Today’s post is by the Rev. Anne Edison-Albright, College Pastor at Luther College in Decorah, Iowa.

My daughter, Sally, is four years old, and very interested in and concerned about Jesus’ death. At her favorite museum there’s a large crucifix and a painting that includes the image of Jesus on the cross. Sally is drawn to this room in the museum, and, on a recent visit there, she pointed to these images and solemnly announced: “Look. God died.”

Photo credit Jane Clare. Luther College prayer chapel crucifix

There’s a big part of me that wanted to rush right in with Easter assurances. OK, let’s be real, I did rush in with those assurances. She put her little hand up to stop me. She wanted to be in that moment, surrounded by artwork that revealed one of the most profound incarnational truths of our faith. She didn’t want to be rushed.

There’s a no-rush approach to understanding how kids handle difficult feelings or ideas called The Train Analogy. The difficult feeling or situation is a tunnel, and the child is a train going through the tunnel. Well-meaning adults often want to pull an emergency switch to get the child out of the tunnel faster, but the tunnel is the length that the tunnel is. The adult’s role is to ride through the tunnel with the child, however long it lasts.

The experience of worship on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and the Easter Vigil is, in many ways, a tunnel we ride through together. It is a shared experience of Jesus’ loving final acts, his death, and his resurrection. The services are designed to be one liturgy, best experienced together, coming back again night after night. It’s an unusual pattern for us—“See you tomorrow night!”—always feels a bit weird and wonderful: when else would we set aside this kind of time for each other as the Body of Christ, for worship, for prayer, for singing and hearing the story of God? Encourage your congregation to ride through Holy Week together. The tunnel is as long as it is—there’s no rush!

Photo credit: Paul Edison-Swift. Pastor Annie and Sally

Today’s post is by Shane R. Brinegar, a PhD candidate at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago.

The church is not a building or a complicated bureaucratic structure, but an embodied community gathered around bread, water, wine and word—signs that bear the presence of the crucified and risen Christ for the life of the local assembly in that place and for the life of the world. Much ecumenical worship renewal in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries has been sparked by the writings of the Second Vatican Council (1962-65), particularly as expressed in the Constitution of the Sacred Liturgy: “Christ is always present in His Church, especially in her liturgical celebrations… when the Church prays and sings, for He promised: “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Matt. 18:20) (SC 7). We believe that in word and sacrament, Christ is surely present among us.

This gathered body that is broken and has been redeemed is called to be a broken sign of the in- breaking of God’s presence in our midst. All of those gathered in the assembly testify to this presence, but especially those who are on its margins— the disabled and those who experience otherness and alienation of any kind— because the crucified and risen One whom we encounter disrupts the structures of power and greatness in our midst having himself experienced the ultimate alienation on the cross. Just as the Savior appeared under the form of the opposite as a suffering servant, the assembly that bears the mark of his cross is called to reveal his presence in the places we least expect.

What does that real, broken presence of Christ mean for how we welcome all to worship? First, we might continue to think critically about how the construction of our liturgical celebrations invites or dis-invites those who are disabled into “full, active, conscious participation in the liturgy.” For example, what does it mean to say that the whole assembly is a sign of Christ’s presence when those with physical disabilities cannot get to the place of communion distribution because of the way our spaces are constructed? I have experienced this first hand and spent a great deal of my life “on the back pew” because that is how the presider knew who needed communion brought to them instead of them being able to come forward. Congregations that are designing or redesigning worship spaces can be particularly attentive to how their space communicates welcome, but congregations wisely pay careful attention to all the ways in which they are embodying Christ’s presence to worshippers of all abilities.

(For more suggestions of resources on welcome, see the  FAQs, How can our worship services be more welcoming to people with disabilities? and How can we make our worship space accessible?).

Today’s post is by Tim Knauff, Jr., Senior Pastor of Christ Lutheran Church, Valparaiso, Indiana.

By now you’ve probably been asked, half-jokingly, if you will be celebrating Ash Wednesday or Valentine’s Day on the 14^th.  For me it was my 7^th grade Confirmation students who were appalled when I said we would be observing Ash Wednesday. “How can you not preach on love?” they demanded.

When church moments coincide with cultural events (think Superbowl, Mother’s Day) it is an opportunity for reflection on our relationship with contemporary culture. How we think of that relationship matters quite a lot, as H. Richard Niebuhr challenged us almost seventy years ago. Is our mission to be ecclesial blessors of society, faithful resistors, transformative agents, a cloistered remnant, along for the ride? Do “secular” events belong in our worship space – to blend, to bend, to bless, to transform, to mock, to ignore?

In the case of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday, the differences might seem stark. Candy hearts and pink cards seem a far cry from smudged ashes and the discipline of repentance. Our first instinct might be to keep them separate, to not even acknowledge Valentine’s Day. Or, maybe our first instinct would go the other way, to let Valentine’s Day hijack our observation with a pink bulletin cover and smudging a heart instead of a cross. Are there ways they can inform, interweave, transform, and teach? Or is to ignore or capitulate the only options?

I don’t think my Confirmation student’s argument, that love equals love and “how can you not preach on love?” is a sufficient connection. Perhaps we might explore the ways Ash Wednesday fulfills Valentine’s Day by teaching us how to love. There’s no question that “love” is a compelling topic: according to a National Retail Federation and Prosper Insights & Analytics survey, this year Americans expect to spend an average of $143.56 each on Valentine’s Day; total spending is expected to reach $19.6 billion. We as the Church might ask – and help our culture to consider – what it means to “love”?

There are obvious textual connections: “Return to me with all your heart,” the Lord implores in Joel. “Where you treasure is, there your heart will be also,” Jesus reminds us. Both texts really answer the question, “How shall we love the Lord with all our hearts?” In Joel it’s through repentance, return, remorse; in Matthew it’s the classic disciplines of almsgiving, fasting, prayer.  Joel and the alternate reading in Isaiah remind us none of this is to manipulate God, just as flowers etc. aren’t (shouldn’t be?) meant to manipulate a beloved. Rather, the discipline itself changes and forms us.

Perhaps we might focus on that closing verse of Matthew: “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” In the context of Valentine’s Day, that could help us consider how to keep and create healthy relationships. As Luther reminded us, “Anything on which your heart relies and depends, I say, that is really your God.” (“The Large Catechism,” The Book of Concord, ed. Kolb & Wengert 2000, p. 386). Even a good thing, like being in love, carries peril.

Or perhaps we might use those texts to remind ourselves that in order to love, it is necessary to know who we are; Joel and Isaiah call us to the hard work of knowing who we are not, that important step towards knowing who we are. As we consider healthy Christian community, we can follow Bonhoeffer and remember that we belong to each other only through and in Jesus Christ (Life Together).

There are probably as many ways to explore this interesting intersection as there are worshipping communities. Thinking together about that intersection – how do we relate to our surrounding culture? – matters, because it is a chance to reflect on Jesus’ mission entrusted to us. As we follow him who loved the world so much – how shall we love it too?  It seems to me a chocolate heart just isn’t quite enough.

We are called to ponder mystery and await the coming Christ, to embody God’s compassion for each fragile human life. God is with us in our longing to bring healing to the earth, while we watch with joy and wonder for the promised Savior’s birth.

                                                                                         (Unexpected and Mysterious, ELW #258 v.3)

Through our Advent waiting to our Christmas jubilation, may we, indeed, embody God’s compassion for each fragile human life and healing to this earth that we call home.

We wish each of you a blessed Christmas and a new year filled with hope.

The ELCA Worship staff

~Kevin, Jennifer, John and BethAnn

Today’s post is from Patrick Cabello Hansel, co-pastor at St. Paul’s Lutheran in Minneapolis, MN.

The first Baby Jesus at our church is now 11 years old.  He’s the goalie on our soccer team, which finished runner-up this year.  The year he was baby Jesus, his mom and dad were Maria y José (Mary and Joseph), and his six-year-old sister was an angel.  The now not-so-little boy was born here and holds the rights of U.S. citizenship. The rest of his family members are immigrants, who have not always found the welcome they came looking for.

La Posada is a traditional Mexican and Central American Christmas procession, in which the congregation walks with María and José looking for Posada, or shelter for the baby Jesus.  People walk from house to house singing Christmas carols, often carrying candles.  José sings a song at each house they stop at.  The English version goes something like this:

Lodging, I beg you, in the name of heaven.

My beloved wife is weary, she can’t walk anymore.

We line up the houses ahead of time, and the people who meet us at the door are coached to be mean innkeepers.  They sing back to the congregation something like this:

We don’t take people like you, you’re too poor.

Leave us alone, go away!

So the pilgrims continue walking. Depending on the weather, we visit a few more houses, then end up back at the church, where this time, the pilgrims are welcomed in. We sing carols in candlelight, then onto the fiesta: food, music, piñata.

No matter the cold, there is joy in walking outside in a winter night. There is mystery, there is danger, there is hope that someone will welcome us.

Today, there are more refugees in the world than any time since World War II, and immigrants are demonized across our land.  What if each of those families was Mary and Joseph?  What if each of those children was the Holy Child, the one bringing peace? What if each of us was the shelter, the posada?