Seven Sermons for One Sunday (4th Sunday in Lent)

WELCOME & SERMON #1 (Luke 15:1-2)

Now for something completely different.

There’s so much in the parable of the Prodigal Son that we’re going to break it apart. Maybe when it comes around again in three years I’ll take it as a whole ball of wax. But today it seems worth living into the various aspects and attitudes. Plus, there’s the added benefit of being able to tell your family and friends, “I got to hear 7 sermons this week!” Who wouldn’t want to be able to claim that? *

This first piece we might take as a welcome to worship and an introduction to this experience. As you arrive here, you may identify with the sinners, having been beratedly told or having your own suspicious feeling that all is not right in your life. Or you may be more like the grumblers, who claim to have it all figured out in doing the right thing, in spite of everyone else.

Either way, what Jesus has to say today in this gathering is for you. Though we each have our own details and stories and abilities and short-comings, we also arrive in the same boat, turning again to the waters of baptism, expecting, needing a word of grace.

 

SERMON #2 (Luke 15:3, 11b-16)

It’s a nice Kyrie in ELW setting 8, isn’t it? Besides the catchy tune, it also helps expand our view. The typical versions still make reference to our relationships with God and with each other and for ourselves. Even that most simple phrase, “Kyrie eleison—Lord, have mercy” could capture all of our need. Yet this version intentionally expands our vision to our homes and justice issues, and work and play, and this gathering and the whole world, and all of it commended to God in prayer.

Briefly, I might jump in over my head on conversations on mercy. What we sang sure doesn’t seem like begging to an angry God who is apt to punish or going to withhold goodness. This isn’t mercy as relenting from meting out a harsh guilty verdict. Maybe the reverse, this mercy is apparent in its French origin, merci, reminding us of the gratitude for God having offered so much to us and continuing to strive for our wellbeing. It is not fearsome but a blessed thing to be at the mercy of God, mercy that matches other definitions of compassion for the unfortunate and seeking to alleviate distress. This points us to the beginning of Jesus’ parable. *

The younger son, figuring he was under his own power and at the mercy of nobody but himself, soon found out how much could go wrong—in squandering money and a catastrophic famine and lack of community support and even being stuck with the pigs, having to deal with what was both illegal and offensive to him.

For that wandering son, please understand; Jesus does not claim that if you stay at home close to God nothing will go wrong. Just the reverse, hearing this part of the reading still in the gathering portion of our service and along with that Kyrie, we understand how much we’ve seen go wrong. So we come here again to keep asking for protection and relief and guidance and blessing, in all the moments of our lives and for so much need in our world. And in spite of everything else, we continue to expect good from God. For that, let us pray to the Lord.

 

SERMON #3 (Luke 15:17-20a)

* Depending on your perspective, you might find the son in this part of the parable to be conniving or humbly contrite or just desperate. Is he strategizing tactics to fill his belly? If so, we could observe desperation can drive either toward ingenuity or deceitful acts. Or does he simply recognize that life was better and could be again, even if to a limited degree? That’s not to be slighted. We might, for example, consider how those who have been incarcerated can be reintegrated into society. Things may never be how they once were, but they could be better.

We should also admit, though, that this son’s remorse and sorrow could well be honest. Whether or not the relationship with his father can be re-established, there is some sense of longing in this son, to make amends and, at the very least, to confess. That is worded well in Psalm 32 that we just read, that sometimes we need to speak it aloud, to open ourselves up and disclose the hardship, just because it makes us suffer too much to keep it bottled up inside.

In a grander way, it’s what we hear from 2nd Corinthians (5:16-21), stunningly emphatic on reconciliation. This is the next part in the yearning for restored and whole relationships. And the template here is that our human point of view doesn’t cut it. How we relate is not based on past hurts or on future potential. Trespasses cannot count against us, it says. We are called to see each other through the eyes of Jesus, or as the body of Christ, as a new creation, though we still sure look and feel like our old disappointing selves.

The reading says that for our sake, Jesus became sin so that we might become God’s righteousness. Within the story, that says Jesus took the place of that lost and forsaken son. He identified with him, though it’s hard for us to imagine Jesus as so offensive, as a desperate loser, a hungry philanderer, judged to be worthless. Yet in exchange for that shame—simply taking it away—Jesus offers a new beginning where it is all right and even that outcast lowlife is entrusted at the center of God’s operations as an ambassador, continuing to work for reconciliation.

