Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons

Indeed. Thank you, choir. That was wonderful, what a wonderful way to be prepared to prepare the people for me to come and share a word with you all. And thank you all for being here. My name is Reverend Scott Bostic. I'm a United Methodist pastor, and I'm currently serving beyond the local church as the deputy director of the Washington Interfaith Network, which Foundry is a part of. For those of you who don't know, the Washington Interfaith Network is a broad based, multi-race, multi-faith organization rooted in congregations and associations across Washington, D.C. Together, when members take public action, they organize their communities, hold decision makers accountable, and build power to create change across D.C. It's a joy for me to be back with you again.

I say back because this is not my first time here at Foundry. I recognize many familiar faces among you. I first came here many years ago, over a decade ago, when I was serving at Asbury United Methodist Church, down at 11th and K. For a brief time this was my worshiping home, as my family worshiped here. When I was in between appointments many years ago, I've helped with weddings here, I've helped with celebrations of life, I've helped with special services during Holy Week, and other times when I've gotten a phone call from Pastor Ben or Pastor Ginger saying, hey, are you busy?

It's a joy to be with you now on this Sunday morning, with an opportunity to share a word with you all from Nehemiah. So here again, beloved, these words from the book of Nehemiah, chapter six, verses eight and nine: "Then I sent to him, saying, no such things as you say have been done. You are inventing them out of your own mind. For they all wanted to frighten us, thinking their hands would drop from the work and it would not be done. But now, strengthen my hands."

Will you pray with me? O God of love, speak to me. God of grace and of mercy, speak through me. God of power and of justice, speak in spite of me, that on this day, in these moments, your will would be done. Speak, O Lord, for your people are listening. Amen.

I thought it might be good to start off with a confession. I'm not a huge fan of Dolly Parton's music. Country music just isn't really my thing. I do want to be clear, though, that I have deep respect for her talents as a singer, for her talents on and off screen, and for the mighty work that she has done beyond the stage and behind the microphone.

So go back with me in time, if you will, to 1980. There's a movie that Dolly starred in called 9 to 5. Some of you probably just thought it was a song, but oh no, it was so much more. There was a spinoff series and a musical too, though maybe we won't talk about the musical. In this movie, Dolly was one of three legendary actresses who told the story of three frustrated, harassed, and mistreated women whose boss is described as the most sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot on the planet. Sounds familiar. Their response to this hateful person was to work behind him and in spite of him to make changes to their workplace. Now, those of you who have seen the movie know there's some other stuff going on, but we're in church, so if you want to know the rest of the story, go watch the movie.

Among the changes they make in their workplace are implementing several programs that the workers love, including in-office daycare, equal pay for everyone (one of them had gotten in trouble for asking what one of their male colleagues made), flexible work hours, and a job-sharing program allowing employees to work part time. The boss didn't know they had made these changes, and when he came back he was furious, but his chairman came in and was elated because the productivity of their department had increased by 20 percent because of these changes.

That got me thinking about how these changes came to be, not just in movieland but in our world, through the work of organized labor. That, after all, is what this weekend is all about. Not the unofficial end of summer, not one last trip to the beach or a last chance to wear your boat shoes for the season. It's not about the barbecues or the parties or the days off, well, actually, maybe it is about that last one. Labor Day is about celebrating how those who worked for reform in our workplace and labor laws fought to get people a weekend, time off, to end child labor and send kids to school instead of to factories. Coincidentally, my family watched the news this weekend, which is its own great labor story, about things like paid leave and family leave, unemployment benefits, and rules about hiring and firing, so many things that many of us take for granted, and maybe did until the last two years. It got me thinking about how some people said that these proposed changes, each time, were threats to the status quo which benefited them, those in power, and therefore they hurled their own threats and insults at the people who wanted to make these changes. Those in power were afraid of what might happen if people knew their worth and knew that somebody cared about that.

Now, our scripture and story for today picks up in the midst of things in the story of Nehemiah. Some of you know that Nehemiah is a book that is part of the Hebrew Scriptures in the section known as the histories. It's different from some of the other books in the history section, like Esther and Ezra and First and Second Chronicles, in that it is told from the first-person perspective. Scholars call it the Nehemiah memoir, because we're hearing the story from Nehemiah's perspective, so he has moments to add his own commentary, his own personal reflections on what was happening.

For those who haven't read the book, or haven't read it in a while, it opens in the first chapter with Nehemiah in Susa, the capital of the Persian Empire, serving as cupbearer to the king, who we think was Artaxerxes the First, for the history buffs in the room. Word comes from Jerusalem about the state of the walls and the troubles of his people. In response, Nehemiah prays to God, praying that God will fulfill the promises God made to Moses to uplift and care for God's people. His prayer includes an important confession, because Nehemiah knew that the people were in exile, that the walls had been destroyed for a reason, and it was because of the people's unfaithfulness. It was because of the people's actions that Jerusalem had fallen and that they were in exile in the first place. But he prays that God would receive their prayer and grant restoration to the people if they would repent and return to the Lord.

That is where we get to our first lesson, before we even get to the text from Nehemiah: it starts with God and prayer, but please don't stop there. Too often people go to God and pray. We pray for ourselves, we pray for the people around us, we pray for the world, for the problems going on around us, for tragedies that we hear about, and then we stop. We don't follow up on our prayers with the response that God is calling us to take, the response that God has empowered and emboldened us to take. We, as faithful followers, have a responsibility to pray, to seek God first, and to act in response to the needs of the world around us as God is calling and leading, not as social trends would have us do, or social media influencers or politicians or even some pastors, but as God Almighty is calling us and has shown us again and again that we are called to respond through loving our neighbors, not just with warm, fuzzy feelings and sweet, kind thoughts, but with concrete, tangible actions.

So Nehemiah, from his position of power at the hand of the king as cupbearer, requests and is granted permission to travel back to Jerusalem to rebuild the walls. He's given written permission so that should anyone question whether it was okay for him to do this, they would know he had the blessing of the king. The king was so moved by and behind this effort that he even provided wood from his own forests and cavalry and troops to escort Nehemiah and their resources back to Jerusalem. Jerusalem, at that point in time, had already had the temple rebuilt, that was the main thrust of the story in the Book of Ezra, and we learn early on in Nehemiah's adventures that in addition to being a faithful servant of God and a loyal servant in his position to the king, he is also wise. That wisdom would serve him well in the ways he would deal with the many challenges ahead. But humbly, Nehemiah recognizes, as he says several times, that his success, the way things were able to work out, was not because of him. It was because of God's faithfulness, because God's gracious hand was upon him.

Now, as you might remember or imagine, Nehemiah showing up on the scene to rebuild the walls upset some people, especially the leaders around Jerusalem, because someone was coming to care for the people of Israel. Remember, not everyone went into exile after the fall of Jerusalem. Many remained in the land but were ruled by others. Some had already returned, as I mentioned, to rebuild the temple, as recounted in the Book of Ezra. But they still did not have a Jewish governor who was steadfast and faithful to God. Throughout the chapters leading up to chapter six, Nehemiah had faced opposition from people outside the city and from some people inside the city, not all of whom were faithful followers of God. It took some wisdom for him to navigate these different challenges in this tricky landscape, as people plotted to disrupt the work and even attack the city.

Why? Because they knew the practical and symbolic meaning of the walls being rebuilt. Practically, it meant there would be a place of refuge for the people of Israel, should someone in future days come to attack or try to harm them. Now, I'm not advocating for walls in general, but in those days a walled city was a safer city, because when raiders came, people had a place of shelter and knew they would be safe. Symbolically, it marked the return of this space to being a city that was looking out for the Hebrew people. It symbolized strength and protection and care.

Nehemiah's return to Jerusalem to build the walls was so zealously supported that people came together, not just in Jerusalem but from across Judah, because they believed that Nehemiah cared for them, and through him they were reminded of God's care for them. That gave them the courage to work, even though it was dangerous and upsetting to their enemies, even though it caused internal challenges for them as a people, because coming together to do the work of rebuilding the walls meant fewer people in the fields, fewer people to guard the city. And yet, in spite of all of this, Nehemiah, in his wisdom and in his seeking of God, was able to create a more caring and loving society, and they were able to get the work done.

This may surprise you, but in the midst of their work there were people taking advantage of those who were less fortunate. Can you imagine that? People coming together to do work, things not going well, and somebody trying to profit off of that? It's absurd. People were troubled, wondering how they would be able to get it all done, how they would build the wall, how they would keep one another safe, how they would bring in the harvest. Let me be clear, there wasn't some fast-track, no-bid contract that went out and the wall just got built. It was the people themselves who had to come together, many of whom were not masons and builders, to rebuild the wall, to care for their own safety. Nehemiah's wisdom and God's gracious hand guided him through the internal and external challenges to complete the work he set out to do.

So now we're at Nehemiah chapter six. The walls are complete, the gates are not yet built, but they've got everything they need to build them. And here come again the enemies from outside. They've seen how the people have come together to complete this work, and they know once the gates go up, they'll have problems. So enter Sanballat and Tobiah, and Geshem the Arab, and all the neighbors who were displeased when Nehemiah showed up in the first place, back in chapter four, when the wall was only half its height.

They sent word to Nehemiah, saying, come, let's meet and talk about this work you're doing. Nehemiah's wisdom told him that nothing good could come from meeting with them, because they wanted him to go twenty-five miles outside the city to talk. So he responded, saying, I must focus on my work, why would I stop to come and meet with you? Three more times they sent him the same message, saying, come meet us in this deserted place outside the city so we can talk, and three more times he sent the same reply: I'm working, talk to you later. He was focused on what he needed to do.

So they tried to switch it up, using a tactic that may seem familiar to some of you. They set up an information campaign to discredit Nehemiah, sharing it with anyone who would listen, that's what the open letter refers to, instead of a sealed letter there was an open letter, a town crier walking around telling everybody what was in this letter being delivered to Nehemiah. Moreover, Sanballat and his crew paid people to go into the city and pretend to be prophets, to spread rumors that Nehemiah wanted to set himself up as king. They did this even knowing that Nehemiah had received letters from the King of Persia himself approving this work. But they were troubled, because they knew Nehemiah cared about the people, and he wanted to put an end to their ability to exploit the people of Jerusalem. They thought that if they could get rid of Nehemiah, the work would falter and they could go back to doing things the way they liked.

Beloved, there are people in our world today, just as then, who count on cities and communities and states having weak and ineffective leadership, on people not having the things they need to care for those under their charge. We see it all the time here in D.C., we've seen it even more in the past two years. Think back to last year's attempt to take a billion dollars out of D.C.'s balanced budget, a balanced budget, from a Congress that hasn't passed one of its own in twenty-five years. The weakness of others was what they were relying on to give them a sense of power and control, and that is at the core of most, if not all, oppressive thinking: the thinking that someone else has to be down in order for me to be up, that someone has to be of low state, dehumanized and dismissed, in order for me to feel powerful and strong. This, of course, dismisses the teachings of the Torah and of Christ, perpetuating the fear that comes with feelings of scarcity.

But Nehemiah doesn't give in to his own potential for fear as these lies and falsehoods are spread about him and the work of the people. He responds flatly and plainly with the truth, and then gets back to work. Verse eight, he begins: "Then I sent to him, saying, no such things as you say have been done, you are inventing them out of your own mind, for they are all wanting to frighten us, thinking their hands will drop from the work and it will not be done." And then comes Nehemiah's prayer: "But now, strengthen my hands." The late Reverend Doctor Ralph Klein, the former dean and professor emeritus of Old Testament at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago, says it might be better translated, "but in fact, I redoubled my resolve." I redoubled my resolve. Whether it was an explicit prayer by Nehemiah or an act of faith built upon his steadfast faith in the God who had brought him thus far, Nehemiah resolved, in the face of hate and oppression, threats of violence, and attempts to demean him, with resolve and fortitude.

We need that kind of resolve and fortitude today, beloved, because there are gaps in the walls meant to protect us, and in some places the walls have been torn down to the ground. That means we have work to do. From the pervasive and perverse actions of gangs of federal agents, with the assistance of our own MPD, roaming through the streets of our city, attacking people based on their ethnicity, as well as those who step out to protect them, to the National Guard troops whose planned presence here until 2029 is intended to normalize something that, as a veteran, I assure you is far from normal, through fear and intimidation, to keep people from exercising their rights and looking out for their neighbors. With all that, there are gaps in the walls and we have work to do. From threats by the executive branch of our federal government to refuse to allow whoever the people of D.C. elect as their mayor to take power, to the past refusal by certain leaders to swear in members of Congress because they didn't want them to take office, to the continually unfolding attacks on our electoral process here and across our country, beloved, there are gaps in the walls and we have work to do.

From the continued objectification and domestic terrorism being wrought on Black and brown communities, to the emboldened, systematic efforts to create a permanent caste system of people living in poverty without the resources they need to survive, let alone thrive, we have work to do. When people who are experiencing homelessness and those who are housing insecure can't get an ID because a couple of people in the D.C. government don't see a problem, when people can't pay their healthcare bills or their utility bills or the gas in their car or the groceries they need to feed their families, there are gaps in the walls and we have work to do. I know it can seem overwhelming, because it is overwhelming. But I know that we're not alone, that we have one another to do this work together, some working, some watching over us, like they did in chapter four of Nehemiah, some working and some caring.

I know that we have wise leaders, like your pastors and so many others throughout our city, our region, our country and our world, who are not just telling us but showing us with their actions what it means to show up and care for others, and how important it is for us to continue building those muscles of care for one another, especially in these moments when the threats are not just real but at the gates and inside the city. As it says in Galatians 6:9, "let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at the harvest time if we do not give up." If we do not give up, beloved, don't give up.

Paul and Nehemiah knew a thing or two about the good and necessary work they had to do. They knew a thing or two about the challenges of working in dangerous and oppressive environments. They knew a thing or two about internal and external threats to their work, and they certainly knew a thing or two about having something that God put on their hearts, that they knew, that they knew, that they had to accomplish. I think if Paul had been around in Nehemiah's time, he might have sent him a note similar to the one he sent to the church in Philippi, where he says, in chapter one, verse six, "I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it."

The same is true for us today, that the one who began this great work will see it through. Paul says, "I am confident of this." Given all that he had seen, all that he knew, all that had happened around him, given the threats that were levied against him, given the fact that his very occupation and his work was illegal and punishable by death, he was confident, not pretty sure, not "I think" or "I'm hopeful," but confident that the one who began a good work in you, he said. The one who began a good work in you, choir. The one who began a good work in you, Sarah. The one who began a good work in you, and you, and all of you, and all of us, would see that work continue to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

Beloved, there's trouble in our city, there's trouble in our nation, and we have work to do. And we are not alone. So may we go forth from this day with the courage and the resolve, like Nehemiah, to finish the good work that is before us. May it be so. Amen.

When I was in college, I spent a semester living in London, and I did a lot of solo traveling all over the UK. And one of the things that I loved was when in one of my little wanders, I would stumble across a little ruin. I found some that had clearly been part at one time of a big complex. There was the remains of a tower or stairs, going somewhere that used to be grand. And other times I would just find a few stones, probably the remnants of a simple cottage. What I saw in all of these abandoned little places were simply stones. They were just stones. A sign, however, of life that had once been there, where people had experienced something. And I always wondered, why are these stones here? What stories do they hold?

Our story from Joshua today has at its center the building of a stone marker at the Jordan. Many ancient cultures, including our Hebrew ancestors, used stones to signify a meaningful place or a meaningful story. You may have heard of Ebenezer, literally "stones of help," which were stones that our ancestors used to mark a place where God had rescued or helped God's people. And today, Joshua directs the representatives from each of the twelve tribes of Israel to take stones from the River Jordan and create what's called a Gilgal. Have you ever heard of a Gilgal? Some of you might have heard of a Gilgal rune. A Gilgal is a memorial, a reminder not just of a moment, but of the story that gives their lives hope and a sense of identity. The stones are gathered so that in time to come, when children ask, they will see these stones, and as did I in my early travels, they will ask the question, what do these stones mean?

What we receive in the text today is the moment when the forty years of wilderness wandering come to their end. Remember that after the people of Israel were brought out of slavery, God gave them a wondrous passage through the Red Sea. From there they were led into the wilderness, where they so journeyed for forty years, guided and sustained by God with a pillar of fire at night, a pillar of smoke by day, and manna from heaven to sustain them. In our story they've now arrived at the Jordan, and just as at the Red Sea, the waters of the Jordan are stopped. This time, as the priests who are carrying the Ark of the Covenant step into the waters and stand in the riverbed, the people cross over to the other side on dry ground and into the land that they understand God has promised them.

What happens as Israel takes possession of that land raises difficult questions of violence and displacement, questions that deserve more attention than we can give them today. But here at the river, the story is about a people who have survived the wilderness, and they're remembering the God who brought them through that. That, children, is what the stones mean. They are a reminder for generations to come that God brought the whole people out of bondage, through the wilderness, and to this threshold of new life stretching out before them. God brought all of them through. Every tribe, from the largest to the smallest, is represented. Every tribe carries a stone, and every time they go back to this place, they will see the stones and remember the goodness and the faithfulness of God.

Sometimes when I am walking or driving around in this city, or when I'm traveling in other towns and cities, I see beautiful stone buildings with crumbling steeples and their windows boarded up. And I wonder about the stories that those stones could tell. But sadly, just like ancient ruins, the stones no longer have a living community to interpret their meaning.

Today we gather in the shelter of the stones that create this sanctuary, the stones that house our mission and study and life together. While the oldest stones in this building are 112 years old, 122, sorry, all my historians were going to check me, even though they are 122 years old, they carry forward the story of this congregation that stretches back 212 years. They are a memorial to the providence of God, who over all those years has brought us out of situations that were unjust or harmful, has brought us through times of struggle and need and pain, and has brought us to this very day.

Many of us can tell stories of our recent past. The stories of bold action to end chronic homelessness, and to champion the rights and the dignity of our LGBTQ plus siblings. The times of heartbreak amid bruising general conferences, the moments of transcendent worship, the ways that we persevered through the Covid pandemic. Do you remember how we longed to be in God's dwelling place in those days? "How I long for the courts of the Lord," I remember thinking. Will we ever get to be back in God's dwelling place called Foundry? Do you remember those days, Stanley? There were times when we thought, we'll never get back to the way it was, we'll never have the choir singing the way that we sang. We had those conversations. We did. I'm just telling the truth. We persevered through that, and by God's grace, we emerged, ready to discern how to be the church in a new reality.

We can tell those stories, many of us, because we've lived through them. So many more, but there's something in our text today that makes me pause. When you read the text carefully, you'll notice that verses three through eight describe twelve stones being taken out of the Jordan and carried to the place where Israel camps, at Gilgal. But then immediately after that, in verse nine, it suddenly says Joshua has set up twelve stones in the middle of the Jordan, in the place where the feet of the priests bearing the Ark of the Covenant had stood. So where exactly were the stones placed? Inquiring minds want to know. Scholars have long seen this as evidence that different oral stories were woven together when they got written down. Some of those stories remembered the stones in the camp where people lived, and some people remembered the stones out there in the middle of the river.

We can wonder about all of that, the textual issue, the historical issue. But what remains in the text as it stands is that there is a memorial where the people live, and there is a memorial where they crossed. One can be viewed, and the other may eventually disappear into or beneath the water. And it makes me think about the stones that tell our story. Some are visible. We can see them. We can remember them. We can tell the stories through our own experience. And some are submerged. There are experiences, people, sacrifices, struggles, prayers, decisions, conflicts, acts of courage and acts of grace, from 212 years of ministry, under the surface, without which the congregation standing here today would not exist.

It's poignant to be preaching this message today, as we have shared the news of the death of one of Foundry's faithful ones, Barbara Cambridge. Only God knows all that she gave of herself to provide leadership through moments of difficulty and change in this community of faith. How quietly and effectively she organized so many things. I know how quietly and effectively she organized this little idea I had about having a prayer ministry on Sunday mornings. How she encouraged and taught others through her words and her witness. Barbara is in a long line of saints, many whose names we don't know to say today, whose stories and faithfulness make Foundry who we are. Can we say thanks be to God?

Those of us who do make up the Foundry community today will each have our own answer about what these stones mean to you in our own lives. Only you will know the moment when a person prayed with you and it changed everything. Only you will know how you met God in the face of a neighbor as you served. Only you will know that moment in worship when tears cleansed your heart. Only you will know how conversation over coffee saved your sanity. Only you will know the class that blew your mind open to new possibilities about God and about faith. Only you will know how this congregation has given you strength or hope to keep going in this beautiful, broken world.

Beloveds, we don't look at the old stones of an old building to look back at the good old days with nostalgia. The stones are not tombstones. These are not tombstones marking lives lost. These stones are a memorial, a reminder of a living God and the living people of God who continue to remember, to testify, to tell the stories of how God has brought Foundry out and how God has brought Foundry through. And we do this not just for ourselves. We do this for those yet to experience the great good news of a God who liberates, sustains, and gives new life. We tell the stories for the children in generations stretching out in front of us, so that they will know what these stones mean, because there are people around to tell them the story so that they can carry the mission forward.

And as we gather today for this homecoming service, we come bearing items, prayers, literal or metaphorical stones to mark this moment, to remember how God has been with us over these past months of summer break or summer work, times of travel, and for some times of travail. Wherever we have been so journeying, God has been our sustainer and our guide. And now God has brought us home.

But remember this: when the people of Israel crossed the Jordan, they had not reached the end of their journey. They stood at a threshold. Behind them was the wilderness through which God had carried them. Ahead of them was a future they could not yet see. We don't know what's ahead. It was at that point, at that crossing, where they gathered stones and they remembered. Perhaps that's where we are. On this day we gather up the signs of where we've been and what we've been through. We remember those whose faithfulness lies beneath everything we have inherited. We tell the stories of how God has brought Foundry out and brought Foundry through. And then we take up together the journey into the months and years ahead. Lord knows we've got work to do.

We don't know what awaits on the other side of this moment, but the stones remind us that the God who has brought us this far is not finished with us yet. And so, filled with the promises of God's grace and mercy, and guided by our perennial call to love God, love each other, and change the world, we together cross over. We live and we serve and we love in such a way that generations from now, when a child comes to this place and asks, what do these stones mean, there will still be a living people of a living God to tell them the story. To tell how God brought us out, how God brought us through, and how by grace God keeps leading us on. Thanks be to God. Amen.

I wonder what comes to mind for most people when they think about the Ten Commandments. Studies have shown that most folks are unable to name more than one or two of them. I bet many others would probably have to admit that when they think of the Ten Commandments, and this may just be, you know, thinking about the older generations, but for many of us, I imagine some when they hear about the Ten Commandments, they think of Charlton Heston with a gray bouffant hairdo, wearing a bathrobe, and special effects in the background. Others might have a visceral reaction to a phrase that, for them, conjures up feelings of a threatening, judgmental, angry God. But my guess is that most people probably don't think of the Ten Commandments much at all, which may be what drives some people to make such a fuss about trying to get these things posted in prominent places.

Have you noticed the spate of legislation being forwarded in a number of, I will have to say, mostly southern states to place the Ten Commandments in public schools and buildings? Have you been following this? It's a whole situation, friends. It's a whole situation. The youngest among us may think that that sort of thing is a new phenomenon. It is not.

A quick search revealed that perhaps the first large scale campaign to mandate public posting was launched in 1950. The first time the Supreme Court took up the matter was 1980. And then there's Roy Moore, the twice elected, twice removed justice of the Alabama Supreme Court, I won't go into all of that, but I can tell you if you're curious, I'm sure. During Moore's first stint on the bench, beginning in 2001, he waged and lost a stubborn fight to keep a Ten Commandments monument in his courthouse. One thing I remember about this episode is the fact that after being removed as Chief Justice, Judge Moore continued this crusade through speaking engagements and would bring along the Ten Commandments monument with him wherever he went to give a talk.

Now, I'm all for visuals to help you support your message, but get this: the monument weighs 5,280 pounds, roughly just a little more than 500 pounds a commandment. So Judge Moore would lug this massive thing across the country on the back of a flatbed truck. You cannot make this stuff up. It was reported that even the five-ton crane that was used to move the monument off the truck buckled visibly under its weight.

What an amazing mental image, really. I mean, it's so appropriate, since many of us may have a sense that the commandments are heavy and dangerous, that they hang over people like an ominous threat just waiting to crush you with their weight the minute you step out of line. This is the way that some folks use the commandments and the scriptures in general, as a heavy yoke that the masses, regardless of culture or creed, need to have publicly strapped to their backs and nailed to their walls so that they'll get into shape, lift those heavy laws, carry those burdensome commandments, and do three sets of ten repetitions every other day.

Weightlifting morality. That's what that is. However, I don't think we have to look too far to find a challenge to this way of thinking. Just look back at the text we read today from Exodus. The recital of the Ten Commandments begins this way: "I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery." This is God's reminder to the people of who God is and what God has done. God is no dictator. God doesn't impose the weight of unfair laws upon people. The commandments are not a mandate to enslave God's people. God is the one who has brought the people out of slavery, who has unburdened them from unjust laws. God is the one who has given the people freedom.

But I find that many folk focus less on that and more on the "thou shalt not" of the commandments. Why do they have to be so negative? If God cares enough about us to set us free, I imagine some people thinking, then why does it seem like God is trying to control us, to limit our freedom?

Now let's think about it for just a minute. Jesus experienced God as Abba, as father. All you mothers and fathers out there, all of us who have spent significant time caring for children, just think about when the children are very young. They're curious about everything. They want to touch everything. They want to put everything in their mouth. They want to get into anything and everything. And as a loving caregiver, you are trying to keep them alive. You want to do everything you can to keep them safe. And so you set boundaries for your children to keep them safe.

However, we do know any parent will tell you that children always push against the boundary. Can I get an amen from anyone? Children will always push against the boundary. I will say as a pastor, people push against the boundary. We really do not like to be told no. But really, only the most naive among us will assume that true freedom means total freedom from restraints. I just think of our dog, Daisy. If Daisy were allowed to run completely free with no restraints, she might catch sight of another dog and dash across our busy street in front of the house to chase it, and that would get Daisy killed for sure. Because we love Daisy, we provide restraints that keep her safe, that help her enjoy the world in ways that are good for her and for the other creatures around her. God, who has brought people out of slavery, is setting some boundaries for the people so that they will remain free, so that they may live in peace and safety together, so that they may experience the fullness of life.

And this is the thing about God's commandments: every "thou shalt not," every no, is protecting a yes. God says no to the things that enslave us, that diminish us, or destroy life together, so that we can say yes to the things that make life free and whole for everyone. The no is never the point. "Thou shalt not" is not the point. The life God is protecting, the freedom God is protecting, the dignity God is protecting, that is the point.

With this framework in mind, we see that the commandments might sound like this: the no to other gods, the no to idols and their empty promises, protects a yes to trusting the God whose word is good, to trusting the God who sets us free, to recognizing what is truly holy. No to using God's name to manipulate or to threaten or to serve our own agenda means yes to honoring God with humility and with reverence. No to endless work, to treating ourselves or anyone else as machines for production, is a yes to Sabbath, to rest, to delight, recreation, and remembering that the world does not stop turning because you take a break. Remember, a pause here, remember who God is speaking to in these commandments: former slaves, people whose lives had been measured by how much they produced. God says, you're free now, you can stop.

No to dishonoring those from whom we have received life means yes to honoring those who came before us, while telling the truth about what we've inherited, and choosing what we will bring forward. No to violence and to the destruction of life is a yes to reverence, to life, and for life. No to betrayal and broken promises and the cheapening of intimacy is a yes to faithfulness to the covenants that we make, yes to trust and intimacy cherished. No to taking what belongs to another is a yes to respecting our neighbors and building a community where theft is unnecessary because all have enough. No to lies, slander, and words that destroy another person is a yes to truth spoken in love and words that build one another up. No to coveting, to allowing someone else's life or possessions to make us dissatisfied with our own, is a yes to gratitude, to generosity, and to rejoicing in our neighbors' good.

Every no protects a yes. Every boundary opens space for life to be lived well, and a world shaped by all those yeses, what a wonderful world that would be.

That world isn't here yet. We still go so far astray. Think again with me about Sabbath. God says to people who have been slaves, whose worth was measured by their productivity, you can stop. And not only you, did you notice? It's a great part of that commandment. Not just you, your children, your workers, the immigrant living among you. Even your animals get to stop. Give them a break. Everybody gets to rest.

Now imagine taking that commandment seriously in a culture where people work multiple jobs and still can't make ends meet, where paid leave is a luxury for many, where productivity so easily becomes a measure of our human worth. It's one thing to post the commandment on a classroom wall, but are we willing to build a society in which people can actually live it? And we could ask that question not just about Sabbath, but about the one about idolatry, or truth telling, or violence, or faithfulness, slander, greed, and whether our neighbors have enough.

Even after all this time, we continue to misunderstand. We can turn even the commandments themselves into monuments, into idols, things to display and defend, rather than a way of life to practice. Are we hopeless? Sometimes I just wonder, are we hopeless? Is the answer to be found in posting bigger and heavier versions of the Ten Commandments wherever possible?

I don't believe we're hopeless. Newsflash: I don't believe we're hopeless. And I don't think, surprise, surprise, I don't think our hope lies in mandated public posting of the commandments. Our hope is found in the public living of the commandments.

Of course, to live the ways of God, we need to know them. We need to learn and study what they really mean for us in our time and place. We need to understand the law of God and teach the law of God in appropriate ways and in appropriate contexts. We need to understand that the commandments set us free to live together in such a way that nobody has to be enslaved, exploited, violated, betrayed, robbed, lied about, or consumed by another person's greed. Do I want to say that one again? Can I say that one again? There was a lot in there. Let me just say it again: the commandments set us free. They set us free. Oh, Lord, I'm going to say it again, they set us free to live together in such a way that nobody has to be enslaved, exploited, violated, betrayed, robbed, lied about, or consumed by another person's greed.

The more we learn and live and teach the commandments in ways that reveal their freeing and life-giving purpose, the less they'll seem like stones hanging over people's heads, 500 pounds a commandment, ready to crush or imprison us. The more we live according to God's way, the closer we will be to that world of all those yeses, a world that is safe and peaceful and whole.

To see how to live according to the law, we only have to look as far as Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus, the fulfillment of the law in flesh, says, "Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."

We know that this teaching of Jesus doesn't mean the way will be easy. All you have to do is love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength, and your neighbor as yourself, and you have to do 25 sets of 100 repetitions daily for the rest of your life. Doesn't mean it's easy to take on the yoke of Christ. It does mean that Jesus gives us grace and strength and stamina to live according to the way of God, not so that we might finally earn our freedom, because God has already set us free.

The commandments show us how to live together in ways that honor the life and the dignity of all. That is the weight God asks us to carry, not 5,000 pounds of stones strapped to our backs, but the light burden of learning day by day how to live God's freedom together. May that be so, and may the day come soon. Amen.

Beloved, my invitation for us today, and as we go into the week: I was wrestling and praying about this, and there are two things I want to suggest. One is that you consider the commandments. If you haven't read them over, take a look at them again and ask, is there one of these things that I need to study and pray over so that I can receive the freedom that God wants to give me through its practice? That's an invitation, take a look at them again. Some of it's a little confusing. You can read my sermon for help, but think about it: is there one of these commandments that you just need to sit with, to discover where God wants to give you more freedom through practicing that commandment?

And the second invitation I want to extend today, and encourage you to think about as we move closer into this fall season, is: how are you going to stay close to the word of God? How are you going to stay close to the practices that sustain life and life together, through your participation here at Foundry Church? Begin to pray about it. Look at those opportunities that are coming up for service, for learning, for community, and begin to get clear. Make some decisions, or make a decision, not more. We have to make too many decisions. Make one decision: where are you going to, what are you going to do, to help you really stay connected in ways that help sustain your life and your freedom? That's my invitation today. Amen.

Part III — We Know What We’re About · Calling as Public Witness

Date: August 16, 2026.   Text: Ephesians 4:11–1, Isaiah 6:5–8

Yongchi Rhie

 

Let me begin with a confession from someone I knew, and I suspect it's one that some of you share.

“For most of my life, I was a pew warmer. You know the type; maybe you are the type. I had my seat. Not just any seat; my seat, and heaven help the visitor who took it. I knew when to stand and when to sit. I could sing the first and last verse of any hymn and mumble convincingly through the middle. I knew exactly how long a sermon should go, and I would let the preacher know, with my eyebrows, when he had gone over. I gave the building the warmth of my body for one hour a week, and I called that church. I thought my job was to show up, to be moved when the sermon was good, to put something in the plate, and to go home. I thought the church was something that happened to me. Something performed for me. A service I attended, the way you attend a concert.”

And Paul writes to the Ephesians to tell us what the church actually is. Listen: “And he gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.” Did you catch what that does to the pew-warmer’s dream? It calls it what it is: a beautiful, comfortable, church-shaped lie.

Now listen closely, because there is a famous comma hiding in this passage, and that comma has done more damage to the church than almost any heresy I know. If you grew up on the King James Bible, you heard it read like this: Christ "gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers; for the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ." Do you hear those commas? Three tidy tasks, all handed to the professionals. The clergy perfect the saints, and the clergy do the work of the ministry, and the clergy build up the body — and you, the saint, you sit in your pew and receive it.

But that comma is not in the Greek. Hear the difference. The King James, with its commas, gives the clergy three jobs: they perfect the saints, and they do the ministry, and they build up the body — three tasks, all landing on the professionals, while you sit and receive. But in the Greek there are no three jobs. There is one sentence that moves, and it moves in a single direction, and it turns on two little words. The first is pros — it means toward. Christ gave the apostles and prophets and evangelists and pastors and teachers toward one thing, and one thing only: the equipping of the saints. That is the whole job of the leaders. To equip. And then the sentence hands off to a second word, eis — it means for the purpose of. Equipped for the purpose of the work of ministry. Do you feel the current change? In the King James, the ministry stops at the clergy. In the Greek, the clergy are just the on-ramp — and the ministry flows on, past them, to you. The gifted leaders are not the ministers. They are the equippers. You are the ministers. The staff is not the church. You are. The building on this corner is not the church. You — the living, breathing, gifted, called people of God — you are the church. One little comma turned the whole church into an audience. And Paul, in the Greek, quietly takes it out.

And so this morning I have come to preach against a heresy. Not the heresy you're bracing for. Not a heresy about the Trinity: we'll defend the Trinity another day. Not the prosperity gospel, though God knows it deserves a sermon. Not complementarianism, not any of the usual suspects we love to argue about online. No. The most persistent heresy in the American church is quieter and far more comfortable than any of those. It is the heresy of passivity. The heresy of the spectator. The quiet, respectable belief that faith is something you consume rather than something you carry.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer had a name for it. He called it cheap grace. "Cheap grace," he wrote, "is the grace we bestow on ourselves … grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ." It is grace as a service you attend, grace with no summons attached, grace you can sit inside of and never be changed by. Against that heresy, against that comfortable, safe, spectator faith, the whole witness of Scripture rises up and says: no.

Look at the word Paul uses for you. "The saints." Hoi hagioi — the holy ones. And here is the good news buried in that word: you are not holy because of the work you do. You will never do enough work to become holy. You are holy because you have been made holy — set apart, washed, claimed — in the redemption of Christ’s cross. Your holiness is not your achievement; it is Christ's gift. Peter says it plainly: you are "a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God's own people." A priesthood — all of you. Not because you earned the collar, but because Christ tore the curtain. So when I call you a saint this morning, I am not flattering you and I am not burdening you. I am telling you your name. The one God already gave you.

 

Now hear me, because this can start to sound like a guilt trip and it is not. I am not asking you to become something you are not. I am asking you to own what you already are, and to let it be redefined. And I know that word can sting. So many of you have been “redefined” by a system that never asked — restructured, downsized, quietly shown the door. And when that happens, you feel it: lost, cast aside, no longer valuable, waiting for some new role, a new job, a new title to tell you who you are again. I am not going to stand up here and pretend that struggle isn’t real; it is real, and for some of you it is raw right now. But hear me: God’s redefining runs deeper than any of that. It does not wait on a title the world hands out. It names something about you that has already been claimed and honored by God — that you are a minister, that you are a saint, that your one ordinary life is already woven into the holy work of God. That is the kind of redefining that heals. And it invites you to stop living beneath your own name.

Because all of this equipping, Paul says, is "for building up the body of Christ." The body of Christ. Stop there with me. Now, I know exactly where your mind just went. The moment a preacher says "the body of Christ," every good churchgoer's brain jumps to the same passage — Paul's other letter, the one about the one body with many parts. You know the scene. Christ is the head, and the rest of us are the assorted body parts, and everyone's having a little argument.

The hand turns to the mouth and sniffs, "I don't need you." The foot is sulking in the corner, jealous of the eyes — because eyes sit up there in a place of honor and the foot spends its whole life down in the dirt, in the sock, in the shoe nobody wants to smell. The nose is having an existential crisis about whether it even counts because it's not an eye. It's a wonderful passage, and it's a little bit of a family squabble, and every one of us has been every one of those body parts. Some of us are the eyes on our good days and the foot on our worst. But hold that picture loosely for a second, because I don't want us to stop at the anatomy lesson.

What kind of body do you picture when you hear "the body of Christ"? It is not the glorious, weightless body of some ancestral heavenly being, floating serene above our troubles. And it is not merely our own ordinary body, fragile and failing and afraid. When I hear "the body of Christ," I think of the resurrected body. The body that went down into the cruelest, deadliest battle in human history, and came back. The body that conquered death itself.

And here is the thing I cannot get past: that resurrected body still carried its wounds. Christ rose, and he rose scarred. He kept the holes in his hands, the wound in his side. But listen, after the resurrection those scars mean something entirely new. They are no longer the receipt of an unjust system that tortured him. They are now the proof that the body survived; and Jesus holds them out to Thomas, the doubter, and says, "Put your finger here. Reach out your hand. Do not doubt, but believe." That is the body we are being built into. A body that carries its wounds without shame, and offers them to the doubting world as the very evidence that love outlasts death.

Which brings me to Isaiah, and to the most important thing I will say all morning about how any of us ends up doing the work of God. Isaiah is in the temple, and the whole place shakes with glory, and his first honest response is not "send me." It is despair. "Woe is me! I am lost. For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips." He knows he is not qualified. He knows the people around him are not qualified. And notice what God does not do. God does not say, "You're right, clean yourself up and come back when you're ready." No. One of the seraphs takes a live coal from the altar and touches it to Isaiah's mouth and says, "Your guilt has departed; your sin is blotted out." And only then, only after the cleansing, only after the grace, only after he is justified by a fire he did not light, then comes the question: "Whom shall I send?" And now Isaiah can answer: "Here am I. Send me."

Do you see the order? The commissioning did not come before the cleansing. Grace came first. You are not sent because you are qualified. You are sent because you have been called. And that means ministry is not a plan to you have to figure out; Ministry is presence. It is a cleansed and willing person saying, "Here I am." That's all. Here I am.

So let me talk about our body. About Foundry. We began this whole sermon series by saying: we know who we are. And to know who we are, we have to tell the truth about our whole body — the parts that make us proud and the parts we are still learning to confess. This is a body with a painful history of segregation. A body that shut down the ministers because of their skin color, a body that showed contempt when others demanded a seat on our table. And it is also a body embracing radical hospitality; it’s also a people who have planted gardens whose harvest they would never live to see, who practiced a sacred resistance rooted not in rage but in grace and in hope. Some of our story makes us proud. Some of our story we are still trying to admit out loud, still seeking reconciliation for.

There is the courage of public witness in this body, and there is the fatigue of fighting battles that never seem to end. And here is the gospel: all of it — the pride and the shame, the courage and the exhaustion, the scars and the survival — all of it is the body of Foundry. A scarred body. A resurrected body. Being built, Paul says, "until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ."

Now indulge me one moment, because my name has something to say here. In Chinese character, Yong means to melt and Chi means wisdom. So my name, "Yongchi" carries the sense of melting everything down and turning it into wisdom. And I stand in a church called Foundry. A foundry, you know, is the place where metal is thrown into the fire, melted past all its old shapes, and poured into a mold to be made into something useful. Friends, I don't think that's an accident. This is what God is doing to us. We are melted down by the fire of the Holy Spirit. We are cleansed by the same burning coal that touched Isaiah's lips. And then we are molded — poured, shaped, set — and equipped. Equipped to be the ministers for the holy work of the kindom of God. That is what a foundry is for. Not to admire the fire, but to throw ourselves into the fire, and to be made into something that gets used.

And what does the maker say when the tool is finally ready? He says: go. The last word of Jesus was not "stay," or “remember me”.  It was "go into all the world." But hear me: I am not sending you off to some far mission field across an ocean. You are not being voluntold to fill a gap because the pastors are simply too busy. No. Go where you are supposed to go. Go to your home. Go to your family, Go to your friends. Go to your workplace on Monday morning. Go to your support group, because they need to see you and you need to see them — both of you still refusing to give up. Go but with your role redefined by the mission of God. Go and preach — with your words, with your life. Go visit someone who is frightened and alone. Go to your city – and serve not the anxious little kingdoms of status and fear — but serve your Lord. The One who first cleansed your unclean lips, and anointed them, and then turned to you and asked, "Whom shall I send?"

So here is my invitation and what I am asking. Not a volunteer slip. Not a program. Not a signature. Something braver: I am going to ask you to name, out loud or with your body, where God has sent you. However you can — stand up if you’re able, or raise your hand, or simply call it out from where you sit. Just a word. Just the name of the place your feet already carry the gospel.

But before I give it, I need to say two things gently, because I know both are in this room. The first is for anyone who is visiting today, or still just getting to know Foundry. You may not have a ministry to name yet — you haven’t plugged in anywhere, and that is completely fine. You do not have to stand, you do not have to prove you’re ready, and no one is counting. Just be encouraged: God already calls you part of the body of Christ, exactly as you are this morning, before you’ve signed up for a single thing.

And the second is for anyone for whom this next moment may feel like an altar call — because for some of you, an altar call is not a warm memory. Maybe you were called forward once by a church that used the moment to shame you, to pressure you, to tell you that you were not enough or did not belong. Maybe the church is the very place you were wounded. If that is you, I will not pretend the wound isn’t real. But remember the body we are being built into — the resurrected Christ, who did not hide his scars but held them out: “put your finger here.” We are a body that carries its wounds without shame. Your wound from the church is not a disqualification; in the risen body it can become the very proof that you survived and still came back to God. You do not have to be unscarred to be sent. You only have to be here.

So don’t be shy. When the Spirit nudges you, name it — get on your feet, or lift your hand, or call it out from your seat. Prayer team. Stephen Ministry. ID Ministry. Welcome and greeting. Children’s ministry. Family ministry. Discipleship Ministry. Small-group teaching. The LGBTQ+ community. Social and Racial Justice ministry. Music. The altar and worship. The board and the business of this church. Books to Prison. Hospitality. Whatever it is, whoever you are — don’t keep it to yourself. Name it, because the body needs to see itself, and the body needs to hear its own members say, out loud: here am I.

Because you are not a consumer of grace. You are a carrier of it. So make your song louder. Make your community visible. Make your story heard. Let your prayer be lifted. Be loud. Be joyful. Be courageous. Be bold. Be loved — and love God and love your neighbor — all of it for the glory of the God who has already called you a holy one, and who is asking you, right now, in this room: whom shall I send? And your answer? Here I am. Send me.

We are the church. Now Here we are. Let's go.

Amen.