Spring - April 2021
As I write this Spire article, the crocuses are finally blooming. Our house’s motion detectors are going off every few hours with assorted deer, and plenty of rabbits (appropriately nicknamed Dietrich Bonhopper, Katharina von Burrow-a, Abraham Hare-schel, or whatever other labored theologian-as-rabbit pun I can come up with on any given day). I’ve been hearing foxes yell, and the songbirds singing as well. It’s becoming a beautiful time of year.
As we look to the promises of Spring, I can’t help but think of the ancient, beloved communion hymn and prayer: “As the grains of wheat, once scattered on the hill were gathered into one to become our bread - so may all your people, from all the ends of earth, be gathered into one in you.”
The tune is modern - written by the liturgical scholar and historian Martin Marty. The lyrics, albeit translated, go back to the second century. Roughly eighteen hundred years of Christians have been singing those words, as they’ve come to God’s Table to share in the bread, and the wine, as much as the body and blood of Christ. The meal giving them the same promise, and the same strength given to us.
When I think of Communion, and when I think of the relationship between heaven and earth - I think of it in those terms and that scale (though it too, is a bit limited). Holy Communion, Christian life, and indeed the resurrection is never us alone. It comes with the past, and it anticipates the future. Springs have come, and springs will go. But the body of Christ - with us included - lives eternally. You and I, then, have friends and loved ones we have never met before. We will meet them. You and I have left people long ago, but they are not gone. We will be together again. You and I have people who can’t wait to meet us for the first time. We wait for them. And mercifully at this time of year, we do so in the sunshine.
Communion is a foretaste of the feast to come. Life, too, has a share in eternity. We can approach the world with confidence - not simply in our selves, but in our God whose eternal promise will gather believers for all time and in all due time.
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
As I write this Spire article, the crocuses are finally blooming. Our house’s motion detectors are going off every few hours with assorted deer, and plenty of rabbits (appropriately nicknamed Dietrich Bonhopper, Katharina von Burrow-a, Abraham Hare-schel, or whatever other labored theologian-as-rabbit pun I can come up with on any given day). I’ve been hearing foxes yell, and the songbirds singing as well. It’s becoming a beautiful time of year.
As we look to the promises of Spring, I can’t help but think of the ancient, beloved communion hymn and prayer: “As the grains of wheat, once scattered on the hill were gathered into one to become our bread - so may all your people, from all the ends of earth, be gathered into one in you.”
The tune is modern - written by the liturgical scholar and historian Martin Marty. The lyrics, albeit translated, go back to the second century. Roughly eighteen hundred years of Christians have been singing those words, as they’ve come to God’s Table to share in the bread, and the wine, as much as the body and blood of Christ. The meal giving them the same promise, and the same strength given to us.
When I think of Communion, and when I think of the relationship between heaven and earth - I think of it in those terms and that scale (though it too, is a bit limited). Holy Communion, Christian life, and indeed the resurrection is never us alone. It comes with the past, and it anticipates the future. Springs have come, and springs will go. But the body of Christ - with us included - lives eternally. You and I, then, have friends and loved ones we have never met before. We will meet them. You and I have left people long ago, but they are not gone. We will be together again. You and I have people who can’t wait to meet us for the first time. We wait for them. And mercifully at this time of year, we do so in the sunshine.
Communion is a foretaste of the feast to come. Life, too, has a share in eternity. We can approach the world with confidence - not simply in our selves, but in our God whose eternal promise will gather believers for all time and in all due time.
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
March 2021 - Friendship, Kierkegaard, and Time
March 5th, 2021 is marked on my calendar as the one year anniversary of the last time I went out with a friend to a restaurant. It was myself and Pastor Tim Ness of St. Mark’s Lutheran Church of Clifton Heights. We went to Round Guy’s Brewing Company in Lansdale - and had pretzels and burgers. It was a business lunch - and we talked about a resolution we wanted to put forward to the Synod Assembly requesting firmer commitments to healthy maternity and paternity leave policies for pastors. Tim was expecting his first child - Adeline. He was as nervous and excited as anyone would be. We went on to talk about the potential lockdown and the merits of closing for a few weeks. But as we’re also friends, we wanted to catch up as friends. So after the shop talk, we had a couple of different beers, and walked around Lansdale chatting about what we wanted our futures to look like after the lockdown was done - no doubt - by that same Easter.