 

CHILDREN’S MESSAGE/SERMON #4 (Luke 15:20b)

Well, kids, I saved what I think is the best part of this whole story for you, because this is what I hope for you from your parents and families, and from this congregation and me at church, and in all kinds of places in life. And, most importantly, this is also what God always promises for you. *

The son had done something wrong, but his dad didn’t wait for him to say he was sorry. The son didn’t have to do anything at all. His dad was just plain excited for him and loved him and wanted to give him a great big hug. God doesn’t love you only because you do good things. God isn’t proud of you only if you stop doing bad things. God loves you just because you exists and God is so excited to be around you and to hold onto you always.

At this part of the service with sermons, we’re often looking for words to explain God or to try to teach. But before any of our words, God rushes up to say, “I love you!”

And God also trusts you to share that love with others. So go and give somebody a hug, maybe especially someone who doesn’t expect it.

 

 

SERMON #5 (Luke 15:21-24)

*Amazing Grace places these words on the son’s lips, from his experience: “I once was lost but now am found.” The father sees it more strongly still: “This son of mine was dead and is alive again.” It’s even more than recovery; this is a resurrection.

As we turn toward the peace and toward offering, we could see in this sense how we celebrate each other and how we offer our best gifts. Indeed, the amazing word of “grace” has its root in the Greek “charis.” Like “charismatic charity,” it is about gifts we eagerly give for each other. God continues to lavish goodness on you—calf and robe and ring, clothing and rich food and identity—strictly as a gift, in the old words of the catechism “out of pure fatherly goodness, without any merit or worthiness of mine at all.”

That, in turn, is what we also offer for the sake of each other. We share our gifts. We extend what has been offered to us. We practice being the new creations and ambassadors of reconciliation. We share peace. We offer love. We give away what has been given to us. Not because we need to, but because we can. And, God knows, we’re worth it!

 

SERMON #6 (Luke 15:25-30)

This sermon piece may seem like an interruption, and that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be, exactly what happens with the older son at this point in the story. The celebrations are interrupted and questioned and resisted. *

As we turn toward this table and the supper where we gladly proclaim that “all are welcome,” we have to realize that the gracious and flagrant welcome has to offend, just as surely as a closed table bound by restrictions and rules would offend. As much as it is good news that you are welcome, you are invited, that this meal is for you, we have to realize there are some who wouldn’t want somebody like you here, somebody your age or level of understanding, or with your doubts or your theology, or your clothes or education, or your background from this week or from earlier in life, or just because you don’t seem to have done much to be very deserving.

And yet here is set a lavish feast, precisely and explicitly given “for you.” The richest meal and most amazing table you could possibly be invited to, not because the abundance of fancy feast, but because the nourishment here is God’s own blessing, the life of Jesus, the presence of the Holy Spirit for you and soon in you.

This meal may be served to people with whom you wouldn’t necessarily choose to relate. It may be served by hands that don’t seem qualified or worthy or preferable. The question from the parable is whether you’ll accept this great invitation, and if the joy you’re invited to share is worth it, or whether you’ll dig in your heels, wanting to besmirch or degrade others, and in pouting miss out.

The fatted calf has been killed. The Lamb of God has given himself for you and for all. All are welcome; are you coming?

 

BLESSING/SERMON #7 (Luke 15:31-32)

Here’s the end. * What strikes me this week is the great risk. Not that I’m still trying to preach in these last moments, but how risky this was for the father. In regaining one son who had been lost for dead, did he manage to lose the other one anyway? Did he anticipate that possibility? He also seems to be losing out on the hard worker in order welcome back the problem child, offending his honor student by honoring the delinquent.

It’s a whole story of risk. We tend to slander the young son for the risk he took in leaving and then overlook the risk he was weighing in coming home. There’s always a risk in the lavish party, the feast, in what we choose to celebrate and where we give our resources. The younger son we may call wasteful; the father we’d more likely term extravagant, or at least not stingy. That’s constantly true in his devotion; it’s risky. And the older son’s resistance to living that way, his refusal to join the celebration also has risks. His father has promised him everything, but will he so firmly turn away that he’ll give up on it all and become as lost as his brother had been?

