Deep Down, You're Not Wrong

Sermon for March 23, 2025
Sermon Series: "Who Am I" -- Week 3: I am precious and worthy of redemption.
Exodus 3:1-15; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9

We’re continuing our Lenten preaching series this morning, this exploration of “Who Am I?”  So far, we’ve looked at two very different ways of answering that question.  Two weeks ago, we asked, “Who am I?  I am powerless to defeat sin and evil.”  Then, last Sunday, we asked, “Who am I?  I am God’s own.”  And today, we ask, “Who am I?  I am precious and worthy of redemption.”

Well, if you listened to the last two readings this morning, you might think we used the wrong sermon theme this week.  You probably didn’t hear a lot of “precious and worthy of redemption” there.  In First Corinthians, Paul tells a cautionary tale about our spiritual ancestors of the Old Covenant.  “God was not pleased with most of them,” Paul says, and he mentions several examples, with God smiting idolaters and philanderers and complainers.  “These things happened to them to serve as an example” to us, Paul says.  Yikes.

Then, in the Gospel reading, we hear Jesus laying out judgment pretty clearly:  “Unless you repent,” he says, “you will perish” (Luke 13:3).  Jesus tells a parable about a landholder who’s ready to cut down an unproductive fig tree.  The landholder has been waiting for years, and still no figs.  His kindly gardener talks him into waiting one more year before taking the axe to the roots.  OK, Jesus says, but know the clock is ticking.

In other words, actions or inactions have consequences.  And if those actions separate us from God, we should expect the consequence to be punishment.  It’s hard to argue with that, especially as we make our way through this season of self-examination and repentance.  As we heard at the beginning of our worship today, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (BCP 352).

Unfortunately, I think many of us internalize that message about sin differently from the way Jesus and this Lenten season intend.  I think we often hear God not just judging our actions but judging ourselves, at a deep level.  And the result is the difference between guilt and shame.  As writer Brenae Brown puts it, guilt is “holding something we’ve done or failed to do up against our values and feeling … discomfort.”  Shame is believing that we’re inherently “flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”¹  In other words, guilt says, “I’ve done something wrong.”  Shame says, “I am wrong, deep down.”  

Our culture doesn’t help us much because it thrives on condemning people as wrong, deep down.  These days especially, we’ve come to a point where we regard our opponents not as incorrect but as bad – nasty and evil.  Not only is that a pretty dark view of humanity but, practically, it also precludes progress.  After all, good people don’t work with bad people, right?  So, what way forward is possible other than conflict if you see your opponent as nasty and evil deep down?

Much of American Christianity doesn’t help us with this either.  I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I wonder how many of us have experienced pastors or churches that left you feeling not guilt but shame – that something’s deeply wrong with you?  Of course, conveniently enough, the antidote for this deep wrong just happens to be offered by the church or pastor doing the shaming, right?  If you do X, Y, and Z – or if you believe X, Y, or Z – you won’t be so nasty and evil after all.  Well, if your church is trying to convince you that you’re really not OK, deep down, then it’s time to find a new church.

So, what might it look like to see people differently?  Thankfully, Scripture gives us a truer, and more complicated, point of view.

Today, we heard the story of Moses and the burning bush.  This is Moses, the liberator of the Israelites, the one who faced down the king of Egypt and demanded, “Let my people go!”  And what we heard today is part of his origin story, the account of his calling from God.  Moses is out there on a desert mountain, tending his father-in-law’s sheep, when he comes across this crazy bush.  The bush is on fire, but it’s not burning up.  It’s just burning.  This catches his attention, and Moses thinks, “I need to go see why.”

When he does, God sets the hook, calling Moses by name from the burning bush.  God notes that there’s something very strange and wonderful happening here on this “holy ground” (Exodus 3:5) and that Moses needs to acknowledge it by taking off his shoes.  Actually, the Hebrew word is more interesting than that:  God tells Moses to “shed” his sandals, like a snake would shed its skin.²  All that is rough, all that is broken – shed it, God says, and stand before me ready to be made new.

Let’s hit “pause” on the story for a second.  Why would God frame it that way?  Why does Moses need to shed the cracked and dirty hide covering his feet?  Because, like all of us, Moses has a backstory.  He isn’t just some shepherd tending his sheep.  Moses was saved, by God and some heroic Hebrew women, when the Egyptian king was trying to destroy the Hebrews by killing their baby boys.  But, ironically, Moses was rescued and raised by the king’s daughter, making this Hebrew slave now an Egyptian prince.  Eventually, Moses grows up and witnesses Egyptian security forces harassing Hebrew slaves; and Moses kills the officer who’s responsible.  Now a murderer and an enemy of the state, Moses flees to the wilderness and takes up a new identity as a shepherd.  But God knows who he is.  God knows Moses was the baby saved for something special.  And God knows Moses has blood on his hands.  So, like all of us, Moses has some things about himself he needs to shed as he stands in the presence of the sovereign of the universe.