None of those plans panned out. Other things happened. Thinking back on our conversation reminds me of the philosopher and Lutheran hero (or maybe anti-hero) Søren Kierkegaard. I say this with all affection - Kierkegaard was a miserable weirdo, and a lovable one at that. I’ve learned a great deal from his writings. Everyone should read at least a little of his work. One of Kierkegaard’s most fruitful thoughts for me, is his observation that we navigate our day-to-day life with a faith that tomorrow will not only come, but it will come for us - but we seldom examine that faith. Kierkegaard once wrote in his Concluding Unscientific Postscript that no one RSVPs to an event saying “I shall certainly attend your party, but I must make an exception for the contingency that a roof tile happens to blow down and kill me; for in that case, I cannot attend.” We take it for granted that a roof tile won’t fall, and we will be there. But it can.
There are inevitable, sometimes seemingly arbitrary pains in life. Our joys are interrupted and injured by death, disease, discord, sin, sorrow and the like. Our faith is what navigates us between those things. And yet so often we put our faith in the wrong things. Sometimes that’s ourselves, our possessions. Other times we look at our country, or the principles we want to govern our country. Still other times we might put our faith in religion - a tempting one, that. But faith, authentic Christian faith, Lutheran faith, isn’t a faith in any of these things (not even religion!). It is a faith in Jesus Christ - not in us, our own things, or our own choices. It’s a confession that God is God and we are not. God lived and God lives - even having been killed on the cross by those who put their faith in any and everything else.
When we do it rightly - we put faith in our tomorrows on Jesus, nowhere else, and we follow. In following Jesus, we know that the inevitable things that confront us, that we have no control over, don’t have the final say in what we do or who we are. Our shortcomings and our lapses of judgment also don’t have a final say. We may live boldly as people summoned by Christ - who is the way, and the truth, and the light. A roof tile may fall - even so, come Lord Jesus. When our tomorrows run out, as someday they will, we will be met by the one who is, and who was, and who is to come. For indeed he calls us there, and meets us there.
And so we live by faith, even though things change and the best laid plans come short. But we live, and we wait, and we make joy with what we have. Because one way or another, a time also came for Adeline to be born (and she is, as expected, adorable), and God willing a time will come when I buy Pastor Tim another round. Let us live our time in faith for the sake of joy and the well-being of our neighbors - come what may.
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
March 5th, 2021 is marked on my calendar as the one year anniversary of the last time I went out with a friend to a restaurant. It was myself and Pastor Tim Ness of St. Mark’s Lutheran Church of Clifton Heights. We went to Round Guy’s Brewing Company in Lansdale - and had pretzels and burgers. It was a business lunch - and we talked about a resolution we wanted to put forward to the Synod Assembly requesting firmer commitments to healthy maternity and paternity leave policies for pastors. Tim was expecting his first child - Adeline. He was as nervous and excited as anyone would be. We went on to talk about the potential lockdown and the merits of closing for a few weeks. But as we’re also friends, we wanted to catch up as friends. So after the shop talk, we had a couple of different beers, and walked around Lansdale chatting about what we wanted our futures to look like after the lockdown was done - no doubt - by that same Easter.
None of those plans panned out. Other things happened. Thinking back on our conversation reminds me of the philosopher and Lutheran hero (or maybe anti-hero) Søren Kierkegaard. I say this with all affection - Kierkegaard was a miserable weirdo, and a lovable one at that. I’ve learned a great deal from his writings. Everyone should read at least a little of his work. One of Kierkegaard’s most fruitful thoughts for me, is his observation that we navigate our day-to-day life with a faith that tomorrow will not only come, but it will come for us - but we seldom examine that faith. Kierkegaard once wrote in his Concluding Unscientific Postscript that no one RSVPs to an event saying “I shall certainly attend your party, but I must make an exception for the contingency that a roof tile happens to blow down and kill me; for in that case, I cannot attend.” We take it for granted that a roof tile won’t fall, and we will be there. But it can.
There are inevitable, sometimes seemingly arbitrary pains in life. Our joys are interrupted and injured by death, disease, discord, sin, sorrow and the like. Our faith is what navigates us between those things. And yet so often we put our faith in the wrong things. Sometimes that’s ourselves, our possessions. Other times we look at our country, or the principles we want to govern our country. Still other times we might put our faith in religion - a tempting one, that. But faith, authentic Christian faith, Lutheran faith, isn’t a faith in any of these things (not even religion!). It is a faith in Jesus Christ - not in us, our own things, or our own choices. It’s a confession that God is God and we are not. God lived and God lives - even having been killed on the cross by those who put their faith in any and everything else.
When we do it rightly - we put faith in our tomorrows on Jesus, nowhere else, and we follow. In following Jesus, we know that the inevitable things that confront us, that we have no control over, don’t have the final say in what we do or who we are. Our shortcomings and our lapses of judgment also don’t have a final say. We may live boldly as people summoned by Christ - who is the way, and the truth, and the light. A roof tile may fall - even so, come Lord Jesus. When our tomorrows run out, as someday they will, we will be met by the one who is, and who was, and who is to come. For indeed he calls us there, and meets us there.
And so we live by faith, even though things change and the best laid plans come short. But we live, and we wait, and we make joy with what we have. Because one way or another, a time also came for Adeline to be born (and she is, as expected, adorable), and God willing a time will come when I buy Pastor Tim another round. Let us live our time in faith for the sake of joy and the well-being of our neighbors - come what may.
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
Elizabeth Fedde - February 2021
Every now and then I open our hymnal to the Church Calendar (pages 14-17). I like doing so because it reminds me that you and I are all part of a bigger story - even though our chapters are yet to be finished. As I looked over it today, I found that February 25th of this year will mark the 100th anniversary of Elizabeth Fedde’s death, when she claimed the promise made to her in baptism.
It’s probably not a familiar name for many of you. Certainly not a name we learn in the history books. But her footprint is far bigger than many of us would imagine. Elizabeth Fedde was born in rural Norway, on Christmas day of 1850. In an almost classical “Norwegian” image, she was the daughter of a retired sea captain who became a farmer to spend more time at home, and take care of his wife. But her mother died while she was still young, and it fell on her to care for her father. Her father died when she was in her early 20s. There wouldn’t have been much left for her. The land wasn’t great, and it would have been passed on to her male siblings anyway. But she listened to her community, and the egging on of the Holy Spirit, and something happened as she felt a call to become a deaconess - a lay-minister, who at that time and place would have usually been called for the care of body and soul.
Led by faith, she accepted a position at the Deaconess House in Kristiania (today Oslo), where she studied nursing, ethics, and social welfare. She went all over Norway - developing healthcare systems and caring for communities until her 32nd birthday, when she received a fateful letter from Gabriel Fedde, her brother-in-law, a merchant and lay-pastor in New York City. Gabriel wrote to her “…you can come at once, if you dare, can, and will… I only repeat that Norwegians cry for help.”
Shipping is a difficult industry in the modern period, and it was even more challenging back then. And it turns out, healthcare was complicated then as well. Norwegian sailors were stuck in New York in extreme poverty, illness, and spiritual despair. The Norwegian Church in New York (which is in a different building now) and Consulate was overwhelmed and couldn’t care for all of them. But Gabriel thought Elizabeth could.
Elizabeth took the dare. She left Norway (and her suitor/boyfriend) for Brooklyn. As soon as she hit the ground she organized a relief organization. She cared for people who others couldn’t - in body, and in soul through pastoral care and her relief organization became a hospital within a few years. Soon she wrote back to Norway, and organized many more deaconesses to come to Brooklyn and created a vibrant atmosphere that changed New York for years - and saved the lives of countless sailors. That alone is quite a legacy for a young woman from rural Norway - but she was sent to deal with even more.
It turns out that there were more and more Norwegians settling in America, but they found New York to be a bit expensive. As they moved further west, they had less infrastructure to help them out. There weren’t so many religious organizations beyond their congregations, and there weren’t hospitals. So Elizabeth moved to Minneapolis in 1888, and found herself creating a new deaconess community in America - before starting another hospital - and then two more in Chicago and Grand Forks - before feeling a call to return home. After a whirlwind 13 years of ministry in America, she set others up to succeed after her, resigned, and returned on a boat to Norway - where she married her old beau, compiled her memoirs and diaries, and lived a simple, but joy-filled life until February 25, 1921. And she still worked to heal the sick, and advocate for healthcare in the home she could call her own.
What started as a 9-bed hospital for troubled Norwegian sailors continues to exist today as the NYU Langone Hospital - a 450 bed teaching hospital in the heart of Brooklyn with an ER that treats about 80,000 people every year. And I suspect only a handful are Norwegian these days. Chicago’s Advocate Lutheran General Hospital, and Minneapolis’ Fairview Hospitals also trace their origins to her work.
There are faithful healers in our world. Folks who set out not just to heal bodies, but souls and communities. Medicine is a huge part of that challenge - but our community’s spirit also needs healing. As we receive our vaccines - we’d do well to keep Elizabeth Fedde in mind. Take care of your spirit through the Word, and your congregation. And take heart, because in loving faith and kindness, the odds are you’re making a bigger difference in peoples’ lives than you think. In short order, the world can become a kinder place. Be part of that.
-Pastor Kaegler
Every now and then I open our hymnal to the Church Calendar (pages 14-17). I like doing so because it reminds me that you and I are all part of a bigger story - even though our chapters are yet to be finished. As I looked over it today, I found that February 25th of this year will mark the 100th anniversary of Elizabeth Fedde’s death, when she claimed the promise made to her in baptism.
It’s probably not a familiar name for many of you. Certainly not a name we learn in the history books. But her footprint is far bigger than many of us would imagine. Elizabeth Fedde was born in rural Norway, on Christmas day of 1850. In an almost classical “Norwegian” image, she was the daughter of a retired sea captain who became a farmer to spend more time at home, and take care of his wife. But her mother died while she was still young, and it fell on her to care for her father. Her father died when she was in her early 20s. There wouldn’t have been much left for her. The land wasn’t great, and it would have been passed on to her male siblings anyway. But she listened to her community, and the egging on of the Holy Spirit, and something happened as she felt a call to become a deaconess - a lay-minister, who at that time and place would have usually been called for the care of body and soul.
Led by faith, she accepted a position at the Deaconess House in Kristiania (today Oslo), where she studied nursing, ethics, and social welfare. She went all over Norway - developing healthcare systems and caring for communities until her 32nd birthday, when she received a fateful letter from Gabriel Fedde, her brother-in-law, a merchant and lay-pastor in New York City. Gabriel wrote to her “…you can come at once, if you dare, can, and will… I only repeat that Norwegians cry for help.”
Shipping is a difficult industry in the modern period, and it was even more challenging back then. And it turns out, healthcare was complicated then as well. Norwegian sailors were stuck in New York in extreme poverty, illness, and spiritual despair. The Norwegian Church in New York (which is in a different building now) and Consulate was overwhelmed and couldn’t care for all of them. But Gabriel thought Elizabeth could.
Elizabeth took the dare. She left Norway (and her suitor/boyfriend) for Brooklyn. As soon as she hit the ground she organized a relief organization. She cared for people who others couldn’t - in body, and in soul through pastoral care and her relief organization became a hospital within a few years. Soon she wrote back to Norway, and organized many more deaconesses to come to Brooklyn and created a vibrant atmosphere that changed New York for years - and saved the lives of countless sailors. That alone is quite a legacy for a young woman from rural Norway - but she was sent to deal with even more.
It turns out that there were more and more Norwegians settling in America, but they found New York to be a bit expensive. As they moved further west, they had less infrastructure to help them out. There weren’t so many religious organizations beyond their congregations, and there weren’t hospitals. So Elizabeth moved to Minneapolis in 1888, and found herself creating a new deaconess community in America - before starting another hospital - and then two more in Chicago and Grand Forks - before feeling a call to return home. After a whirlwind 13 years of ministry in America, she set others up to succeed after her, resigned, and returned on a boat to Norway - where she married her old beau, compiled her memoirs and diaries, and lived a simple, but joy-filled life until February 25, 1921. And she still worked to heal the sick, and advocate for healthcare in the home she could call her own.
