Author Archives: jandrewsweckerly

Sermon – Mt. 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YB, February 14, 2024

21 Wednesday Feb 2024

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This morning, I got a fun text from a friend.  “Happy Ash Valentine’s Day!” she exclaimed.  I have seen all sorts of humor about the confluence of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday this year.  From questions about whether the clergy might be making the sign of a heart instead of the sign of a cross with our ashes tonight (sorry to disappoint those of you who were hoping that wasn’t just a rumor); to a meme from the National Church that says  “You can’t have VaLENTines with the LENT”; to actual candy conversation hearts that say “U R Dust,” “Ashes 2 Ashes,” or “Repent” instead of the traditional “Be Mine,” “True Love,” or “Kiss Me.”  Even my own daughter petulantly asked me, “Do we always have to celebrate Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day??”

Though the humor has been fun, what lurks under the surface is a discomfort with talking about death – especially on a day meant to be for celebrating the happiness of love.  But part of my job as a priest is to bring a certain sobriety about death to the world – no matter the day.  That is not to say that I am a party pooper or that I don’t like a good box of chocolates myself, but my role as a priest is to name the truth about what happens in death – earthly death and reunion with our Lord in eternal life.  In fact, the Church is one of the few places left in the world that openly and regularly talks about death.  In a world that encourages anti-aging treatments, who has desensitized us to death as we have moved away from an agrarian lifestyle, and whose medical advances have extended life much longer than before, we learn that death can be conquered and should be fought at all costs.

Pushing against this secular understanding of death, the Church gives us Ash Wednesday – even on Valentine’s Day.  The Church looks at our flailing efforts to preserve life and as we humbly come to the altar rail, rubs gritty ash on our heads and says, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  There is no, “Don’t worry about death; you’ll be fine!”  Instead, those grave words, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” echo in our heads, haunting our thoughts.  Every year the Church reminds us of the finite amount of time we have on this earth – even on a day seems like we should be talking about love and life.

This is why I love Lent so much.  The Church dedicates forty days to a time where we cut to the chase and honestly assess our relationship with God.  We take a sobering look at our lives, a sobering look that could be reserved only for the time of death, and we discern what manifestation of sinfulness has pulled us away from God.  Our Prayer Book defines sin as “the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.”[i]  Lent is the season when we focus on repentance from our sin – not just a feeling guilty about our sinfulness, but eagerly seeking ways to amend those relationships and turn back toward resurrection living.  What most people get only at the time of death, we are given every year at the time of Lent:  a time of sobering realignment. 

This is why we get Matthew’s gospel lesson on Ash Wednesday.  As we begin our sobering Lenten journey, the gospel lesson names disciplines and practices that can help us along the way.  Jesus names those ancient practices that have brought people back to God for ages – giving alms, praying, and fasting.  Each one of these practices has ways of bringing us closer to God by shaking up our normal routines.  Of course, any Lenten practice can have the same effect.  Giving up caffeine, reading a daily devotional, or reconnecting with nature are equally valid ways to shake up our routines enough to notice the ways in which we have become more self-centered than God-centered.  Although Jesus names the disciplines of alms giving, prayer, and fasting, the actual discipline itself is not the issue for Jesus.  The issue is our intentions in our practice. 

This is why we hear Jesus labeling so many people as hypocrites in our gospel lesson today.  Jesus is less concerned about what disciplines we assume and is more concerned about the authenticity behind those disciplines.  Jesus is not arguing that private acts are authentic and public ones are inauthentic by nature.  What matters is the desire and motivation behind these practices.  We have all seen this in action.  One of my favorite comediennes jokes about this very behavior in one of her shows.  She talks about how people sometimes use prayer requests as a means of gossip.  In one of her jokes, she has the gossiper of the church inviting people into a prayer circle so that they can pray for someone in the church who just got pregnant, even though the news was supposed to be private.  We all know the kind of hypocritical behavior Jesus is addressing.  This kind of behavior will never get us to the sobriety we need to right our relationship with God and others.