So, back to the story:  If you’re Moses, standing before the burning bush, what are you thinking at this point?  You’re thinking, “I’ve been caught.”  You can run, but you can’t hide, at least not from God.  Maybe that fire in the bush is burning for him.  No wonder Moses “hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God” (Exodus 3:6).  Wouldn’t you be?

So, with Moses’ old skin shed and his feet ready for a new path, God gets to work.  “You’re not here for judgment,” God says. “You’re here for an assignment.  Remember the fury you felt at the Egyptian who abused your people?  It’s time to solve the problem,” God says.  “These people of Israel, these people I love – I want to deliver them from their suffering and bring them to a place of bounteous life.”  

And Moses is thinking, “Yeah, go for it, God; bring the heat.  Smite those Egyptians, and conquer Pharoah, and let justice roll down like an ever-flowing stream.”  

But God has a different idea.  It’s not time to call out the heavenly army.  Instead, God says to Moses, “I will send you to Pharoah to bring my people out of Egypt.” (3:10)  And Moses says, “Wait, what?”

*  *  *

After thousands of years of telling, this story may lose a bit of its punch.  But think about this:  The Lord – the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the One who is Being itself – the Lord has sought out and raised up a murdering refugee to be the instrument of liberation for God’s beloved people.  Moses has done nothing to deserve his special assignment.  In fact, he himself knows he has no capacity to pull this off:  He says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharoah and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (3:9).  You’ve got the wrong guy, God.  You’ve got a guy who deserves punishment, not freedom.  And, yet, you’re going to free me from my prison of guilt so I can go and set your beloved people free?

You know, God never says to Moses, “It’s fine you murdered that Egyptian.”  Moses knows he’s standing in judgment, for God’s judgment is a real thing.  But here’s where it differs from how we usually think about it.  God’s judgment doesn’t say, “Because of what you’ve done, you’re nasty and evil.”  God’s judgment says, “You know you let me down.  You know you missed the mark.  You know it better than anyone.  Don’t do it again.  In fact, act against who you’ve been, and choose to live differently.  Let me set you free,” God says, “so you can bring new life to others.”

That’s what redemption means, actually.  To be redeemed is to be freed from bondage at a cost.  Back in the day, enslaved people were redeemed when they or someone else paid a price that bought their liberty.  God redeems the undeserving Moses so Moses can redeem the undeserving people.  And now, God frees us from bondage, too, even though we haven’t earned it, so we can be instruments of liberating love for others, who haven’t earned it either.

It’s a stunning thing, right?  Despite what I know to be true about myself, God says to me, “Sure, you’ve done wrong.  But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong, deep down.  You are my beloved child,” God says.  “You are precious and worthy of redemption,” God says.  “So, go and live that way.”

1.      https://brenebrown.com/articles/2013/01/15/shame-v-guilt/

2.      https://biblehub.com/hebrew/5394.htm

Love's Got Your Back

Sermon for Lent 1, March 9, 2025
Sermon Series: Who Am I?
Week 1: I am powerless to defeat sin and evil.

It’s been a minute since I stood up here to preach with you.  In fact, it’s been six weeks since Ann went into the hospital and a month, almost to the day, since she died.  This is one of those moments when I want to say everything.  I want to honor Ann; I want to share what I’ve learned over these weeks; I want to answer all your questions; I want to reassure you that I’m OK – because, today at least, I am.

But all that will have to unfold over the coming months.  Today, I want to whittle it down to one thing I hope you can take away with you this morning, as we begin this Lenten preaching series on one of the biggest questions we face: “Who am I?”

That’s the kind of question God is hoping we’ll ask ourselves in this annual season of self-examination and repentance: Who am I?  Our various affiliations would lead us to answer that question many different ways.  Who am I … in relation to my family?  In relation to my profession?  In relation to my friends?  In relation to my country?  In relation to my culture?  In relation to my faith?  All those intersections contribute to our sense of identity and our sense of allegiance: Who am I, where does that identity come from, and whom do I owe my deepest loyalty?

I’ve had to stare down questions like these over the past month.  Maybe other members of the Widow’s Club here this morning have done the same.  It begins with disbelief that the core of your heart has been emptied.  That moves into disorientation that comes from baffling questions, everything from what to do with the body when you leave the hospital to what you might want to keep from closets full of clothes and drawers full of jewelry.  Once the funeral is over, you find the questions going deeper.  I was a spouse – am I still?  I’m a parent – how do I do that alone?  In my case, I’m a parish leader – can I still carry that responsibility?  I’m a spokesperson for the God who promises to heal us – can I still make that claim with authenticity when my own spouse didn’t recover?  When your world shakes – and it happens for each of us, one way or another – it makes you ask questions you never wanted to ask.  But we have to ask and answer them honestly, whether our lives are at a turning point or on autopilot, because it’s the real questions – the ones that keep us up at night – that help us grow into the image and likeness of the God who made us.

As it turns out, Lent is here just in time to help us hold hard questions like these.  And we start our Lenten time of discovering our way by overhearing Jesus as he struggles with his own questions of “Who am I?”

The first thing that stops me short in today’s Gospel reading is the fact that Jesus’ wilderness time is no accident.  It doesn’t come from some tragic event but from … “the Spirit” (Luke 4:1).  Wait, what?  Yes, you heard it right: The Holy Sprit leads Jesus into “the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil” (4:1-2).  

So, the devil – hmmm … not some cartoon character but the Gospel writer’s representation of the very real power of sin and evil and death – the devil steps into this opportune time … which, of course, is what the power of sin and evil and death does best.  This power of all that is not Love meets Jesus where he is, in the ugliest sense.  “You’re the Son of God,” the power of not-Love says.  “Give yourself something to eat.  Avoid this trial that’s supposed to form you.  Have dinner instead.”   But Jesus says, “One does not live by bread alone” (4:4).  Instead, real life, meaningful life, is about much more than getting your needs met.

So, Jesus presses on through his wilderness time, continuing to fast and set aside his fully human needs.  But in a while, the power of not-Love comes back for a new assault.  In an instant, the devil shows Jesus “all the kingdoms of the world” (4:5); and the power of not-Love says, “Hey, look, if you were in charge of all this, think how good life could be – for them and for you.  Avoid the pain.  Forget this time in the wilderness; forget the years of struggle to come; forget the ugly road of suffering and death.  If you give your allegiance me,” the devil says, “you can fast-forward to what you’ve always wanted.”  But Jesus says, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him” (4:8), because there is no shortcut, no express lane to the kingdom.  To live into the fullness of who God has made you to be, you’ve got to do the long, slow, slogging work of faithful living, honoring God in each day you’re given, until you find, remarkably, that God’s given you precisely what you needed.

So, Jesus rests in that assurance a while more out there in the wilderness, able to make it one day to the next.  And finally, the power of not-Love visits him one last time, asking him the hardest question there is, the deep “Who are you?” that can leave us shaking in our boots.  “You say you believe in God,” not-Love says.  “You pray to an invisible friend who seems to dole out pain as much as pleasure.  You plead for what you need, and the answer just as often comes back ‘no’ as ‘yes.’  You say you’re God’s beloved child – are you sure?  Do you really believe it?  Does the evidence back it up?  Well,” the devil says, “if you think so, prove it – prove you’re God’s beloved.  Prove that the angels really will show up to save you if you throw your life away.”  But Jesus says, “It is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test’” (4:12).  The power of Love doesn’t come because you’ve got some money-back guarantee.  The power of Love comes to you precisely because you trust that it will.

So, who is Jesus in this story?  Well, as people of our culture, I think we see Jesus as a superhero – Ironman battling the devil in the wilderness.  Of course we see Jesus that way.  Maybe the most pernicious not-God to which we give our allegiance is the false gospel of individualism.  “If I just learn the right thing, if I just buy the right thing, if I just gain the right skill, I can overcome anything.  And those who can’t?  Well, they just don’t have as much on the ball.”  That’s what our culture tells us.  So, of course we see Jesus as the ultimate rugged individualist, so strong he can take on even the devil himself – and win.

But here’s where the story undercuts our worship of individualism.  Jesus is not in the wilderness alone.  Jesus is the second person of the Trinity, as the theologians say – the Son, right?  Well, the deep mystery of the Trinity is that God is Three in One and One in Three.  So, Jesus is never alone.  Now, in the fullness of his humanity, he feels that way sometimes – especially hanging there on the cross.  But even then, and certainly out there in the wilderness, Jesus is not dealing with the demons on his own.  The Spirit has brought him there.  And the Creator has made the wilderness, formed it as a tool to form God’s people, even God’s Son.  The wilderness is part of what makes Jesus who he is, part of what makes each of us who we are.  And maybe the most important lesson the wilderness teaches us is this: Myself, I am powerless to defeat sin and evil and death.  I can’t hang in there on my own when the demons come.  When the easy way seems tempting, or when the road seems impossibly rocky, or when beloved fellow travelers leave us – when we’re under assault, what gets us through is trusting in the power of Love that never leaves us.  For it’s only Love that defeats sin and evil and death, and Love is a team sport.  The battle in the wilderness is not a battle I can win on my own.  But it is a battle we can win together, if we trust that the power of Love has got our back.

If I know nothing else today, at the end of this awful month, I know this: that two conflicting things can both be true.  Jesus is fully human and fully divine.  God is a unity and a relationship.  The wilderness is hostile and healing.  Ann is dead and yet alive.  I am alone, and I am embraced.  My heart is broken, and my heart is being healed by God’s love – love that I know through you.  As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, we are not alone.  For the power of Love has always got your back.