October 5, 2025 - Trusting that God Provides Manna for All

 

Reading: Exodus 16:1-18 

The story of manna in the wilderness is not simply about food. Manna is the product of God's teaching a liberated people how to live differently. This weekend, as I write, this reading is a well-timed lesson for Portland, Oregon. The Oregon National Guard has been deployed. Who knows what will happen by the time this coming Sunday rolls around?

The Israelites, newly freed from Pharaoh, find themselves in the desert, hungry and afraid. Freedom is not as easy as they imagined. Their first instinct is to long for the past, even for the days of slavery, because at least then the bread and safety seemed certain.

Fear always makes what happened in the past look safer and more stable than it was. I understand how this is attractive. I want a past where I felt safer. I dread escalating clashes during the night more than I did before this weekend. And I certainly can understand and empathize with the frustration of those who live near ICE facilities, where noise remains a persistent issue. However, even they know that sending troops here will not solve the noise disturbances.

Dramatic threats of "providing troops authorized to use full force" that stoke national divisions will not finally stop future confrontations between ICE and ICE protesters.  The last time I am aware of a protester threatening ICE officers or the building was in June, and that was handled by local law enforcement. 

I truly believe that the government's best response to any challenge, like God's, is not answered by exerting unilateral, unwanted control, but rather offering the "bread" of cooperation, coordination, and continued conversation. Helping Manna rains down, not in excess, not as luxury, but as sufficiency. Each day’s gift is enough, no more and no less. God’s lesson is profound: liberation is not only escaping Pharaoh, but unlearning Pharaoh’s economy of hoarding, anxiety, and exploitation. God shapes the people toward an economy of enough for everyone. 

Creator is currently modeling this economy on a small scale with the thriving Farmland Produce Distribution Project garden on Creator’s property. We are also engaging with the diversity, support, and prayers we are currently sharing with our current neighbors, the Madres.

This vision of sufficiency and sharing contrasts sharply with the voices of fear and division in our own world. We hear leaders describe cities, like ours, as “war-ravaged” and “out of control,” invoking images of scarcity, danger, and chaos. Such rhetoric is not far from the Israelites’ cry: “If only we had died in Egypt, when we ate our fill of bread!” It is the language of fear, telling us that safety must lie in control, in force, in protecting what we imagine is ours from those we imagine are threats.

But the manna story refuses this narrative. God’s answer to fear is not domination but provision. God does not send battalions to patrol the wilderness; God sends bread that all can gather equally. The divine pattern is not “full force if necessary,” but shared sufficiency. In God’s economy, no one hoards at another’s expense, no one is left hungry, and rest itself is sacred.

In the manna story, sufficiency is not only about daily bread but also about sacred rest. On the seventh day, no manna fell, and no one needed to gather. God built Sabbath into the pattern of provision, reminding the people that freedom also means freedom from endless work and anxiety. Some say this has been years in the making. Overall, describing Portland as war-ravaged is simply an inaccurate mischaracterization to fit into some "insurrection" narrative. It does not currently apply to this city.  

In our time, any deployed troops are currently a radical and a temporary corrective. We are told repeatedly that resources are scarce, that enemies are everywhere, that we must cling tightly to what we have and defend it with force. Yet manna whispers a different truth: abundance comes when we trust God’s provision and live in solidarity. True security does not come from militarization or fear of our neighbors. A loving, long-lasting response comes from ensuring that every neighbor has bread in their hands.

The manna story, then, is not a nostalgic myth but a radical vision. God’s justice looks like daily bread shared freely, enough for each, with no one left out and no one left wanting. Against the voices that call for fear, division, and force, manna invites us into God’s alternative economy: sufficiency, equality, and rest.

I am listening to and trusting in this coming Sunday's scripture. 

October 4, 2025 - Rev. Yehiel Curry's Installation: The ELCA’s new presiding Bishop

Today Rev. Curry was formally installed as presiding bishop of the ELCA at Central Lutheran Church in Minneapolis..In this role, he succeeds Bishop Elizabeth Eaton, who served as the fourth presiding bishop and was the first woman in that office. The installation is historic: Curry is the first Black presiding bishop in ELCA history, marking a significant milestone for a denomination that is overwhelmingly white in membership and leadership Curry’s election and installation broke not only historical barriers. it carried deep symbolic weight.

Service       Worship Booklet

Witnessing the installation of Rev. Yehiel Curry as the ELCA’s new presiding bishop is a moment rich in theological, ecclesial, and cultural meaning. 