Of course, any kind of practice we take up this Lent can be corrupted.  The giving up of a particular kind of food can be more for weight loss than a connection to God.  The taking up of a volunteer activity can be to fulfill a requirement for something else.  Whatever we do this Lent, that deprivation or incorporation is meant to help us restore our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  So, when we give up a food, instead of glorying in the fact that we lost a few pounds, we can see how that food has become an emotional crutch that keeps us from leaning on God and others.  When we take on a new prayer routine, we slowly begin to see how little time we give to God in our daily lives.  Whatever our practice, Jesus is concerned that authenticity be at the heart, so that we can more readily prepare for Good Friday and Easter.[ii] 

And so, in order to shake us out of our self-centered, sinful, distant ways, especially on a day for love, Ash Wednesday gives us death.  Ash Wednesday grittily, messily, publicly reminds us of our death, and then leaves us marked so that we can humbly enter a Lenten reconnection with God.  Ash Wednesday throws death in our faces so that we can wake up in a world that would have us keep striving for longevity of earthly life or superficial happiness instead of striving for intimacy with God here and now.  This Ash Wednesday, our ashes are the outward reminder of the sobering journey we now begin, because only when we consider our own death can we begin to see the resurrection glory that awaits us at Easter.  My prayer is that our journey this Lent is not one of painful guilt or loveless deprivation, but instead one of glorious reconnection with our creator, redeemer, and sustainer.  Amen.      

[i] BCP, 848.

[ii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 24.

On Ashes, Valentines, and Ultimate Things…

14 Wednesday Feb 2024

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Photo credit: https://abidingpresence.net/newsfeed/2018/2/8/holiday-mashup

“Happy Ash Valentine’s Day!” my friend wrote this morning.  At first the greeting made me chuckle, especially given the number of grimaces and eye rolls I have received this year about how the Church has to celebrate Ash Wednesday on a day that is supposed to be about love.  Truth be told, I am not even sure how many faithful will even come to church tonight instead of going out to dinner or staying in for a cozy night with loved ones. 

But what I loved about that greeting today was how it married the two notions:  that you can celebrate love and death all at the same time.  In the same way that the Church soberly says, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” the secular world, despite the obvious consumerism of the day, uses this day to soberly say, “No really.  I love you:  I love you my friend, I love you my co-worker, I love you my classmate, and I love you, my beloved.”  These two days, at their root, are meant to talk about ultimate things:  love and death.  And as a priest, when I walk individuals and families toward death, there is nothing but love hovering around.

I wonder if the confluence of Ash Valentine’s Day might be an invitation for us this Lent.  How might you use these next forty day to meditate and act on those things of ultimate significance?  How are tending your relationship with God in a way that acknowledges that relationship’s ultimate significance?  How are you loving your neighbor in a way that honors the ultimate significance of their dignity?  How are you caring for yourself in a way that shows the ultimate significance of your identity as a child of God?  I don’t know if you need some silly candy conversation hearts that remind you that you are dust – or if you need ones that remind you that you are truly loved.  Either way, I hope this Ash Valentine’s Day is a day you can enter into Lent with significance, remembering you are loved. 

Sermon – Mark 1.29-39, EP5, YB, February 4, 2024

14 Wednesday Feb 2024

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You may or may not know about me that I became a mom and was ordained at the same time.  I was seven months pregnant when the bishop ordained me.  Needless to say, there is ongoing debate about whether Simone is also a deacon since she was in utero at the ordination.  But what becoming a mom and becoming ordained at the same time has meant is the patterns of the two vocations are interwoven for me.  So just like on any given day in ministry, my plan for the day can get upended with a phone call, a drop-in visit, or a text, so is the precarious nature of parenting.  I can be in the middle of preparing dinner when a friend-crisis erupts at home for one of the kids.  I can be driving a kid to practice, only to learn from the backseat that the kid is struggling with a bully.  I can be trying to write a sermon, and another kid bursts inside with a bloody knee.  Some folks might see those parenting and pastoring moments as “interruptions” to a day.  But as someone who became a pastor and parent at the same time, that constant feeling of pushed and pulled, interrupted while trying to charge ahead, and even rerouted entirely is part and parcel of living my vocations faithfully.

I think that is why I find our gospel lesson today so compelling.  Jesus has just come off the casting out of demons in the temple that we heard about last week, with everyone awe-struck by his teaching with authority.  Then, today he just tries to go to Simon’s house to chill out, when he is immediately notified about Simon’s sick mother-in-law.  After healing her, Jesus tries to settle back down, but by sundown, the whole town is at the door, asking for healing and cures – which Jesus graciously offers.  In the wee hours of the morning, Jesus goes out to a deserted place for a moment of peace and prayer, and Simon and the others interrupt his moment for more work.  Jesus rallies the troops and off they go, proclaiming the gospel and casting out demons.  Even Simon’s mother-in-law, as soon as she is healed, begins serving Jesus and his disciples.  Not to be confused with some sort of subservient, sexist expectation that women should serve men – no, the word used for what Simon’s mother-in-law does is the same word used for what deacons do:  she serves.  In fact, she is the first deacon in the New Testament[i], and as such, teaches us that life following Jesus is just like following along in this story about a day in the life for Jesus – you are constantly pulled and pushed, invited into service in whatever ways that service shows up on your doorstep.

Yesterday I was a part of a bishop’s election.  Sometimes I think the way we elect bishops is almost cruel – for the community where the candidate serves, they are both incredibly proud of their priest, but also incredibly anxious that they may lose their priest.  All sorts of emotions and concerns get stirred:  maybe my priest doesn’t want to be here anymore, maybe my priest is neglecting her job here, maybe my priest doesn’t care about me or our church.  But getting lost in those anxieties misses what is happening in a bishop’s search.  The priest is simply doing what he or she does everyday:  listening and responding to the call of ordained life, wherever that call pushes and pulls.  Sometimes that means hopping in a car to get to the hospital immediately; sometimes that means stopping the crafting of a report, article, or sermon to listen to a hurting soul; sometimes that means talking for an extended time with a stranger at the grocery store, the gym, or the bus stop because your priesthood doesn’t belong just in the church walls.  But sometimes that means saying yes to serving on a board for workforce housing, saying yes to a bishop’s request that you serve the diocese in a particular way, saying yes to raising funds for your seminary – and even saying yes to discernment to the episcopacy.  Just like there are countless balls to juggle in parenting, there are countless balls to juggle in ordained life.  That’s just what we do when Jesus calls us – we serve.

As we settle into the idea that I will in fact being staying in ministry with you, I see this “Day in the life of Jesus” from Mark’s gospel today as an invitation.  As Debie Thomas describes, our invitation today is to “spend our days as Jesus spent his…living graciously and compassionately in this vast and often terrible in-between.  To offer the comfort of our steady presence to those who suffer.  To encourage those in pain to hang on, because the work of redemption is ongoing.  To create and to restore community, family, and dignity to those who have to walk through this life sick, weak, and wounded – without cures.  To make sure that no one who has to die – and that’s all of us in the end – dies abandoned and unloved, if we can help it.”[ii]  That means as we at Hickory Neck step away from this time of discernment, we do the work of that first deacon, Simon’s mother-in-law.  We get up and we get back to work:  caring for one another, serving our neighbors, sharing the good news with those who need a good word.  Though this call to serve may feel like a frustratingly interrupted time of prayer, in fact, the interruption today is the perfect reminder of the life of Jesus:  being pushed and pulled, interrupted and redirected, and in moments like this – seeing the beautifully sacred in the midst of all our very human feelings.  I invite you today to take my hand, so we can get back to the work of the kingdom.  Amen.

[i][i] Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 335.

[ii] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 75.

Sermon – Mark 1.21-28, EP4, YB (Annual Meeting Address), January 28, 2024

14 Wednesday Feb 2024

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Before our family left for our cross-country trip during this summer’s sabbatical, I had been warned by a fellow parishioner.  “I never really understood the word ‘awesome’ until I saw the Grand Canyon,” she told me.  The word awesome seemed so underwhelming – maybe because we use the word for things that are less than awesome – an awesome movie, an awesome meal, an awesome day.  But as I stood at the rail, overlooking the massiveness of the Grand Canyon my brain scrambled.  It was as if my brain could not comprehend the sheer vastness of the view in front of me – how far does the canyon stretch?  How deep is the bottom?  How long did it take those specks that must be hikers to get there?  Or maybe, more deeply, how did God conceive of such an indescribably beautiful thing.  As tears welled in my eyes at the Grand Canyon’s inconceivability, I finally understood the word:  awesome.

In today’s Gospel, that is the reaction of the crowd to Jesus.  Jesus comes into the temple on the sabbath and teaches like no other teacher has.  The teachers they know “always say, ‘as Moses said,’ or ‘as Rabbi so-and-so said.’  Jesus [speaks] with a quiet but compelling authority all of his own.”[i]  And the people are astonished, awestruck, amazed.  And their amazement does not stop with Jesus’ unique authority in his teaching.  They see his unique words carry with them power to make the unclean clean.[ii]  Like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, their minds are scrambled.  They cannot understand this new thing.  They are just beginning to taste what one scholar describes as “One of the salient characteristics of [the Gospel of] Mark…the motif of surprise, wonder, awe, and fear…reactions [that] embrace all aspects of Jesus’ ministry…”[iii]  Those gathered today watch Jesus and can clearly say he is awesome.

This past year of ministry at Hickory Neck has struck me in a similar way.  I have stepped back many a time and looked at this community with a sense of awe.  I have told you repeatedly that one of the core values of Hickory Neck is our sense of curiosity – our willingness to try new things.  I talk about that core value a lot because that core value is extremely uncommon in churches.  Put more simply:  our core value of experimentation and playfulness is awesome.  I watched as your Sabbatical Team and your Vestry this past year embraced the idea of mutual sabbatical with gusto, confidence, and playfulness.  I watched as this parish didn’t just look at sabbatical as an obligation or a burden to bear, but as an opportunity to grow, try on new things, and encounter God in fresh ways.  I watched you learn, laugh, and love.  I watched you push yourselves and encourage one another.  I watched you grow in your relationship with God and one another.  And the view was awesome!

But I also watched you in the hard things this past year.  I watched as you grieved, struggled in your faith, and said goodbye to dear friends – all while embracing and comforting one another.  I watched our Stewardship Team take on a hefty deficit budget and decide to try a new approach to stewardship that felt uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and hard – and yet ended the year not only not incurring a deficit, but only using 8% of the savings we planned to use.  I watched as your Vestry held itself accountable to strategic goals the Vestry set for itself and I watched the Vestry struggle through hard questions of process and systems – and I saw the Vestry grow into the fullness of their leadership.  I watched a community struggle with decreased volunteerism and long-held preferences for the “way we have always done things,” – and I watched our community step boldly into doing things differently.  And I have to tell you, even (and maybe especially) in the hard stuff of ministry, the view has been awesome!

We started 2023 as almost two communities:  those long-timers who have been a part of Hickory Neck for ages but were away during long portions of the pandemic; and those newer members who made their way to Hickory Neck during- and post-pandemic who didn’t have a clue how things had “always been done” but knew they have found something special in this community.  One of our hopes had been that these two communities within a community would use our time of sabbatical to form a new Hickory Neck – to build a new way of being that involved shared leadership, creative ministries, and fresh encounters with the sacred.  I stand here today in wonder as I look at Hickory Neck a year later and I have to tell you:  the view is awesome!

We head into 2024 with some revenue challenges, with some needs for increased participation and leadership, and with the tensions that always exist in a growing church.  But we also head into 2024 with a renewed sense of wonder and awe in all that God is doing in this place.  From reenergized ministries to the wider community:  hosting the homeless, building beds for the children in our community who haven’t had a bed, feeding the hungry, and clothing those who struggle; to fresh, creative ministries that we have never tried before:  a children’s music ministry that will launch this summer with a chorister camp; to invitations to grow closer to that Jesus who is truly awesome – through liturgies, study, and service.  God has incredible things in store for us this year:  and the view is awesome!  Amen.    

[i] N.T. Wright, Mark for Everyone (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 11.

[ii] Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 311.

[iii] John R. Donahue and Daniel J. Harrington, The Gospel of Mark, Sacra Pagina Series, vol. 2 (Collegeville, MN:  Liturgical Press, 2002), 79.

Sermon – Matthew 2.1-12, EPD, YB, January 7, 2024

14 Wednesday Feb 2024

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When you are preparing for ordination, you get asked lots of “big picture” questions:  Who is Jesus to you?  Why do you think you need to be a priest to live out your call?  Where do you see God in your daily life?  Fortunately, or not, those are not really questions we ask each other in our everyday lives.  We sort of settle into a comfort zone with our faith, hoping that just being in church, or maybe being in a study group, or doing some sort of devotional practice will help us grow in faith.  We likely feel connected to God, but we may not regularly engage in the rigorous questioning of our faith.

Our gospel lesson today opens up for us how easily we can miss the activity of God if we aren’t paying attention.  Today we celebrate the feast of the Epiphany – the revelation of Jesus’ identity as the Messiah through the journey of the Magi.  But before we get to those cool, and slightly odd gifts, we learn a lot about the context of Jesus’ arrival.  First, we are told about King Herod – a man desperate to hold on to power by whatever means possible.  Who, when hearing a child has been born, a tiny little baby – who might, one day – threaten his power, is terrified.  And so, Herod goes to the scholars to confirm where this threat is.  Then, he proceeds to meet with the Magi in secret, pretending that he too wants to honor this new leader (as if that would ever be something a paranoid, power-hungry leader would do), and schemes to make sure he can find this threat through the Magi.  And we learn, well after this passage, that his terror is so strong that he kills a whole generation of male children to ensure this supposed future king cannot threaten his power.  Herod is so obsessed with power, he is blind to the extraordinary thing happening in front of him.[i]

Then we are told about the people of faith.  We are told that the Magi’s news terrifies all of Jerusalem too.  For a people of faith who were eagerly awaiting a Messiah, we now see how the system of oppression and fear that Herod has created has paralyzed them.  Though a Messiah would free them, they only know that in their day-to-day life, any threat to Herod means havoc and suffering in their lives.  Even the Biblical Scholars of Herod’s day miss the movement of God.  They very clearly state that the Messiah is to be born in Bethlehem.  One would think that even if strangers tell you the Messiah has come, your scholarly training might make you curious enough to follow the Magi and see if a revolution is coming.  But even their academic training does not embolden them for action.[ii]

Instead, strangers to faith – the “unchurched” as we might call them today – are the ones able to point to God.  These are people who study.  These are people who do not just bury themselves in books, but also keenly pay attention to the world around them.  These are people courageous enough to confirm their conclusions – even if confirmation means traveling quite far.  These are people willing to ask for directions, open to help to understand their suspicions.  These are people capable of great joy, gratitude, and reverence for something that is not even a part of their sense of identity.  And they are vigilant and attentive, willing to keep responding upon further dreams and insight, going another way to their home.[iii]

The good news for us today is that even when we are overwhelmed by fear, even when we are stuck in our faith life, even when we have the truth in our hands but are missing the living Lord, God will find ways to break through the mess of life and break into our lives.  As one scholars says, “Just as the powers that be try and fail to prevent the resurrection, so they try and fail to prevent the birth of God’s child.  God’s purposes cannot be thwarted; God’s purposes will prevail.”[iv]  If, then, God appears anyway, our invitation is to open our hearts, minds, and lives to receptivity to that presence.  Maybe that happens in your daily spiritual practices of prayer, journaling, or study.  Maybe that happens by surrounding yourself with people – churchy types or those foreign to the faith – who are already attuned to God and can help you see the movement of the Spirit in your own life.  Or maybe that happens simply by committing not just to being in church regularly, but being fully present when you are here, cultivating the practice of openness to Jesus.  The promise of accepting that invitation is a journey of adventure, not unlike the Magi – full of learning, joy, and wonder.  Come join the great pilgrimage!

[i] William R. Herzog, II, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 215.

[ii] James C. Howell, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 214.

[iii] William V. Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 212, 214.

[iv] Herzog, 217.

On Finding Our Way to Reconciliation…

03 Wednesday Jan 2024

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Photo credit: https://orionmagazine.org/article/this-land-was-made/

This past week, my family was able to visit The Legacy Museum in Montgomery, Alabama.  The museum artfully and comprehensively presents the “history of the destructive violence that shaped our nation, from the slave trade, to the era of Jim Crow and racial terror lynchings, to our current mass incarceration crisis.”  We have made a point as a family to visit various museums focusing on civil rights, but this museum was the first to tie those four actions in history (slavery, segregation, lynchings, and modern incarceration) so intentionally, powerfully, and succinctly. 

One of the more moving sections for our family was a wall of jars of dirt, of varying colored soil.  As we moved closer, we learned the story of the project through the Equal Justice Initiative.  Family members, researchers, and volunteers worked have worked together to trace every known lynching, visit the site, collect dirt in a large jar, and then label the jar with the name of the victim, the date, and the location of the lynching.  Something about the varying colors of soil from around our country, and the sheer volume of jars was mesmerizing – as though you could see the variation in the victims’ stories, while being reminded of the ways the earth bears witness to the sins of her inhabitants.

As we left the museum, we soberly began talking about impact the museum had on us and what we might like to do differently to be a part of breaking the cycle of violence in our own day.  Inspired by leaders in the closing “Reflection Room,” we realized we all could do something – in our way, in our own place, in our own time.  As a parent, part of my work is exposing my children to the awfulness of our humanity that we do not always discuss – especially recognizing the inherent privilege we have to determine when and how our children know this part of our nation’s story.   But I especially appreciated the invitation to begin wondering where God was uniquely inviting each of us to play a part in the shaping of the future.

I often say the work of racial reconciliation can never be “done” or completed.  Racial reconciliation is lifelong work for us as a country.  But sometimes I worry that the reality that we could never “accomplish” racial reconciliation creates a disincentive to even try – to do anything because it feels so very big.  As we begin a new year, and as we add many resolutions to our plans for 2024, I invite you to pick just one thing you can do to be a part of work of reconciliation – in your own way, your own place, your own time.  God and God’s created order have shown us vividly how far we have to go.  Together, we can find our own place in the history of reconciliation. 

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YB, December 24, 2023

03 Wednesday Jan 2024

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Sometimes on Christmas Eve, we hear a bunch of strange words.  And instead of paying too much attention to them, our minds simply get cued that Christmas has begun.  But those funny words [that Chloe read so beautifully] – of Emperors, registrations, censuses, some guy named Quirinius, a bunch of town names, something about the line of David, and of a pregnant woman who isn’t quite yet married – all those words matter.  They matter because they set the stage for the birth of the Christ Child.  We often think of that birth as this simplified, sacred moment, where everything gets really still.  We’ll even sing Silent Night tonight.  But nothing about that night was remotely silent.  Joseph and a very pregnant Mary have journeyed over 90 miles[i] by donkey and foot.  The Emperor has created political chaos by forcing people from their residences to their ancestral homes – all likely in an effort to extort more money from strained peoples.  Into that upheaval and manipulation, we find the Bread of Life being born in the town, Bethlehem, whose name means House of Bread, in a bed that was literally used to feed. 

This year, I am especially grateful for the reminder that Jesus was born into the chaos of political manipulation, suffering, and tension.  Over the last many weeks, we have all been watching as the Holy Land has yet again fallen into chaos – as leaders fight over land, disregard human dignity, and desecrate all that is holy.  The images have been horrific:  from children standing in long lines with makeshift bowls hoping for enough soup to stave off starvation for themselves and maybe a little for their parents; to hospitals and other places that should be safe zones being decimated; to the Lutheran Church in Bethlehem whose creche this year placed the baby Jesus in a pile of rubble.[ii]  And although we associate Christmas with shiny lights, joyous songs, and abundant food and blessings, the reality of that first Christmas was much more similar to Christmas in the Holy Land this year.

Just this week, I read that Christmas in Bethlehem is cancelled – the very place that welcomed Jesus into the manger has once again had to close its doors to the Holy Family.  As Sophia Lee reports, “Typically, Bethlehem—a Palestinian city of about 30,000 people in the Israeli-occupied West Bank—is jammed with more than 3 million visitors coming from all over the world to celebrate the birth of the Messiah.  Marching bands and carol singers and dancers and fireworks would fill the city with loud cheer and festive energy.  Thousands would pack the Church of the Nativity, golden lights would twinkle across Star Street, and a giant tree with a ruby star would illuminate Manger Square.  Instead, the streets are dark and hushed.”  Christian leaders in Bethlehem report, “It will be a silent night this Christmas—but it’ll still be a holy night… Stripping Christmas of all its extraneous decorations and Western traditions,” they say, “will help them focus on the true meaning of Christmas.”  One pastor explained, “…if you look at the real story of Christmas, it was a story of pure hardship.  But God didn’t leave Mary and Joseph.  And they didn’t leave God.”[iii]

For weeks, I have been feeling like we would have to forego everything good and holy about Christmas – that celebrating this Christmas just did not feel appropriate or respectful of the devastation in the very land we are celebrating.  But the clergy of the Holy Land are paving the way to our Christmas celebrations this year.  Truth be told, Christmas was never about shiny lights, boisterous parties, and lots of presents.  Christmas was and always has been about the miracle of the incarnation – God taking on human form in order to bring us redemption and salvation.  And when God does something, God never does that something half-way.  If God was going to become human, God was going to become incarnate in super fleshy ways – not in shiny, idealized human ways, but in raw, earthy, messy ways.  Jesus came among us – not to the polished versions of ourselves we present to the outside world, but to the real, gritty versions of ourselves who actually need an incarnate God.  And I cannot think of better news than that.  This Christmas, in the midst of censuses, registrations, and funnily named places; in the midst of bombings, bloodshed, and loss; in the midst of anxiety, loneliness, and dissatisfaction, Jesus comes among us.  Jesus does not leave Mary and Joseph.  Jesus does not leave Palestinian or Jew.  Jesus does not leave you or me.  And that is good news for a merry Christmas.  Amen.     

[i] Timothy L. Adkins-Jones, “Commentary on Luke 2:1-14 [15-20],” December 24, 2023, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christmas-eve-nativity-of-our-lord/commentary-on-luke-21-14-15-20-24 on December 20, 2023.

[ii] As found at https://www.facebook.com/christmaslutheranchurch on December 21, 2023.

[iii] Sophia Lee, “Bethlehem Cancels Christmas, But Local Pastors Still Expect a Holy Night,” Christianity Today, December 20, 2023, as found at https://www.christianitytoday.com/news/2023/december/bethlehem-cancel-christmas-christian-pastors-church-nativit.html on December 21, 2023.

Sermon – John 1.6-8, 19-28, A3, YB, December 17, 2023

03 Wednesday Jan 2024

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Episcopalians are a funny crew.  I can claim that description honestly because I actively chose the Episcopal Church, having been raised in another denomination.  But what continues to humor me all these many years later is the almost universal look of panic Episcopalians get in their eyes when you start talking about evangelism.  I can already feel the nervous shifting in the room, so know that you are not alone.  The problem is the concept of evangelism brings up all sorts of images:  the guy on the street corner with a megaphone talking about the end being near; people knocking on your door with tracks about Jesus; the person asking you directly if you have been saved; or maybe even some more personally deeply damaging memories from so-called evangelicals.  And so, Episcopalians either:  just don’t do evangelism (entirely faithful but absolutely unwilling to talk to people about their faith life or Jesus); or they might be willing to share something vaguely about their church, but couldn’t imagine uttering the name Jesus; or they’ll do my favorite thing, which is quote St. Francis who is quoted as saying, “Preach the gospel at all times and if necessary, use words.” – and use that as the ultimate excuse to never actually have to use words.

For all of us squeamish Episcopalians, scripture gives us John today.  Now, in Mark’s gospel, John is called “John the baptizer.”  In Matthew’s gospel, he is called “John the Baptist.”  In Luke’s gospel, he is called, “John, the son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.”  But in John’s gospel that we read today, our beloved John is “John the Witness.”[i]   In fact, John’s gospel doesn’t have any narratives about John leaping in the womb, John dressed in funny clothes, or even John baptizing Jesus.  Instead, John’s gospel is the one that starts with that flowery poetry, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Into this beautifully convoluted prologue comes John, who comes as a witness – whose entire job is to point to Jesus. 

I am not suggesting that your whole life needs to be a self-emptying, agency-free pointing to Jesus.  I had a dear friend whose response to every compliment was, “It’s not me.  It’s all Jesus working in me.”  This is a wonderfully humble way to live, but also a completely irritatingly sanctimonious way to live.  Instead, what John’s gospel today is inviting us to do today is to be entire clear about who we are in relation to Jesus.  Four times John the Witness is asked about his identity, “Who are you?” they ask.  “Are you Elijah?  Are you the prophet?  Who are you?”  And John the Witness says over and over again, “I am not.  I am not.  No, I am not.”  Even the prologue in the gospel tells us, “[John] came as a witness to testify to the light…He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light…”[ii]  In the verses following what we read, we’ll find John the Witness shouting to crowds about Jesus, “There he is!”  John is crystal clear about who is he and his role in honoring Jesus the Messiah.  His whole purpose is to be a witness.

Now, I know I might have painted this Advent as a time of sacred silence, a time of quiet preparation.  We even spent last week letting the words of Advent lap over us like cool refreshing water.  But this week, our quiet work is not passive.  Our invitation today is to get real clear on who we are.  Those questions for John are questions for each of us as well.  Who are you?  What then?  Who are you?  We have talked countless times about the work of discernment about our call – our vocation in the world.  Our work of being faithful followers of Christ is constantly checking that we know who we are and what we are called to be doing.  This is ongoing work that does not end – even in the midst of crazy Christmas preparations, we are to ask, “Who am I?” – what is God calling me to do?

This work of discernment does not excuse us nervous Episcopalians from evangelism.  I can imagine the math you were all just doing:  If John the Witness’s answers to “Who am I?” was that he was a witness, maybe my “Who am I?” will be something else – something less evangelical.  But the entire reason we do the work of answering the barrage of questions about who we are is so that we can prepare ourselves for active encounters with others about who they are – what they long for – how the coming Jesus has blessed us, and how our Church has helped us answer “Who are you?”  John is not the only Witness today in our gospel lesson.  John is simply pointing the way for our own witness too.  Amen.

[i] Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 71.

[ii] John 1.7-8.

On Children, Questions, and Dignity…

06 Wednesday Dec 2023

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Photo credit: https://www.adl.org/resources/tools-and-strategies/respecting-dignity-words

We have been having lots of “big” conversations around our house the last couple of weeks.  The first happened when my younger child and I went to shop for our Angel Tree gifts – an annual tradition from our church and the Salvation Army.  Our girls tend to prefer to choose someone their age – perhaps because they feel more equipped to imagine what someone their age wants, or because it helps them feel a sense of camaraderie.  This year, the nine-year old we selected ended up being quite different from the nine-year old in our family.  Though the toys she wanted were familiar, the size of clothing needed made it obvious that the two girls could not be more different.  So, in the middle of a store, I found myself having a deep conversation about genetics, systems of poverty, and the blessed nature of all creation.

Later, the conversation turned heavy again.  Something came across the same nine-year old’s radar about Israel and Palestine, and the barrage of questions were endless and increasingly difficult.  We started with why they were fighting, talked about what each side had done, and what the impact of this war has been.  Eventually we got into the murky waters of the religious backgrounds of the warring sides – careful to talk about the interconnectedness of the Abrahamic faiths.  But then came the gut-punch question, “So, who do we want to win?”  Talking about war and peace, death and destruction, and the biblical complicatedness of the Holy Land was not exactly the conversation I was expecting between school, dinner, and various sports practices.

One of the disadvantages of being a “grown up” is we often think we have things figured out:  capable of complicated thought, educated and experienced, we have seen enough of life to understand its complexities and make judgments based on our learnings.  It is one of the many reasons why I am so grateful for the children in our lives – both my own, but also our community’s children.  As part of their village, our work is to responsibly help them see the complicated, often sinful, nature of humanity, and help them love humanity in all its complexity.  In essence, children help us see why one of the main promises in our baptismal covenant is we will respect the dignity of every human being.

As we bustle around the Advent season, tempted to be too busy to handle anything other than our massive to-do lists, I invite you to slow down.  When we run so fast and when our minds are so occupied, we miss the invitations to respect the dignity of every human being:  from our neighbors impacted by poverty, to the frazzled parent just trying to get their children to school, to the person suffering within their body, to the innocent bystanders of war.  Scripture tells us that each person, when they are at their best or their worst, their strongest or their weakest, their most successful or their most failing, are made in the image of God.  Whether we like them or not, Jesus asks us to respect the dignity of that creation every day.  How might you better respect the dignity of the humans around you today?

Sermon – Mark 13.24-37, A1, YB, December 3, 2023

06 Wednesday Dec 2023

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I live a very loud life these days.  Whether it’s the morning hustle to get everyone to school, or the evening jockeying for showers, rushed dinners, or one last FaceTime with friends, my house can be a constant source of shh-ing, pleading for less noise, or reminders to close doors to contain volume.  That is not to say that all the noise in our home is unpleasant – there is also the noise of laughter, dance parties, and storytelling.  But if you are looking to set up a yoga mat or trying to meditate, my house is not the place I would necessarily recommend. 

I sometimes blame all the noise in my life on my beloved children.  But the truth is I am as much a cause of the noise as they are.  I am admittedly loud myself – whether barking instructions around the house, singing aloud, or simply talking my husband’s ear off.  But I am not just loud in the house – I am also loud inside my head.  My mind is in constant conversation:  my to-do list, searching for ideas for a blog post, worrying about a sick friend or parishioner, trying to make plans for the weekend, processing a troublesome conversation, or wallowing in guilt for missed exercise or time in prayer.  As loud as my outside world is, my inside world is probably much worse.  Add Christmastime to the mix, and the loudness of my life reaches levels that can be incapacitating.

That is why I love Advent so much.  In the lead-up to Christmas, the outside world bombards us with noise:   Christmas songs on the radio, shopping to complete, parties to attend, gifts to wrap, houses to decorate, gatherings to host, cards to send, and loud relatives or friends to entertain.  In contrast, the Church at this time asks us to do the exact opposite:  slow down, take a breath, light some candles, breathe in the fresh greenery, sing quiet, meditative songs, and worship in the soothing blue of anticipation.  When the outside world is telling us, “Do more, buy more, run more, fuss more, stress more,” the Church says, “Do less, worry less, run less, talk less, be busy less.”  The contrast between the two worlds is like night and day, and at a time of high stress, Advent becomes the Church’s greatest gift to us. 

Into this contrast, we hear words from Mark’s gospel today.  The text says, “Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.  It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch.  Therefore, keep awake– for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.  And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”  Many of us hear this text today with a sense of anxiety – of needing to keep anxious watch for the Lord.  We might imagine the many apocalyptic movies, predictions, and preachers we have witnessed over the years and wonder whether Jesus really does want us to be more alarmed.  Certainly the outside world would have us also be alert and anxious for the coming Christmas. 

But I think the Church is saying something else today.  Instead of an anxious alarm, our gospel lesson sounds like a gentle reminder to me.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the quiet beauty of Advent.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the gift of time set apart in these four weeks.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the lead in to the manger, the dramatic retelling of why the manger is so important, and the grounding for this entire season.[i]  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are not meant to be one more anxiety to pile on top of a mound of concerns.  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are meant to help us focus on what is really important. 

So, make a commitment to come to church each Sunday in Advent and spend those Sundays in quiet worship with your church community.  Grab an Advent calendar or devotional to help you more intentionally mark the days leading up to the manger.  Or set up that Advent wreath at home, so that you might bring the quiet candlelight of prayer and meditation to your home.  Whatever the discipline, choose something this Advent that will help you maintain the quiet peace you find here at Church and carry that quiet peace throughout your weeks leading up to Christmas.  My guess is that noise of life will slowly fade into a quiet hum in the background – which is right where it should be.  Amen. 

[i] Lillian Daniel, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 22.