What started as a 9-bed hospital for troubled Norwegian sailors continues to exist today as the NYU Langone Hospital - a 450 bed teaching hospital in the heart of Brooklyn with an ER that treats about 80,000 people every year. And I suspect only a handful are Norwegian these days. Chicago’s Advocate Lutheran General Hospital, and Minneapolis’ Fairview Hospitals also trace their origins to her work.
There are faithful healers in our world. Folks who set out not just to heal bodies, but souls and communities. Medicine is a huge part of that challenge - but our community’s spirit also needs healing. As we receive our vaccines - we’d do well to keep Elizabeth Fedde in mind. Take care of your spirit through the Word, and your congregation. And take heart, because in loving faith and kindness, the odds are you’re making a bigger difference in peoples’ lives than you think. In short order, the world can become a kinder place. Be part of that.
-Pastor Kaegler
January 2021
It’s finally ended.
While it seems as though every year in recent memory has made its own pitch for being the worst, 2020 has certainly made a strong case for itself in our lives. Frankly, I really hope it takes the cake. But one of the blessings and curses about time is that it’s beyond our control. As the Teacher writes in the Book of Ecclesiastes “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven…” We have been given 2020. We leave it to the ages and trust that it never returns.
There are lessons we have learned from 2020 - about resilience and the gift of solitude, but we have also learned the cost of loneliness, isolation, and intransigence among people who could make our lives easier. We’ve learned about our loved ones - both from afar and in quarantine. We’ve tightened our belts. We’ve found ways to support our neighbors. We’ve been clueless, too. We’ve tried to worship. We’ve lost loved ones without being able to properly say good-bye. And Lord knows we’ve learned more about Zoom and YouTube than we had known before. There’s so much we’ve learned, but how do we make sense of it?
I think what it comes down to is that a blessed life doesn’t mean an easy life. A blessed life means a life where the way of God is revealed in contrast to the way of sin. As I’ve led worship services and funeral services in ways I’ve never anticipated, as I’ve been disappointed by myself and the world around me, as I’ve attended protests and have done everything in my power to do so safely, as I’ve been yelled at and shamed for wearing mask - I have known God’s presence. I’ve seen myself as a sinner in need of grace, and I’ve prayed that lasting good has been done in word and deed. Which is also to say I’ve doubted myself, but I’ve trusted the real and present God.
And I believe that God has been present in this. Which isn’t to say that faith has kept me from catching Covid-19 or has prevented bad things from happening to me (this error is what Jesus describes as “putting God to the test” when Satan tells him to put himself in harm’s way in order to prove God’s love). It’s to say that I’ve seen the love of God at work in our life together. God doesn’t keep us out of our messes, God gets us out of messes - as the Psalmist famously writes: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For you are with me, your rod and your staff comfort me.” And God will be here in 2021 as well.
And so as we look into 2021, with vaccines and reopening, let us learn from 2020. Let us not take one another for granted. Let us value one another’s lives. Let us put our wants behind the needs of people we might not always know we’re effecting. Let us honor day-to-day work done by those who are on the front line of the public health crisis. And above all, let us know that God has come in Christ - to overturn the power of sin and welcome us into the way of eternal life in these days. Let us follow Jesus into 2021 and learn from him. Because there’s always more to learn, and growth to be had.
Amen.
Pastor Kaegler
It’s finally ended.
While it seems as though every year in recent memory has made its own pitch for being the worst, 2020 has certainly made a strong case for itself in our lives. Frankly, I really hope it takes the cake. But one of the blessings and curses about time is that it’s beyond our control. As the Teacher writes in the Book of Ecclesiastes “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven…” We have been given 2020. We leave it to the ages and trust that it never returns.
There are lessons we have learned from 2020 - about resilience and the gift of solitude, but we have also learned the cost of loneliness, isolation, and intransigence among people who could make our lives easier. We’ve learned about our loved ones - both from afar and in quarantine. We’ve tightened our belts. We’ve found ways to support our neighbors. We’ve been clueless, too. We’ve tried to worship. We’ve lost loved ones without being able to properly say good-bye. And Lord knows we’ve learned more about Zoom and YouTube than we had known before. There’s so much we’ve learned, but how do we make sense of it?
