Readings for Pentecost 24

Image and Poem of the Week

This week, two very different works found their way onto my radar screen and seemed to belong together: W.H. Auden’s poem and Joseph Noël Paton’s 1861 painting Luther at Erfurt. Both capture a man caught in the midst of profound spiritual struggle. As we continue exploring Luther’s legacy, I am reminded that the Reformer was not simply a theologian or church leader, but a person who spent much of his life wrestling with questions of sin, grace, judgment, and faith. Paton’s painting portrays a young Luther at a decisive moment of crisis and contemplation, while Auden’s wartime poem probes the inner conflicts and anxieties that haunt the human spirit. Though separated by centuries and created in very different contexts, the two works speak to the same enduring reality: the struggle to find meaning, certainty, and hope amid life’s deepest uncertainties. Auden’s poem, written during the turmoil of World War II, especially stopped me in my tracks, and I find myself still wrestling with its final line, highlighted below, which seems to linger as both a question and a challenge.

Five-Minute Homily: Pentecost 24

Title: Living Between Promise and Mystery

My father was a gracious individual but could be blunt at times. Just days before his death in 2013, I asked him if he expected to see Cathy (his wife of 64 years who died 7 months ahead of him) when he died. It wasn’t unusual for me to ask such questions of him, since we often talked theology. My question was prompted, in part, by the comments people make when a loved one journeys on, and especially the notion that they have now joined their departed loved ones in heaven. In clear language, Unk (my father) responded to me by asserting that “that’s not what our theology tells us — those that have gone before us are at rest and will rise when Christ returns.” I recall being a bit taken aback by his comments and asked him if that is what he truly believed — it seemed less than comforting. Then he winked at me and said, “you know, sometimes we tell ourselves things just to feel better, but death remains a great mystery.” It was a conversation I never forgot.

So what are we to make of Christ’s return? Paul’s words in 1 Thessalonians help, but only when we read them in context. Most scholars consider 1 Thessalonians the oldest book in the New Testament, written around twenty years after Jesus’ crucifixion. During his second missionary journey, Paul traveled to the Macedonian city of Thessalonica. Later, he and his companions, Silvanus and Timothy, wrote to encourage the young Christian community and address questions that had arisen since their visit. One concern stood above the rest: What happens to believers who die before Christ returns? Paul assures them that they have nothing to fear. Those who have died in Christ will share fully in God’s promised future. When Christ returns, the dead will be raised, the living will join them, and all will be with the Lord forever. His purpose is not to satisfy curiosity about the end times but to comfort anxious believers with hope.

Three observations are worth noting. First, the death and resurrection of Jesus have challenged believers from the beginning. In the early centuries of the church, some groups, known as Docetists, argued that Jesus only seemed to suffer and die because divinity could not truly endure human weakness. The Apostles’ Creed emerged, in part, as a response to such claims, affirming that Jesus was fully human and fully divine, that he truly suffered, died, and rose again. Second, Paul appears to expect Christ’s return within his own lifetime. Many first-generation Christians shared that expectation. Some who heard Paul’s words may even have witnessed Jesus’ crucifixion or encountered the risen Christ. The return of Christ was not a distant doctrine to them. It was an imminent hope.

Third, perhaps one reason Lutherans spend relatively little time speculating about the Second Coming is that Scripture itself cautions us against prediction. Jesus says plainly, “About that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father” (Matthew 24:36). Luther himself remained skeptical of elaborate end-times speculation. Rather than calculating dates, he directed believers back to Christ’s promises. And that may be the heart of the matter. The Christian faith does not remove every mystery surrounding death. It never has. Yet it gives us a promise: Christ died, Christ rose, and Christ will come again. That promise does not invite us to withdraw from the world while we await heaven. It calls us to live faithfully here and now.

Barbara Rossing expresses it beautifully. The first Christians believed they lived on the edge of history, yet they responded not with fear but with love. They worshiped, cared for the poor, welcomed strangers, visited prisoners, shared meals, and built communities shaped by hope. Their expectation of Christ’s coming moved them deeper into the world, not away from it. The same is true for us. To await Christ’s return is not to stare at the sky. It is to love our neighbors, seek justice, extend mercy, and pray with confidence: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” God’s future belongs to God. Our calling is to live the Gospel today.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Musical Reflection: “Take Me Out to the Ballgame“

You may think it odd that I’m highlighting this song in this space, but let me explain. Beyond the fact that I have been a passionate baseball fan for more than sixty years — and that the Milwaukee Brewers are now World Champs — there is some great history connected to this familiar song.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, many Protestant Christians were rethinking the place of recreation in American life. While churches continued to stress moral discipline and personal responsibility, organizations such as the YMCA increasingly promoted athletics and leisure activities as positive forces for building character, strengthening community, and improving physical health. Baseball came to embody these ideals, earning a reputation as a wholesome pastime that families could enjoy together. It was in this setting that lyricist Jack Norworth and composer Albert Von Tilzer wrote “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” in 1908. What makes the song especially interesting is that its central character is not a young man but Katie Casey, a young woman whose passion for baseball outweighs any interest in the theater or other conventional entertainments. At a time when public sporting culture was still largely shaped by men, Katie’s enthusiasm reflected the growing popularity of baseball among women and suggested broader changes taking place in American society. More than a catchy tune, the song captures a moment when recreation was increasingly viewed, even by many Protestant Christians, as a worthwhile and community-building part of a well-lived life.

The version offered here comes from jazz pianist Larry Goldings and captures that sense of joy derived from the great game of baseball. We, of course, only sing the chorus, but I included the original lyrics here. Relax and enjoy.

Who Are We Commemorating This Week?

Note: The ELCA commemorates a wide range of Christians throughout the year as a way of remembering that God has worked through ordinary people in every age. These commemorations — drawn from Scripture, the early church, the Reformation, and more recent history — invite us to see faith lived out in many different vocations and cultures. They aren’t about elevating “heroes,” but about widening our sense of the communion of saints and letting their witness encourage our own. In marking these days, the church pauses to give thanks, to learn, and to be reminded that the Holy Spirit continues to shape faithful lives in every generation.

You will find the full listing of them in the front of the ELW.

Going Beyond