“No Guarantees”

Fifth Sunday of Easter

May 18, 2025

Love doesn’t come with a guarantee.

Children’s Message:

Did you know that there are foods that Jewish people are not allowed to eat because God said that they were unclean? All of Leviticus 11 talks about what they can and can’t eat. Now, there’s things like lizards and hawks and rabbits that you can’t eat. And things like cows and deer that you CAN eat. You know what else is on the list of unclean foods? Bacon. They’re not allowed to eat bacon. And in order to make sure they didn’t eat something they shouldn’t, they often didn’t eat with other people—Gentile people—non-Jewish people.

But when Jesus came along, God’s grace expanded to EVERYONE! And God showed Peter that everything and everyone God created is good. God loves everyone. So, let’s take this piece of paper with all the rules about food on it. Do you think I can cut a hole in it and step through it? Nope. It’s too small. But if I cut it differently—if I extend grace fully—now it’s big enough for me to go through.  It’s big enough for all of you, too!

Let’s pray. Dear God, your grace is big enough for all of creation. Help us show that grace to everyone we meet. Amen.

Message:

"Nobody asked who was Jewish and who was not. Nobody asked where you were from. Nobody asked who your father was or if you could pay. They just accepted each of us, taking us in with warmth, sheltering children, often without their parents—children who cried in the night from nightmares." That was Elizabeth Koenig-Kaufman, a former child refugee in Le Chambon, France.

Le Chambon is a Protestant village in France that took in refugees fleeing the Vichy authorities and Germans during WWII. Between 1940 and 1944, they helped over 5,000 people. They took them into homes and churches and farms and hotels. They forged documents and sometimes guided them across the border into Switzerland. They hid them deep in the forest when authorities came searching. Led by Pastor Andre Trocme, his wife Magda, and his assistant, Pastor Edouard Theis, the people of Le Chambon put themselves at risk to rescue anyone and everyone who came to them for help. In the end, several of those from the village were arrested and killed by Nazi Germany.

Love doesn’t come with a guarantee.

I used to think—and still operate in my life—as if, because of my faith, because of my baptism, because of my privilege as a white person and an educated person and an employed person, that nothing REALLY bad will ever happen to me. I mean, you’ve got the car accidents and the medical problems and spats with a spouse and upcoming teenage angst. But really, that’s normal. I’ve generally skated through life. I’ve not faced big challenges. Life-threatening challenges. Events that force me to put my faith to the test. Not really.

Can you imagine the faith of the people of Le Chambon? Can you imagine the risk they were willing to take? And not just the risk of providing shelter and passage for those fleeing death. But the risk of trusting each other. It would only take one person in that village of 5,000 to break the silence—to tell the authorities. It would only take one person for whom the possibility of arrest was too much. It would only take one person to step out of line, and the whole thing would crumble.

So, why did they do it? Why did they take that risk? It wasn’t just their own lives that were on the line. It was their friends’ lives. Their parents’ lives. Their children’s lives.

Because love doesn’t come with a guarantee.

Today’s gospel passage is always assigned to the Maundy Thursday service. Maundy comes from ‘mandate’ or command. “I give you a new commandment. Love one another.” That’s not new. God tells the Israelites in Deuteronomy: “Love the Lord you God. And love one another as yourself.” No. Love isn’t new. But it’s more than loving others as you love yourself. Jesus says, “Love one another as I have loved you.”

And how did Jesus love? He loved in a way that pushed the boundaries of polite society. He loved the sick. He loved the outcast. He loved the stranger. He loved the sinner. He loved the denier. He loved the betrayer. He loved to the point that his love threatened the safety of the authorities. He loved to the point of his own death on the cross. He loved all the way to the grave—and back. He loved without condition, without expectation, and without guarantee.

I think about the places in this world that still practice that kind of love today. The places that offer sanctuary to immigrants and refugees. The people that speak out against genocide in Gaza and war in Ukraine, even in the face of arrest and deportation. The people that risk their own safety because until all are free, no one is free. I think of the congregations—like ours—that affirm people who are ostracized in the community. People who are told by their government that they shouldn’t exist. I think of our prison ministry and the risk we took 20 years ago to welcome folks who are looking for a second chance—a place where hope isn’t cut off because of their criminal record.

The love Jesus commands is not safe. It is often not pretty. And it definitely doesn’t come with a guarantee that everything will turn out just fine in the end. It’s gritty. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It's dangerous. It's scary.

Anyone who tells you that being a Christian should offer a free pass to an easy and prosperous life is full of it. Anyone who thinks that following Jesus should make you popular or powerful or perfect is delusional. Baptism should come with a warning: this is going to hurt.

Because love always does. It’s a turning away from your old self, your comfort, your control. It’s saying yes to a life where love costs something, where grace is scandalous, and where faith will sometimes lead you into storms instead of away from them. It’s loving your enemies, forgiving the unforgivable, and serving without applause. That’s how Jesus loved. That’s how he tells us to love.

Without condition. Without price. Without expectation. He loves us to the grave and back—every time. Because that’s where God’s love always leads. And it’s always worth the risk.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE