How many of you remember where you were when John F. Kennedy was assassinated? If that was before your time, what about Robert F. Kennedy? Or the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? If that’s still before your time, How about the Challenger explosion? Or the Oklahoma City Bombing? Where were you on September 11, 2001? This week, a popular provocateur and political celebrity was assassinated, in broad daylight, at a public event, while speaking in front of thousands of people on a college campus in Utah. His gruesome murder was filmed, from multiple angles and varying distances, and immediately available to the world across every social media platform. Where once these graphic tragedies were shielded from our view by the censors of network news outlets and the scruples of newspaper editors, the internet has streamed the high-definition horrors directly to our hip pockets without edit for mass consumption. Children the world over have seen this video. My own son included. Gen Z will likely remember where they were, not when they heard the news, but when they saw the video of a high-velocity munition take the life of a public figure. And in our highly divided times, this event has been met with a mix of terror and celebration. Each side has been quick to blame the other. Partisans, ever the opportunists, have sought to exploit the spectacle to further their cause and grab for power. Blame is easy. Blame is a form of self-absolution, an adoption of victimhood to justify vengeance in the name of justice. In all three of our readings for this week, we see that there is a difference between taking the blame, and taking responsibility. Moses didn’t make a golden calf for the Hebrew people to worship, but he defended his people, staying God’s wrath, and sparing their lives. Moses didn’t take the blame, but he did accept responsibility. In 1 Timothy, “Paul” speaks of his ignorance as the cause of his blasphemy, persecution, hatred, and violence. And yet, as the recipient of mercy, he accepts responsibility and changes his life accordingly. In the Gospel of Luke, the Pharisees and scribes were complaining that Jesus had crossed the socio-political divide and was sharing his table with tax-collectors and sinners. Jesus tells two parables in answer. In the first, a sheep wanders off; it’s what sheep do. But the shepherd accepts responsibility and goes to find the sheep, bringing it back and celebrating. Similarly, a woman has lost a coin. Coins don’t just wander off. They can roll away and they can be easily obscured on the dirt floor of an ancient near-eastern home. So, the woman accepts responsibility and sweeps the whole house until she finds the coin. Then she celebrates its return. Most of us in this room aren’t to blame for the rhetoric, rancor, and polarization of this present age. But all of us are responsible. We didn’t create social media platforms and engineer algorithms to exacerbate our divisions, radicalize our thinking, monetize our engagement, and silo us into us-es and thems. But all of us are responsible. We are not to blame for the need of news media outlets to be profitable in order to exist and therefore, tailoring reporting and headlines to the presuppositions of their consumers. But all of us are responsible. Political violence is always wrong. Full. Stop. And it doesn’t matter which side is to blame, because we are all of us responsible for what comes next. Each of us is responsible for the media we consume, both the quantity and the quality. A good rule to follow should be that each day, you will spend no more time reading, watching, or listening to the news than you spend reading your Bible or praying. Further, understanding proper journalistic standards and practices, researching which reporters and outlets are using them, and limiting ourselves to only those reliable resources will protect us from being manipulated by propaganda, advertising, misinformation, and disinformation. Then, you need to build authentic, loving relationships with people with whom you disagree. You don’t have to fight them. You don’t have to best friends. But you don’t have to be enemies, either. Instead, see them as human, as susceptible as you are to bad information, and share your thoughts, feelings, and research with as much kindness and goodwill as possible. And lastly, if it is possible for you, consider a social media fast, if not an exodus. I walked away for Facebook and Instagram over a year ago and I have been a lot happier and clear-headed since. I know that is not possible for everyone, for various reasons— and some of you are receiving this very sermon on Facebook as I speak. But to the degree that you’re able to limit your consumption of social media, treat it like alcohol. Some of us will avoid it all together, and others will be able to consume sparingly and responsibly. If you find that you are not able to consume social media or any facet of the internet with sobriety, reach out to a mental health professional for help. We all have a share of the responsibility for changing the world around us. As Billy Joel sang almost 40 years ago, “We didn’t start the fire, No, we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it.” The good news is that we do not do this work alone. God’s mercy and patience go with us, both as personal liberation and as the empowerment for our duty. We are not to blame, but by the call of discipleship, we are all responsible. Today, in addition to the 14 th Sunday after Pentecost, is the Feast of the Holy Cross. The Cross is a corrective lens for our perspective on reality, and the shape of discipleship. God in Christ was not to blame for sin, death, and the devil, but Jesus took responsibility on the cross, loving the world as it is, remaking the world as it should be, and calling and empowering us to participate in both the loving and remaking. I want to close by leading us through a time of prayer, focused on this perspective, calling us away from our allegiances to this kingdom of death and calling us to a new citizenship in the Kingdom-come-on-earth-as-it-is-in-heaven….

