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Sermon – Matthew 3.13-17, E1, YA, January 12, 2014

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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Today we celebrate the baptism of Jesus.  All three synoptic gospels have an account of Jesus’ baptism, but Matthew’s version that we hear today is the only one that has a dialogue between the John and Jesus.  Though there is debate about why the conversation is present in Matthew’s gospel[i], I find much more interesting the content of their conversation.  When Jesus comes to John to be baptized, John tries to prevent Jesus from doing so, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”  Jesus responds to John, by saying, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

John has been out in the wilderness for a while now, and has been preaching all along about the Messiah.  I imagine he has a pretty set idea of who this Messiah is how the Messiah will behave.  So, when Jesus comes, asking John to baptize him, John pushes back.  We are not sure exactly what John expects Jesus to do or say, but we can tell by the way he actively tries to prevent Jesus from being baptized that Jesus’ actions do not fit in John’s mental image of how things are supposed to go.  In fact, John feels so strongly that he does not just protest or argue with Jesus.  The text says John tries to physically prevent Jesus from being baptized.

What I love about this interaction is how very human and familiar John’s response to Jesus is.  I can think of hundred of times we have equally tried to get in Jesus’ way.  We couldn’t possibly invite our unchurched friend to church because we have heard their tirades about religion and those who go to church.  We cannot imagine going on a foreign mission trip because we cannot get the time off, we don’t speak the native language, we love hot showers too much, or mission trips just simply aren’t our thing.  We refuse to take our problems up with God in prayer because we think we can solve the issue on our own, that God is too busy for our minor issues, or we have yet to hear the answer we want from God.  We cannot possibly take on that new ministry invitation because we do not have the time, we cannot imagine what good the ministry will do, or we just simply do not like change.  Like John the Baptist, over and over again we prove ourselves to be experts in attempting to prevent Jesus from doing something in our lives.

When we were preparing for Church in the fall, we shared several videos on our Facebook page meant to spark some thought and conversation about how we invite people to church.  Most of the videos were funny, using satire to highlight our discomfort with inviting others to church.  My favorite is one where two guys meet in their yards after church.  One has his Bible in his hand, having just returned from church.  The other is working in the yard, tending his garden.  As the two chat, you can hear the inner monologue of the gardener, wondering why his neighbor never asks him to go to church.  He even admits, in his thoughts, that he would totally go if he were invited.  But instead, the best the churchgoer can do is to invite his neighbor over for lunch.  You can see the disappointment in the neighbor, but how both men try to skirt the issue.  Essentially the churchgoer prevents his neighbor from feeling truly welcome to church.

To John, and to us, Jesus’ response is simple.  Jesus basically tells John, “Just trust me and do this now.”  Jesus does not explain why John must get out of the way or how baptizing him will somehow fulfill all righteousness.  Jesus does not tell John what will happen when Jesus is baptized.  Jesus does not even really offer reassuring words.  To this dearth of reassurance, how does John respond?  The text simply says, “And John consented.”  But more fascinating than John acquiescing is that John really does have a choice.  Like Moses, Samuel, Mary, and Joseph, God always offers the choice to respond.  There is always the choice of saying no.  I am reminded of the story of Naomi and her daughters-in-law.  She gives them the choice of returning to their homelands when her sons, their husbands, die.  Orpah chooses to go home; Ruth chooses to stay with Naomi.  That is the beauty of our relationship with God – the affirmation of our freewill and the mutuality of the relationship is always present.

Today, like we do multiple times during the year, the Church will invite you to make a choice in your relationship with God.  We turn back to our own baptisms and we reaffirm the choices that were first made on our behalf, but we have now promised for ourselves every time we renew our baptismal vows.  Those promises include proclaiming the Good News of God in Christ, seeking and serving Christ in all persons, and striving for justice and peace.  Those promises are not promises the church created from its own imagination.  Those promises come out of invitations from Jesus’ life and ministry.  Like Jesus asked John to just trust him and act, so Jesus invites us to trust him and act through our own baptism.  Our invitation is to be a people who consent.

Now some of you may be like John, Mary, or Joseph who receive a challenging invitation from God and respond with a hearty, “Here I am Lord,” or a simple consent.  Others of you may be more like Samuel, who hear God’s invitation but do not quite understand the invitation – like when Samuel goes to Eli in the temple multiple times thinking Eli is calling him in the middle of the night instead of God.  Or maybe you identify more with Moses – who argues with God in myriad ways, trying to convince God to ask someone else, anyone else, to take on God’s invitation.

