This is my sermon for this coming Sunday. Tell me what you think!

Date preached: 5/25/08, Sebewaing

RCL After Epiphany 8A

Text: Matthew 6:24-34

Subject: Why is God telling us not worry?

Complement: Because we have Him to trust in the lean times.

Exegetical Idea: If they serve God, He will provide for the Israelites – They need not worry.

Homiletic Idea: If we serve God, He will provide for us so we needn’t worry either.

Purpose: Hearers will ask God to be their Lord and provide their needs.

Type: Deductive, Expository

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

That poem, by Robert Frost, has always been a favorite of mine. The yellow wood reminds me of northern Michigan where I lived when I was young. And the constant decision of which way to go both on a walk and in my life has been beautifully detailed in this poem by Robert Frost. I always imagine myself gazing at the two roads deciding if I will take the less traveled, maybe even more difficult way or the easier way that most take. I have always likened them to the narrow and wide paths that we choose between in our life. I have chosen the narrow path to God rather than the wide path to wealth, power and destruction.

That is what our passage of scripture speaks of this week, too.

“No one can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve God AND wealth.” Matthew 6:24 NIV

Here, Jesus breaks down our choices into two paths. There is the path serving God and the path serving wealth. (more…)

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Recently, I was reading one of the many blogs that I read and Lutheran Husker wrote about how he likes to write haiku poems while in boring meetings. So, while driving back from Chicago this weekend, I decided to write some poems. Some of them are inside jokes, so they may not make any sense whatsoever, but I hope you enjoy them!Parking’s a racket.
We want an open spot. We go
’round. We are trapped!

Elaine flatlines often.
She needs food stat! Quick! Hurry!
Whew! She is okay.

Mackenzie fears death,
Death from a killing disease:
public pen in mouth.

Lemur Eyes

Photo courtesy abcode on Flickr.

Lemur eyes are big.
Big, bulging, large, watchful eyes
spot a restaurant.

The Bethmobile is
gone. It blew up and
the pavement is black.

Bethmobile, you’re gone
in a flaming tribute to
your battery problems. Oh!

A puddle appears.
The fire is washed away;
only steel is left.

Puddle of buttons,
puddle of pins, you are one.
One big memory.

God loves my mother.
He has her best planned out,
so she will be blessed.

Sunburns are a pain.
A pain on my head and back;
a cancerous pain.

Coffee is yucky.
Lemonade is yummy.
Don’t drink coffee…ew!

Here is a poem that I read here. I can totally relate to it and enjoyed reading it. The part about a baby curled around my middle while typing is so right on! I remember those days. Now it’s a fairly large second body wedged into the computer chair with me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

& (and)


    I looked down at my young daughter, who was looking gratefully and hungrily into my eyes, and I knew instinctively that gone were my days of being able to barricade myself in my study for hours on end… it struck panic into me to think that my ability to keep up the pace of my profession was bring slowly sucked out of me by the child on my breast.

    —Renita J. Weems, biblical scholar, minister, writer, mother,
    in Listening for God

what are your aspirations
for your writing?
asked the Artist,
who writes and creates
fulltime from her home studio,
whose Room of One’s Own
i covet.

to write and be read,
i answered,
and the response seemed stupid,
simplistic,
but it’s the best i could manage
without getting into it:
how i type one-handed, pecking quiet keys
with a baby curled around my middle;
how i climb into a pulpit, spread out pages of a
good-enough manuscript,
letting the masterwork that might have been
(had the meetings not piled up, had the death not occurred)
float silently away;
how i find the phrase
that breaks open a poem’s stuck door,
and pray it doesn’t blow shut
before i finish playing chutes and ladders.

Read the rest here.

Here is a poem that I read here. I can totally relate to it and enjoyed reading it. The part about a baby curled around my middle while typing is so right on! I remember those days. Now it’s a fairly large second body wedged into the computer chair with me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

& (and)


    I looked down at my young daughter, who was looking gratefully and hungrily into my eyes, and I knew instinctively that gone were my days of being able to barricade myself in my study for hours on end… it struck panic into me to think that my ability to keep up the pace of my profession was bring slowly sucked out of me by the child on my breast.

    —Renita J. Weems, biblical scholar, minister, writer, mother,
    in Listening for God

what are your aspirations
for your writing?
asked the Artist,
who writes and creates
fulltime from her home studio,
whose Room of One’s Own
i covet.

to write and be read,
i answered,
and the response seemed stupid,
simplistic,
but it’s the best i could manage
without getting into it:
how i type one-handed, pecking quiet keys
with a baby curled around my middle;
how i climb into a pulpit, spread out pages of a
good-enough manuscript,
letting the masterwork that might have been
(had the meetings not piled up, had the death not occurred)
float silently away;
how i find the phrase
that breaks open a poem’s stuck door,
and pray it doesn’t blow shut
before i finish playing chutes and ladders.

Read the rest here.