Sermonon John 18:33-37

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

There’s a lot wrapped up in today:

1.    It’s Christ the King Sunday, instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI, who felt that we Jesus followers needed to refocus on the Reign of God instead of the secularism and kingdoms of this world.

2.    It’s also the final Sunday of the church year. We’re ending the year both by remembering Christ’s kingship and reading about his death. We’re situated once again at the cross, even as we get ready for a season celebrating Jesus’ birth and proclaiming his coming again.

3.    And it’sThankoffering Sunday, a particularly treasured day for this congregation, when we remember the hope, vision, and generosity of our founding members and follow their example with our own generosity and care for our neighbors.

4.    Not to mention that this Thursday is Thanksgiving.

That’s a lot for one Sunday, and the messages seem like an odd combination: Christ’s glory, his death, his birth, gratitude, generosity, legacy, hope.

So, let’s begin by focusing on Christ the King Sunday.

Jesus walked this earth in land occupied by the Roman Empire.The powers that be perceived him as a political threat and conspired to have him executed. That’s where our reading today comes in.

Jesus stood before Pilate, a representative of Rome, who expected Jesus would beg for his life or at least answer his questions in a straightforward way (which we know is very un-Jesus-like).

Pilate asked him if he was the King of the Jews, but he didn’t realize that Jesus was a different kind of king. His kingdom was a different kind of kingdom—one that surpassed Pilate’s imagination.

On the surface, Pilate seems to be in charge in this scene, but he didn’t realize that there was something cosmic going on.

This wasn’t about executing a would-be rebel against the Romans, but the moment when God would show that “power is made perfect in weakness” and when death’s power would be broken forever.

Our God is so different from what Rome imagined power looked like. Jesus said his kingdom “does not belong to this world.” Quite the opposite: this world belongs to his kingdom. There is no empire, no government, no tyrant, no army that can overcome the Reign of God.

The Reign of God is not like the dominating powers of this world.It does not enforce Pax Romana, Roman peace, by the sword, but true peace, God’s shalom, that’s full of abundance and compassion.

Our readings from Daniel and Revelation are apocalyptic, which means unveiling. They give us glimpses of the completion of the Reign of God. They were written to remind oppressed, persecuted, and hurting people of the truth that God is ultimately in control.

God, the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, willfulfill God’s promises at the end of time as we know it.

That doesn’t mean, though, that we get to relax and put our feet up while we wait for the Reign of God to be complete.

On the contrary: people are hurting now. Jesus calls us to love our neighbor now. Just because we know the end of the story doesn’t mean we shouldn’t work now to make earth a little more as it is in heaven.

That’s where we can remember that today is not just Christ the King Sunday, but also Thankoffering Sunday.

We get to act in gratitude for God’s promises, for God having become human to meet us in our troubled world, for Jesus breaking the power of death, for God showing us a different way of being in the world that displays love instead of dominating power.

Because we know the end of the story, we are freed to love our neighbor now.

The apocalyptic images from our readings and elsewhere in the Bible show us what the fullness of the Reign of God will look like, and we can work alongside God to bring more glimpses of that abundance, compassion, and love to the world around us. They inspire and give us hope as we live our lives now.

This is the intersection between Christ the King and Thankoffering.

Cole Arthur Riley in her book This Here Fleshshares an odd and oddly moving poetic image of the freedom that will come with the completion of the Reign of God. Similarly to the apocalyptic readings we heard today, her writing here is unusual and even surprising, but it unveils truths about our relationships with God and each other that can give us hope.

She writes, “One day, at the end of all things, the legs of all the tables in the world will come alive. And without apology, they’ll each begin plodding toward the space where the top and bottom of the earth meet. And we’ll be terrified, of course, so some of us will go into hiding underground, but some, after pausing to feel sad or terrified or betrayed, will get brave and follow them. Those who are able to withstand the pilgrimage, who are able to push back despair in the company of the tableless, will make it to where they’re going. And when they arrive, they’ll find all of the moving tables lined up into one great plank tracing the entire equator.

“The children will sit first, because they are unafraid. And the elders will follow, because they are unafraid of their fear. And eventually everyone will take a seat, squirming their elbows in tight. Some will be grunting, complaining about how absurd the whole thing is. Some will be laughing, in awe of how beautiful it is. And some will be crying, sensing how familiar it all is. And in mystery, and all at once, we’ll look up from the table. And we’ll see ourselves. At that moment, the wood of the table will begin to suck all the shame out of the air, and once it does, the air will become so light that we all will realize how little we’ve been able to move in our own bodies before this moment.

