sermon

Worthless Things

Vicar Erik C. Nelson
Texts: Jeremiah 2:4-13; John 8:46-51

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Last week I encouraged this congregation to refuse to harden your hearts. I talked about the importance of living with a soft heart and open hands. I talked about all the forces in the world that conspire to harden our hearts, cutting us off from the love God pours out upon us and from being able to share that love with others.

I talked about how having a soft heart makes you vulnerable. Cynicism and apathy can be a powerful armor, and if you want to stay safe, maybe that’s the way to go. But refusing to harden your heart means that in spite of the risk of loss and pain, your earnestness matters.

An essential part of having a full life with a soft heart is a commitment to honesty and integrity.

So I have to be honest with you today, in this pulpit, about how I’ve wrestled with today’s readings. In our gospel reading, Jesus has one of his most intense clashes with the Pharisees, which ends with them picking up rocks to stone him. In our first reading, we have Jeremiah speaking for God, calling the nation to repentance in a truly brutal way. I can’t stop thinking about the line that says that the nation “went after worthless things and became worthless themselves.”

I can’t shake this line, as it shakes the foundations of my vision of God. I know God to be merciful and compassionate, looking at us with total delight, seeing us as having infinite value, such great worth that God himself took on human flesh and lived among us.

So I hear this, and the prophetic hyperbole stops me in my tracks. These incisive words from Jeremiah are meant to catch us off guard, to get us thinking about our own lives. What are we doing with our lives? What worthless things are we pursuing? What are we putting before God in our life?

How are we undermining our own worth in that pursuit?

I can’t stop thinking about the fact that for the last eleven days, our own country has been pulled into yet another illegal war for oil. This war shows us again, the gods of this nation. The idols that we lift up that threaten our relationships with God and with one another.

These idols are money and oil and weapons. And these idols are different from the idols Jeremiah is speaking against. But what our idols have in common is that they all demand blood. Especially the blood of children.

A challenge to our soft hearts is the fact that in the opening volley of this war, 175 students and staff at a girls’ school were killed by American weapons. Since then, seven American soldiers have been killed, leaving families without their mom, their brother, their dad, their uncle. 1200 Iranians so far have been killed.

And in the continued attacks, the destruction of refineries has resulted in hellish conditions in the cities of Iran, with the gutters full of burning fuel and the air full of smoke and ash. Children’s lungs are full of these toxic fumes and they will have to live with the consequences for the rest of their lives.

What’s happening there is catastrophic now and will be for decades. So when I hear today’s scripture lesson, these extreme words from God’s prophet, it strikes at my heart.

It hits me where I’m most burdened. Our country is pursuing worthless things. I hope we’re not becoming worthless in the process.

It would be easy to preach a lighter sermon, one that only briefly touches on these things, but these are heavy texts, and they call for a serious wrestling.

And we live in the context of our faith being contorted to justify this war.

From the beginning of the war, religious liberty watchdogs have received hundreds of reports from our soldiers of commanders and leaders telling them that this is a holy war. Leaders of our military and defense structure have been using their interpretation of scripture to say that by bombing a girls’ school, they are bringing about the return of Jesus.

But the Bible is very clear about idolatry. The Bible consistently rails against any attempt or effort to put something else in God’s place in our lives.

And this condemnation of idolatry comes up in our gospel reading today. This dispute between Jesus and the Jewish leaders ends with Jesus making a claim to be God, and so the leaders pick up rocks to stone him.

Even if these leaders were wrong, not recognizing Jesus as the Son of God, their intentions were right, resisting what they saw as idolatry and the wrongful use of God’s name.

Violence was the wrong response to that, but we must respond in some way. We don’t have the right to remain silent when we see or hear our scriptures and beliefs being twisted to justify violence and Christian nationalism. We must resist it.

These holy days, when Lent and Ramadan coincide, we have an opportunity to slow down and see our neighbors as truly our siblings. We have an opportunity to live in solidarity.

