[Sermon] Wrestling in the Middle

Lori Schmidt + June 1, 2025

Seventh Sunday of Easter

Guest preacher and TLCS member Lori Schmidt invites us into the honest, often painful space between hope and resolution—what she calls “living in the middle.” Drawing from Revelation 22, she reflects on the weight of injustice, the frustration of broken systems, and the raw emotions that come with trying to do what's right in an unkind world. Yet even here—in the verses we’d rather skip—Scripture offers more than judgment; it offers an invitation. With vulnerability and courage, Lori reminds us that the Spirit continues to say, Come, even when our robes are dirty and our hearts are tired. In the struggle, there is still grace.

Sermon Transcript

From YouTube's automatically generated captions, lightly edited by AI for readability.

Good morning.

Please pray with me:

Spirit of the living God, come now and grow our faith, deepen our hope, and strengthen our love. Come and water within each of us the desire to be your faithful friends forever.

A couple of months ago, a friend of mine gave me a mug, and on this mug it says: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. xoxo, Prince." And for those of you who don't know Prince, he was a musician when I was growing up.

Um, for those of you who don't know me, my name is Lori Schmidt. I am married to Mark Schmidt, who you may have seen around from time to time. I'm also mom to three amazing daughters—Elena, Clara, and Serena—who all happen to be in different states right now.

Before I begin, there's some people I really need to thank: Pastor Hector and David Horton, who both helped me grapple with some of these images—Pastor Hector most recently, because he was on the receiving end of quite a rant. I'm grateful to my friends who've let me vent for hours and hours and hours, and to my beloved Mark, who since the beginning of this school year has been on the receiving end of how many rants about all of the injustice that is happening.

Without their guidance, I would be up here delivering a message that sounds something like: "And then she said, 'Did you know—beep!—and then don't forget—beep, beep, beep.'" Thus, the advice that Pastor Hector had given me: if I were not able to calm down, just to stand here and beep for about 12 minutes, give or take.

Also, in this message, I hope to leave you with an end note of nevertheless.

My father-in-law passed away in March, and as we prepared for his memorial service, we heard from people who spoke of his ability to leave a dangling nevertheless at the end of a phrase—whether it was spoken or not—which left a promise or notion of hope and light.

There's a disclaimer here before I get going. I teach at a local school here in the Edmonds School District. Some of you may have worked at, gone to, will be going to, or currently attend that school. I am part of a small pond in that lake, and so my lens today comes from that pond—not the entire lake.

So, my vocation is teaching deaf kids. I get to work alongside some amazing Deaf adults, and together we are a small but mighty team. To say I'm passionate about my work is an understatement—to which Mark can attest.

This year has been especially challenging, to say the least. It's ignited not only my passion for students and staff, but also for equity, justice, equality—and honestly, how to deal with a bully. You know those emails you receive every now and again? The ones you really should let sit before you reply? I've been on full reply mode, responding even when I knew it was the wrong thing to do.

I've let my passion take root, my emotions take over—and sometimes it's taken the form of wrath. And that may seem like a strong word, but when you're ranting in American Sign Language, it looks like wrath. Not mild frustration, not head-banging-on-the-wall moments, but full-on anger. Heart-pounding, pacing, fist-clenching, hair-pulling anger.

When I was asked to bring the message today—which was a while ago—I was having some conversation with David, and I'm like, "Oh, there's this lovely—I see some themes that I can go with, and it's great." And then last week happened, and it all went out the door because I was stuck in this.

Literally.

When I was given the option to choose from one of the readings for the seventh week of Easter—the Gospel reading, which we just heard, or Revelation, which we also just heard—I went with Revelation. Because who wouldn't pick Revelation? It's an easy, straightforward book. No hidden imagery. No challenging phrases. No opportunity for wrestling.

And I've chosen to unpack today's reading in kind of three movements: the promise, the middle, and the invitation—through my lens of today, in this moment. One shaped by deep frustration with an unjust system, a toxic work environment, and loss of trust in leadership.

I see Revelation as a book not written for the powerful but for the persecuted. It's written for minorities, for people without position or power. Revelation names real pain, broken systems, lies, and corruption. It doesn’t ignore the damage done in the world.

This 22nd chapter of Revelation—this epilogue—puts me on a roller coaster I was not ready to ride and definitely not ready to get stuck in the middle of.

First, Revelation offers a promise. It’s bold, it’s cosmic, it’s full of hope. And there’s an announcement:

"Remember, I am coming soon. I bring with me that reward that will be given to all people according to their conduct. I am the Alpha, the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End."

And although I know the beginning and the end includes all of time—even the in-between—I want to shout, "What about the middle? Right now is the middle!"

Then we read again:

"Happy are they who wash their robes to have free access to the tree of life and enter the city through its gates."

Can you imagine how many times you'd have to wash your robe to get it as white as this image suggests? In some of the other translations, it’s a sparkling, dazzling white.

What about those of us whose robes are covered in dirt and mud and yuck from frustration or anger? Some days, I feel like my robe isn't just stained—it's crusted with dried tears, frayed at the seams from too many battles, and just dragging behind me.

And then we jump to verse 15, which is often left out of lectionary readings because the words aren’t fluffy and nice. Revelation takes a sharp turn, and this is where I get stuck—in the middle. This is where I'm living.

And it says:

"Outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the debauchers, the murderers..."

And I think we need to add: the gossipers, those who use power for their own gain, those who shout, "My way or the highway! I make the rules!"

Right now, I am hanging out right in verse 15. My robe is a mess. And part of me maybe is... okay. I just need to hang out here for a while and wrestle with it. That fist-shaking, voice-wobbling frustration. That longing for someone to finally get it—middle.

Maybe this is where I look at my team, at the world, at you—and realize we are standing here together. We're all wrestling with some kind of verse 15. Some kind of middle.

I've been rereading Brené Brown’s Rising Strong as a spiritual practice. And there's a part where she talks about a moment when she’s—let’s just say—not feeling super generous about humanity. After an awkward retreat and uncomfortable encounter, she asks a stranger one evening:

“Do you think people are doing the best they can?”

She goes on and asks friends, acquaintances the same question—and nobody seems to get the answer right. No, they’re not. They’re not doing the best they can. At least not in her mind.

One evening, she asks her husband, and he takes a couple of hours before responding. And he says:

“All I know is that my life is better when I assume people are doing the best they can. It keeps me out of judgment and lets me focus on what is—not what should or could be.”

Brené’s reaction is basically: “Oh. Okay. But I still don’t agree with you.”

And today, in this moment—neither do I.

I want to exclaim: “If you were doing the best you could, you’d finally hear our voices! You’d open your eyes to the choices you’re making!”

I think there are times in our lives when we’re just sitting in our dirty robes, grumpy and worn out in the middle—and we need to wrestle with it. Even if it means we keep getting pushed back down into the dust again and again.

Sometimes, I believe we’re not called to resolve the tension—we’re called to live in it. To let the passage with the daunting words help us struggle through the transformation that is taking place.

So let’s wrestle with the uncomfortable.

And yet, right there in the mess, we hear it: the invitation.

Believing people are doing the best they can doesn’t mean we stop telling the truth. It doesn’t mean we excuse harm or avoid accountability. It means we choose to see others through the lens of grace—not because they’ve earned it, but because God has given it, freely.

And in this next verse, Jesus declares:

"It is I, Jesus, who has sent my angel to give you this testimony about the churches. I am the root and the offspring of Jesse—of David, actually—sorry—the morning star, shining bright."

And then:

The Spirit and the bride say, “Come.”

Let the one who hears say, “Come.”

Let the thirsty come forward.

Let all who desire it accept the gift of life-giving water.

Even when you’re stuck in the middle, there’s still invitation. Hope is always extended—even when we’ve been hurt, even when people disappoint us, even when there’s no proof someone deserves kindness. Hope is always extended.

And the end of that chapter ends like this:

Amen.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come into this world—broken and beautiful.

Come into our relationships—complex and hard.

Because the real ending of Revelation is an invitation—to live every day as if Jesus is already here. As if every person we meet is already thirsting for the water of life.

Right now, I’m stuck in my dirty robe. I’m hanging out in verse 15.

And that’s okay.

Because nevertheless is in my head. And I know, buried in my heart, is the word: Come.

And it is an endless invitation.

Amen.