A Preacher's Guide to Lectionary Sermon Series - Volume 1: Thematic Plans for Years A, B, and C

By Amy K Butler

Preachers get the best of lectionary and topical series preaching with this comprehensive manual of sermon series ideas based on the Revised Common Lectionary. Designed to frame consecutive weeks of lectionary texts into seasonal and short-term series, a diverse group of twelve preachers outline multiple thematic series plans for each lectionary year. Each series plan provides a series overview, chart that outlines each segment of the series, tips and ideas, scriptural references, and a brief sermon starter. The series honors holy days and seasons and responds to typical patterns of church attendance, maximizing visitor retention and member engagement. Pastors can honor their commitment to lectionary preaching while taking advantage of the benefits series preaching can offer with this truly unique resource.

Contributors include:

• Theresa Cho, Pastor of St. John's Presbyterian Church, San Francisco, California
• Bob Dannals, Rector of St. Michael's and All Angels Episcopal Church, Dallas, Texas
• Magrey R. DeVega, Pastor of Hyde Park United Methodist Church, Tampa, Florida
• Brian Erickson, Pastor of Trinity United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Alabama
• Mihee Kim-Kort, Presbyterian Minister and Campus Ministry Leader at University of Indiana, Bloomington, Indiana
• Jessica LaGrone, Dean of Chapel at Asbury Theological Seminary, Wilmore, Kentucky
• Cleophus J. LaRue, Professor of Homiletics, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey
• Jacqueline J. Lewis, Senior Minister, Middle Collegiate Church, New York City, New York
• Katherine Willis Pershey, Pastor of First Congregational Church, Western Springs, Illinois
• Paul Rock, Pastor of Second Presbyterian Church, Kansas City, Kansas
• Martin Thielen, Pastor of First United Methodist Church, Cookeville, Tennessee
• Winnie Varghese, Priest and Director of Community Outreach at Trinity Wall Street, New York, New York

• Language: English
• Publisher: Westminster John Knox Press
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781611646658

Book preview

Year A

Advent/Christmas Series: A Geography of Salvation

Six Parts: First Sunday of Advent through First Sunday of Christmas, including Christmas Eve

The path to Bethlehem with landmarks from the book of Isaiah.

KATHERINE WILLIS PERSHEY

Advent 1: A Pending Invitation

Isaiah 2:1–5; Romans 13:11–14

In days to come the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it. Many peoples shall come and say, Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths. (Isaiah 2:2–3a)

As we enter the season of Advent—a time of preparation and anticipation for the coming of Christ—Isaiah reminds us that our excitement is well founded. God will go to extraordinary lengths to dismantle and repair God's broken creation. It is good to recall the breadth and depth and—particularly in this week's reading from the Hebrew Bible—the height of what we are called to await.

The invitation is in the mail, so to speak. The word is out; construction has begun. God is establishing a house on a hilltop, a mountaintop villa with a view to die for (spoiler alert!). The good news is that there's going to be a housewarming party, and we're invited—or, at least, we will be. This passage from Isaiah is one of those classic already but not yet theological scenarios. The house of the Lord—the place where God's kingdom is fully realized—is described in lush detail, in a tone of certainty. These promises will be fulfilled. God will reign over a peaceable realm bereft of warfare and gilded with righteousness.

Our Advent invitation—our Advent dare—is to look toward that realm with joyful expectancy. However, one thing is abundantly clear: we are not yet on God's holy mountain. Rather, we are in a spiritual diaspora. Some of us are stuck in deep valleys of sorrow and loss; others wend their way along windy paths beset by anxiety for the unknown ahead. Some of us are lost and know it; others walk in circles without ever realizing that we aren't going anywhere we haven't already been. No matter where we find ourselves, it is easy to give up hope. We can be so focused on our immediate surroundings that we lose sight of the promised land. Yet Paul writes that salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers. This is true for us no matter where we are.

Although the invitation to celebrate the establishment of the house of the Lord has not yet been issued, another invitation has: O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the LORD! No matter where we are on our journeys, our feet can trod in the light of the Lord. The light of the Lord falls anywhere and everywhere. The armor of light of which Paul speaks is ours to take upon our shoulders. We don't have to be anywhere special or holy; with God illuminating our way, every place is special. Every place is holy.