I think what it comes down to is that a blessed life doesn’t mean an easy life. A blessed life means a life where the way of God is revealed in contrast to the way of sin. As I’ve led worship services and funeral services in ways I’ve never anticipated, as I’ve been disappointed by myself and the world around me, as I’ve attended protests and have done everything in my power to do so safely, as I’ve been yelled at and shamed for wearing mask - I have known God’s presence. I’ve seen myself as a sinner in need of grace, and I’ve prayed that lasting good has been done in word and deed. Which is also to say I’ve doubted myself, but I’ve trusted the real and present God.
And I believe that God has been present in this. Which isn’t to say that faith has kept me from catching Covid-19 or has prevented bad things from happening to me (this error is what Jesus describes as “putting God to the test” when Satan tells him to put himself in harm’s way in order to prove God’s love). It’s to say that I’ve seen the love of God at work in our life together. God doesn’t keep us out of our messes, God gets us out of messes - as the Psalmist famously writes: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For you are with me, your rod and your staff comfort me.” And God will be here in 2021 as well.
And so as we look into 2021, with vaccines and reopening, let us learn from 2020. Let us not take one another for granted. Let us value one another’s lives. Let us put our wants behind the needs of people we might not always know we’re effecting. Let us honor day-to-day work done by those who are on the front line of the public health crisis. And above all, let us know that God has come in Christ - to overturn the power of sin and welcome us into the way of eternal life in these days. Let us follow Jesus into 2021 and learn from him. Because there’s always more to learn, and growth to be had.
Amen.
Pastor Kaegler
Promises yet unseen - December 2020
As we approach Christmas this year, so much remains in the air. The Covid-19 rates are rising. National politics remain tumultuous. Households struggle. Our life as a congregation also has its challenges - as we try to find ways to support one another communally and spiritually. So much seems up in the air, and so many traditions have had to be changed. But our ministry continues, and our mission continues. Not for ourselves as individuals, but for the world that God has called us to love. We remain disciples in strange times.
This means that we’re still training, and teaching discipleship. On one of the more poignant All Saints’ Days in memory, Christian Mory made his Confirmation - taking the baptismal vows his family made for him onto himself. The following week, right after Election Day - the current confirmation students of St. John’s and Trinity gathered together for a campfire under God’s sky and looked at the stars. We’re doing a hybrid model - on the first Wednesday of the month we gather in person (depending on the COVID numbers) and each following Wednesday we meet on Zoom. This year is our Bible year - where we hope to give our students a good, overarching understanding of the Bible - which is a mighty task for any Christian. I hope we all take the Scriptures so seriously! But our kids are good, and they’re learning.
Our subject for that week was on Abraham and Sarah - while they were still known as Abram and Sarai. And we focused in particular on the Abrahamic Covenant - God’s instruction and promise that Abram and Sarai should travel west, far from his home, and that their descendants would outnumber the stars they could see.
Abram and Sarai left their homeland, and everything they knew, to pursue God’s Word. But through their lives they struggled, and they doubted, and they were each over 100 years old before the two of them had even a single child - Isaac, whose name means “laughter,” because Sarah could only laugh at the very idea that she could be a mother at her age.
We stared at the same stars that Abraham and Sarah did, only a few thousand years later. The light of some of those stars have died away. And the lights of new ones have burst anew, filled with new inspiration, wonder, and power. And the light we saw from them is quite ancient, since those same stars are lightyears away. As I looked at them, I considered the mystery of how old God’s promises are - from the Word that formed the universe to the promise made to each of these children in baptism. Trusting that promise means hoping for something yet unseen - but mysteriously already at work.
What is God working in these days? Which stars are being born beyond our vision? Our lives are full of promise, and our God has made us a promise. One rooted in the same Word that created us, that sent Abraham and Sarah, that comforted the abandoned Hagar and Ishmael, and that was made flesh in Jesus Christ. We follow that Word, and worship in that light - whenever and wherever it comes.