Some of you may know my story, but for those unfamiliar with my journey out of fundamentalism and evangelicalism, I will recap briefly. I have shared here before that I grew up in a tiny Baptist denomination in Southern Appalachia. At around age 2, I began to spend every Saturday night at my grandmother’s house so that I could go to church with her on Sunday. She became a place of refuge for me over the course of my childhood, and so did the church. I met Jesus and I learned the faith in this church and in my grandmother’s home. By the time I started college, I had developed a deep love for the scriptures and took my faith very seriously, and as a result I began to question some of the things I had been taught. The Jesus I knew and the scriptures I read led me to very different conclusions that those of my church. When I stopped reading the Bible in the King James and started reading a modern translation these differences grew even broader, and eventually, my involvement with Campus Crusade, which they considered a heretical organization, became a breaking point, and the church where I learned the faith forced me to repent of my involvement and affirm that the King James Version as the only rule of faith and practice, or I was “not qualified to be a member” of the church. At the time, that choice seemed easy. Follow the Jesus I had come to know, even if it led me away for this church that had been family to me, or abandon my faith in this Jesus in order to keep a truncated and pernicious version of the faith. So, I resigned my membership, and began a long, meandering spiritual journey to find a tradition that resonated with the Jesus I had always known. Eventually, I landed in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. But I had not counted the cost. Some years later, while visiting my grandmother, who had continued to attend the church I left, we were having a conversation and, I don’t remember what brought it up, but I told her that I had discerned, through prayer, study, and reading the scripture, that I could no longer say the pledge of allegiance without violating my conscience— but that is a matter for another sermon. My grandmother was shocked. I had never seen her so disappointed in me before. This was also the catalyst for a conversation about many other ways that the things I had come to believe were a disappointment to her. I was shocked at how hurt she seemed. I was shocked at how hurt I felt. I had left her church with such hurt and righteous indignation that I had not considered how she had felt about my leaving. My study and conviction, my faith and my love for Jesus were a direct result of her teaching and example. I was still a Christian at all because of her, because of the way she embodied the faith, the way that she had introduced me to Jesus and not just handed me a Bible. My continued faith was an act of defiance against all I had been told I had to believe in order to be allowed to stay in the church, not an act of defiance against her. I couldn’t reconcile the Jesus I knew and this iteration of the faith that to me was taking the Name of Christ in vain. But in leaving, I hadn’t just left the church; I had left my grandmother. Where I had gone, she couldn’t follow. The cost of leaving was high, but the cost of staying was higher. I couldn’t keep Jesus and the only place of safety and comfort I had ever known. I can imagine that she felt like I had come to hate all she had tried to teach me, that in rejecting her church and its ideology, I had rejected something fundamental about her. I could see the heartbreak and confusion on her face, emotions I wasn’t aware of causing before, and certainly, had never intended. When I counted the cost of leaving, I hadn’t accounted for her grief. In the coming months, All Saints will begin to literally count the cost of building new ministries and rebuilding old ones. We will give an accounting of all the time, talent, and treasure we will need to invest to make sure that we are introducing this Jesus to our neighbors and to each other. We will ask, “Who isn’t here?” and we will find ways to invite and include our neighbors in our life of faith. And as we make this accounting, we will have to ask, Can we afford to build a ministry that is more inclusive, that doesn’t demand more of people than they can give in order to be included? Can we afford not to? Can we afford to give up our old ways of doing church, the habits and traditions that have shaped life together and given them meaning? Can we afford not to? Can we let go of outdated models of growth, membership, and engagement and meet people where they are? Can we afford not to? Can we afford to stop thinking of church as a destination at the end of the path toward faith and begin to think of faith itself as a journey and church as the rest areas along that path? Can we afford not to? Can we afford the time, energy, and money it will cost to examine every aspect of our beliefs, our practices, our politics, our preferences, our principles, and measure them by their faithfulness and effectiveness, measure them against Love? Can we afford not to? Moses asked the Israelites to choose life. Paul asked Philemon to choose love. Jesus asks us to choose the cross. There are other choices, but the question is not can we bear the cost of choosing life, love, and the cross. The question is whether we can afford to avoid