The service included liturgical acts typical of a bishop’s installation (e.g. the presentation of the pectoral cross), and ecumenical participation, including representatives from the Lutheran World Federation and the Episcopal Church.

He said before the installation:“I’m hopeful that, if presence matters, me being here does something for allowing others to consider, ‘Someone who looks like me could take on a similar role...’ and ”That hope is itself a ministry: to open imaginations, to invite possibilities, to widen the circle of who is seen as “church leadership.”

He was so overcome with emotion that, as he was recognized in the opening of the service, he couldn't immediately follow his written words to the assembly. This caused Bishop Eaton, instead of standing opposite him, to move to his side and support him. Suddenly, this became more than a perfunctory service

The installation is also a reminder that leadership change is both continuity and disruption. Curry inherits from Bishop Eaton a church shaped by her priorities: ecumenical engagement, theological reflection, and social witness. He does not start with a blank slate; the ELCA already affirms a public role in justice, in global mission, and in inclusion of LGBTQ+ persons.

However, with a new “first,” expectations are high. Some will see in his leadership the possibility of structural change; others will watch to see whether the church can move beyond symbolic gestures toward deeper equity in governance, resource allocation, and culture.

Declining membership, particularly among younger generations, forces renewed attentiveness to mission, relevance, and vitality. Tensions around identity, theology, social justice, inclusion, and intergenerational change remain real. Any leader must navigate competing pressures, from congregations wanting stability to voices pushing for prophetic disruption.

In that sense, the installation is not a climax but a beginning: the church entrusts Curry with both stewardship and innovation.

The Reverend Kevin Vandiver, senior pastor of the Lutheran Church of the Reformation in Washington, D.C. gave a spirited message to the assembly at Central Lutheran, which inspired a response from those in attendance that I found unusual in a Lutheran context.

He preached about this moment of the church being on a precipice. There is a tendency to push people over the cliff. I believe he was warning that symbolic firsts sometimes get burdened with disproportionate expectations. Curry will likely shoulder pressure not just to “be the leader,” but to “fix the system.” That’s a heavy load for one person, where there may be resistance to change, overt or subtle, especially in churches.

Balancing unity and diversity: a church that wants to be broad and inclusive must navigate the tensions of theological pluralism, conflict over social issues, and expectations from different constituencies. Yet there was a vibrancy in mission that echoed in that Lutheran crowd's reception of his message that conveyed energy and hope over simple institutional maintenance.

Today I saw this church was outward-looking, risk-taking, and adaptive, which fueled a hopefulness I pray will move forward.

September 30, 2025 - A Prayer To & For Portland, Oregon Today Influenced by Reading Bonhoeffer's Life Together: Chapter 2

This is written during a time of unrest, as the National Guard is set to be deployed in Portland, Oregon. Some cry for order, others for justice; some are fearful of protest, others fearful of power. We need help to remember that first, the day belongs to the Lord, not to the anxieties and disturbances that may be encountered in the night.

We want to begin each day, not with the noise of the world but with God's Word. Help us gather ourselves each morning to pray the Psalms, sing hymns, and hear Scripture. In doing so, we may anchor ourselves in the truth that Christ, not the state, is our true Lord of history.

Remind us that our calling is to live together as a visible sign of God’s peace. Let our homes and churches be open to those who hunger, who need shelter, who tremble with fear. We won't ask first whether they are a protester or soldier, for Christ comes to us in the distress of our neighbor. In the table fellowship we share as citizens, the world glimpses a justice not enforced by weapons but given in mercy.

The state has a duty: to preserve justice and protect the weak. Yet when the state arms itself against its own citizens, when it answers cries for equity with shields, batons, and arms, then it exceeds its calling. Citizens and the church must speak. We do not honor God by silence in the face of injustice. We honor God in reminding rulers that their authority is bounded, that power without justice is no authority at all.

To the soldiers of the Guard and those crying for order, remain firm in your humanity before God, not merely acting as instruments of command. Examine your conscience. Where order violates the dignity of our neighbors, it also violates Christ's command. To follow an order violating that dignity is to betray both God and our own humanity. It is better to suffer the judgment of men than to lose our souls to violence.

I confess all the deep fears, pettiness, and hatred that, at times, wash over me. I pray that any anger or bitterness does not poison the fellowship of this city we share. Speaking truth in humility, forgiving as we are all forgiven, and bearing each other’s burdens are all important. Hopefully, we will become strong enough to stand with the oppressed without hatred and to address the powerful without cowardice.