That may be the parting question today. You’ve risked being here, giving up yourself to the mercy of God, coming to celebrate a banquet that welcomes offenders and the snooty and you and any who’ll enjoy it. As you prepare to go back into the week of encountering all kinds of Kyrie moments, of squandering and wrongs done and difficulties and longing so desperately for things to go right, it’s in the reconciliation and the love and peace that you have to offer, to risk, and to receive. It’s in putting God’s love first and foremost in our attitudes and relationships, in seeing faces as God’s good new creation, as celebrated just because that’s the kind of God we have.

Having been again reminded and attuned to that, having received again that assurance in worship, going now back into the world for which God risks God’s self so extravagantly and so desperately, you have eyes to see and a life to risk with it as well.

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the Strength of Sermons (and the 1st for Advent Lutheran)

3rd Sunday after Epiphany – 24Jan16

Luke4:13-21; Psalm19; 1Corinthians12:12-31a; Nehemiah8
As Pastor Sonja and I are beginning this week, it’s only fair game for the fodder of jokes about recycling previous sermons. Though you’ve heard me touted as green and eco-conscious and a care-r of creation, I’m not a recycler in that particular way.

Without the reuse or recycle, I wondered if maybe I could emphasize the reduce side of things, as in reducing my workload. So I went searching on the internet. But I couldn’t find any good sermons for newly arriving pastors, and instead came upon this for two new veterinarians:

Greetings, dear dogs and cats. It is a pleasure to be here with you. Both Dr. Sondra and I, Dr. Nate, appreciate your patience in these recent months of having to sit, wait, and stay while you’ve been eager for us to arrive. We’re grateful for those interim professionals who were with you in the meantime, for David Claws-n-Barks, Jerry Paws, and Dan Beagle. As we begin serving among you, we look forward to the opportunity to care for you in times of sickness, to administer the proper inoculations against evil and dread diseases, to comfort you amid your fears, for office visits, and also to share snacks when you are good. Finally, we are held by the promise that all dogs do go to heaven.

So I could go on like that, but I’m going to stop for several reasons. First, such work of making up playful allegory does not serve to endear me to my wife Acacia. More importantly, it’s prompting us to move toward a larger point. Almost always in sermons, we have to consider how we’re hearing words and what we take them for. That gets highlighted in perhaps an opposite way when I told you those words of veterinarian greeting weren’t originally for you, not for your situation. By claiming that it was from an old vet clinic and not church here today I’d suspect it made you hear it differently, taking it with less weight.

Now, a sermon is much the exact reverse of that, since we should receive it with utmost importance. In our Lutheran understanding (since I’m so steeped in this identity, you’ll have to bear with me as I come to understand how this works and who may or may not identify as Lutheran in these gatherings), in our Lutheran understanding a sermon is very special, among the chances to hear directly God’s Word to you and for you.

This is a very different way to hear and apply words, amid our normal reality bombarded by constant communication and lying news updates, and also especially when so much of what we hear and apply together as church are very old words of the Bible and ancient liturgy. Let’s take another couple examples to clarify this direction.

One place I like to turn is to the words of the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. It was disappointing this past week that my books were all packed away and so I was out of my normal rhythm of getting to be steeped in MLK for his birthday observance. It’s worth re-reading his words partly because he was so eloquent, such a fine preacher, and his words are still so moving.

That we’re moved by what he had to say also indicates that his words still have relevance. Partly that’s ongoing tensions and justice and rights that still demand to be worked out in our society. When he called for a “radical revolution of values” and to “shift from a ‘thing-oriented’ society to a ‘person-oriented’ society,” we hear that also as a contemporary calling. We still now observe that “when machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people,” we are approaching “spiritual death” from “the giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism.” We long for life, and may take those words as emphatic and inspirational, desiring to have our own lives transformed and for the church again to serve as a beacon, a headlight to guide society rather than a taillight bringing up the rear.

What gets fuzzier, however, is when we try to ascribe larger credit or source to Pastor King’s words. Can we clearly say that God was speaking through him? And is God’s Word still talking to us through this preacher who has been gone for almost five decades? What do we do when those old words are chauvinistic or simply old, more of a historical document than meeting our present realities? Where does God’s voice go then?

Obviously there is no way to delineate that, no definitive way to attribute one voice or set of words as speaking for God while eliminating another. That ambiguity is, after all, what makes this faith: it cannot be proven.