We saw in our city’s resistance to federal occupation that when God’s people come together to resist tyranny, even the darkest of days can be overcome.

In the gospel reading today, Jesus promises that whoever keeps his word will never see death. Whoever listens to him will see eternal life.

We have an opportunity to listen to him when he says, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

“If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.”

“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

When we live with soft hearts and open hands, these things that Jesus says, they start to make sense. The violence and idolatry of the world is laid bare. We see the emptiness of the messages we receive that make us see one another as enemies to be conquered or a means to an end.

When we live with soft hearts and open hands, we become conduits for God’s love, the living water that Jesus pours out for us.

This living water that Jesus gives us is not a tame, quiet puddle. But it is active and rushing and moves us into action, for the sake of the world.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Invite the Triune God who is with you, who knows everything about you, to stay with you and you will find life and hope – for you and for the world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Third Sunday in Lent, year A
Text: John 4:(3-4) 5-42

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

“He told me everything I have ever done.”

That’s what convinced this brilliant woman, whom tradition has named Photine, “luminous one,” to trust Jesus, to dare to hope that this strange Jewish man at the well might be the Messiah. It wasn’t his confusing talk about living water. It wasn’t his theological engagement on the differences between Jews and Samaritans. It wasn’t even his promise that in future, true worshippers will worship God in spirit and truth, not tied to nation or place.

What convinced her was Jesus saying, “you’ve had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband.” That’s her witness to her neighbors: “Come and see someone who told me everything I’ve ever done! Can this be the Messiah?”

It’s hard to imagine that inspired her trust.

We don’t have to make Photine into a fallen woman, either, rebuked by Jesus’ knowledge. John says nothing of the sort. No information is given about her husbands, and any speculation about that, or about her coming alone in the heat of the day without other women, ultimately remains speculation that John doesn’t feel the need to answer.

What is remarkable is that Jesus looks at Photine, knows her fully, and she receives that as welcome not judgment, as love not rebuke. Surely she was stunned at what he knew. But she heard it as hope for her and for her people. So much so she ran back to town in the heat to let the others know.

Would you want to meet someone who could look at you and know everything?

Someone who could see into your heart and know who you can’t stand and how hard it can be for you to love? Who could immediately know where you are sad inside, or lonely? Where you feel inadequate or a failure? Who could see every mistake, every horrible thing you’ve said, every unkind thought or action?

Yet not only did Photine embrace that as gift, so did her neighbors. They were so taken by Jesus they invited him to stay with them. For two days!

Inviting someone into your house is always a potential anxiety. You can’t hide in your own home like you can in public. They’ll see your messes and mistakes, even if you try to sweep them aside quickly before they get there. They’ll see a truth about you in how you live that you can easily mask when you’re not there.

But like so many others in the Gospels, knowing that Jesus already looked into their hearts and knew everything about them, they said, “could you stay with us, please?”

That’s because being known by the God of the universe was a gift of life to them.

Jesus said to Photine, “if you knew who I am, you’d ask me and I’d fill you with living water, with abundant, real life, that will forever change you.” And now Jesus says that to you.

Jesus says, “I give what you really need, not what you think you need. I give you living water. Life itself. Look, I know everything about you,” Jesus says. “Let’s be honest. Everything you wish you could hide, I know. Everything that if your neighbors knew you’d be ashamed of, I know. Everything you’ve ever done, ever thought, ever thought about doing, I know. And still, I offer you life.

“And the food and drink I give you at my Table, the words I speak to you, the hands of my many friends that hold you, these are my gifts to you that never end,” Jesus says. “I fill you up where no other food and drink can, where no financial security, no possessions, no chemicals ever will: inside. Where you hurt, and I know it, because I love you. Inside, where you doubt, and I know it, because you are my beloved child. Inside, where you are sad and lonely and think you aren’t good enough, or where you cling to grudges and hate, and I know it because I know your heart. Inside, where you struggle to live by God’s will, and I know it, because I shared your struggle.”