choosing life, choosing love, choosing the cross. Choosing to grieve and let go of all the things we must leave behind in order to choose life, love, and the cross is the very substance of discipleship. Eventually, my grandmother and I reconciled, and we were able to talk about the scriptures, differences in interpretation, theological insight, and grow in mutual respect. I wouldn’t say I won a convert, but I don’t think she would say she lost a grandson, either. The cost of following this Jesus is often high. There is no discipleship that is not marked by the Cross. It will cost us home, family, security, time, money, even our very lives. But for every cross we bear there is a resurrection. God does not call us to faith to destroy us, any more than God calls us to faith to protect us from every discomfort. God calls us to choose life, and Jesus leads us to the cross. Discipleship, then, is the choice of the life that only comes after the cross, the life that is marked by scars and healing, not safety and health. Discipleship is the path of transformation, the path of life, death, and resurrection, the path that brings babies to a symbolic burial in baptism and celebrates our founder’s last meal, to promise us that death is not final, and discomfort cannot be avoided. The cost will be high, we will have to account for our discomfort, for our grief. But we can also account for the life that only comes after such discomfort and grief. The question is not can we afford to grow and change, to bear the discomfort or to grieve the losses that will come. The question is, Can we afford not to? Amen.

Food is a big part of what we do here. We are always gathering food or gathering around food. We make sandwiches and collect food for people struggle to eat. We are planning to offer a meal of bratwurst and hot dogs along with a free concert to share with our community. Even our worship culminates around a sacred meal. In today’s gospel Jesus finds himself invited to share a meal with a Pharisee. Just as a quick reminder, Pharisees are spiritual leaders in Judaism who often get a bad rap. These leaders were responsible for interpreting Torah, God’s law in the Holy Scriptures, and understanding God’s intentions for God’s people. For a while now, these religious leaders have been watching Jesus, curious and concerned about the way he interprets the law, who he accepts, and how he practices Sabbath. You see in Luke chapter 7 these leaders have witnessed a notorious woman anoint Jesus’ feet at a table. In Luke chapter 11, Jesus and his disciples have not properly washed themselves before eating at a table. And prior to this exchange today, Jesus has healed a dinner guest on the Sabbath. And the religious leaders, like these Pharisees, aren’t quite sure what to do with this. Jesus is very aware of the invitation he is accepting. Jesus knows that a dinner invitation in the first century, is not just a dinner invitation – it has strings attached. Dinner invitations were a measure of status. Tables were often arranged in u-shapes with a defined social order, with those seated in the middle being part of the upper class and those on the ends part of the lower class. And not only that, the table was a place of networking for male upper-class individuals who were expected to return the invitation back to their own tables. A dinner party was not just a dinner party, there were strict expectation. Nothing says “Party Time!!” quite like a list of inscrutable rules. But we’ve been watching Jesus ourselves. The Monday Bible study and the Lectionary have been following Jesus over this season after Pentecost as we wind our way through the gospel of Luke. We know that Jesus is not going to attend a dinner party and play by the rules. Jesus is mission minded. He’s always looking for a teachable moment. If he’s going to attend, he’s likely to expose the whole thing in order to reveal of the Kingdom of God. Recalling the Proverbs, to these experts in the scriptures, he says, don’t embarrass yourselves by choosing a seat of honor, assuming it belongs to you. Instead, chose the lower seat and assume that is your position so that if the time comes you will be honored when you’re asked to move up. Do you hear echoes of Mary’s song here? Earlier in the gospel of Luke, Mary sings, “God has looked down with favor on the lowly … God has scattered the proud … God has brought down the powerful from their places of power and lifted up the lowly … God has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty …” But this is the opposite of how we have been trained to think. We live in a society that encourages us to learn the most, earn the most, own the most, be seen the most, and post the best version of ourselves on social media. In most of our lives, when we share a table, it is often a game of “one up,” of social and political power plays, comparing accomplishments and wealth. We judge ourselves and each other by our proximity to power, by our allegiance to a political ideology, or even a specific politician. We even judge our churches by how many people attend worship, how they set the table for worship, and by how formally or casually they approach God’s table. And all the while, God judges by a different metric, looking around for the people who have no proximity to power, for those who are missing from our tables. Beloved, who is missing? When we gather around our tables, who