To turn to another example, we read together the words from Psalm 19. The first half is seen as a Psalm of creation, that night and day, sun, moon, stars, and even new planets are declaring and telling the glory of God, that somehow God might be identified by the sky. Yet verse 3 contradicts that. It seems to say that the firmament proclaims God’s handiwork, but we can’t understand the message. Even though the voice goes out to all, it is an unheard voice, and whatever they have to report does not sound in our ears.

Though I don’t always like it, I appreciate that distinction. We may be in awe of sunsets or aurora borealis or of deep-gazing telescopes, but we’d have to confess that these don’t directly tell us about God. We may take them as validation for what we already believe, a God of beauty, of infinite handiwork throughout the cosmos. Converse perspectives don’t shy away from labeling natural phenomena as signs from a retributive God, exacting punishment. A poster outside one of our Sunday school classrooms downstairs asks what God looks like. It features a drawing of the sun, the answer “you,” plus the polar sides of “everything and nothing.” This discernment does get notoriously complex: is the pummeling blizzard on the east coast a message of divine displeasure? Is it a supersized dose of wintry wonderland gift to be enjoyed? Is it less a factor of communicating God’s identity and more of the climate change we’re causing? Or none of these? There may be knowledge being declared, but we have a tough time discerning the message, just as the Psalm said.

Similarly for that ambiguous message in the Psalm, let’s notice the final verse, on “words of my mouth” and meditations being acceptable. That verse is frequently prayed by preachers as an opener to sermons, perhaps here, too. I don’t use it. It may be that I’m a little too brash; I learned to begin with something shocking or provocative, or just to jump right in with the big stuff. But there’s also something that leaves me uncomfortable with that pre-sermon prayer, as a bit too un-Lutheran. Again, we don’t understand sermons to be take-or-leave meditations, not just one person’s ideas about God, but words from God. Because this isn’t intended as another among polyvalent spiritual suggestions, it’s not just sentimental trivialities that can be shrugged off.

On the other hand, in sermons I have said and keep on saying plenty that’s unacceptable, words that don’t seem very godly for being so earthy or mundane. I can forget to say what needs to be said, or I’m ignorant, or I just plain miss the mark. We know that sermons have been used to hurt and exclude, to manipulate, to claim that I’m right and you’re wrong, with the heavy hand of divine sanction behind it. There is the risk of sounding or even being authoritarian, though I hope and try that you don’t hear it from me. Yet it remains a difficulty, not only when we’re gazing to the stars, but when we’re listening for God’s Word from a mortal, fallible, and occasionally absurd human mouth. I say that speaking from personal experience!

Yet these words are where we listen to have God’s will conveyed to us, meaning both what God wants from you and also what God wants for you and is working for on your behalf. Even if we’re not yet familiar with each other, still you have called me here in some major way in order to be a mouthpiece, to proclaim God’s expectations from and blessings for you.

So after all that background about sermons, how they should function and why we have them, maybe it’s time that I actually get around to doing it. For this, we have what I consider to be a prototypical and foundational epitome in our Gospel reading. Jesus has gathered with others in worship. He shares a Bible reading. And then, also giving his first sermon—one of the shortest of all time—he declares, “Today this has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

If we’re searching for God’s designs and purposes, Jesus is a good place to look (and listen). He’s the heart of why we’re here. And he proclaims God is sharing good news. Today, that sermon of his might seem to have more oomph, then, than mine or whatever the skies and weather patterns are trying to say. When he proclaims that something is accomplished, we might have inherent readiness to trust that.

Yet in picking up old words from the prophet Isaiah, he says they are speaking not just to ancient circumstances but continue to be purposeful. And not only are those old words still significant, but within the sermon is when they are accomplished, when God is doing what God says God will do. So just what is God’s Word saying to you today? Well, we might be best to repeat and reiterate from Jesus: from a Bible reading that speaks of good news to the poor, release to captives, sight for the blind, freedom from oppression, and God’s favor, again I declare this good news to you: this is fulfilled in your hearing.

Some of that truly is conveyed in the words themselves. You may know and trust in God’s loving presence with you and blessing for you because these words are what they promise.