The church is not the church when it seeks its own safety. The church is the church when it exists for others. I want to go into the streets not with stones and gas masks, but with prayers; not with slogans of contempt but with songs of hope. Let's be willing to suffer with our neighbors, for in that suffering Christ himself is present.

Even now, I know that beauty persists in Portland and in the world. A river still flows through our city. The cactus still blooms in Zion. Miracles continue. Feeling wonder as we perceive that beauty, particularly at this moment, may not be our first, immediate reaction, but it is not naïve. It is resistance. It is a way back to wisdom, to belonging, to gratitude for all we are provided.

If our spirits feel dry these days, let's find manna. Find wonder. Let our prayers rise with clouds and marvel at our city's trees. Let our tears mingle with the Willamette. Let your breath fall in rhythm with the wind. We do not need to be productive to achieve a pie-in-the-sky community. We only need to be present.

Because our God of manna and the God of Zion is still teaching us how to live differently. Not by fear, but by wonder. Not by force, but by bread.

The light of dawn will come again. May our life together bear witness to that dawn.

Hymn: Come Away from Rush And Hurry 

September 28, 2025 - A Burning Bush and God's Holy Name

Reading:  Exodus 2:23-25; 3:1-15; 4:10-17 

Sermon 

Pastor Emillie informed us that what we read during the beginning of the Narrative Lectionary year 4 supports the Gospel of John, which starts being read in January. Genesis connected the upcoming John readings to themes like creation, Word, light, covenant, temple, Passover, manna, water, and Spirit.

Exodus connects us to Jesus as the bread of life, living water, and the lamb of God. We start on this reading where Israel groans under oppression. Their cries rise, and the text tells us God “heard,” “remembered,” “looked,” and “took notice.” These verbs matter. Before God calls Moses, God listens. Today, we can sometimes feel that God is silent. The God we encounter in Exodus is not distant or indifferent; God is responsive and is moved by human suffering. This God is stirred into action by lament.

When Moses encounters God at the burning bush, the first revelation is not a theological treatise but presence: fire that does not consume, holiness that interrupts the ordinary. Moses is told to take off his shoes to recognize that the ground is already sacred.

A single bush should be fragile, easily consumed by fire. Yet here it blazes without being destroyed. This image resists the idea of one person “burning out” to accomplish God’s work. Instead, it points to a source of energy and presence beyond the self. Liberation does not depend on Moses’ strength alone. What results is sustained by God’s presence and by community.

Clearly, holiness is in the ordinary. The bush is not grand, not a cedar or an oak, just a scrubby desert bush. God chooses the ordinary to carry the extraordinary. Likewise, liberation does not rise from one heroic figure but from ordinary people, places, and shared struggles. It decentralizes heroism. Moses is not portrayed as extraordinary here.

Moses’ call begins with an interruption, not an achievement. Moses also isn’t seeking greatness; he’s tending sheep. God interrupts the everyday and calls him not as a solitary savior but as part of a larger story: God hears the cries of the people, and Moses is one voice among many who will act. Later, Aaron, Miriam, and the whole community join in the work. 

Finally, the fire symbolizes God’s sustaining presence. Fire can consume, but here it empowers. Moses’s role isn’t to be the heroic fire himself but to carry the message of the One whose fire sustains a whole people through their journey to freedom. 

Liberation begins in the awareness that God is present where we stand, even in the wilderness of exile and oppression. I also hear an echo here of what came to Jacob in his dream or when he finally meets Esau face-to-face, Jacob does not hide behind masks anymore. He takes action, recognizing his past mistakes, not because he has suddenly become heroic, but because he is finally facing the one he wronged and rises to a true call and relationship. 

At the heart of this story: Moses asks for God’s name. In the ancient world, knowing a name meant having a relationship, a point of trust. God does not give a fixed, controllable label. Instead, God offers mystery: Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh, translated as “I Am Who I Am,” or “I Will Be Who I Will Be.” God’s identity cannot be pinned down, yet is revealed in relationship, in action, in promise. This is not a God to be owned or wielded, but a God who will be faithfully present in unfolding history.

Moses resists the call. He names his inadequacies, his stammering tongue, his fear of leadership. God does not deny his weakness but answers it: “I will be with your mouth.” Still, when Moses cannot imagine himself as enough, God provides Aaron. To summarize, two primary truths are consistently revealed:

• God’s calling is not about solitary heroism, but about shared vocation and
• God hears the cries of the oppressed and acts, oftentimes through us.  

To know God’s name is to be drawn into liberation work, even when we individually feel unqualified. Our inadequacies do not disqualify us; they become the space where God’s presence and community sustain us.

In Jesus, there is the resonance of I Am. We live lives that embody God’s liberating presence among the poor, the excluded, and the broken. To know God’s name, then, is not to solve a riddle but to join a story: the story of a God who hears, remembers, and comes alongside us, calling us into the work of justice and freedom.

September 21, 2025 - Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob and Esau: Wrestling with Hard Honesty

Reading:  Genesis 27:1-4, 15-23; 28:10-17 

Sermon 

Pastor Emillie pointed out the humor that is inherent in the story of Jacob, Esau, Rebekah, and Isaac, as she preached about the way we often assume we can figure out what God's will or the way we think that will should manifest itself. She compared it to the Laural and Hardy shorts where the audience sees the absurdity and can't help but laugh as it plays out. 

I have read humor in many passages in the Bible and have had similar reactions. Looking for morals or life instructions is not necessarily what we can best take away from this story..  

Jacob’s story remains, at its heart, a wrestling with honesty. When he stands before his blind father, disguised as his brother, his voice betrays the deception even as his hands feel like Esau’s.

Later, when he finally meets Esau face-to-face, Jacob cannot hide behind masks anymore. He bows, he trembles, and he offers gifts, not because he has suddenly become blameless, but because he is finally facing the one he wronged. 

What passes between the brothers is not the clean slate of truth-telling, but a hard, trembling honesty born of failure, estrangement, and longing for reconciliation.

This kind of honesty is not easy. It does not present us as pure or whole. It admits that we have deceived and been deceived, hurt and been hurt. But it also holds out the possibility that peace is still possible. This happens, not by pretending the past never happened, but by acknowledging it and stepping forward anyway.

That is why Jacob’s dream matters so much. The ladder does not appear to a righteous man, but to one fleeing his lies. Heaven meets him precisely in his wilderness, when all his schemes have collapsed. God does not wait for Jacob to tidy up his past or prove his worth. Instead, the dream interrupts him with a fierce grace: even here, God is present.

In our fractured moment, where words too often wound, where honesty is traded for spin or silence, we are invited into Jacob’s kind of honesty: an honesty that names our harm without excusing it, an honesty that risks reconciliation, an honesty that opens us to grace in unlikely places.

The peace of Jacob’s dream is not escape from conflict, but the presence of some connection between heaven and earth, God and us, and, perhaps, between estranged siblings and fractured communities. To live this honesty is to stand at the base of the ladder, not climbing away from struggle but rooted in it, carrying heaven’s weight to earth and earth’s grief to heaven.

Perhaps then, like Jacob, we may awaken to the trembling truth: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” And perhaps, like Jacob and Esau, we may find that even broken beginnings can open into unexpected embraces.

 

September 21, 2025 - Revisiting Jacob's Dream Today and Dreaming Different Dreams

Reading:  Genesis 27:1-4, 15-23; 28:10-17 Jacob's Dream

Half of the people can be part right all of the time
Some of the people can be all right part of the time
But all of the people can't be all right all of the time
I think Abraham Lincoln said that
I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours
I said that.     Talkin' World War III Blues: Bob Dylan

We are living in a time of fracture. Families estranged over politics. Friendships frayed by a single post. Congregations splintered by unspoken hurts. In such a world, where belonging feels fragile and disagreement feels dangerous, what if peace began, not in grand declarations of principles, but in how we speak to one another?

Our words are increasingly less neutral. Many often deepen wounds or begin to stitch them closed. In the Jewish tradition, lashon hara warns against speech that harms, anything that diminishes another unnecessarily. In the Buddhist tradition, “Right Speech” asks: Is it true? Necessary? Kind? If we paused long enough to ask these questions, how many fractures could be healed?

This is the context from which I approach this week's reading: Jacob lies down in the wilderness. He is fleeing from his mistakes, estranged from his family, and uncertain of his future. With only a stone for a pillow, he rested on hard, uncomfortable ground and was restless in his soul. In that vulnerable night, he dreams of a ladder set upon the earth, reaching into heaven. Messengers move up and down, carrying heaven’s weight into the ache of earth and bearing earth’s grief into the mystery of heaven.

This vision was not given when Jacob was strong or righteous. It was given when he was broken, when his story had collapsed. The ladder appeared not above a palace or a temple, but in this rocky wilderness, where Jacob had nothing but uncertainty.

