Pentecost/Founders Day

 

May 19, 2024

Ezekiel 37:1-14; Acts 2.1-21

+ Let’s go back, on this Founders Day.

That’s what Founder’s Day is all about, after all. Right?

 

Let’s go back.

 

Back to 1956.

 

For most of us here, 1956 seems like some very different, almost alien world.

 

If you were living in Fargo, North Dakota in 1956, you would be living in a very different city, state and country than the one we all know.

 

In 1956, Dwight Eisenhower was president.

 

But 1956, like 2024, was also an election year.

 

Eisenhower would be going up against the Democrat, Adlai Stevenson. Eisenhower would win a second term.

 

Eisenhower that year would sign into effect the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act, which caused interstates to be built across the country.

 

(Just imagine—there were no Interstates in 1956)

 

If you were watching this new thing called television in 1956, you would be watching shows like, Queen for a Day, My Friend Flicka or Guy Lombardo's Diamond Jubilee

 

If you were listening to music on Your Hit Parade, amid all the songs by Perry Como, Gogi Grant and Les Baxter, you would also be hearing this new thing called Rock and Rock, especially from a shaggy-haired young man from Mississippi by the name of Elvis Presley.

 

And at the movies, you would be watching, “The Bad Seed,” “Forbidden Planet, “The Girl Can’t Help it” and the very controversial film (by those standards), “Baby Doll.”

 

If you were going to attend an Episcopal church in 1956, you would no doubt not get what you’re getting this morning, except maybe at some High Church parish, the nearest one of those being in St. Paul, Minnesota.

 

A typical Episcopal church service in 1956 would consists of Morning Prayer from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, with a sermon and hymns from the Hymnal 1940, with a priest (a male priest) in cassock, surplice and maybe stole or tippet.  You would get Holy Communion once a month.

 

Women would’ve always worn skirts and would never have imagined going to church without a hat.

 

Men would always wear suits and ties.

 

And here, where we are right now, well. . . you would be sitting in an empty field.

 

The VA Hospital would be there, but it was considered out of town.

 

And that year, a group of brave Episcopalians decided to build a church in what was considered a growing edge of Fargo.

 

Bishop Richard Emery agreed and so he split the city in half.

 

Everyone south of Main Avenue (which was called Front Street in 1956) went to Gethsemane.

 

Everyone north of Main were to attend St. Stephen’s.

 

Talk about instant church membership!

 

As we look at this photo of those who broke ground for this church in 1956, we

need to take into account their idealism.

 

The hopes contained in those faces.

 

They imagined so much for this church.

 

This building we are in now was meant to be only temporary.

 

A large church, big enough to seat 300 people, was planned just north of the church and with its completion, this building would become the hall.

 

Those hopeful people imagined much for the future.

 

And they imagined us.

 

Well, maybe not us in particular.

 

Let me tell you, those poor people in 1956 could never have envisioned a Jamie Parsley in the future!

 

Those people might not be too happy where we stood with women in leadership roles or full inclusion of LGBTQ people.

 

But, sadly, none of those people from 1956 are with us now.

 

When we look at the photo of the dedication, all of those people have passed on to the nearer Presence of God.

 

Rob Butler, who was a baby in 1956, was our longest member from that time.

 

But, as you know, he died in January.

 

But we do celebrate those today who came in the years that followed.

 

Carol Spurbeck, Greta Taylor her daughters Bobbi and Debby and Joy Coffey and her children Laura and Sandy, Craig Frear and Susan Frear all moved here and became members in those first ten years this church existed.  

 

As time went, as north Fargo was built up, the church grew.

 

It was the mid 20^th Century when churches everywhere flourished.

 

This little building was packed to gills.

 

As some of those early members remember, it was pure chaos here on Sunday mornings.

 

And St. Stephen’s, unlike Gethsemane Cathedral, did things a bit differently.

 

Things were a bit more laid back.

 

As Clotine Frear, who was member in those early days remembers, the acolytes would chew gum and blow bubbles during the service. (some things don’t change)

 

They wore sneakers when polished black shoes were expected.

 

But St. Stephen’s also showed that it was a little different.

 

As the larger Church was changing, as women were allowed to be in leadership roles, we in North Dakota were not quick to embrace those changes.

 

But we at St. Stephen’s were.

 

We were the first parish in the Diocese to have a woman lay reader (who essentially could lead services if the priest was unavailable), the first woman senior warden, the first female acolyte, SusanFrear.

 

These seem kind of innocent now.

 

But in the early 1970s these were controversial things to do.

 

In 1972, St. Stephen’s endured a horrendous vandalism, in which a group of teenagers broke in and trashed the church.

 

By the 1980s things were definitely changing.

 

The ideals those first founders envisioned gave way to a starker reality.

 

North Fargo did not develop the way people originally thought it would.

 

Over the years, parishioners drifted back to Gethsemane Cathedral.

 

And then, in 1981, came a catastrophic event, something called “the exodus.”

 

For various reasons, a large group of St. Stephen’s members just left.

 

Many of them transferred their membership to Gethsemane.

 

Several just went no where.

 

The reasons were multiple.

 

As I read through the church record book of that time, it is horrendous seeing the number of people who just left.

 

Those who were leaving said that St. Stephen’s members should just give up, close its doors and join Gethsemane Cathedral.

 

But the ones who were remained were—in typical St. Stephen’s fashion—  defiant.

 

As the great Jim Coffey proclaimed loudly, “I will never join Gethsemane Cathedral!”

 

For those who remained, brave as they were, those were bleak years.

 

It was heartbreaking to see fellow parishioners leave in droves, never to return.

 

(actually some of them did in fact return—and some later requested to be buried from St. Stephen’s).

 

But the reason we celebrate our members today who have been here for 45 years or more is because they were the ones who stayed.

 

They were the ones who endured.

 

They were the ones who picked up the pieces and went on to do the ministry they felt they were called to do.

 

Who kept church going every Sunday, who kept the doors open, who did the ministries that needed to be done.

 

And they were the ones who hoped for better times to return.

 

And to be clear, it was not all bleak in those years following.

 

In 1985, St. Stephen’s was the first parish in this diocese to call a female priest to be Rector.

 

St. Stephen’s became a beacon of progressive issues, standing up and speaking out on such issues as women’s rights within the church and the full inclusion of gay and lesbian people in the Church, issues that were widely unpopular in this Diocese for many years.  

 

St. Stephen’s became (and remains) a defiant voice.

 

Rather than giving up, St. Stephen’s stepped up, and our parish became a leading parish in participation in the Diocese.

 

Our members have always been and continue to be leaders in the Diocese.

 

During those years, we also celebrated a new addition being built.

 

The labyrinth ministry was formed.

 

St. Stephen’s was also from its beginning a somewhat Low Church parish.

 

I share this story quite often but Steve Bolduc once overheard a clergyperson in this diocese lament about St. Stephen’s: “awwww, St. Stephen’s, it’s so Low Church it should be called MISTER Stephen’s!”

 

Well, somehow, this Low Church parish took a chance and called an upstart, High Church priest and poet to serve as Priest-in-Charge, later their Rector.

 

As time went on, better days did indeed come.

 

Much better days.

 

Membership grew---and continues to grow.

 

In 2015, we had the largest confirmation class here since 1961.

 

During the pandemic we never missed a Sunday Mass, quickly switching over to livestreaming.

 

People as far away as Paris and Kenya watched our services on Livestream.

 

St. Stephen’s eventually found itself and embraced its weird, unique blend of what it means to be a parish in this rapidly changing world.  

 

We know who we are—we have our particular ministry in this city and diocese.

 

And we are known by others as that place, St. Stephen’s.

 

I was at on art gallery this week and when I was talking to some of the people who were working there, I mentioned that I’m the rector of St. Stephen’s.

 

“Oh, St. Stephen’s!” they said, “We LOVE St. Stephen’s! You guys are so COOL!””

 

Of course, our identity is not neat and tidy.

 

Progressive, liberal, and yet High Church and traditional???

 

Our plain little church which was never meant to be an actual church has become a beautiful artistic showcase, even being featured recently in the Fargo Forum for its use of artistic elements.

 

For us—somehow—it all works, in a way that wouldn’t work many other places.

 

And this weird blending draws people to us.

 

But, for all of that, we wouldn’t be who we are and what we are without these people we honor today.

 

These were the ones who  endured and kept things together.

 

They didn’t give up. And because they didn’t, we are here today.

  

This is what we are celebrating on this Founders Day, on this Pentecost Sunday.

 

It is on this day, that we who came later, who continue the fight to be just a bit different, just a little “off” from the rest of the Church, give thanks for all of you who were here before.

 

Thank you, founders.

 

Thank you for your vision.

 

Thank you for your endurance.

 

Thank you for your fortitude.

 

Thank you for not giving up and giving in.

 

Thank you for not closing the doors and going to Gethsemane Cathedral or to the Lutherans.

 

Thank you for remaining true to what St. Stephen’s has always been and will hopefully continue to be.

 

In what you did, whether you were aware of it or not, we today, on this Pentecost Sunday, this Sunday which is essentially the birthday of the Church, the day on which we celebrate the Holy Spirit’s descent to us, in what you did we can see the Holy Spirit at work.

 

So, how do we know the Spirit is working in our lives?

 

Well, as Jesus said, we know the tree by its fruit.

 

In our case, we know the Spirit best through the fruits God’s Spirit gives us.

 

When the future seems bleak and ugly, when all seems lost, the Holy Spirit comes in and, in the Holy Spirit’s own time, make everything worth living again.

 

That scriptures from Ezekiel today is truly a scripture for us on this day.

 

It is an amazing scripture and an amazing vision.

 

In it, God’s Spirit revives the dried, dead bones in the valley.

 

What appears to be dead and lifeless is given new life by God’s life-giving Spirit. 

 

That dynamic and life-giving presence of the Spirit of God speaks loudly to us through you, our Founders, today.

 

We see the Holy Spirit at work in the ministries we do, in the love we give to God and the love we share with others, with the truth we proclaim as Christians, even in the face of opposition.

 

We experience this Spirit of truth when we stand up and speak out against injustice, wherever it may be.

 

This is how God’s Spirit comes to us.

 

So, founders, thank you again, all of you who listened to the Holy Spirit.

 

Thank you to those of you who stayed.

 

We honor your commitment today.

 

We give thanks to God for you today.

 

We thank you today.

 

You have blessed us, and today we are truly blessed.

 

Let us pray.

 

Amen

 

 

7 Easter

 The Sunday after the Ascension

 

May 12, 2024

 

John 17.6-19

 

 

+ I am very excited about a new film coming out.

 

The film is called Wildcat, and directed by actor Ethan Hawke and starring his daughter, Maya Hawke

 

The film is about the life and stories of Flannery O’Connor, someone I mention

regularly in my sermons and in regular conversation.

 

O’Connor was a writer from Georgia, a devour Roman Catholic, who wrote about religious fanatics in a particularly grotesque style.

 

All the buzz about Wildcat made me revisit another film based on O’Connor’s writing, a film called Wiseblood.

 

This novel and film were typical O’Connor, though I don’t think it was her best writing (her short stories were her particular forte).

 

Wiseblood is about Hazel Motes, a World War II vet who comes home to his small Tennessee  town as an atheist. He then proceeds to found his own anti-religious Church, the Church without Christ, in which he preaches that Jesus was a liar, that that all men are “clean,” and there is no such thing as sin or redemption

 

The film was directed by the great John Huston.

 

Huston, in case you didn’t know, was a hard-living guy.

 

He was an alcoholic, a womanizer and….an atheist.

 

And he took on this film because he wanted to expose religious fanaticism and the futility of religion.

 

However, what he failed to realize, was that those goals were not what O’Connor intended when she wrote her novel.

 

In her novel she showed that despite Motes and his Church without Christ, religious truth actually does triumph.

 

Huston struggled while he directed this film because he realized it was not going the way he wanted it to.

 

Finally, in the end, at a meeting he had with the crew, he, in frustration had to admit failure.

 

“Jesus wins,” Huston said.

 

Well, I felt kind of like Hazel Motes this week.

 

This past week I had a parishioner—I won’t say who (it was Stephanie Garcia)—tell me a story about how they were talking to a friend of there’s about her amazing priest (me).

 

Well, she my not have used the word, “amazing.”

 

(I fill in the blanks)

 

But I came up in a conversation.

 

In that conversation she happened to mention that her “amazing” priest does not believe in hell, and preaches about that on a regular basis.

 

Her friend, a former Roman Catholic, responded by saying, “well, he’s not a real priest then. . . “

 

I had to laugh.

 

And, as hard as it for most of you believe, it’s not the first time someone has said that about me.

 

In fact, I’ve been called much, much worse.

 

But sometimes—sometimes—while doing this weird thing called following Jesus and trying to live out the Gospel in the world, we run the risk of coming across as heretical to people who were raised in circumstances in which priests often felt they could not preach what they believed or who genuinely believed things without question.

 

I’m not judging them, mind you.

 

I even kind of understand that thinking.  

 

But, I am not that kind of a priest.

 

I have never been that priest.

 

And I don’t think that’s the kind of follower Jesus was honestly seeking.   

In our gospel reading for today, we find the first followers of Jesus were in a strange place just after Jesus ascended to heaven.

 

They too were being seen as heretical and disingenuous.

 

They were telling people that Jesus, who everyone knew had been crucified, was now alive and appearing to them.

 

And not just appearing to them, but earing with them.

 

And not only that, but he had ascended to heaven right before their eyes.

 

That was not a popular message to be spreading.

 

And so, they were in fear.

 

But while they huddled there in fear, something amazing was happening to them.

 

They are being prepared for the movement of the Spirit of God in their lives.

 

This week, in our scripture readings, we move slowly away from the Easter season toward Pentecost.

 

For the last several weeks, we have been basking in the afterglow of the resurrected Jesus.

 

In our Gospel readings, this resurrected Jesus has walked with us, has talked with us, has eaten with us and has led the way for us.

 

Now, he has been taken up.

 

We find a transformation of sorts happening.

 

With his ascension, our perception of Jesus has changed.

 

No longer is he the wise sage, the misunderstood rebel, the religious renegade that he seemed to be when he walked around, performing miracles and upsetting the religious and political powers that be.

 

He is now something so much more.

 

He is more than just a regular prophet.

 

He is the fulfillment of all prophecies.

 

He is more than just a king—a despotic monarch of some sort like Caesar or Herod.

 

He is truly the Messiah.

 

He is the divine Son of God.

 

At his ascension, we find that he is, in a sense, anointed, crowned and ordained.

 

He does not just ascend back to heaven and then is kind of dissolved into the great unknown.

 

He ascends, then assumes a place at God’s right hand.

 

At his ascension, we find that what we are gazing at is something we could not comprehend before.

 

He has helped us to see that God has truly come among us.

 

He has reminded us that God has taken a step toward us.

 

He has showed us that God loves us and cares for us.

 

He has shown us that the hold death held on us is now broken.

 

He has reminded us that God speaks to us not from a pillar of cloud or fire, not on some cloud-covered mountain, not in visions.

 

But God is with us and speaks in us. We are God’s prophets now. 

 

The puzzle pieces are falling into place.

 

What seemed so confusing and unreal is starting to come together.

 

God truly does love us and know us.

 

And next week, one more puzzle piece falls into place.

 

Next week, we will celebrate God’s Spirit descending upon us and staying with us, on the Feast of Pentecost.

 

For the moment, we are in this plateau, caught in between those two events—the Ascension and Pentecost—trying to make sense of what has happened and trying to prepare ourselves for what is about to happen.

 

But things are about to really change.

 

Man, are things about to change!

 

We seem to be in a plateau of sorts.

 

A plateau offers us a time to pause, to ponder who we are and where are in this place—in this time in which everything seems so spiritually topsy-turvy, in this time before the Spirit moves and stirs up something incredible.

 

In this time when our proclamation of Christ’s Good News may seem almost heretical.

 

This week, smack dab in the middle of the twelve days between the Ascension and Pentecost, we find ourselves examining the impact of this event of God in our lives.

 

The commission that the ascended Jesus gave to the apostles, is still very much our commission as well.

 

We must love—fully and completely.

 

Because in loving, we are living.

 

In loving, we are living fully and completely.

 

In loving, we are bringing the resurrected and  ascended Christ to others.

 

And we must go out and live out this commission in the world.

 

When we do, the resurrected and ascended Christ is very much acting in the world.

 

These are things those first followers of Jesus no doubt struggled with.

 

Yet we, like them, are sustained.

 

We, like them, are upheld.

 

We, like them, are supported by the God who welcomed the ascended Jesus, whose work we are doing in this world.

 

In those moments when our works seems useless, when it seems like we have done no good work, Jesus still triumphs.

 

We all remember that song by the Beatles, “Eleanor Rigby.”

 

I remember how sad I used to feel when I heard them sing about Father Mackenzie, how he

 

“…wipes the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave.

No one was saved.”

 

You know what?

 

It feels like that sometimes.

 

But those moments are moments of self-centeredness.

 

Those moments are moments when we think it all depends on us.

 

On ME.

 

Our job, in this time between Jesus’ departure from us and the return of the Holy Spirit to us, is to simply let God do what God needs to do in this interim.

 

We need to let the Holy Spirit work in us and through us.

 

We need to let our proclamation of the resurrected and ascended Christ be the end result of our work.

 

When we wipe our hands as we walk from the grave, lamenting the fact that it seems no one was saved, we need to realize that, of course, it seems that way as we gaze downward at our dirty hands.

 

But above us—above us!—the Ascension is happening.

 

Above us, Jesus is triumphant—as Prophet of prophets, of King of Kings, as the High Priest of all priests.

 

Above us, in that place of glory, Jesus triumphs—and we with him.

 

Above us, Jesus wins.

 

(And as he all know, even poor John Huston, Jesus always wins in the end)

 

Above us, God’s Spirit is about to rain down upon us as flames of fire.

 

All we have to do is look up.

 

All we have to do is stop gazing at our dirty, callused, over-worked hands—all we have to do is turn from our self-centeredness—and look up.

 

And there we will see the triumph.

 

And as we do, we will realize that more were saved than we initially thought.

 

Someone was saved. We were saved.

 

Jesus has ascended.

 

And we have—or will—ascend with him as well.

 

He prays in today’s Gospel that we “may have [his] joy made complete in [ourselves].”

 

That joy comes when we let the Holy Spirit be reflected in what we do in this world.

 

So, let this Spirit of joy be made complete in you.

 

Let the Spirit of joy live in you and through you and be reflected to others by you.

 

When we do, we will be, as Jesus promises us, “sanctified in truth.”

 

We will be sanctified in the truth of knowing and living out our lives in the light of the ascension of Jesus.

 

We will be sanctified by the fact that we have looked up and seen the truth happened above us in beauty and light and joy.  Amen.

 

 

 

6 Easter

Rogation Sunday

May 5, 2024

 

1 John 5.1-6; John 15.6-17

 

+ As most of you who have hearing my sermons for a long time now know I am a pretty basic preacher.

 

I have about two subjects I pretty consistently and passionately preach about.

 

And those two preaching subjects are?

 

That’s right.

 

Love and baptism.

 

And in our scripture readings for today—guess what?--we get both.

 

(I’ll spare you baptism today in this sermon. I went on last week about my issues with Baptism being a pre-requisite for Holy Communion)

 

But, yes, we will talk about love today.

 

For all my preaching about love, you’d think I was some kind of hippie or something.

 

There’s really nothing hippie-like about me.

 

Well, I am vegan.

 

And I am a pacifist.

 

And I protest a lot about things (I’m not alone on that lately).

 

Geeesh…maybe I am a hippie after all.

 

Yes, I love to preach about love.

 

Today, we get a double dose of love in our scriptures.

 

Jesus, in our Gospel reading, is telling us yet again to love.

 

He tells us:

 

“Abide in my love.”

 

A beautiful phrase!

 

“Live in my love.”

 

“Dwell in my love.”

 

And St. John, in his epistle, reminds us of that commandment to love God and to love each other.

 

Now, as you hear me preach again and again, this love is what being a Christian is all about.

 

Can I stress that enough?

 

Every Sunday, without fail, I preach that from this pulpit.

 

It is not about commandments and following the letter of the law.

 

It is not about being nice and sweet all the time.

 

It is not about being “right” all the time.

 

It is certainly not about being morally superior!

 

It is about following Jesus—and following Jesus means loving fully and completely.

 

It means loving like Jesus loved.

 

And following Jesus means obeying him and doing what he did.

 

And what did he do, what did he preach? 

 

He preached:

 

Love God.

 

Love each other.

 

Yes, I know.

 

It actually does sound kind of…hippie-like.

 

It sounds fluffy.

 

But the love Jesus is speaking of is not a sappy, fluffy love.

 

Love, for Jesus—and for us who follow Jesus—is a very radical thing.

 

To love radically means to love everyone—even those people who are difficult to love.

 

To love those people we don’t want to love—to love the people who have hurt us or abused us or wronged us in any way—is the most difficult thing we can do.

 

If we can do it all.

 

And sometimes—you know what?--we just can’t.

 

But we can’t get around the fact that this is the commandment from Jesus.

 

We must love.

 

Or, at the very least, strive to love.

 

For me—maybe I’m just simple.

 

Maybe I’m just a weird, simple,  priest, up here in North Dakota, serving a parish that a Deacon of this diocese with whom I had lunch this past week said was an example of what parish can do to revive and reinvent itself in a wonderful way.

 

I am at this incredible parish that, on first appearances, might seem like some quirky gathering of eccentric Christians.

 

But underneath it all, it is this strange, powerful spiritual powerhouse of a parish.

 

It is a parish that embodies solidly this command of Jesus to

 

“Abide in my love.”

 

Maybe not perfectly.

 

Maybe not in a classic sense.

 

But certainly in its attempt to do what we are called to do.

 

Call me simple but abiding in Jesus’ love leaves no room for homophobia or transphobia racism or sexism or antisemitism or Islamophobia or any other kind of discrimination.

 

You can’t abide in love and live with hatred and anger.

 

It just can’t be done.

 

When Jesus says “Abide in my love” it really a challenge to us as the Church.

 

And, as you hear me say, again and again, the Church IS changing.

 

And it should!

 

I had a call on Friday with my long-time, very good friend Pastor Ray Baker, the pastor of Faith United Methodist Church just down the street.

 

As you may know, the United Methodist Church has a momentous National Conference Meeting this past week in which the United Methodist Church voted to fully include LGBTQ people in their denomination, which means including in marriage rites and ordination.

 

Ray said to me, “The Church is changing. Thank God!”

 

Pastor Ray is right.

 

The Church IS changing.

 

And our response should be, “Thank God!”

 

The Church of the future, whether we like it or not, has to shed those old ways of abiding in anger and fear and hatred.

 

The Church of the future needs to constantly strive to abide in Jesus’ love.

 

If it does not, it’s gonna die!

 

It will become an outmoded, hate-filled cesspool that will eventually destroy itself.

If it becomes a place led by an insular, self-selected, privileged few, then it will die on the vine.

 

And if it does, then so be it!

 

Now, for me, I won’t stop following Jesus.

 

I won’t stop loving God and others. Or trying to anyway. And probably failing miserably.

 

Because if that’s the place the Church becomes, I know it is not the place Jesus is leading me to.

 

And hopefully none of the rest of us either.

 

And if that’s what the Church becomes, it will, in fact, stop being the Church.

 

If the Church becomes a place of hatred or anger, I doubt many of us would remain members of that church.

 

This is why the Church must change.

 

This is why the Church must be a place of love and compassion and radical acceptance.

 

Because the alternative is just too frightening for me.

 

And we see it all the time around us us—this alternate Church, this Anti-Church.

 

This “Christ-haunted” Church, to use a phrase from Flannery O’Connor.

 

A Church in which hatred and racism and sexism and homophobia is preached from its pulpits.

 

A place in which there are debates about denying people the Body and Blood of Christ of Holy Communion because people don’t participate in a particular ritual or believe exactly what a particular Church believes.

 

This coming Thursday, we celebrate the Ascension of Jesus.

 

On that day, he was physically taken up from us.

 

But what he has left us with is this reality of us—his followers—being the physical Body of Jesus in this world.

 

We can only be that physical Body of Jesus when we abide in his love.

 

When we love fully and radically.

 

There’s no getting around that.

 

There’s no rationalizing that away.

 

We can argue about this.

 

We can quote scriptures and biblical and ecclesiastical precedence all we want.

 

We can throw around canons and rubrics and diocesan provisions all we want.

 

None of that furthers the Kingdom of God.

 

None of that is abiding in Jesus’ love.

 

Abiding in love is abiding in love.

 

And abiding in love means loving—fully and completely and without judgment.

 

To be Jesus’ presence in the world means loving fully and completely and radically.

 

Call that hippie-like.

 

Call that heresy or a simplistic understanding of what Jesus is saying or part of the so-called “radical liberal agenda.”

 

I call it abiding it in Jesus’ love, which knows no bounds, which knows no limits.

 

So, today, and this week, abide in Jesus’ love.

 

Let us celebrate God by living out God’s command to love.

 

As we remember and rejoice in the Ascension of Jesus, let our hearts, full of love, ascend with Jesus.

 

Let them soar upward in joy at the fact that God’s Holy Spirit is still with us.

 

And when we love—when we love each other and God—God’s spirit will remain with us and be embodied in us.

 

 Amen.