Others of that you may find fulfilled in your life or through your life. Together, we are good news people. Through this gathering in worship, we are formed into the body of Christ. You become God’s hands and muscles and, yes, mouth. This work is for you and also through you, as God continues striving to love and serve our lives and this world in so much need. Rejoice: you are Jesus people, for the fulfillment of God’s work. Amen

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Baptism of Our Lord (and last sermon for St. Stephen’s)

­sermon on Luke3:15-17,21-22; Isaiah43:1-7; Acts8:14-17

 

You called me here to be a minister of Word and Sacrament, so let’s start this sermon by seeing how well I’ve done (though that’s a scary thought!): what do you need for baptism?

With this, I want to teach you one final word: adiaphora. Adiaphora is a Greek word that means “matters of indifference.” You can almost hear in “adiaphora” the word “different;” it’s a word for when differences don’t matter.

Even if you didn’t know it, Lutherans are pretty good at living with adiaphora, with things that don’t make a lick of difference in the big sense. There are many, in lots of categories, but this morning we’re going to focus on baptism. For example, often babies wear white gowns to be baptized, which goes back to earliest ancient traditions of putting on new clothes, symbolizing new life, freshness and purity put on in Christ. But babies don’t need white gowns to be baptized. For that matter, we mostly baptize babies, because we consider it a good thing to have this assurance of God’s love always with you, but any age is fine and good.

For more adiaphora, we say it’s best in a Sunday worship service, the day of resurrection, when we’re together as the Body of Christ, but it could be another time in a private service. We mostly use special flowing fonts of water, but that’s not special holy water. In our understanding, it’s just plain water, so any water would do. It could be in big splashes or a dunking or just a few drops. It could be lake water, or from the Jordan River or a hospital sink, or (you’re no longer surprised that I would say this) water from a toilet bowl. Even if you’d prefer something more pious feeling than a tyke getting a swirly in the jon, in the overall theological sense it still “counts” as a baptism. Our preferences are largely adiaphora that don’t really matter.

There are more parts of the baptism: we process around the sanctuary, we light candles, kids give blankets, Rebecca calligraphs certificates, we read words from hymnals, we stand up and sit down. Our oil for anointing is from Palestinians in the Holy Land with frankincense ointment in it. We may consider any of those nice touches, or extra bits of symbolism and meaning.

But when we boil it down, none of that is necessary. It’s adiaphora. It doesn’t make a difference. In the end, what do we need for a baptism? Water and words (generally “in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” though in our Acts reading it seems to have just been in the “name of the Lord Jesus.”) Oh—and of course somebody to speak those words from God.

And that person has sometimes, over these past 11 years, been me. Some of those I’ve gotten to baptize, to offer God’s words to, will be coming in from Sunday School in a few minutes. To be qualified as a baptizer, I don’t have any superpowers. Clearly I’m not any holier. It’s not even really having special authority; nurses baptize in emergencies. Family members have done it. But you’ve had me here, called and hired me, to be one you could turn to and expect that I would speak God’s promise to you and for you.

But that also comes around to highlight a peculiarity in this Gospel reading. Let’s see how well you were paying attention: Who baptized Jesus? It’s kind of a trick question, because of the verses the lectionary skips. Here’s the whole thing. So in Luke’s peculiar version, John the (so-called) Baptist isn’t told of baptizing Jesus. Luke doesn’t even give John the title of “the Baptist.” Although on the 4th Sunday of Advent we heard the story of their mothers meeting, of Mary and Elizabeth, and a child leaping in the womb, nevertheless in Luke there’s no story about John and Jesus meeting each other face-to-face. By the time Jesus appears on the scene, John is already gone, shut up in prison, on death row. Luke inserts that mention of incarceration, and only then goes on to tell about Jesus being baptized.

Yet we said that a baptism requires a baptizer. That’s not optional, not adiaphora. Jesus didn’t and couldn’t baptize himself. In Matthew’s Gospel, John argues and keeps protesting that Jesus should baptize him instead, but Jesus says, ‘Just do it.’ So why not here? Why, of four Gospels, does only Luke describe Jesus’ baptism in this way (or not describe it, we might say)? Well, I’m going to give you a couple possibilities, then try one more thought.

First, it could be that Luke is trying to downplay John’s role. We talked about that last month, how John was so popular and such a big deal with a huge following that crowds were even wondering or presuming if he were the Messiah. Jesus, then, almost could take a back seat. Imagine a concert where the opening band is a bigger draw than the main act. It would take some extra publicity and showmanship and staging to hype the other. Some figure that’s the situation here, trying to accentuate Jesus and downplay John’s persona by giving him a smaller role.

Another possibility I was reading this week is that Luke wanted to highlight the difference between John and Jesus, marking the end of one era and start of something totally new. Rather than being an intern who shared office space with John, in this case it is a clear division of different roles: John prepared, Jesus fulfilled. John was the era of prophecy, and Jesus came to reign as king. Having John out of the way may help clarify that distinction.

John’s discussion about baptisms may also accentuate these differences. He says he baptizes with water for repentance, a washing of renewal. It’s an understanding that you’ve made a mess and want to clean it up. Having done wrong you desire a sign of being able to start fresh. John seems to figure his baptism is still a chance to say you’re sorry and that you’ll try harder, but soon it’ll be too late and there will be no way to stop the punishment. Expecting this radical difference, John says Jesus will come with power and the fire will be unquenchable.

For that, I think we’d say John was wrong. That’s another point of this break in Luke. Jesus is not John, nor even what John expected. Later in the Gospel is a passage where from prison John sends investigators to ask Jesus if he’s really the one, since he didn’t come with unquenchable burning, but with unquenchable love, not to destroy but to create anew and to reinvigorate and revitalize, not to kill but to give life.

(To be fair, we could hear that in John’s words. Maybe instead of blanket assaults of destruction it’s the view of surgical incisions, with Jesus replacing all that is evil in you with his goodness, burning away the ugly corrosion of your sin to leave you gleaming and pure and valuable, exchanging your selfishness with holy gifts to share, even taking away your death to fill you with life. That’s actually a strong view of what the Holy Spirit it up to in your baptism, so maybe we should give John the benefit of the doubt and get past our own violent preconceptions of a vengeful God.)

Along that track of what God is accomplishing through your baptism and in your life, I want to try that one more thought on John being gone by the time when Jesus starts his ministry and things really get rolling: Today I can relate to John the Baptist no longer being on the scene, even if he did do the baptism yet being out of the picture when so much more good stuff was going to come from Jesus. With God’s blessing among you, it’s the assurance that the best is not in the past. It can feel confining that I’ll be shut off and away from you in these moments to come. It’s not quite with the sense of John in prison, but there will be that separation and inaccessibility. Just as John heard about Jesus through others’ reports, as you continue forward I’ll be off receiving messages of the amazing things for life and renewal that God is accomplishing in and through you.

With all of that, once more I want to tell you there’s nothing wrong here at St. Stephen’s that I’m running away from, and nobody is making me leave. It just was a time, and a new opportunity, and a decision, and always with the expectation that God is working for the good in our lives wherever we are. Yet for the hurt and sorrows and worries and brokenness that remain as I go, for missing your lives, I apologize and trust that forgiveness and redemption are, as always, at work among us.

That’s the heart of this faith we proclaim and share. Trusting and believing that, as we have together for these past years, I also once more want to say how good it has been share with you as the body of Christ. As I’ve gotten to be in this role, two words I most frequently have found myself using are “honor and privilege.” It has been an honor and privilege to serve as your pastor, striving in this role to convey the love and blessing of the God who created you and redeems you, sharing that promise and that new reality.

This indicates one more distinction for us from the baptism of Jesus in Luke, where the heavens were opened and God’s voice thundered to speak the promise. We don’t look to the sky, but repeat that message, listening for God speaking through other voices. You need a preacher to tell you you are God’s beloved child. That is not among adiaphora. It’s not optional, and it does very much matter for your lives. We need to speak the promise to each other, otherwise we won’t hear it and know it and trust it. And this message itself is essential, necessary, the furthest thing from adiaphora.

Finally, then, I want to turn to our words from Isaiah. They are so astoundingly chock full of good news and promise that I almost ignored Luke entirely, wanting to stop our day’s Bible readings after even just one verse from Isaiah. Here it comes again, one last bit one last time. Even as I prepare to depart, I get to proclaim a message that abides and remains with you forever, speaking from God for you:

“Now, thus says the LORD, who created you and formed you: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by name, you are mine, says the LORD. [Troubles] shall not overwhelm you or consume you, because you are precious in my sight, and I love you.” This is the word of the Lord. Thanks be to God!

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