Currently, our nation is passing through a wilderness moment. The stories I was once told about our nation, our communities, and even God's church appear to be unraveling. I have recently questioned, "Hadn't we already climbed higher and moved beyond brutality, prejudice, and exclusion?" However, I also know others who long to return to simpler times when the neighbors we encountered daily were more like us. Or maybe they may just desire to achieve more authenticity and better opportunities than I ever thought possible when I was young. People accuse each other of being woke or of being helpless dreamers.

And yet, perhaps, like Jacob (and like the Akedah text from last week), when we feel as though we are falling apart, it is here that God interrupts us. Not to reassure us that we are blameless or particularly righteous, but to remind us that heaven still touches earth, even here, even now.

No dream removes Jacob from the wilderness or saves him from the danger facing him. Instead, he is shown a connection. He is shown that God is already present in the mess of the moment, and that there is no place where the holy cannot meet us.

Is this unraveling really a failure, or an invitation? An invitation to honesty. To humility. To the fierce truth that we are both broken and beloved, both capable of harm and called to healing. To embody some of that truth-telling we all saw in the Holy Disruptors that we studied this summer. 

The peace of Jacob’s dream is not the absence of struggle. It is in the threads of connection between heaven and earth, God and us, woven together even in our rocky wildernesses. However, we should remember we may be among the messengers Jacob saw moving up and down, carrying heaven’s weight to earth and bearing earth’s grief into the mystery of what we call heaven.

This call is not to climb ladders as if to escape, but to stand at the base and recognize where we are as messengers needing to recognize our unique connections. To live and dream with honesty in the tension of this moment. To resist despair, but also resist denial. To let grief humble us, and humility open us to fierce love.

Hopefully, like Jacob, we will be surprised by grace in unlikely places. May we awaken to admit to one another, with trembling honesty: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” And may this moment not harden our hearts, but humble and move us to grasp and grapple with mounting each of our collective ladders..

This is another moment where we may choose to be broken open, not apart. To listen to, respect, and live in each other's lives and dreams.

September 14, 2025 - A Special Sunday of Worship and Music Filled with Spirit

From the first welcome, the tone of the service was one of warmth, openness, and shared joy. Children’s voices and movement were not only tolerated but embraced as part of the congregation’s living soundscape, reminding us that worship is not confined to polished performance but is a space where faith is formed in real time.

Musically, the service unfolded with grace and intentionality. The Gathering song, Come, Let Us Worship God from Dancing at the Harvest, set an introductory and celebratory tone that paired well with the Genesis readings. 

The Children's Sermon song "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands" was both inviting and grounding, helping prepare the assembly to hear the familiar but weighty story of Abraham and Isaac. It expressed the childlike confidence that allows our hearts to be attuned to God’s promises.

 Later, the Gospel acclamation Return to the Lord (from Marty Haugen's Tree of Life) and the offertory Come, Let Us Bring echoed this theme of trust and provision, layering scriptural depth with melodic beauty. The call and response structure Marty Haugen employed throughout this setting was executed perfectly by Chris and Marilyn with help from Tini, Suzi, and Gary.

Pastor Emillie's sermon tackled the troublesome aspects of God's command to test Abraham and the father's obedience: Sermon 

The congregation’s voice was never overshadowed by the leadership; instead, the music wove seamlessly into the liturgy, supporting rather than distracting from the texts. The Hymn of the Day, Here I Am, Lord (ELW 574), was a particularly moving moment of response after Pastor Emilie’s message. It allowed the community to voice their willingness to serve in the wake of Abraham’s trial and God’s providence.

Musicians Chris and Marilyn particularly deserve special note. Their performance was described by many as a “wonderful pairing” with listeners highlighting the natural chemistry between them. The interplay of voice and the piano accompaniment brought a sense of ease and harmony, underscoring the unity of the congregation’s prayer. Their music felt less like a performance and more like a gift, offered humbly to God and shared generously with the community.

The pair performed a wistful version “He Looked Beyond My Fault (And Saw My Need)” for Communion, the power of each built up the quiet intensity of the music. Set to the traditional Irish melody of "Londonderry Air" this haunting Danny Boy melody, with its strong connection to the Irish diaspora, functioned as a simple and fitting reminder that worship on earth is always a longing foretaste of the great song already being sung in glory. 

They ended with an equally powerful "Shout to the Lord". Overall, the service’s music was not only beautiful but purposeful. It carried the themes of promise, provision, and trust, and it invited the assembly to enter deeply into the story of God’s people. The sound in the room, unlike the Zoom recording, was balanced, seamless, and filled with good chemistry. This was worship that nourished both spirit and community on a drizzly Portland day.