sermon

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

Where you are right now in this world and all the turmoil: blessed are you, because that’s where God is, too.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, Lect. 4 A
Texts: Matthew 5:1-12; Micah 6:1-8; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31

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

This is our time, our moment, to be Christ.

Perhaps never before have we in our own lives seen so clearly and close by Christ’s sheep, God’s beloved, who need love, care, food and shelter, protection from the wolves.

But this is also your time, your moment, to hear perhaps more clearly than you ever have before, what Jesus, God-with-us, who loves you beyond comprehension, needs you to know and trust.

Because you have moments of despair in these days.

You wake up in the morning, eager for a new day, or you’re doing something enjoyable, and suddenly it hits you like a blow: this is the world we live in. This is the fear our neighbors face. It’s hard to see how and when this could ever end. Your spirit feels impoverished, and in those moments you can’t find hope.

But beloved one, you are blessed, Jesus says. When your spirit is poor you are exactly where you want to be, in God’s reign. God isn’t found in those who think these the best of times, who haven’t any love or empathy for anyone but themselves. Your despair means you care about the ones God cares about and you long for healing. God’s cross-shaped love says God’s reign is found amongst all whose spirits are low, where you are.

And you are feeling grief in these days.

Grieving for Renee and Alex, persecuted for righteousness’ sake, killed for righteousness’ sake, like prophets of old. Grieving for their loved ones and families. Grieving for the loss of so much, grieving over a government growing ever more cruel and fascist.

But beloved one, you are blessed, Jesus says. Your mourning means you’re exactly where God is, your heart pouring out for people who are suffering, disappearing, and dying. God isn’t found in those who rejoice at masked, armed, anonymous federal thugs grabbing five-year-olds and shipping them to vile detention centers, executing people who are trying to protect neighbors. Your mourning means you share God’s heart. A heart that went to the cross to break evil and sin in this world by loving it out of existence, a heart that says God isn’t with the violent but with their victims. Be comforted by this, Jesus says.

You long for hope and promise in these days, for justice.

It’s like a hunger and a thirst, Jesus says, wanting righteousness and justice to come to our streets, our city, our nation.

Beloved one, you are blessed in that hunger and thirst, Jesus says, because God shares it, and God promises to fill that hunger, quench that thirst. God isn’t found in those who warp the law to benefit themselves, who spit on constitutional rights while claiming to be on the side of “justice.” Who use power to harm the weak and the vulnerable. God always operates from below, Paul says today, bringing righteousness and life and wholeness to the least, the frightened, the powerless. Your longing is God’s longing, and so you will be filled.

And your heart for those who are hurt and crushed, your acts of mercy and gentleness, are God’s pure heart.

You’re not just wishing good, you’re doing good. Getting groceries to those afraid behind doors, walking the streets to protect those threatened, calling your government to account, seeing and loving your neighbor, all this mercy that comes from your heart of love, Jesus says, is God’s gentleness and mercy and heart.

So, beloved one, you are blessed in this, Jesus says. God isn’t found in the cruel and cold, the destructive and hateful. God chooses what is weak in the world, Paul says, to shame what is strong. When you are merciful and gentle and acting from God’s heart inside you, you are blessed. And you will see God in this.

You are angry in these days, yes. But you and thousands more choose to act in peace, not in violence.

To seek peace, with justice, and stand with those who are threatened and alone. To be a voice that others around the world are noticing, not returning violence for violence, but shouts and chants and songs. Not returning bullets for bullets, but whistles and car horns.

So, beloved one, you are blessed, Jesus says. You are exactly what God hoped for when you were created. God cannot support violence and abuse, killing, abduction, teargassing, warmaking. God went to the cross and allowed humans to do what we would, even execution, rather than fight back. And in the foolishness of such love and forgiveness, God shows how worthless the wisdom of this world is. In your peacemaking, your prayer for peace, your work for peace, you are God’s child.

This is the foolishness of the cross Paul proclaims, God’s foolishness that is life for you.

In these words today, Jesus gives you hope and comfort that where you are right now, what you hope for, dream for, are working on, is what God is hoping for, dreaming for, working on. Weakness, despair, grief, gentleness, kindness, mercy, love are things this world sees no value in. It says be strong and powerful and get what you want, hurt who you want.

But what the Triune God who made all things knows is that such power can’t be sustained in the face of God’s way. A way that grieves and despairs when needed, yet finds hope and comfort to move on and keep loving. A way that seeks kindness and mercy and peace because they’re the basis of life and healing. And all these so-called weak things, God shows in Christ’s death and resurrection, in Christ’s teaching and calling, are powerful enough to cast the mighty from their thrones. Powerful enough to bring life and hope and healing to this world.

So keep doing what you’re doing. You are blessed, beloved, and none of it is in vain.

Do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly with God. It doesn’t get any simpler or clearer than what Micah said millennia ago.

But when you do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God, when I do, when thousands do, as we’re seeing right now, God’s blessing isn’t only yours. It’s for the whole world.

God sees things very differently from the way of the world. But your joy is that it turns out you see things very differently from the way of the world too. It turns out that God is walking right next to you.

And imagine what that will mean for your life. And for the life of this world.

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

You and I are called – the whole point of faith is that you and I go out as God’s love in the world, for the healing of all things.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Third Sunday after Epiphany, Lect. 3 A
Texts: Matthew 4:12-23; Isaiah 9:1-4

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

This week our Minneapolis Bishop Jen Nagel recalled Dietrich Bonhoeffer in a message she sent to our rostered ministers.[1]

She said Bonhoeffer identified three ways that the church can respond to oppression: “by holding our government and leaders accountable to their commitments, by tending to the direct needs of those being crushed under the wheel of oppression, and finally by driving a spoke into the wheel itself.”

We are under an occupation here. There’s no other way to describe it. Yesterday’s sickening public execution of intensive care nurse Alex Pretti just underlines it. We are under occupation by government sanctioned bullies and thugs who are defended at the highest levels, completely unaccountable. These people delight, take joy, in brutality, cruelty, and humiliation, going far beyond anything law enforcement has ever been permitted to do in our nation. And so our neighbors stay locked behind doors. Preschool children are snatched in arrests or gassed in their parents’ car. People are disappearing. We are the people walking in deep darkness looking for light that Isaiah speaks of.

But our bishop is right. Bonhoeffer is right. There are these things we can do: hold our government and leaders accountable. Tend to the direct needs of those being crushed under the wheel of oppression. And drive a spike into the wheel wherever we can.

Which actually brings us to this scene by the lakeshore with four people who fish for a living. Because there’s a lot more to this story than you might think.

To see it, we need to help Matthew a little with his fellow Evangelists.

See, Luke starts this story earlier than this moment we heard. Peter and Andrew have fished all night, caught nothing, and when they come into shore, Jesus asks to use their boat for a pulpit. When he’s done teaching, he tells Peter to cast his net one more time. Peter does, and the net’s so full it nearly swamps their boat, and James and John have to help. And that’s when Jesus calls them to fish for people.

John provides the next crucial part of the story. After Jesus’ resurrection, a few disciples return to Galilee and go fishing while they wait for Jesus’ instructions. Once again they catch nothing. In the morning, someone calls from shore, and tells them to throw out their net one more time. Once again, the net fills to overflowing. John recognizes it’s Jesus, Peter swims to shore. And Jesus serves them all breakfast. And that’s when Jesus reveals what their calling truly is.

Because Jesus always called people for a purpose.

He didn’t come to start a club, or seek members to something. Or invite people to believe in God so they’d know they were somehow on the right side.

He always called them to a vocation. Every time. He said, “follow me, and I will have work for you to do.” With these four, he used fishing – their livelihood – to help them understand: I’ll send you out to fish for people. To draw people into God’s love by dragging a huge net of welcome and teaching and love through the world, catching as many as you can.

The faith Jesus invites in people is always the way for them to become who God needs in the world, for the sake of others, not an exclusive possession. So they, so we, radiate God’s love in our own bodies and voices and actions and words. Like Jesus. To draw all God’s children into the abundant life and love of God. That’s why Jesus came.

But this doesn’t seem to be how many understand Christian faith these days.

For many Christians today faith is something you own, it’s personal, centered on a hope in heaven in the next life, and it’s not about how you live here, not a calling. Many Christian voices today proclaim a way of life so radically divorced from Jesus’ teachings it’s apparent that what Jesus said, what he taught, how he lived, loved, died, doesn’t matter much to them. If you know you’re a Christian, that’s apparently enough.

But not for Jesus. He calls people to follow him so that they become God’s love in their lives. Sending out a dozen, then 70, while he’s still teaching. Filling hundreds with the Holy Spirit at Pentecost and sending them out to bear God’s love.

If your faith is only for your own good, your trust is in something completely different than Christ.

John’s part makes this all clear.

These four fishermen have no clue what’s coming when Jesus first calls them today at that lakeshore. They follow, but they know nothing of what this Teacher is going to ask of them.

But by this second miraculous catch of fish, they’ve seen God’s love in person, teaching with love, healing with love, welcoming all kinds of people into God’s heart who weren’t considered worthy. They’ve seen God’s love go to the cross and suffer and die. They’ve seen God’s love rise from the dead. Now Jesus can show what “fishing for people,” what this calling really is.

Three times after that breakfast Jesus calls Peter – and you and me and everyone else who follows – to this calling: If you love me, feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. Three times, the call is to care for the ones Jesus cares for. Jesus’ sheep who need to be tended. Fed. Protected. By you. By me.

That means what people are doing in these awful days to care for all God’s children is exactly what they are called to do. What you are called to do.

With all these terrible things happening to our neighbors, Jesus says: Care for them. Feed them. Protect them. Be my love for them. In person. That’s why I called you.

And all three of Bonhoeffer’s things are how we will answer that call. And all three are being done right now, in this city. Holding leaders accountable, tending to the direct needs of those crushed, finding ways to put a stick into the wheel itself. That’s the amazing thing. Tens of thousands gather Friday in peaceful protest downtown, thousands sing in the streets day after day, or stop abductions of neighbors, including one in our neighborhood Friday. Hundreds drive, feed, care for their neighbors in any way they can. Millions refuse to believe lies and instead believe what they see and know as wrong and evil and then find a way to be love.

That’s caring for Jesus’ sheep. Doing what you’re called to do. The whole point of your faith. A calling to be God’s love in this world, outside your own self interest and for the good of the world.

But don’t forget the bursting nets.

The call is to put the nets out into the world. God’s power filled them then and will fill them now. The call is to love God’s sheep. God’s love will empower that care and protection all around the world.

This is our time, our moment, to be Christ. Perhaps never before have we in our own lives seen so clearly and close by Christ’s sheep, God’s beloved, who need love, care, food and shelter, protection from the wolves.

Follow me, Jesus said, and care for all my beloved ones. And in your loving faith and trust, and mine, and countless more, God will break the rod of the oppressor as Isaiah promises. In your love, and mine, and countless more, God will fill the nets to overflowing.

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

[1] Email to Minneapolis Area Synod (ELCA) rostered ministers, Wednesday, January 21, 2026.