“When we understand that the food is not going to fall from the clouds or manifest from the knots in the table, we’ll take ourselves and begin wandering off to collect things. And we’ll probably get lost now and again, but the table will just send out a long whistle and lead us back.

“I believe that the individual, collective, and cosmic journey is the path of unearthing and existing in our liberation. But liberation is not a finality or an end point; it is an unending awakening. It is something we can both meet and walk away from within the same hour. Our responsibility to ourselves is to become so familiarized with it, so attuned to its sound, that when it calls out to us, we will know which way the table is.

“To answer the question of how one becomes attuned to liberation, I think we must ask ourselves: What sounds are drowning it out?”

As odd as the image of animated table legs is, this passage speaks of the unity and community care God is leading us to. It’s so different from what the world values: power, status, individualism, self-sufficiency, control. Instead, liberation in God is found in taking a seat at a giant table that stretches into the horizon, where people are freed from their shame and isolation.

Jesus’ kingdom does not belong to this world, but this world belongs to it, even when we can’t see it.

So, pull up a chair—for a neighbor.

Say grace—and show your gratitude through acts of compassion.

Help yourself—to another portion of generosity.

Fill up—on the knowledge that God wins in the end.

This is where Christ the King meets Thankoffering. Our trust in God’s ultimate victory of love frees us to live differently than the world expects by living out God’s love every day.

Because God’s love is sweeter than any dessert, and one day we will feast togetherforever with all of our neighbors at God’s endless table.

The Widow’s Mite & The Widow’s Last Bite

Pr. Jasmine Waring |

Pentecost 25 November 10, 2024

Our readings today share the stories of two widows—two women who were invisible in their time, as many marginalized people are today. They had no name, no wealth, no power in the eyes of society. And yet, their stories endure, echoing through the corridors of time, because they reveal profound truths about God’s love for the vulnerable, the systemic injustices that perpetuate inequality, and the kind of radical generosity that can transform the world. These stories speak just as loudly to us today as they did when they were first told. In Mark 12:38-44, we meet a widow in the Temple who gives her last two coins—her mite. The context is critical: Jesus is entering Jerusalem in a triumphal procession, challenging the powers that be, subverting the empire’s might, and cleansing the Temple of its corruption. The Temple, which was supposed to be a place of justice and worship, had become a place of exploitation. Jesus calls out the religious leaders for their greed, their love of status, and their use of faith as a tool for self-enrichment. At the heart of Jesus' message is the love of God and the love of neighbor, but these things were being distorted by the very system meant to uphold them. And then, in the middle of this powerful critique, we see the widow. She has nothing left—no safety net, no resources to rely on. She’s one of the most powerless people in this society. And yet, she gives all that she has—her last two coins, everything she owns. Jesus sees this woman and offers a lesson—not in admiring her generosity, but in pointing out the failure of the system. The rich, he says, give a fraction of their wealth —barely anything—but it’s the poor widow who gives everything. And that, beloveds, is where the injustice lies. Jesus isn’t saying that poverty is a virtue. He’s not glorifying suffering or asking the poor to give until they have nothing left. No. What he’s saying is that the system is broken, that the rich are hoarding wealth, and the poor are being asked to give out of their scarcity, all the while being made to sustain a system that benefits only the powerful. The widow’s mite is an indictment of that system. It’s not a call for more sacrificial giving; it’s a call to dismantle the system that exploits the vulnerable in the first place. This passage challenges us, beloveds, to examine the systems around us. We live in a world that asks the poor to give more and more, while the rich accumulate wealth and power. How can there be justice in such a system? How can there be equity in a world where the wealthiest hoard their resources, and the most vulnerable are left to scrape by? Jesus exposes this injustice—calling us to wake up to the disparity, to recognize how it disfigures God’s vision for the world. God's vision has always been one of abundance. God’s economy is not one of scarcity, but of generosity. The Bible makes it clear, especially in Deuteronomy, that the rich are called to care for the widows, orphans, and immigrants—the very groups who are most vulnerable in society. And yet, in the story of the widow’s mite, we see how the Temple leaders have failed to live up to this mandate. They’ve created a system where the rich give only what they can spare, while the poor are drained dry by it. Jesus isn’t just critiquing the poor widow’s situation—he’s exposing how the Temple leaders have upheld an unjust system. I remember, growing up, watching my single mother give her last few dollars to televangelists who promised that if she gave out of her poverty, God would bless her with abundance. It was a lie—a distortion of the Gospel. The Prosperity Gospel, beloveds, is a false gospel that preaches that wealth and power are signs of God’s favor. It distorts the truth of God’s love and justice. God does not want us to accumulate wealth for ourselves; God’s vision is a world where wealth and resources are shared, where people care for one another, and where everyone has enough. This is the world God dreams for us—a world of justice, not exploitation. A world of beauty, not hoarding. God’s vision for the world is a vision of Beauty. It’s an intense harmony that’s not about accumulation but about the interdependence of creation. It’s a beauty that is found in our mutual care for one another. It’s a beauty that lifts up the weak, the vulnerable, the forgotten, and makes them visible again. The widow’s mite exposes the failure of human systems and calls us back to a vision of shared abundance. But there’s also hope in this story—because Jesus doesn’t just condemn the system. He offers a new way—a way of radical generosity, a way of beauty, a way of justice, where provision is not about what we have, but how we give. In 1 Kings 17:8-16, we hear the story of another widow, this time in the midst of a famine. This famine is a consequence of the nation’s failure to honor God, a result of the leaders leading Israel into idolatry and injustice. And so, God sends Elijah to a widow in Zarephath—a Gentile widow, someone outside of Israel, someone marginalized by society. She has nothing left. She’s preparing to die with her son because she has only a handful of flour and a little oil left. She has no hope—no resources—and yet, she opens her hands to share what she has with Elijah. Even in the face of death, the widow chooses to share. And in that sharing, in that radical hospitality, God steps in. Elijah speaks a word of promise: “The jar of flour will not be used up, and the jug of oil will not run dry.” God’s provision, in the face of scarcity, flows through her act of generosity. This story echoes the message of the widow’s mite—reminding us that even in the midst of scarcity, God’s provision flows through those who give from their lack. The widow’s last bite is a sign that God works through the vulnerable and marginalized to bring about transformation. Even when it seems like all is lost, God’s promise is that provision will not fail. This is God’s economy—the more we share, the more we give, the more God’s abundance flows into the world. So what do these two widows teach us? They teach us that God’s vision for the world is one of beauty, justice, and abundance. They show us that in the face of systemic oppression, God is with the vulnerable. God is with the widow, with the marginalized, with the poor. These women challenge us to ask: What kind of world are we living in? Are we living in a world where the rich hoard their wealth while the poor are asked to give from their scarcity? Or are we working toward a world where we share our resources, where we share in each other’s struggles, and where the powerful use their privilege to lift up those in need? God’s promise is not that we will be wealthy in the way the world defines it. God’s promise is not that we will be powerful in the way the world understands power. God’s promise is that we will have enough—and that enough is always in relationship. It’s in community. It’s in the shared abundance of love, care, and justice. The widow’s mite and the widow’s bite are not just stories about individual generosity —they are symbols of God’s vision for the world. A world where scarcity is transformed into provision, where love overcomes injustice, and where all are fed. Beloveds, may we have the courage to live into this vision of beauty, to stand with the vulnerable, to challenge the systems that perpetuate inequality. And may we trust that when we give—no matter how little—we participate in God’s work of restoration, and God’s beauty is revealed in the world. Amen.