And Jesus comes to you with this offer because no one is to be left out of God’s life.

John says Jesus “had” to go through Samaria. Geographically, that’s not true. There were ways for Jews to go from Judea to Galilee and avoid hated Samaria.

Jesus “had” to go for another reason. So he could meet Photine and be God’s love to her, which he knew would then spread to the people of Sychar. And who knows how far beyond that city this good news spread to the Samaritans.

And so, encounter by encounter, visit by visit, this world can be healed. This world of fear and violence and oppression, this world where people of faith hate each other because they see their differences as vital, this world where love seems scarce so many days, all this can be brought into the love and abundance and grace of God. Where all are welcome and all are loved and all have their hunger and thirst filled.

And so Jesus can’t let you miss this encounter, this offer of life, either.

It’s scary to invite God-with-us who knows everything about you to stay with you in your home, in your life. But if you follow Photine you will, like her, like the people of Sychar, like millions after them, find abundant life. And full welcome. And healing hope.

Jesus said to Photine, “if you knew who I am, you’d ask me and I’d fill you with living water, with abundant, real life, that will forever change you.”

And now Jesus looks at you, knows everything you’ve ever done, and offers you the same life.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Soft Hearts, Open Hands

Vicar Erik C. Nelson
Texts: Hebrews 3:12-14; John 3:17-21

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

One of the phrases I live by, that I often repeat to myself, is “refuse to harden your heart.” I have it printed out on a card, hanging on my bulletin board at home. I have it in my Facebook bio. I don’t remember exactly when I picked it up but it has served me through the last decade.

My whole adult life, since I graduated high school in 2015, has been full of violence and cruelty and pandemic and insurrection and federal occupation and all sorts of things that could easily sweep us into despair and cynicism.

These things, among others, are some of the things our readings today might call the “deceitfulness of sin.”

If sin is whatever separates us from God, our neighbors, and ourselves, and the love of God, love of our neighbors, and love of ourselves, all these events of the last decade seem designed to harden our hearts and wrap us up in sin.

When we see violence and cruelty, we can be tempted to respond with our own violence and cruelty. Or we can turn inward, trying to protect ourselves but ultimately cutting ourselves off from one another.

When we stumbled into the pandemic, we saw a rise of a radical form of individualism, that didn’t care if people lived or died, but only cared that our individual rights and freedoms were protected, at any cost.

When the imperial boot has come down and military forces have been deployed into our streets, we can find it hard to see the humanity and dignity of the person on the other end of the rifle.

And yet, when we refuse to harden our hearts, we remain open to God’s way.

We forgive those who do violence against us. We pray for our persecutors. We open ourselves up to each other in self-giving love. We can see the humanity of even an ICE agent and invite them to open up their heart to love.

The deceitfulness of sin hardens us and turns us away from God and one another. It makes us cynical and jaded. It makes us ashamed and makes us want to hide.

Refusing to harden our hearts keeps us away from the cynicism of the world and keeps us in God’s light.

The Message Translation of our John reading conveys the urgency of this problem when it says, “This is the crisis we’re in: God-light streamed into the world, but men and women everywhere ran for the darkness. They went for the darkness because they were not really interested in pleasing God. Everyone who makes a practice of doing evil, addicted to denial and illusion, hates God-light and won’t come near it, fearing a painful exposure”

The thing about refusing to harden your heart is that it makes you vulnerable. When others see the God-light shining on you and through you, people will call you naive and or too earnest, or say you’re unrealistic. If you’re young, you’ll hear people say you just need some more real-world experiences, that’ll rough you up.

I hope that I stay soft, even as life experiences rough me up. I hope that I continue to love the God-light, seeking it out, staying away from denial and illusion.