Here’s what I hope our young disciples are learning in this period of time: promises can take time, and hope can be hidden. In our messy world, to our own misfortune, we can fall short of trusting this promise. But the promise is still good - come what may, and it can surprise us. And so in the meantime while the promise remains unseen, we act in the faith that Christ is coming. I hope you are learning the same. And I hope I never stop learning it as well. Because we never stop practicing and training in discipleship.
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
As we approach Christmas this year, so much remains in the air. The Covid-19 rates are rising. National politics remain tumultuous. Households struggle. Our life as a congregation also has its challenges - as we try to find ways to support one another communally and spiritually. So much seems up in the air, and so many traditions have had to be changed. But our ministry continues, and our mission continues. Not for ourselves as individuals, but for the world that God has called us to love. We remain disciples in strange times.
This means that we’re still training, and teaching discipleship. On one of the more poignant All Saints’ Days in memory, Christian Mory made his Confirmation - taking the baptismal vows his family made for him onto himself. The following week, right after Election Day - the current confirmation students of St. John’s and Trinity gathered together for a campfire under God’s sky and looked at the stars. We’re doing a hybrid model - on the first Wednesday of the month we gather in person (depending on the COVID numbers) and each following Wednesday we meet on Zoom. This year is our Bible year - where we hope to give our students a good, overarching understanding of the Bible - which is a mighty task for any Christian. I hope we all take the Scriptures so seriously! But our kids are good, and they’re learning.
Our subject for that week was on Abraham and Sarah - while they were still known as Abram and Sarai. And we focused in particular on the Abrahamic Covenant - God’s instruction and promise that Abram and Sarai should travel west, far from his home, and that their descendants would outnumber the stars they could see.
Abram and Sarai left their homeland, and everything they knew, to pursue God’s Word. But through their lives they struggled, and they doubted, and they were each over 100 years old before the two of them had even a single child - Isaac, whose name means “laughter,” because Sarah could only laugh at the very idea that she could be a mother at her age.
We stared at the same stars that Abraham and Sarah did, only a few thousand years later. The light of some of those stars have died away. And the lights of new ones have burst anew, filled with new inspiration, wonder, and power. And the light we saw from them is quite ancient, since those same stars are lightyears away. As I looked at them, I considered the mystery of how old God’s promises are - from the Word that formed the universe to the promise made to each of these children in baptism. Trusting that promise means hoping for something yet unseen - but mysteriously already at work.
What is God working in these days? Which stars are being born beyond our vision? Our lives are full of promise, and our God has made us a promise. One rooted in the same Word that created us, that sent Abraham and Sarah, that comforted the abandoned Hagar and Ishmael, and that was made flesh in Jesus Christ. We follow that Word, and worship in that light - whenever and wherever it comes.
Here’s what I hope our young disciples are learning in this period of time: promises can take time, and hope can be hidden. In our messy world, to our own misfortune, we can fall short of trusting this promise. But the promise is still good - come what may, and it can surprise us. And so in the meantime while the promise remains unseen, we act in the faith that Christ is coming. I hope you are learning the same. And I hope I never stop learning it as well. Because we never stop practicing and training in discipleship.
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
November 2020
Greetings St. John’s!
Who else is exhausted?
Between the pandemic, the tensions in our society, and the election, on top of our regular daily struggles, it seems as though this year has had enough stress to fill five years. And the stressfulness around us seems to show no sign of letting up. I wish I could tell you that the worst was over. But the election being over probably won’t relieve the most important tensions in our country. The cases of Covid-19 and the disinformation surrounding it will likely not go away - but may indeed rise for some time based on how our nation has responded to these things. The many traumas our country has undergone under our watch has left and will continue to leave lasting scars. The friends we and so many have lost during the pandemic - be it of this dreaded disease or of some other sorrow, rest in God’s hands.
The truth is - there are some things that are too big for you and me to have control of. The Book of Revelation - more than some book of distant and world-ending prophecy - teaches us this. There are struggles that we suffer. There are fights that hurt. There are disappointments. And there are betrayals, even among those whom we trust.