is not there? - Who is missing at the tables in our homes? - Who is missing at the tables in our social circles? - Who is missing at the tables in our neighborhoods? - Who is missing at the tables of our children’s cafeterias? The late Rachel Held Evans once wrote: “This is what God’s kingdom is like: A bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes, and there’s always room for more!” And at God’s table all are welcome, There is a place for everyone! It doesn’t matter what your bank account says, what your relationship status is, what gifts you bring or what gifts you lack; whether you are young or old, there is a place for you around God’s table, in the midst of this meal of love. Beloved, when we gather here at God’s table, who is missing? The demographics of this part of the county say that on average, our neighbor is a 35yo person of color. And yet, our average parishioner is a white person twice that age? We do an excellent job of making sure our neighbors’ tables are filled with good food. But Jesus challenges us to find a way to share not only our food, but our table, to share our meal, and to share God’s meal, with those who don’t look like us, who don’t share our proximity to power, who don’t share our socio-economic status, who suffer in ways that make us uncomfortable, and whose experience challenges us to reexamine our understanding of the world. This is the very work and witness of Jesus, who set aside equality with God to stand, or sit, in solidarity with the human condition, with all its joys and sorrow, until life and death and everything in between is swallowed up in the very life of God. We are called to move beyond simply sharing our food to sharing our table and indeed, our very lives with those our social structure has pushed to the margins. As we move toward discerning where God is calling this congregation to invest our lives and our resources, we are beginning to reexamine and reimagine the ways we embody the kingdom of God in our community. In the coming months, we will be inviting you to take a seat at the table as we discern together where God is calling this congregation to engage our neighbors and to make a seat for them around this table. For some of us, that we mean that we will have to take a “lower place,” that we will have to put the needs of our neighbors ahead of our own preferences and comfort. It will call us to witness and to stand in solidarity with the suffering going on around us. It will call us to free our lives from the love of money and the status it brings, trusting God to be our provision as we work to provide for our neighbors. And we will not take on this work alone. God has promised that God will never leave us or forsake us, and that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. So, let us come to this table trusting that it is Jesus himself who invites us to move up, and to move out, to invite others in. Amen.

When Zion was little, he was obsessed with lawnmowers. He pointed them out when we drove by someone mowing. He begged to stop at Home Depot so he could sit on one. He had his own toy versions of a push mower, trimmer, blower, and a John Deere riding mower. But there was one lawnmower he LOVED more than any other and it belonged to my father-in-law. This mower was a Kabota zero turn lawnmower And the reason I know the name brand was that every time we went to my in-law’s house – winter or summer, rain or shine, Zion would say, “I want to ride the Kabota.” In fact, he was so obsessed with my this lawnmower that for his 3 rd birthday all he wanted was a lawnmower cake that looked like PawPaw’s Kabota and we had to find a baker who could make it happen. But there was one day every week when no matter how much Zion begged, no matter how many tears fell, my father-in-law refused and that day was Sunday. For my father-in-law, my own grandfather, and many people I knew growing up, Sunday was the sabbath and this meant that any kind of work— or even the perception of work— was forbidden; unless, quoting from Deuteronomy, “your ox was in a ditch.” Sundays were sacred. They were for worship, lunch, naps, and televised sports. A Southern sabbath. But, ya know, despite sharing this experience with many a Southern family, it was always someone’s dad, grandpa, uncle, neighbor— but never someone’s mom, grandma, aunt. Seems this Southern Sabbath was made for men. All those Sunday morning pews crawling with monogrammed smocking and Buster Brown shoes were corralled by women. All those Sunday suppers were made by women. All those crisply ironed Monday morning shirts were starched by women. The sabbath might have been a day for resting from work, but only if you were getting paid for that work. While the fellas listening to this Gospel lesson might have wondered what Luke might mean when he speaks of a woman bent-over with a spirit of weakness, I would be the ladies listening don’t have to strain their imaginations too hard. We don’t know her name or where she comes from, but in our Gospel lesson this morning a woman, weary and bent over with a spirit of weakness, makes her way into the synagogue where Jesus is teaching. What the text hides from us in the mists of translation is that word here for “bent over” is used only one other place in scripture and there it means something closer to humiliation. Further, when the Gospels speak of oppressing spirits and demons, we should read this as a toxic relationship to something or someone. She bears in her body the weight and the weakness of a burden heaved upon her. She is bent not because she wants to avoid eye contact, or miss each morning’s sunrise, or forget what the stars look like, or never raise her face to the evening breeze, but because she has no other choice. While her fellow worshipers have arrived on time, she comes late. Jesus is teaching — most likely surrounded by a crowd – so who knows if she even notices him, bent over as she is? Luke tells us that by the time she encounters Jesus, she’s been crippled for eighteen years – almost two decades. According to the text, the woman doesn’t ask Jesus for help when she appears in the synagogue on this particular Sabbath. But Jesus sees her. And he stops preaching. Worship is put on hold. He calls her over and says the thing Jesus always says when he encounters the sick, the broken, the dying, the dead: “You are set free from your ailment.” Then, the Gospel tells us, Jesus “laid his hands on her, and immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.” “Immediately she stood up straight.” I wonder if we of this place or worship as a place where hunched over, humiliated, exhausted people are invited, encouraged, and empowered to “stand up straight.” Do we think of the Church as a place where people, maybe even ourselves— people who are bent under the weight of shame, judgment, invisibility, loneliness, false piety, condemnation, prejudice, legalism, and harmful theology can be embraced and restored? Do we believe that the Church is a place where Jesus still liberates people, transforms people, so that our full potential is realized? Do we have the courage to shift our focus from the worship we prefer to offer to the work of liberation God desires of us? Are we brave enough to invite others who are bent by the weight of oppression and systemic injustice to come and find healing, wholeness, and community? Will we let the praises of the liberated ones stand as a living sermon, to us and to the world? Or are we upset at the interruption? Unfortunately, the Gospel story itself offers some insight into these questions. As soon as Jesus frees this bent woman, a leader of the synagogue voices his frustration. Essentially, his angry criticism drowns out her joyful praise: “There are six days on which work ought to be done,” he tells the crowds, “come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” The leader protests because Jesus disrupts the regular Sabbath schedule of the synagogue and messes with the tradition. Worse, Jesus places a socially expendable, physically disabled, spiritually vulnerable woman at the center of the tradition. Jesus allows the woman's need to interrupt his own sermon, and welcomes her praise song even though it upends the synagogue's order of service. Now, to be clear, the leader of the synagogue is not a “bad guy.” This leader cares about right worship. Right belief. Right practice. He cares about honoring the Sabbath, obeying God’s laws, and upholding the faith-filled traditions of his spiritual community. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with any of these goals. His intentions are not evil, and his concerns are not without merit, but his myopia is akin to that of all those Southern men who can enjoy a sabbath rest because of the bent over women in their own lives. What the leader misses is the heart of the Sabbath, the heart of God’s law, the heart of the tradition the heart of liberation. As Walter Brueggeman writes in his book Sabbath as Resistance, “Worship that does not lead to neighborly compassion and justice cannot be faithful worship of YHWH.” This synagogue leader and all those Southern men are missing justice and compassion. The kind of justice and compassion that exceeds legalism every single time. The kind of justice and compassion that doesn’t cling to orthodoxy simply for orthodoxy’s sake. The kind of justice and compassion that consistently sees the broken body, the broken soul, the broken spirit — instead of seeing a broken commandment. This story — like so many Gospel stories — illustrates a fundamental truth about Jesus’ ministry and God’s inbreaking reign: timing, etiquette, propriety, and decorum are not important, but compassion, justice, and liberation are essential! In the same way Jesus embraced and liberated the bent over woman from the oppression she experienced, Jesus embraces and frees the synagogue leader, transforming his understanding of sabbath and God’s work within it. And the challenging but very good news for us this day, is that here in this place, within and around us, through the Spirit, God embraces and liberates each of us, releasing us from shame and oppression, fear and isolation, prejudice and judgment raising us up so that we can see the good news of God’s love, so that we can BE the good news of God’s love. As the Spirit of God liberates each of us we are called and empowered to go and liberate others, by following the Spirit into the places where bodies, spirits, and souls feel broken offering healing and restoration, dignity and transformation. This is what it means to keep the Sabbath holy, this is how we honor the command of God, this is what Isaiah tells us this morning brings delight to the Lord. So beloved, let us go forth and proclaim the wonderful things God has done and continues to do in us! Amen.

I’m not a math guy. I am grateful that there are people who love math, like the accountant we pay each year to file our taxes in my household with two clergypersons. I say here and now, there is no way I could file my own taxes and not end up in prison. I just don’t have the patience for math. I was one of those kids who used to make Christmas trees and lightning bolts out of the bubbles on the scantron sheets used to score our standardized tests. And I do not have the patience for puzzles either. I didn’t break it. I am NOT about to fix it. I will admit that my impatience is mostly a product of pathology. I have known I have ADHD since I was 8, and I tend to struggle with an intolerance for small time irritation. I do not see problem-solving as an exciting challenge, or a fun activity for a rainy afternoon, rather I experience it as a tedious annoyance, as a confining obligation. I do not possess the capacity to remain focused on tasks that do not provide a nearly instant result. I cannot buckle down and figure out which value goes on which line of which form, and certainly not under threat of federal penalties. And the same goes for sorting through tiny pieces of cardboard to reconstruct an image I can see on the lid of the box! I admire those folks who realize the toaster isn’t working and grab a toolbox, take the whole thing apart, and put it back together again in working order, instead of Doordashing a new one from Target. I admire these folks— and the accountants and puzzle-workers of the world— because I see in them something of the heart of God; the God who makes something out of nothing, who sees value where I see only garbage; the God who sees utility where I see futility. This is what God is always doing, fashioning something from nothing, or as the African American Church reminds us, God makes a way out of no way. In fact, God is existence itself; all things come from God, and all things are returning to God. Apart from God, nothing could exist. All of reality is part of the divine existence, the very life and love of God. And our God is one who enjoys tinkering. Our God is always taking things apart to put them back together. Our reading from Hebrews tells us that this is precisely the experience of that “great cloud of witnesses,” who “won strength out of weakness,” who “received their dead by resurrection,” who were saved by the faithfulness of a prostitute, and yet so many more were “stoned to death, were sawn in two, were killed by the sword; they went about…destitute, persecuted, tormented.” And the world was not worthy of them because God makes worth from worthlessness, meaning from meaninglessness, hope from hopelessness, purpose from purposelessness. When Jesus says he comes to bring division I think he means like halves of the Red Sea, dry ground for those escaping, and quicksand for those pursuing. When Jesus says he comes to bring division I think he means like nuclear fission, the very process that created the universe, and now gives us the power to end life as we know it. When Jesus says he comes to bring division I think he means like boundaries, like the difference between genealogy and kinship, between obligation and service. This division, is a picture of divine judgment. What we feared would be our undoing is only our remaking. Jesus came to bring division and fire, the fire of the Holy Spirit, the fire with which John the Baptist promised we would be baptized. What we feared would be a separation, what we feared would be a conflagration, God has made our salvation. The fire that Jesus brings is the radiance of the life and love of God at the heart of this reality, a life and a love so big that it encompasses this whole reality, with all its joys and woes, pains and promises, faith and fear. A life and love so big it includes both the cross and the resurrection, both sinners and saints. Our God is one who enjoys tinkering. Our God is one who has the patience to take this world apart, cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom, and put it all back together again in working order, instead of discarding this one and making a new one. Our God is one who can take all the broken pieces of our lives and take delight in placing them back together to recreate the image of God. Our God is a math guy, a lover of fine details, a puzzle worker, a toaster fixer. Our God is a sea-parting, way-making, rescuer, calling slaves to freedom and masters to their reckoning. Our God is the nuclear blast at the heart of an atom that commands worlds from nothing and breathes life into stardust. Our God is the definer of family, freeing us from unhealthy relationships and becoming our Parent, our Sibling, our Community when we must draw hard lines to save our sanity, to save our life. Our God has the patience to tinker with this world until it is fixed, until it returns to its original purpose. The judgement we feared is the salvation we hoped for. So let us trust God to make something from our nothings, our meaninglessness, our hopelessness, our purposelessness, and let us run with perseverance the race that is before us, looking to Jesus, the creation and completion of our faith, who trusted God to make something of the Cross, and calls us to trust God to make something of our suffering too. Amen.