I think the real acts of denial and illusion are whenever we accept what God says is unacceptable. Whenever we say that violence is justifiable. Whenever we say that a life is expendable, or a person is illegal, or an enemy can be discarded, we run from the God-light, and buy into that practice of doing evil, becoming addicted to denial and illusion.

When we get wrapped up in those lies about others, about ourselves, when we forget that every person is a precious child of God, made in God’s own image, we start to get lost in that darkness.

It’s been said that the most dangerous person is the one who thinks that they are beyond saving, that they are utterly hopeless and helpless. If someone thinks there’s no going back after what they’ve done, they can then justify to themselves doing even worse things.

But the message of the Gospel reminds us that it’s never too late. Jesus didn’t come to the world to condemn the world, but to save the world.

The way to live in the world without hardening your heart is to have confidence in this truth.

The good that we do and the bad that we do can’t undo Jesus’s saving work in the world.

When we know that before and beyond anything we do or don’t do, we are loved, we are forgiven, and we are claimed by Christ forever, then we can live with soft hearts and open hands.

This is the kind of new life that Jesus invited Nicodemus into when he told him he must be born again. Again and again, Jesus tells anyone who listens that they must become like children if they are to inherit the Kingdom of God.

And this isn’t about becoming an actual child, but it’s about keeping a soft heart and an active spirit, trusting God’s promises to us. Trusting in God’s presence among us. Trusting that God’s truth, God’s compassion, God’s mercy, will always triumph over judgment, cruelty, and violence.

Refusing to harden your heart is a radical act that resists empires, pushes back the devil and the forces of hell, and helps each of us to live more fully into the people who God has made us to be.

God help us.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Saint Elisabeth Fedde

Week 1: Sharing our Suffering, Easing Anxiety

Vicar Erik C. Nelson
Texts: Hebrews 5:5-10; Matthew 6:25-27

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Today our church commemorates Sister Elisabeth Fedde, a Norwegian immigrant known for her life of caring for the poor and outcast, especially through her efforts to build hospitals.

When Elisabeth Fedde was 13, her mother died, leaving her an orphan, and she entered the workforce as a maid. She worked for a shoemaker in Stavanger, Norway. She was impressed by her employers’ deep faith and life of service, and prayed that she also could live a life of faith and service.

Some years later, a visiting seamstress encouraged her to become a deaconess, and Elisabeth recognized her call from God, and joined Oslo’s Deaconess Motherhouse when she was 23.

This was the beginning of a lifelong effort to work for the good of others. The wife of the Norwegian consul in New York City put out a call, hoping someone would come help the poor Norwegian immigrants in New York. Sister Elisabeth responded, and with the support of some local pastors in New York, she set up a Deaconess hospital in Brooklyn.

Later, she came to Minneapolis and set up a Deaconess hospital here as well.

Sister Elisabeth was someone who lived fully into her baptismal identity. She lived a life of care and service, motivated by her faith in Jesus and relationship with God.

In spite of many challenges, she knew who she was called to be. She knew that her call came from God. God called her beloved, and God called her to service, and no one could challenge that.

Some Christians take the words of today’s readings, “don’t worry about your clothing; God will provide. Don’t worry about your food; God will provide,” and they use it as an excuse or a proof-text to talk their way out of doing good works.

Sister Elisabeth would have heard these words, and I think she would have known her place in them. She would know that yes, God provides, so we don’t need to be anxious about tomorrow. But she would know that very often, God provides through us. We are the only hands and feet God has in the world.

I think about our neighbors who have been hidden in their homes for the last few months, too afraid to venture out for food and other necessities. I can only imagine how much anxiety and worry they’re living with.

And so I have so much gratitude and love for the people in this congregation who have become the hands and feet of God for these neighbors. Every time you load up a truck of groceries, bring it here, pack it into boxes, and send it out to be delivered, you are the fulfillment of Jesus’s words.

You are the ones who God in heaven is sending out to feed and care.

This is how the people of God are called to live in the world. Remembering how the waters of baptism still cover us. These waters quench our thirst and soothe our pain and send us out for service.

When Jesus was baptized, he didn’t just stay there in the river. He brought that water with him into the wilderness.

And so that’s what we do. Everywhere we go, we bring that water of life with us.

But as our calendar brings us into Lent, I can’t help but feel like we’ve already been wandering in the wilderness. Since December, our lives have been full of these disciplines of Lent.

Maybe we’ve already been fasting, whether we realize it or not, as we rearrange our schedules, stepping away from some things we love, to make time for mutual aid and neighborhood patrols and supporting our neighbors. My own prayer life has been more active in the last couple months than it has been in years. And the money this congregation has raised for neighbor support is breathtaking.

This church knows about fasting, prayer, and almsgiving.

You don’t need me to tell you how to do the Lenten disciplines. So I will invite you, this year, to live into the reality that God has called you Beloved. Live into the truth that you are not defined by what you do or don’t do. I want to invite you to this Lent to live into your baptism in ways that maybe don’t feel like Lent.

I have great admiration for Sister Elisabeth, obviously. The hospitals she started live on today in the Fairview Medical System here and the NYU Medical System in New York. She also helped set up hospitals in Chicago and Grand Forks. She distributed food and clothing and cash to destitute Norwegian immigrants. Her work saved and improved countless lives.

But when you read her diaries and her autobiography, her utter exhaustion comes through clearly. Her life came with a heavy burden. After 13 years in America, her health gave out and she had to return to Norway.

If you feel today, at the end of your rope, if you feel like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends. Maybe Lent is an opportunity for you to slow down. Take a breath. Take a weekend away just by yourself, for yourself. Trust that others will hold the line for you.

Trust that God in heaven loves you deeply and dearly, more than anything else in the universe. God loves and cares for you. God doesn’t expect you to crawl over broken glass or wear yourself out. God invites us to abundant, eternal life.

This Lent, as we rest in the knowledge that we are God’s beloved, maybe there are some things it would be okay for you to let go of, to trust to God’s care.

Maybe if Sister Elisabeth had a community like Mount Olive around her, a community that really knows how to love and care, she would have lasted longer.

Maybe this is the year we do what we can, in a way that’s sustainable, in a way that doesn’t wear us out, and trust that God can handle the rest.

Thanks be to God.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

The wonder and glory of the Transfiguration wasn’t meant to just stay on the mountain. Our own mountaintop encounters with God restore our spirits and carry us through the valleys.

Vicar Erik C. Nelson
February 15, 2026
Texts: Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 2; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

The first time I ever preached in public was for Transfiguration Sunday in 2018. I was a youth worker at a church in Jamestown, North Dakota, and I think my pastor wanted Super Bowl Sunday off.

My sermon was 37 minutes and kind of wandered all over. There are things in that sermon that I probably wouldn’t preach today, but there’s one thing I stand by: this mountaintop story is not about the mountaintop.

It is about a moment of encounter with the divine, how we respond to it, and what God invites us to in the time after.

I can only imagine what the disciples were thinking in the moment of the Transfiguration, when earth melts away and the curtain between heaven and earth is ripped open.

In this unbelievable moment, Peter, James, and John fall to the ground in fear. I wonder if they were thinking about the God described in today’s Psalm, the one that demands you submit with fear and bow with trembling. I wonder if Peter was regretting his attempt to fill the silence.

I wonder if they were thinking about the impossible things Jesus had already told them… “If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also;” “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” “Take up your cross and follow me.”

Even so, the voice from heaven tells them, and us, to listen to Jesus. And like the disciples, we can be scared when we hear that, when we consider how high the stakes really are. When we follow Jesus, we follow him to a cross.

But we’re not alone in it.

After this voice proclaims, “listen to him!” Jesus could have followed that up with his own commands. A normal ruler would have told them to do something or serve him in some way.

But instead, he doesn’t speak. He comes over to them, touches them with love and care, bringing them back into their bodies, into the moment. And then he says to them, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

This is Jesus’ word for us today as well. Get up and do not be afraid. When he tells us not to be afraid, this isn’t just spiritual bypassing. These aren’t empty words telling you to get over what you’re feeling and move on.

This is Jesus reminding them and us that he is with them, so they really do have nothing to fear. This God of glory and majesty from our Psalm is with them, but doesn’t demand trembling submission. He comes to them in compassion and tenderness.

He is with them on the mountain. He comes to humanity in these celestial moments where heaven and earth come in direct contact. He is with us in our sacramental life.

He is also with the disciples as they go down the mountain. He remains with humanity in the everyday, not just in those moments of spiritual peak. He is with us as we leave this place, going out to serve our neighbors.

We need moments on the peak. We need experiences where God comes close to us in power and majesty.

And we also need moments down in the valleys. If we spent all day every day here, in this room, always in prayer and worship, who would pack boxes of groceries to deliver to our neighbors? Who would patrol the streets? Who would take the kids to school? Who would shovel the sidewalk? God is with us in our holy everyday moments.

Because we have these mountaintop experiences, we are able to go out and do all the other works God has prepared for us. When we hear Jesus say to us, “get up and do not be afraid,” when we have this reminder that he is here with us always, the other words he says maybe don’t seem so hard.

Because we know Jesus is with us, we are able to love our enemies. We’re able to pray for those who hate us. We hear him say, “blessed are the poor,” and we rise up to bless the poor. We hear him say, “blessed are those who mourn,” and we rise up to mourn with them.

The things that Jesus says, the life that he calls us into, those things are hard and costly and contrary to the way of the world, but we have these promises that we don’t do it alone.

These promises feel especially close this week, in the life of this congregation. Today, as we welcome new members to join us in this mission. Later this week, as we lay our sisters Marilyn and Rhoda to rest.

The God whose glory covered the mountain is the one who now holds Marilyn and Rhoda in love. The God who accompanied Peter, James, and John down the mountain is the one who guides us in our mission now.

God is heard in this booming voice from heaven. And God is seen in the compassionate person of Christ. This title Jesus uses for himself, the Son of Humanity, the Son of Man, is a reminder that he is truly one of us.

He’s not just far away, demanding perfect answers and constant fear and trembling. He comes close and reaches out to us in love.

At the end of my sermon eight years ago, I said, “And there’s no better, no dearer friend we can have than Jesus. He knows all things, he sees every trial, and He’s there to support us through it all. He’s with us when we feel like we’re on top of the world, and he’s with us when we feel like we’re in the lowest valleys.”

I stand by that. There is no dearer friend we can have than Jesus. Rhoda and Marilyn knew that in their lives on earth, and they experience the fullness of it now. And when we come to the table in a few minutes, we too will have a glimpse of that eternal feast.

Just like on that mountain, the glory of God will come to us in bread and wine, the body and blood of our Lord. Together with Peter, we can say, “Lord, it is good for us to be here.”

And then, when we leave, God will go with us.

Thanks be to God.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

You are salt; you are light; you are God’s heart. Don’t be afraid, and be who you are, for the sake of the world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, Lect. 5 A
Texts: Matthew 5:13-20; Isaiah 58:1-12

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

You are blessed, and you are beloved. Jesus has told you so.

But you are this, too: You are salt. You are light. You are already in God’s reign, so – don’t be afraid.

Don’t be afraid, even if what we’ve just heard from God’s Word seemed frightening and heavy. Especially on top of all that disturbs us in our world today.

You know the weight of that list: democratic practices that have served us for centuries are threatened, ignored, dismantled. Nations with whom we’ve long been friends are rudely insulted and treated as nothing. And our government threatens and harms the weakest, the most vulnerable, whether it’s our neighbors, or the earth itself.