It is for times such as this that Jesus Christ came for us. And it is for times like this that Jesus Christ’s call to us matters most. Not simply for the Spring and Summer - but for the darker periods of Autumn, when the leaves have fallen, but we don’t even have the beauty of the snow (or the burden either!). Since we know Jesus Christ calls us, it stands to reason that you and I are called to a time such as this.
This isn’t to say that we look upon the world with rose-colored lenses, as though nothing is really wrong. Nor do we look upon the world with jade-tinted glasses as though everything is garbage and hopeless (which I just learned today is apparently the opposite term, Thanks, Wikipedia! citation needed!). But instead, as many faithful Christians have observed before - we look upon the world with Cross-Shaped lenses. Not optimism, not pessimism, not even the so-called “realism.” We look at things through Christ who died for us. Indeed, as he died for us, so too, he died for the world.
You, and I, and our whole world is so deeply loved by God. And it is hurting. And we can even hurt each other. We have a tremendous capacity for love, and a tremendous capacity for destruction. We take part in God’s way by using these things well! Using this capacity for faithful, loving and godly ends. To give hope to the hopeless, comfort to the despairing, guidance for the lost, and friendship to the rejected all while remaining confident that Jesus was right about who God is, and who we are: struggling but beloved.
We can’t control the world, but we can grow in faith, hope, and love. Rest, be kind to yourselves, and wake up ready. There is good to be done. And so I conclude with lyrics from a beloved hymn: “This is my Father’s world; oh let me not forget, that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet. This is my Father’s world; why should my heart be sad? The Lord is king, let heavens ring; God reigns, let the earth be glad!”
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler
Greetings St. John’s!
Who else is exhausted?
Between the pandemic, the tensions in our society, and the election, on top of our regular daily struggles, it seems as though this year has had enough stress to fill five years. And the stressfulness around us seems to show no sign of letting up. I wish I could tell you that the worst was over. But the election being over probably won’t relieve the most important tensions in our country. The cases of Covid-19 and the disinformation surrounding it will likely not go away - but may indeed rise for some time based on how our nation has responded to these things. The many traumas our country has undergone under our watch has left and will continue to leave lasting scars. The friends we and so many have lost during the pandemic - be it of this dreaded disease or of some other sorrow, rest in God’s hands.
The truth is - there are some things that are too big for you and me to have control of. The Book of Revelation - more than some book of distant and world-ending prophecy - teaches us this. There are struggles that we suffer. There are fights that hurt. There are disappointments. And there are betrayals, even among those whom we trust.
It is for times such as this that Jesus Christ came for us. And it is for times like this that Jesus Christ’s call to us matters most. Not simply for the Spring and Summer - but for the darker periods of Autumn, when the leaves have fallen, but we don’t even have the beauty of the snow (or the burden either!). Since we know Jesus Christ calls us, it stands to reason that you and I are called to a time such as this.
This isn’t to say that we look upon the world with rose-colored lenses, as though nothing is really wrong. Nor do we look upon the world with jade-tinted glasses as though everything is garbage and hopeless (which I just learned today is apparently the opposite term, Thanks, Wikipedia! citation needed!). But instead, as many faithful Christians have observed before - we look upon the world with Cross-Shaped lenses. Not optimism, not pessimism, not even the so-called “realism.” We look at things through Christ who died for us. Indeed, as he died for us, so too, he died for the world.
You, and I, and our whole world is so deeply loved by God. And it is hurting. And we can even hurt each other. We have a tremendous capacity for love, and a tremendous capacity for destruction. We take part in God’s way by using these things well! Using this capacity for faithful, loving and godly ends. To give hope to the hopeless, comfort to the despairing, guidance for the lost, and friendship to the rejected all while remaining confident that Jesus was right about who God is, and who we are: struggling but beloved.
We can’t control the world, but we can grow in faith, hope, and love. Rest, be kind to yourselves, and wake up ready. There is good to be done. And so I conclude with lyrics from a beloved hymn: “This is my Father’s world; oh let me not forget, that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet. This is my Father’s world; why should my heart be sad? The Lord is king, let heavens ring; God reigns, let the earth be glad!”
In Christ,
Pastor Kaegler