Sermon on John 11:32-44

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

In a culture that glorifies youth and tries to ignore death, All Saints Day is a surprising, and maybe even off-putting, holiday.

We’ve just celebrated Halloween, teased ourselves with the macabre, the eerie, and the grotesque aspects of death, but even then, we largely keep it in the realm of fantasy.

There are many cultures that take time to remember ancestors, such as the Mexican Dia de los Muertos, but on the whole, the dominant US culture doesn’t like to acknowledge death.

We’ve delegated caring for the dying to facilities. We hide our funerals in mortuaries. We spend fortunes on anti-aging serums and detox diets to keep the thought of death at bay for as long as possible.

And yet, here we are, honoring All Saints Sunday. We pause and remember those who have gone before us—those who have died this year and the whole cloud of witnesses throughout time.

And that means we must acknowledge that we, too, will one day be among the cloud of witnesses who will no longer walk this earth as we know it. We, too, will die.

Some of our discomfort with this holiday can be heard in the way we talk about it. We say “Happy Birthday,” and soon we’ll be saying “Happy Thanksgiving,” but “Happy All Saints Day” doesn’t seem quite right…

This is a somber holiday—a memory of who is no longer with us, a recognition of our grief, and an acknowledgment of our mortality.

Even our readings are bittersweet:

Our readings from Isaiah and Revelation are beautiful images of the fulfillment of the Reign of God—a feast, a holy city, tears wiped away. But none of that has come true yet. We still live in a world of pain, sorrow, and death.

And our Gospel reading records the shocking raising of Lazarus from the dead. It’s an astounding sign that takes our breath away.

But Jesus doesn’t come to every grave and command our loved ones to come out and join the living once again. We don’t get to unbind our loved ones and free them like Mary and Martha did.

We’re still at a point where resurrection is a matter of faith and not of sight.

Even at the time of our Gospel story, it was an awe-inspiring event, but it also prompted the authorities to plot to kill Jesus.

Jesus brought Lazarus back from the dead, but he himself would be put to death soon after.

That doesn’t seem so much like something to celebrate.

Then and now, it can seem like death has the upper hand.

But as astounding as it was, our Gospel story isn’t just about Lazarus. The Gospel of John describes seven signs that point to God’s work in the world. From Jesus turning water into wine to raising Lazarus from the dead, it all points to who God is.

1.    Jesus turned water into wine, pointing to the abundance and joy of God’s eternal banquet.

2.    Several signs involved Jesus healing people, pointing to the healing of ourselves and the world.

3.    Jesus fed the multitudes and walked on water, pointing again to God’s eternal banquet and God’s authority over creation.

4.    Finally, Jesus raised Lazarus, pointing to Jesus’ triumph over death itself.

Because, of course, all these signs lead up to Jesus’ death and resurrection.

He himself experienced death and broke its power over us.

And as much as we still live by faith when it comes to resurrection, we do have the stories of Jesus’ defeat of death.

We do have the account of the signs in the Gospel of John, like the raising of Lazarus, leading up to Jesus’ death and resurrection, which tell us what God is like: God is abundant, loving, powerful, generous, and beautiful.

And we do have the glorious depictions throughout scripture of what the fulfillment of the Reign of God will be like: a banquet without end, a peaceful city, a union with God that will dry every tear, where death will have no power.

All our ancestors in faith are cheering us on as we move through this life, putting our trust in the promises of our faithful God.

As much as this is a holiday that celebrates things our society would like to ignore, it’s a powerful holy day.

So, I will wish you a happy and a blessed and a beautiful All Saints Day.

And to mark this occasion, I invite you to share a story of someone who has gone before us.

As Lutherans, we acknowledge that we are all saints and sinners—both at the same time. No one’s perfect, so we can admit what was hard as well as what was beautiful about our relationships with our loved ones and ancestors.

If your story is about someone who was a part of this faith community, I invite you to share your story with us by writing it on one of the slips of paper or emailing it to Terri Robertson to be part of our Stories of Us project. We’re only doing it for one more week, so please send in your stories—meaningful, silly, sweet, or whatever you remember about this congregation.

If your story doesn’t involve this congregation, I would still love to hear it—feel free to call or email me or track me down in a hallway.

One way or another, please share your stories of your loved ones and ancestors. It’s how we honor their legacy and it helps us decide how we want to be remembered in the future.

As we talked about last week, practicing Sabbath helps us slow down enough to reflect. It’s hard to share stories if we have no downtime to remember and talk with one another.

Some of the best conversations happen after dinner when there’s no agenda or at a slumber party when the lights are out but no one’s ready to fall asleep yet.

It’s weird to talk about planning for unscheduled time, but it takes intention in our busy lives to make space for those timeless moments when you remember and imagine and dream with friends and family, or just daydream by yourself.

But that’s when we learn who we are, when older generations share the stories that shape the family, when we learn from the dreams of children and youth, when we connect with one another soul to soul.

It’s an important practice that we too often don’t make room for.

Sabbath helps us make room.

Sabbath helps us take the long view on not just our own lives, but the lives that came before and will come after us.

I’ve recently been introduced to the idea of “intergenerational empathy” or “seven generation thinking.”

Diane Schenandoah, a Faithkeeper of Oneida Nation, Wolf Clan of the Six Nations HaudenosauneeConfederacy, describes it like this: “We are here because of seven generation thinking. Every decision that we make today, we think of how is that going to affect seven generations ahead.”[1]

In our fast-paced world focused on convenience and instant gratification, seven generation thinking isa helpful and even novel way to view the world, even though it’s actually a deep and rich tradition.

How would our world be different if we all considered the next seven generations with every decision we made?

It would require us to slow down.

Sabbath can help with that.

And it would require us to be grounded in both past and future generations.

All Saints can help with that.

Let’s make time and space to slow down enough to tell the stories of the past and consider our impact on the future.

After all, we’re part of the grand story stretching from Creation to Jesus breaking the power of death to now to the fulfillment of the Reign of God.

This week, tell stories of the past, dream of the future, and rest in God’s promises that death has been swallowed up in victory.

[1] Long Time Academy podcast, episode 1, around 37 minutes.