And today God’s Word sounds no better. Isaiah frightens with warnings and judgments. Jesus gives no slack, for none of God’s law is abolished, he says, all, to the last letter, must be done, and if we are not exceeding in our righteousness, he says, it won’t be well for us.

But don’t be afraid. Things are not as they might seem, at least not with God. You might just have missed the truth in these words from God.

You are salt. You are light. You are already in God’s reign. Remember what that means.

Salt is gift. Salt keeps precious things from going rotten. Salt brings flavor and life to what is bland and dead. Salt, in our climate, keeps neighbors and friends from falling and breaking their necks. Salt melts ice. That’s who you are.

Light is gift. Light reveals truth and exposes deceit. Light brings understanding and warmth in confusion and cold. Light opens up paths for walking and beckons others to join. That’s who you are.

And the reign of heaven: that’s where people follow God’s will. It’s where God reigns in people’s hearts because God’s love has so moved and shaped their hearts that they, in turn, are God’s love. They are God’s heart. That’s who you are.

Sometimes you forget, and think whenever Jesus says “enter the reign of heaven” he means “go to heaven when you die.” Remember, your life is joined to Christ’s death and resurrection; life with God after you die is always your gift.

And remember, what Jesus is always saying is, living under God’s rule, shaped by God’s heart, is living in God’s reign. Right now. That’s where you are.

You are salt. You are light. You are already in God’s reign. So – be who you are.

That’s all Isaiah and Jesus ask. Isaiah doesn’t expect that one person will end oppression and injustice, provide clothing for all who are naked, and end homelessness and world hunger. Jesus doesn’t expect that one disciple will provide salt and light for the whole world. They simply ask, be who you already are.

Be salt. Be the one who keeps the good from going rotten, who preserves precious things in this world for the sake of life. Be flavor and beauty in the ugliness of the world. And care for all those falling on ice. Salt can help. It’s who you are.

Be the light of God’s hope in your place, where you are. Reveal truth; name deceit. Don’t hide that you love other people, that God loves all people, because you fear exposing yourself in a world of hate. Get up on your soapbox or stool or whatever you have, and shine light so others can see. It’s who you are.

And be the warmth of God’s love in the world, for you are God’s righteousness already.

God has said so in your baptism; will you disagree? Sometimes you wonder if you’re righteous enough, and today Jesus’ words raise that anxiety. But in your baptism God claimed you as a beloved child. Clothed you forever in God’s righteousness. That’s who you are.

Remember? we sang with the psalmist that the righteous are “merciful and full of compassion.” That’s God’s righteousness. Mercy and compassion. Remember that when Jesus, who said every letter of the law must be fulfilled, was pressed as to what was the heart of God’s law, he said the whole law of God was fulfilled in “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and love your neighbor as yourself.” To be God’s righteousness is to be God’s heart in and for the world. It is to be God’s mercy and compassion for those who are hungry, afflicted, oppressed.

That’s the righteousness that exceeds that of the best law-keepers, scribes, Pharisees, whomever. Keeping God’s law isn’t following rules and punishing those who fail. The Son of God, who reveals the heart of God to us, who died and rose as the truest witness of the eternal love of the Triune God, has told us, told you: Keeping God’s law is knowing and loving the heart of the Lawgiver, and bearing that heart into the world the Lawgiver so loves.

You are salt. You are light. You are God’s heart. So don’t be afraid.

And hear what Isaiah says that means for you: God “will guide you continually,” says the prophet, “and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail. You shall be the repairer of the breach.” And hear this – “the restorer of streets to live in.”

That’s your truth as God sends you into a world that is frightening and disturbing, as you live in a desert and feel incapable of doing anything: you are a watered garden in that desert, to refresh others, you are a repairer, a restorer, and God will guide you, satisfy your needs, make your bones strong.

So go, be who you are, so God’s salt and light and heart can bring healing and life to this world as God always intended.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen