that persistent widow, God keeps coming to us: Showing us the dignity of our neighbors and pointing out the humanity of our enemies. God enters our lives. God speaks to us, calling us to justice: Not a punitive law-and-order justice, but a holistic biblical orphan-widow-migrant justice where each and every person has value and integrity as God’s beloved child. That kind of justice.
In Christ Jesus, God consistently appears as someone marginalized and vulnerable:
A baby in a manger.
A refugee family in Egypt.
Somebody eating with tax collectors and sinners.
A political prisoner, beaten and killed by law enforcement, just doing their jobs.
Living on the Mexican border, I’m privileged to accompany so many faithful saints, with hope in the midst of challenges. I remember that countless host of unnamed migrant pilgrims, whose names I don’t know, but whose stories are told by their wet socks and t-shirts left behind on the shores of the Rio Grande in downtown Eagle Pass, fleeing unimaginable violence and seeking a new opportunity…All beloved children of God.
Throughout my life and ministry, God keeps sending me persistent voices of justice and hope. God keeps speaking to me through my neighbor. I’m inspired and called to action. I’m humbled and grateful.
But one need not travel to the Texas border in order to hear God’s voice in prayer. Wherever you live, you have neighbors whose voices aren’t always heard. Where might you hear God this week? What bold, audacious, and persistent prophetic voice from the margins might be speaking to you?
Perhaps someone you’ve wronged.
Someone whose life experience is different than yours.
Someone whose background might challenge you.
An immigrant. A prisoner. An actual widow, longing for a visit and conversation.
A story of hope. A narrative of transformation. A testimony of justice.
Listen. Hear. Begin to understand. Like that widow, God is persistent. God keeps calling us to justice. God puts people in our lives to push us, to form us, to impact us:
Across the Rio Grande…
Across the Mighty Mississippi…
Wherever there is pain…
Wherever there is uncertainty…
God is present with those who suffer. Jesus enters the world. That is the power of the cross. That is the power of solidarity. From the margins, God leads us to compassion. Our prayer becomes a chance to listen.
Our encounter becomes a holy prayer.
In ways we don’t always expect, with people we might not always imagine, God draws us into new life:
a life transformed by grace,
a life enriched by togetherness in community,
a life sustained by God’s unending mercy.
Pray always and do not lose heart. Amen.
[Preached October 16, 2016 at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Davenport, Iowa]
This summer at San Lucas, we’re following a series of scripture readings from 1 and 2 Kings, with more readings from other prophets later. I felt called to use these readings because it’s a chance to learn more about these ancient stories of Elijah, Ahab, Jezebel, and other prophets, that are still so very relevant in our current world of religious pluralism, sacred violence, and political idolatry.
In the mythology of the Ancient Near East, each land had its own god, and there were gods and goddesses for each aspect of life. There were gods of life and death, of earth and sea. It was normal to worship multiple gods, depending on the situation. Therefore, it was strange that the Israelites would worship only one God—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. As a prophet, Elijah tried to eliminate (or at least discourage) the worship of other gods, especially Baal, a Canaanite storm god. In archaeology and art, Baal almost always has a lightening bolt in his hand. He was responsible for the rain. He was often worshiped alongside Asherah, a goddess of fertility.
Today’s story (1 Kings 18:20-39) takes place in the midst of a long drought. Without rain or harvest, life was hard. Just a chapter earlier, in a famous story, Elijah has an encounter with a desperate widow struggling to survive in a challenging time. With all the fear of not having food or water in a time of drought, I can understand the temptation of the Israelites and Ahab, their king, to pray to a god of storms and a goddess of fertility. In 1 Kings 18:21, Elijah thus asks a provocative question: “How much longer will you try to have things both ways? If the LORD is God, worship him! But if Baal is God, worship him!”
We have in today’s story a tremendous show—a contest between four hundred fifty prophets of Baal and only one lone prophet of God—Elijah. At Mount Carmel, they had put two piles of wood and two bulls, ready to light a fire and offer a sacrifice. For hours and hours, they waited. The Baalist prophets danced and sang and prayed, but nothing happened. They even cut their own skin as a sign of faith and devotion. Still, no smoke or flames.
Then Elijah prayed, at the altar to God. Elijah prayed to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Elijah prayed that the people may know the true identity of the only God. And suddenly: FIRE. With flames and smoke, the fire came, with power and presence. Upon seeing this tremendous sign, all the people, as witnesses of this incredible marvel, bowed to the ground, saying “The LORD is God.” It was clear that Baal has no power. It was clear that God is the only God that exists. This story reminds us of God’s true presence in the world. This story shows us God’s unending power.
Elijah asks, “How much longer will you try to have things both ways?” This is a good question for us today, as well. As local communities, as a country, as citizens of the world, who will we worship: God or other gods? We may not have statues of Baal or poles of Asherah, but we live in a pantheon of all sorts of gods. It’s so easy to worship something other than God: Wealth. Beauty. Health. Sports. Success. Patriotism. Power. “How much longer will you try to have things both ways?”
At last year’s Synod Assembly, there was a breakfast where leaders from various congregations were gathered to talk about mission. I clearly remember the centerpieces that the convention center staff had lovingly placed at each table: Crosses draped with United States flags and little placards proclaiming “God bless America.” I confess that such mixture of faith and patriotism makes me uncomfortable for a variety of reasons. First, God’s blessing is not just for [the United States of] America. God’s love is for all peoples and nations. We can’t be putting limits on God’s grace and liberty. It’s not just for one country.
When we drape a flag on the cross, we are making Jesus a United States American, when his mercy is for the whole world. Secondly, to collude cross and flag is also problematic because many brave people that died fighting under that flag were not Christians. We live in a world of religious pluralism. Our neighbors are loyal US Americans who are also Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, atheist, and all sorts of other faiths and denominations. They are all loved by God, even though they may not worship God as we do. We may not all practice the same religion, but our Christian faith pushes us to respect others with dignity and integrity.
Tomorrow is Memorial Day, the time in which the United States remembers those who have died in service to this country. Memorial Day is more than a time to barbecue chicken on the backyard grill or to buy cheap shoes on sale at the mall. It is a solemn time to remember those lives forever changed by the violence of war and the horror of death. We also hope for an end to conflict and suffering. We hope for the time when there are no more casualties. As Americans, we remember those serving for this country, but as Christians we must also remember those of all countries who have suffered in our wars. Violence is violence, whatever the uniform. Blood is blood, whatever the source. Death is horrible, for each and every person.
This weekend, President Barack Obama traveled Japan to visit Hiroshima, where the United States dropped an atomic bomb during World War II. He did not officially apologize, but he did meet some survivors and family members of survivors from this United States attack. He did offer his hope for a world without nuclear weapons. Perhaps it was just an unintentional coincidence, but the date of the attack on Hiroshima back in 1945 fell on Transfiguration Sunday, the day in which the Church remembers the vision of Moses and Elijah together with Jesus on a mountain—another Elijah/mountain story. In Hiroshima, it wasn’t a transfiguration of glory like in the Gospels. Rather, it was a transfiguration of death and destruction, killing hundreds of thousands of people, and transforming the world forever.
Many times that I’ve preached on the Transfiguration, I’ve described Jesus as a new Moses and a new Elijah, living out the traditions of both the Law and the Prophets. After re-reading the whole story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal, I’m not sure I want to think of Jesus as a new Elijah. Elijah is a bully, arrogantly taunting the prophets with sarcastic verbal jabs and mocking put-downs. “Baal must be a god. Maybe he’s day-dreaming or using the toilet or traveling somewhere. Or maybe he’s asleep, and you have to wake him up (18:27).”
Elijah is also a murderer. Our lectionary bulletin insert stops at verse 39 with everyone happy and worshiping God. However, in verse 40, Elijah kills all 450 prophets of Baal. Elijah is another example of why we as humans need a savior. He’s one person in a long chain of religious people carrying out horrible violence against people of other faiths. It’s completely against the faith that Jesus teaches. In the Crusades, Christians killed Muslims for centuries. In both the Americas, Europeans murdered generations of indigenous tribes. During World War II, German Christians (including Lutherans) were too often silent and complicit during Hitler’s genocide of the Jews. Closer to home, at Crystal City, in the next county over, the United States locked up Japanese and German Americans in an internment camp. Sacred violence is not that sacred. I don’t want to worship Jesus as a returned murderer nor even as a bully, as a new Elijah.
The good news for us is that Jesus is neither Moses nor Elijah. Jesus is not a murderer nor a bully. Jesus is God-With-Us. Jesus enters our world, in life, in death, in the midst of violence, even in suffering. That is the power of the cross. Jesus’ love and mercy is for all people in all places. We remember those who have died. We remember our whole world’s need for a savior. We lament violence and we hope for peace. As we remember Elijah on that mountain, we remember that there is one God. There are many things that pull us away from God, but in the person of Jesus, we encounter the God that comes to us, transforming our lives in the way of peace. Amen.
[Adapted and translated from a sermon originally preached in Spanish at Iglesia Luterana San Lucas in Eagle Pass, Texas on May 29, 2016].
With Memorial Day (and soon Independence Day) around the corner, I wanted to share a hymn text that I wrote a few years ago that pushes us as Christian people to prayerfully think about what it means to live as people of faith in an environment of violence and idolatry. It won the Macalester Plymouth United Church Hymn Contest in 2010, but I realized that I never posted it here. Think of it as a poetic #TBT. We won’t sing it here at San Lucas, since it doesn’t totally fit musically with how we worship, but it might work well in other contexts. Feel free to use it, but I’d love to know when and where it gets sung. Along with the two tunes I originally suggested, BEACH SPRING could be another singable choice.
God, we know that on this planet
we are not the only ones,
but with every tribe and nation
we’re your daughters and your sons.
With baptismal waters flowing,
dripping wet and sanctified,
we are sharing in your promise
with Christ Jesus by our side.
Help us be a peaceful presence
in a reconciling role,
trusting not in our own prowess
but in your divine control.
Feed us, form us, strengthen, nourish
with abundant holy food.
Guide us as your living body,
in the world for every good.
We acknowledge past injustice,
and for future peace we pray,
trusting in the Holy Spirit
who sustains us day by day.
When we look into a mirror,
help us have humility:
seeing strangers as our neighbors
in this blessed community.
Flags and banners blur our vision;
our own pride obscures the cross.
Jesus, mend our indecision,
bring your mercy to our loss.
As we watch the war and violence,
prejudice and bigotry,
guide us in anticipation
of the world as it will be.
2010 Prize winning hymn – God, We Know That on This Planet
By Paul Bailie, Eagle Pass, Texas
(Suggested tunes: PLEADING SAVIOR, HOLY MANNA) Meter: 22.214.171.124.D
© 2010, Rev. Paul Bailie
This winter, I was invited to accompany a congregation from the Houston area on a delegation to visit some Lutheran congregations in El Salvador. It wasn’t a mission trip to construct a building or paint houses. Rather, the purpose was to get to know better our Lutheran sisters and brothers in El Salvador and to develop friendship between the two groups. This goal of accompaniment can be difficult, because there are differences in culture and in language. However, I’m reminded of a line from the hymn we just sang, Miren qué bueno es cuando nos reuinimos juntos (Look how good it is when we gather together).
On the trip, I was often asked to translate, and I did, but Salvadoran Spanish is somewhat different from the Spanish I have been learning here on the Mexican border. Also, translating and interpretation are different skill sets than just speaking a language. One must know the cultural details and invisible rules of communication.
During the visit, we worshiped together, participated in a retreat, and saw the agricultural hardware store that helps support the Salvadoran ministry. For me, a powerful moment was when I started to see some of the divisions between the Salvadorans and the Texans start to break down. During a New Year’s Eve party at the pastor’s house, between dinner and fireworks, the young people from both countries began to play Jenga.
Jenga is a game in which you deconstruct a wooden tower, one piece at a time, with patience and concentration. The Salvadorans taught us a fun song and dance to sing in playful shame each time you lost. There was much laughter and togetherness. It was a moment of Pentecost. Although not everyone spoke the same language, there was a connection. Upon destroying the Jenga tower, understanding and unity were being born. It was like Babel in reverse.
In Genesis 11, the people try to build a gigantic tower reaching the heavens. It’s a story that explains the diversity of language and culture in the world. For Israelites in exile, it was a way to describe their differences from the Babylonians and celebrate their own identity. The Hebrew root word for Babel means confusion. In building their tower at Babel, there was confusion. In tearing down that Jenga tower in El Salvador, there was a glimpse of connection and unity.
We can also think of this festival we celebrate today as another Babel in reverse. In the story of Pentecost, the apostles in Jerusalem didn’t need dictionaries, vocabulary flashcards, or Rosetta Stone software to understand each other. They had the power of God’s Holy Spirit. With wind and fire, God gave them a gift to speak and to understand. It’s a story of unity in the midst of so much diversity. Miren qué bueno es cuando nos reuinimos juntos.
Through this Holy Spirit of God still working in our world today, we are all bilingual. Even if we only speak one human language, we are bilingual because God gives us the language of faith. In Jerusalem, some thought the apostles were drunk. Sometimes in our world, the Christian message might seem similar. In a world of violence and war, “Love your neighbor” and even more so, “Love your enemy” seem strange and foreign. In the midst of conflict, racism, and homophobia, Christian values like forgiveness and peace seem contrary. As Christians, the Holy Spirit gives us the language to share love with the world. We aren’t drunk; we are filled with the God who guides and consoles us.
We speak the language of faith (sometimes even without words) when we have patience, practice reconciliation, encounter Scripture, and speak against injustice. To grow in our faith is to learn a new language.
Sometimes, we don’t recognize the diversity and the unity that the Spirit brings. There’s division and racism, even in the Church. Too often, our communities are more like Babel than Jerusalem. We think in stereotypes and put limits on God’s presence. There’s a stereotype that suggests that Lutherans are only White people in the Midwest of Scandinavian descent, like my own family. Such stereotypical thinking is wrong, and excludes the Mexican Lutherans at San Lucas, the Salvadoran Lutherans I met in January, and the millions of Lutheran Christians in Tanzania, Namibia, Ethiopia, Indonesia, and other places where very few people, if any, eat lefse, that Norwegian bread.
One time a Border Patrol agent at a checkpoint asked me about my job. I told him I was a Lutheran pastor. He responded incredulously, “Lutheran? Shouldn’t you be in Minnesota or Wisconsin?” “Well, we’re here,” I replied.
Old Lutheran is a company that makes fun t-shirts and bumper stickers with Lutheran sayings. I have their Martin Luther bobblehead doll. However, Old Lutheran has been sharing jokes on Facebook drawing on the same stereotype as that Border Patrol agent. These jokes and memes (You might be a Lutheran if…) suggest that Lutherans, with their lutefisk and potlucks, are just of Scandinavian descent. A few weeks ago, I saw this one:
You might be a Lutheran if you have more than three friends whose first names have the letter “j” as the second letter. Here in Eagle Pass, I don’t know anybody named Bjorn, Kjersten, or Hjalmar, but I know plenty of faithful Lutherans with names that end in “z:” González, Martínez, Ramírez, Rodríguez, et cetera.
I was frustrated with Old Lutheran and their jokes that tell an incomplete story: That Lutheranism is a cultural expression of the Midwestern United States by people descended from Northern European immigrants. My own Minnesota grandparents had spoken Norwegian; I get the jokes. However, my ministry in Spanish-speaking communities has given me a broader understanding of what it means to be Lutheran. After complaining and commenting, I decided to make my own meme, using a picture I snapped of food at San Lucas:
You might be a Lutheran if your VBS snack is tostadas. I posted it on Facebook as a joke, but also to show that there are Mexican Lutherans, too. Lutheranism is theological, not cultural. We’re Lutheran because we celebrate God’s grace in the death and resurrection of Jesus, not because we eat a certain food, use a certain hymnal, or tell certain ethnic jokes. Later, other people posted similar memes reflecting other non-Scandnavian cultures—roasted goat for dessert in Tanzania and pupusas from my new friends in El Salvador.
With these internet memes, eventually the hashtag #decolonizeLutheranism emerged, with a renewed enthusiasm for change. I was even invited into a conference call with the Presiding Bishop to talk about this developing movement. A conference is in the works. A website is online. Lots of talented leaders from many backgrounds are lifting their voices. Its a prophetic conversation that has been brewing for a long time. It’s a conversation we need to have in the Church.
Colonialism is the process throughout history in which Europeans came to a “new” country and put their will over others, usually with force and blood. One must speak their language, eat their food, sing their songs, practice their customs. Decolonization, then, is the process to remove this European influence and tell the story in ways that respect the dignity of the oppressed culture. For example, it is decolonizing to celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day instead of Columbus Day.
In the Church, we, too, are colonized. Although there are African American, Cherokee, and Chinese congregations in the ELCA, it is almost always the Anglos who make the decisions. That I am the pastor at San Lucas is itself a sign of colonialism. We have not fully developed Mexican leadership. Which young people from San Lucas will we send to seminary to be pastors? But there in seminary, what will they learn? Anglo theology? Mexican theology? Scandinavian culture? Colonized thinking? After graduating, I had to unlearn so much of my education in order to contextualize myself for ministry on the Mexican border—what books I read, what stories I tell, and what songs I sing.
It’s easy to fall into systems of colonialism. Babel is still in our memory. It’s difficult to decolonize, to break the chains of injustice, to walk together in accompaniment and mutuality. Here at San Lucas, we’ve long waited for funds and helpers from the North instead of developing our own stewardship, identity, and purpose.
This Wednesday in our multigenerational spiritual formation time, we’ll play Bible Jeopardy, reviewing what we’ve learned in the past year. Last year when we played, the prizes were all sorts of ELCA swag that I picked up at Synod Assembly—notebooks, keychains, and other ephemera. Somebody from church asked me why we don’t have trinkets with San Lucas’ logo. I replied that that stuff is expensive to print. I was told, “You need to ask your people to buy them for us.” I didn’t know what to say.
This thinking is completely colonized—that the Whites from Iowa always send money to non-White congregations. This is what we’ve been slowly moving away from in my five years on the border. Even with my Norwegian roots, as pastor here, “my people” are those of the congregation of San Lucas. So, what will we give? What will we do to be the Church? How will we continue the Pentecost story? How will we be the next chapter of the Book of Acts? How will we decolonize? How will we dream our own dreams and live our own visions?
In Pentecost, the Spirit comes to decolonize, to share the story in a new way—with wind, and fire, and new language. The Spirit comes to destroy the walls and towers that divide us. The Spirit comes to give us unity and guide us in ways that love and that seek peace and that celebrate God’s diversity.
We live in a world of sin that needs transformation, that needs decolonizing. We need to understand one another. We need to be open to the Spirit. We need that Pentecost moment. We need Babel in reverse.
Pentecost is more than an excuse to decorate with red balloons and wear red socks. It’s more than an ancient history lesson. Pentecost reminds us who we are today—God’s people. People with future and possibilities. People with visions and dreams. We’re a community of faith, animated to live, empowered to transform, guided by the Spirit.
It’s the same Spirit that moved over the waters of creation. It’s the same Spirit that breathed new life into dry bones. It’s the same Spirit that was upon Jesus in Nazareth to bring good news to the poor. It’s the same Spirit that we receive at Baptism when the pastor puts her thumb on your forehead saying, “Child of God, you are sealed with the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” It’s the same Spirit we find in this meal—bread and wine, body and blood. Come Holy Spirit. In Eagle Pass. In Minnesota. In El Salvador. In Tanzania. In Jerusalem. In all the world. The Spirit decolonizes our injustice and our human systems. The Spirit breaks down our Babel, our confusion, and gives us language of faith. Miren qué bueno es cuando nos reuinimos juntos. Amen.
[Adapted and translated from a sermon preached in Spanish at Iglesia Luterana San Lucas in Eagle Pass, Texas on May 15, 2016].