Advent 2: A Tangible Hope

Isaiah 11:1–10; Romans 15:4–13

A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. (Isaiah 11:1–2)

Isaiah's remarkable litany of promises begins humbly. Look at the ground, he seems to say—for where else would we find a stump? A stump presumed dead but impossibly bursting with new life? Look down at the ground—but know that the ground beneath our feet in this passage is God's holy mountain, a realm of peace and justice that is dependent on the advent of a leader. Isaiah's portrayal of this leader born of David's lineage explains why it is reasonable to hope: the very Spirit of God rests on his shoulders. He is infused with God's own understanding, counsel, and might. He does not lead with the faltering, fallible wisdom of an ordinary man. He embodies and brings about divine justice. Under his watch, the poor and meek are lifted up. There is no room for evil and oppression; on this mountain, even the predators are peaceable.

Isaiah paints an idyllic picture, but it is no mere fantasy. This is not about pie in the sky, a vision of some otherworldly realm. This is about the redemption of creation. This is about the earth that is beneath our feet even now, an earth that will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea. A remarkable thought in a world that often seems to be drowning in something more like ignorance of God's peaceable ways.

This Scripture belongs first to the Jewish people. In a sermon on the text, Rabbi Margaret Wenig identified places where God fulfilled this promise in Jewish history. One of her stories is especially moving. She tells of a group of Austrian Jews who had survived the horrors of the concentration camp in Buchenwald. While they were imprisoned in that living hell, they dreamed of settling in Palestine and starting a kibbutz, a religious commune centered on farming, family, and worship. And they did. They founded a peaceful community that still exists, sustaining yet another generation of families that might not have been. The name of the kibbutz is Netzer, which means twig—as in A twig shall sprout from the stump of Jesse. Their life is a witness to Isaiah's prophecy, a sign of God's faithfulness to his promises.

Signposts pointing to transformation are sprouting up like—well, like shoots from the stump of Jesse. As we await the advent of God's peaceable kingdom, we can find and nurture the twigs of promise God brings forth every day. Perhaps the wolf does not yet lie down with the lamb, but glimmers of peace do surface, even in the midst of danger and despair. Sometimes irreconcilable relationships are reconciled. Sometimes unforgivable sinners are transformed by grace. Sometimes survivors thrive in new life beyond the pain of the past. In these times, God's kingdom breaks into the present, revealing blessed glimpses of the glory yet to come. Our task is to trust that through the Holy Spirit these sacred shoots will arise and to give God thanks and praise for every sign of healing, every signal of hope, every gesture of peace.

Advent 3: A Desert in Bloom

Isaiah 35:1–10; James 5:7–10

A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God's people; no traveler, not even fools, shall go astray. No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. (Isaiah 35:8–9)

I'll never forget the first time I experienced the desert. I was on a church camping trip in Anza Borrego State Park. The views were breathtaking, but I can't quite say it was beautiful. It was certainly unlike any place I had ever encountered. I grew up with deciduous trees and meadows strewn with dandelions; I had no frame of reference for the vast, expansive, seemingly lifeless badlands east of San Diego. The scenery unnerved me so deeply I learned a new appreciation for the biblical wilderness narratives. Wandering out there for forty days—let alone forty years!—is utterly unthinkable to me.

I confessed to a native Californian on the trip that Anza Borrego made me desperately homesick for the Midwest. She told me that I should refrain from passing judgment on the desert until I'd seen it after rain showers had coaxed it into full bloom. I couldn't begin to imagine what she described to me—fields of purple wildflowers, cactuses crowned with blossoms of gold. I still haven't seen the desert in bloom in person, and if it weren't for the magic of Google Images, I still might not believe that such a parched landscape could really erupt into a brilliant display of life. But it does.

As we ponder the places of Advent, we find ourselves in a desert that should be arid yet is bursting with verdant joy, as though the arms of the saguaros are raised in worship and thanksgiving. The implausibility of streams in the desert and the absurdity of burning sand cooled by pools of life-giving water—this is the wild promise of redemption. And a rejoicing desert is only one of a whole host of impossible promises that will be fulfilled: the blind ones see, the deaf ones hear, the lame ones dance, the silent ones speak.

This is not a stationary celebration. As Isaiah says, there shall be a highway there in the blooming desert. Not a path; a highway. Just as my time in California gave me a notion of deserts as bleak and unforgiving places, life in Los Angeles County also gave me some particular ideas about highways. (A seminary professor claimed that there was always a couch somewhere on the Santa Monica Freeway.) But this is unlike any highway we've ever driven. This is the Holy Way. This is a parade route of praise, upon which the redeemed joyfully travel to our final destination. This is a safe road; you can't get lost again, once you have joined the procession to Zion.

Advent isn't only about God's movement toward us, like a heavensent rain that can make even the bleakest landscape blossom. Advent is also about our movement toward God. When you find the Holy Way, start walking and keep walking, trusting that the pathway that has been carved for you will take you where need to go.

Advent 4: Somewhere between Heaven and Hell

Isaiah 7:10–16; Romans 1:1–7

Again the LORD spoke to Ahaz, saying, Ask a sign of the LORD your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven. But Ahaz said, I will not ask, and I will not put the Lord to the test. Then Isaiah said: "Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel. (Isaiah 7:10–14)

God offers another sign. The sign can be as deep as Sheol or as high as heaven—unimaginable places, really, for a human being who is situated smack dab in the middle of the biblical three-story universe. One is higher than we could hope to reach; the other, lower than we'd ever dare to venture. At first Ahaz demurs. God insists. God makes a promise that reverberates with meaning—not only for the Hebrew people but also for the Christians who have, for millennia, reinterpreted these words to refer directly to the birth of the Christ child.

Like the shoot from a dry stump and the blossoming of a desert, God says through Isaiah that a young (perhaps unwed, perhaps unprepared) woman will bear a child. And so it is that the sign ends up inhabiting neither the heavenly sphere nor the realm of Sheol. The sign lands in a place somewhere between heaven and hell, a place that is, like the human being, smack dab in the middle: here. Or more precisely, in Bethlehem—as Christians tell the story.

A few years ago, the leaders of a small congregation prayed their way into a serious question: Where would the Christ child be born today? They recognized that the nativity of Christ emerged from a scene of desolation. So when they set out to build a nativity scene to inhabit the nave of their sanctuary, they borrowed imagery from the newspaper. They constructed a shanty covered with a blue tarp and surrounded it with rubble: cinderblocks, an abandoned shopping cart, empty cans, sleeping bags. Their Advent wreath was an upturned oil drum, on which the candles of hope and peace and joy and love smoldered.

That scene was painful, not pretty. It preached a powerful message that our carols have long proclaimed: the Christ child was born to ransom captive Israel; with the poor, the scorned, the lowly, lived on earth our Savior holy. The hopes and fears met by the Christ child were on display, a silent witness to the depth of our need for the God who saves us by being with us.

My friend who served that congregation confessed that the crèche challenged her to keep her eyes open to God's beloved world. Not all of the members of her church responded that way. Many worshipers didn't want to be confronted by the same pain that was relentlessly broadcast on the news when they gathered to praise God.

My friend is a great pastor who cared deeply about the members of her flock. The nativity scene was meant to be a testimony to how Christ is born to save a suffering world, not to be a cause of suffering. Yet even as she recognized that her people needed comfort, she lamented: Even if we do clean up the sanctuary, the world remains broken.

The church found a way to rejoice on Christmas Eve. Some of the symbols were taken away, and the light of Christ filled the space they left behind. But that challenging nativity scene was deconstructed because human beings couldn't bear it, not because God couldn't bear it. The hope of the original nativity in Bethlehem, and the hope of every other nook and cranny in creation, is that God can and does bear our suffering.

God can and does show up, in this world somewhere between heaven and hell.

Christmas Eve: A Feast of Light

Isaiah 9:2–7; Luke 2:1–14, (15–20)

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. (Isaiah 9:2–3)

Christmastime is a delight for the senses. There are the sounds of children giggling as they shred the paper that stands between them and the package from Grandma. There are the jangling bells, the sticky peppermint canes, the itchy warmth of new socks. Christmastime is a feast of rejoicing, a banquet of good cheer that rends the dreariness of the darkest nights of the year.

In the midst of this, there is a child. The child is born into painfully spare circumstances, into the darkest of all nights. The delicate membrane that segregates heaven from earth is torn asunder, pierced by an infant's cry.

The angels are singing, reminding us that this baby is God's response to our hope, that this is the child promised to frustrate the darkness with divine light. The shepherds are on their way, sprinting toward the star. The angels convert their terror into jubilation, with a message of good news that never fails to quicken the pulse of believers: this child is God enfleshed, the Holy of Holies born as a human child. The Prince of Peace, born in a land at war. The only hope for a hopeless people.

We cannot forget why God transgressed the boundary between heaven and earth to show up in the person of Jesus. God loves us so ardently that God startles the universe by showing up cradled in a feeding trough.

We know that the work begun in that manger is not yet complete. Christmas is, for the time being, a feast of light juxtaposed with darkness. We brighten our sanctuaries with candles, but the night persists beyond these walls. Though we wipe our tears away to join in the yuletide celebration, we are still a people who mourn. Though we have seen the light of God's love and been utterly transformed by it, we are still a people who walk in darkness. Heaven and nature sing, but God's beloved creation is still ravaged by violence and death.

Mary has suffered her last contractions and rallied for one final push, but the final cadence of our redemption has not yet been delivered. The Son of God came to earth, preaching of an everlasting kingdom, and all creation is still groaning in labor for the nativity of that peaceable realm. The promise of incarnation—the gift of Christmas—is the assurance that, soon and very soon, God's will shall be done on earth as it is done in heaven.

Our Christmas merriment—with all its joyful visions and melodies and aromas—is but a hint of the feast we will experience.

Christmas 1: When God Walks the Earth

Isaiah 63:7–9; Matthew 2:13–23

I will recount the gracious deeds of the LORD, the praiseworthy acts of the LORD, because of all that the LORD, has done for us, and the great favor to the house of Israel that he has shown them according to his mercy, according to the abundance of his steadfast love. For he said, Surely they are my people, children who will not deal falsely; and he became their savior in all their distress. It was no messenger or angel but his presence that saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old. (Isaiah 63:7–9)

It is tempting to steer a wide course around the Gospel for the first Sunday of Christmas in the Year A lectionary cycle. The sanctuary is still decked out with Christmas finery, and the relatives haven't yet departed for home. People come to church hoping for a little more holiday joy, perhaps even to sing their favorite carols one more time. Or they don't come to church at all—the Sunday after Christmas being one of the more lightly attended days of the year. So it is the few and faithful who are called to worship, and their fidelity is rewarded with a profoundly disheartening and disturbing story.

As we've explored the geography of salvation—with terrain such as God's holy mountain, a highway to Zion that cuts through a desert florid with new life, and the city of Bethlehem—we've dared to hope that the advent of Christ will bring not only joy but safety. Protection—even peace. So, as we face the unthinkable turn of events that unfolded immediately following the nativity of our Lord, we might feel every bit as tricked as Herod. Was all that joyful anticipation for naught? How else can we reconcile that the birth of Jesus was immediately followed by the fulfilment of a grisly, terrible biblical prophecy: a mother weeping for her lost children in Ramah.

More than any other text in this series, this passage is filled with places—places with profound significance. Ramah. Egypt. Bethlehem. Israel. Judea. Nazareth. We need a geography lesson, a well-drawn map, and a refresher in biblical history to keep up.

This is what happens when God becomes human. This is what happens when God walks the earth—or, as is the case in this story, when God is wrapped in swaddling blankets and smuggled off to the relative safety of Egypt by his frantic, desperate parents. This is not merely about prophecies fulfilled; this is about feet treading—and blood spilling—in particular places.

The horror of the slaughter of the innocents is not to be taken lightly. Our bewilderment at the swell of violence that follows the birth of Christ is not to be shrugged off. The maternal cry that reverberates through the streets of Ramah is agonizing to hear. In Christ we don't find a God who is strong enough to overthrow powers and principalities by force. In Christ we find a God who is strong enough to practice radical solidarity. In Christ, God suffers.

We might, for a fleeting moment or a lifetime, prefer the god who is inviolable and indestructible. The one who, from a safe distance, runs a tight ship in which babies aren't subject to the violent whims of insecure monarchs. Instead we have Emmanuel, God-with-us: in Ramah and Jerusalem and Egypt, but also in the cities and towns in which our own lives unfold.

Ultimately, the geography of salvation is about a God who shows up right here.

Epiphany Series: New Year, Same Promises

Six Parts: First Sunday after Epiphany through the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany

Our resolutions fade, but God's promises last forever.

KATHERINE WILLIS PERSHEY

First Sunday after Epiphany: God's Promise of New Life

Psalm 29; Matthew 3:13–17

And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. (Matthew 3:16–17)

There, on the front page of the newspaper, was a photo of a young man who had died. He was only nineteen years old. But despite the fact that Charlie died so young, his death was far from tragic. In fact, it was triumphant. For though he died to self as he succumbed to the waters of baptism, as he rose out of the Pacific Ocean on Easter Sunday, guided by the hands of his pastor, he was raised into new life in Christ. Through a lens splashed with saltwater, the joy was palpable. Charlie's hands were raised in exaltation as the frigid water clung to his body.

God whispered to Charlie over the crashing of the tide: you are beloved.

But make no mistake: the old Charlie died in those waters, just as the new Charlie was born. That is what baptism is, and it is a much bigger paradox than humans can whip up on our own.

Before the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters at the time of creation, the darkness was upon the face of the deep. When you go beneath the surface of the deep, it's dark and cold and eerie. There may very well be sea monsters lurking mere inches from your toes. You cannot breathe there.

We are creatures who are 100 percent dependent on breathing. We inhale, and all that good oxygen fills our lungs and, like magic, feeds and cleans all the cells in our bodies. Respiration keeps us alive by keeping all our cells alive.

That's just the physical dimension of breath. We imagine God giving humankind life by breathing into Adam's nostrils. When you make the decision to repent and be baptized, you agree to go to a place where you cannot breathe. Which is to say, you journey to the heart of the thing we humans collectively fear the most: dying.

Of course you don't literally drown. But the life you are lifted into is not the same. Paul says it best: I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me.

At the turning of the calendar year we are inundated with messages pressuring us to remake ourselves, to resolve to improve our health or kick bad habits. And there's nothing inherently wrong with this impulse; if a resolution to quit smoking sticks, praise the Lord and pass the chewing gum. But God's promises are quite a bit weightier than our own; God's promises are trustworthy and true and never—ever—broken.

Charlie no longer lives, but Christ lives in him. And when Christ lives in us, when we have died to self—no matter how old we were or the volume of water in the font—we receive God's promise of new life through the waters of baptism.

Second Sunday after Epiphany: God's Promise of Faithfulness

Psalm 40:1–11; 1 Corinthians 1:1–9

I have not hidden your saving help within my heart, I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation; I have not concealed your steadfast love and your faithfulness from the great congregation. Do not, O LORD, withhold your mercy from me; let your steadfast love and your faithfulness keep me safe forever. (Psalm 40:10–11)

Miss Cornelia is one of the characters who vividly populates the Anne of Green Gables novels. She is a churchgoing lady, a devout Christian. One morning she asks Miss Susan about the health of a mutual friend. Miss Susan replies, Oh, I'm afraid she's going to have to rely on the Lord now. Miss Cornelia responds with horror. Oh no! Surely it isn't as bad as all that! To be sure, to believe that God is faithful is not to believe that our every prayer will be answered just so. But for all her piety, entrusting her friend to God feels like a lost cause, a last resort.

We must remember the biblical promise: God is faithful. The first time I encountered the concept of God's faithfulness, I didn't have the foggiest idea what it meant. Faithfulness was something I ascribed to humans, not God. God was the object of faithfulness, not its subject. Yet the Scriptures bear witness, implicitly and explicitly, to the faithfulness of God. God remembers the covenant. God does not abandon God's people. God does not break God's word. God does not withhold forgiveness. God does not hide God's face. God is profoundly faithful.

All of this—despite the fact that we do often forget the covenant. We abandon God. We break our word. We withhold confession. We turn our faces away from God's. In a word, we are often faithless. But God? Never. A persistent and pernicious lie pops up frequently in Christian hearts—and in Christian pulpits. The lie proclaims that being a good Christian—perhaps even being a Christian at all—is all up to you. To be saved, you must be faithful—very faithful. Doubt, weakness, and (heaven forbid!) good old-fashioned sinning—are all signs of faithlessness, disqualifying you from the kingdom and making you unworthy of God's love. This lie essentially reverses the beautiful definition of grace Frederick Buechner offers, that there's "Nothing you have to do, nothing you have to do, nothing you have to do."

The lie infects Christianity with perfectionism and gracelessness. The common antidote is to double down on the profound significance of grace. We must be reminded that we do not save ourselves. But we may also need a reminder that we alone are not charged to be faithful—and we are not charged to be faithful alone.

We are saved by faith, not works—but ultimately it is not even our own faith that saves us, but God's. Likewise, the gifts we have are just that—gifts from a faithful God, not emblems of our own goodness. We who long to be the protagonists of our own story are invariably humbled by the biblical narrative. Our role is to receive and respond to God's love, God's grace, and God's faithfulness.

Third Sunday after Epiphany: God's Promise of Ministry

Psalm 27:1, 4–9; Matthew 4:12–23

As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, Follow me, and I will make you fish for people. Immediately they left their nets and followed him. (Matthew 4:18–20)

The psalmist craves security: "The LORD is my light and my salvation. The LORD is the stronghold of my life." He longs to live in the house of the Lord, to be comforted by God's beauty, welcome in God's temple, hidden in God's shelter, concealed in God's tent. He wants God to place him out of reach of his enemies, on a metaphorical (and perhaps even literal) rock.

I resonate with the psalmist's desires. I long to be safe, to let my fears be disintegrated by the sacred solvents of God's love and God's power.

But the Gospel of Matthew does not let us play it safe. When Jesus encounters the fishermen who would become his disciples, he challenges them to follow him. This means sacrificing economic security and social standing. This means entering a wholly unknown future, entirely