Luckily our baptismal vows give us some clue about how we can manage to consent to God.  “Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers?” is the question you will hear today.  The more you steep yourself in Scripture and the fellowship of this community, the more you will be empowered to proclaim the Good News of God in Christ.  The more you consume the body and blood of our Savior, the more you will be able to see and then serve Christ in others.  The more you immerse yourself in a life of prayer, the more you will find opportunities for striving for justice and peace among all people.  Today you choose, you consent, to live your life within the community of faith – and that choice will have an impact not just on you, but on others.  But Jesus cannot do the work alone.  The choice is yours to consent.  Amen.

[i] Troy A. Miller, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 239.

Sermon – Matthew 2.1-12, EP, YA, January 5, 2014

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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When I first read our Isaiah text today, I was taken aback.  I had not remembered that Isaiah had predicted kings coming to the Messiah with gold and frankincense.  I was thrilled to see the pairing of Isaiah and Matthew today, thinking of how wonderfully the Old and New Testaments’ stories were being woven together.  And since Matthew is known for emphasizing the idea of Jesus being the fulfillment of the Hebrew Scriptures, I thought we could not have a better invitation today than to “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.”

But the more I read this week, the more I realized that the math is not so simple.  We do not simply get “Isaiah plus Matthew equals fulfillment.”  In fact, the introduction of Isaiah 60 helps us see that Jesus’ story is much more complicated than Jesus’ story appears at first glance.  Isaiah 60 is written about the city of Jerusalem.  About 600 years before Jesus is born, the people of Israel return to Jerusalem after exile, to a ruined city.  To these disheartened peoples, Isaiah writes this poem to encourage them and to predict the ways in which Jerusalem will return to Jerusalem’s former glory.  The poet believes that Jerusalem will be a hub of international trade, becoming once again a prosperous, productive city where, “Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.”

The wise men from the East in Matthew’s gospel likely knew of Isaiah 60.[i]  They journey to Jerusalem because they know about this text, and they bring their gold, frankincense, and myrrh because Jerusalem is where they expect to find this king of peace and prosperity.  But when they finally arrive to inquire of Herod about this new king, Herod panics.  Herod runs to his own advisors, demanding an explanation of Isaiah 60, wanting to hear all about these multitudes of camels and these extravagant gifts.  That is when the story takes a twist.  According to Herod’s chief priests and scribes, Isaiah 60 is not where these wise men should be looking at all.  Instead, the prophecy they seek comes from Micah 5, which says, “And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.”[ii]  Herod calls for the wise men, tells them the actual location of this new king, and the rest is history.

What is interesting in this switch within Matthew is the differences between Jerusalem and Bethlehem.  Jerusalem is the city that Isaiah promises will be the thriving, prosperous city – where the king of kings could easily make his home.  And yet, Bethlehem is where the king actually appears.  Not in the thriving, bustling, shiny city, but in a rural, dusty, unpretentious town.  No one expects such a place for their king.  They expect their king to live in the beautiful, prosperous city they have developed, not in some shabby town that does not hold the same prestige as their glorious, revitalized city.

I have been wondering in what ways we too might be like most of the characters in this story – expecting to find greatness in our lives in the obvious places as opposed to in the less likely places.  I saw a news story the other day about how housing costs have finally started recovering and are on the rise.  The commentator mentioned that although we had a long way to go before we are back to our pre-recession numbers, the increases are promising.  The commentator’s observation made me wonder how much we as a people in this country are caught in looking backwards instead of wondering what can be our new reality.  Yes, the recession has hurt and continues to hurt many people, sending more people into unemployment, to food pantries, and to government assistance.  But in those supposed glory days before the economic downturn, many of us were spending more than we had, assuming lives we could not afford, and forgetting the poor in the process.  In some ways our prosperity gave us permission to forget each other, and encouraged us to focus solely on ourselves.  We got lost in the prosperity instead of finding the kind of people that God invites us to be.

What is interesting to me in our story from Matthew is the reaction of the wise men.  They do not scoff at Herod’s insight.  They do not hear about Bethlehem, and begin to ponder whether they really want to see this journey through or not.  They, as learned intellectuals and powerful men, do not second-guess Herod’s new interpretation through Micah over Isaiah.  Instead, “rather than hesitate or resist, they reorganize their wealth and learning, and reorient themselves and their lives around a baby with no credentials.”[iii]  The funny thing is that Bethlehem is about nine miles south of Jerusalem.  These men, who have done numerous calculations, a detailed study of prophecies, and have already made a long journey following a star, have missed their mark by nine miles.  Though Herod shares the insight about Micah for personal gain, imagine how different the story would be had Herod’s chief priests and scribes not remembered Micah 5, let alone if the wise men had been too proud not to hear this fresh insight.

The response of the wise men is one of letting go of one’s own expectations and trusting that God continues to reveal truth that may not be congruent with what hard work and experience would lead one to anticipate.  As one scholar explains, what the wise men learn is that the journey with God is “not about security and prosperity, but about vulnerability, neighborliness, generosity, a modest future with spears turned into pruning hooks and swords of plowshares.”[iv]  The wise men show us that the truly wise are always willing to accept that God may reveal truth that is counter to anything else we know, but that is full of greatness and joy.

Our invitation today is an invitation into the same boldness of the wise men.  Our invitation is to let the vulnerability of Micah disrupt the self-congratulation of Isaiah, realizing that although we might expect God to redeem us in the way we anticipate, granting us favor and privilege, we might instead experience that God redeems us through much more simple, humble ways.  Our invitation is to be bold enough to keep journeying with God, even when we are presented with information that might steer our journey in a direction we never expected or desired.  Our invitation is to remember that nine miles may not be a lot, but nine miles can be the difference between a manipulative, power-hungry king, and a humble, vulnerable king who can transform our lives into ones focused not on ourselves but on our neighbors and the greater good of all of us.  The question for us, both as individuals and as a community of faith, is what dusty road have we been avoiding.  The promise is that the dusty road will lead us to a connection with our Savior, who is so tremendous, that we too will drop everything and pay homage to our King.  Amen.

[i] Walter Brueggemann, “Off by Nine Miles,” Christian Century, vol. 118, no. 35, December 19-26, 2001, 15.

[ii] Matthew 2.6

[iii] Brueggemann, 15.

[iv] Brueggemann, 15.

Sermon – John 1.1-18, C1, YA, December 29, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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A couple of days after Christmas, the all-Christmas-music radio stations have switched back to their normal formats.  At local stores, the Christmas rack of cards had been transformed to a rack of Valentine’s Day cards.  In our neighborhoods and among our friends and family, we have switched our greeting from, “Merry Christmas!” to, “Happy New Year!”  The world has moved on from Christmas, and yet, the Church is still dwelling in Christmastide – in fact we celebrate not just one day, but the famous twelve days of Christmas.  Our celebrations continue until those wise men arrive on the 6th, when we transition to Epiphanytide.  Today, after stories of shepherd, angels, and the holy family, we find ourselves not wondering what is next, but instead still pondering what has just happened.

For a reflection on what happens in Jesus’ birth, what better text than John’s prologue?  John takes us out of the stable, and invites us not to just consider the miracle of that holy night, but to consider the miracle of a God who takes on human flesh for us.  And so, instead of telling us about the earthly beginning of Jesus’ life, John takes us all the way back to the beginning of all things – that creative moment when the Word and God are together, making all life come into being.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  The words sound beautiful, and John’s text is rich with meaning and interpretation.  But John’s words are also a little circuitous, repetitive, and a bit difficult to understand without reading them multiple times over.  The familiarity and beauty of the words may be soothing, but the meaning of those words sometimes eludes us.

As I sat pondering these words this week, I found myself drawn again to Rembrandt’s painting, “Holy Family,”[i]  In the foreground of the painting, Mary, who is bathed in light, has a well-worn book, perhaps scriptures, lying on her lap, held in place by one hand, as though she has been reading the book intently.  Her face, however is turned away from the weathered book, as her other hand lifts a blanket that is covering a cradle, revealing a sleeping, contented Jesus.  Behind Mary and Jesus, in much fainter light, Joseph is standing over a piece of wood that he is intently planing.  Meanwhile, in the top left corner of the painting, young cherubim are hovering around the scene with outstretched arms.

What I like so much about the painting is that Mary gives us a clue about how we are to understand John’s beautiful, but convoluted words today.  First, I am intrigued by the way Mary clutches her well-worn book.  In looking at her book’s worn edges, I am reminded of the Bible I used for my Education for Ministry class several years ago.  In EFM, you spend two years reading through the Old and New Testaments.  I remember how my homework for the class instructed me to highlight certain passages in different colors so I could track the different contributors to a text.  I remember writing notes in the margins of passages that stood out, held particular meaning, or raised questions.  I remember certain pages being soiled by the meal I tried to cram in while finishing my assigned reading for a particular session.  That Bible looked like a Bible someone actually lived with as opposed to the clean, commemorative ones I have on many of my shelves.

That is the way I imagine Mary treating her worn book.  As the one who ponders things in her heart, I imagine Mary also ponders scripture in her heart.  I imagine she pours over the texts as she looks for words to explain her experiences with Jesus or as she simply longs for words to describe her feelings toward the God who had done something so tremendous in her life.  As Mary seeks to understand the Word made flesh, perhaps she returns again and again to the words of scripture, trying to discern their meaning.  And given that she is a faithful Jew, she probably also does that pouring over scripture with her faith community, as they seek to always hear God’s word for the people.  Her community probably turns back to that creation narrative over and over again.  Her community probably turns back to the Law of Moses over and over again.  Her community probably turns back to the prophets over and over again.

Given her longing for scriptural insight, Mary likely would have appreciated John’s text today, even though John’s gospel was not written until about 60 years after Jesus’ death.  She would have already known the stories of Luke and Matthew because they are her story.  But our text by John today is an attempt to help all of us understand the magnificence of what happens when God takes on human flesh.  In fact, if Mary had been reading John, I imagine that the last line we hear is what draws her attention away from her well-worn book to look at the Christ Child himself in Rembrandt’s painting.  John writes, “No one has ever seen God.  It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.”

Perhaps this text is why Rembrandt depicts Mary’s eyes wandering back to that cradle, her hand pulling back the blanket, and her mind not just worrying like any mother does over an infant, but her mind also worrying about what God is doing in this child of hers.  She wants to do more than read the words on the paper – she wants to read the Word, with a capital “W,” in her life.  She wants to gaze at the Word made flesh, who shines light into that dimly lit room and into the world.  She wants to not only know the Law of Moses, but to know the grace and truth that comes directly from the Word incarnate.

What Rembrandt depicts in his painting is perhaps where we find our invitation from John’s gospel lesson today.  In order to understand John’s language, we too are invited to create our own dialogue between the Word of Scriptures and the Word made flesh.  Studying both Holy Scripture and the Holy Child is how we come to understand challenging texts like John’s gospel.  For some of us, that invitation may seem as muddy as John’s gospel.  But what Mary does in Rembrandt’s painting is available for us today too.  We can “develop a richer, fuller faith by tending both to the Word through words and to the Word made flesh, the Christ who is with us in the sacraments, with us in prayer, with us in our church, with us in our friends, with us in the stranger, and with us in creation, since ‘all things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.’”[ii]

For those of you still wondering what this life pattern still looks like, consider the ways in which we already live into this balance.  When we reach into our pockets a little deeper for those families in our neighborhood who are just struggling to put gas in the car and food on the table, honoring the holy in one another, we then turn back to Holy Scripture that tell us to care for the poor.  When we care for one another in this community, sharing our deepest pains and struggles, we then turn to back to Holy Scripture as we struggle to find words to verbalize our understanding of God in that pain and struggle.  When we come to this table, and consume the body of Christ in the bread, we then turn to Holy Scripture to understand what the Word became flesh means.  We gather today as a community of faith, both clutching the Word in Holy Scripture, and clutching Word in the Christ Child, knowing that we can never fully understand one without the other.  Amen.

[i] C. 1645.

[ii] Thomas H. Troeger, “Homliletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 193.

Sermon – John 1.1-14, CD, YA, December 25, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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I must admit that I have always been a little wary of John’s prologue at Christmas time.  I tend to prefer the earthy stories of Jesus in a manger, of dramatic angelic appearances, of messy shepherds, and of a baffled holy family.  I like that I can picture the events in my mind and ponder their meaning.  I like that I could imagine myself there and even wonder what the events mean to me two thousand years later.  My love of these stories is only accentuated by the songs we sing on Christmas Eve, and the nostalgia the music brings to me.

But today, on Christmas Day, we get none of that.  We sing no songs, we hear no romantic, familiar stories, and we do not get lost in the ancient narrative.  Instead, on this busy, often loud day, we come into a totally different space – a place of quiet reverence – and we hear a totally different text.  John does not go back to the beginning of Jesus’ story – he goes back to the beginning of all our stories.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Our minds drift not back to a stable, but to the beginning of creation, when the earth was a formless void – tohu wavohu.  Whereas our synoptic gospels try to tell us about who Jesus is by giving a story about his birth narrative, John’s gospel takes an even wider lens to try to explain who Jesus is.

In some ways the contrast between Christmas Eve’s stories about the stable and Christmas Day’s quiet reflection on the beginning of time is quite appropriate.  On Christmas Eve we are full of giddiness and excitement.  We break the long anticipation of Advent with a festive celebration of Jesus’ birth.  We share in jubilation, as if we are a crowd of people gathered at the maternity ward, sharing cigars and bear hugs.  But today, like a crew that has come in to clean up after a late-night party, we gather in these pews with a bit more sobriety, deeply pondering what all this incarnation stuff means.  For that kind of work, John’s gospel is the perfect gift.  John almost seems to say, “Yes, all those stories you know and love about Jesus are true and are to be celebrated.  But do not get swept away in the excitement and forget what this really means.”

For John, he begins his gospel starting not with details of the event of the incarnation, but with details about the significance of the incarnation.  For John, he is not interested in the sentimentality of a cute baby.  John is interested in the astounding fact that God became incarnate – took on flesh, lived among us, took on our dirty, gritty lives, and faced rejection and suffering – all so that we might live.  The God of creation – that same creative God we know from Genesis – is the same God who comes among us.  The Word has always been, and yet the Word also enters into human history to give life and light to the people.  When we talk about this kind of momentous significance, it is no wonder that we gather here in quiet awe of our God, soberly realizing the tremendous, salvific gift of the Word made flesh coming to dwell among us.

In some ways, the contrast between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are hitting home a little more vividly this year.  On the one hand, I have a four-year old, who really gets Christmas this year, who is excited beyond belief about baby Jesus, St. Nicholas, presents, and visiting family.  Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I want to cultivate that joy.  I am reminded of that collect from compline that asks God to “shield the joyous.”  But on the other hand, death has been heavy around me these last few days.  A dear friend from Delaware died this weekend, St. Margaret’s Cemetery helped a young couple from a neighboring church bury an 8-month stillborn child on Monday, and just two days ago, a St. Margaret’s parishioner lost his mother.  In light of the grief of those around me, I am grateful for a sober reminder of the awesomeness of our God, the salvation and promise of resurrection that is only made possible through the incarnation – that Word made flesh who lived among us, and who is full of grace and truth.  In the end, there is hope on both sides – hope for the happily joyous this season and hope for the soberly mournful this season.  I thank God for a Church who tends to both sets of needs, but mostly I thank God for taking on our earthly flesh, for giving us the Word who knew both joy and sorrow, and for promising us that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 1.18-25, A4, YA, December 22, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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So there he is, betrothed to Mary.  The way betrothal works in those days was that the husband and wife, or often the husband and the wife’s parents, enter into a marriage contract.  From that point on, the couple is considered married for all intents and purposes.  Any breaking of the contract would require a divorce.  During the betrothal period, the man prepares financially for his marriage, and the woman grows a bit more into womanhood, since she usually enters into the contract right after beginning puberty.  Some time later, the couple completes the marriage process with some sort of celebration or feast; then, the groom takes his wife into his home and the couple is considered fully married.[i]

Joseph had done everything by the books.  He is a righteous man, which means he follows the law to the letter.  Everything is heading in the proper direction, going as planned, according to schedule.  And then he gets the worst possible news.  Mary is pregnant.  Since Mary and Joseph are betrothed, but not yet in the stage of marriage where they have consummated the union, there is no way Joseph is the father of the child.  He can only assume Mary has been unfaithful.  Joseph has two options: he can have Mary stoned or he can divorce her.[ii]  He is well within his rights to utilize either path, and would not receive criticism by other faithful Jews.  But Joseph is one of those rare treasures who not only knows the letter of the law, but also understands the spirit of the law.  Instead of a brutal, public punishment for Mary, he decides he will divorce her quietly, hoping to help her avoid the full force of cultural judgment.

Joseph makes a well-informed, respectable, and compassionate decision.  He makes his decision and then rests his weary mind and body.  That is when life changes yet again.  God appears to Joseph in a dream, and explains that Joseph’s decision cannot stand.  This child in Mary’s womb is special, and not only is Joseph not to divorce her, he is to legally claim the child as his own by naming the child.  So what does Joseph do?  He bends even further than he already has, and takes Mary as his wife.

When most of us think of the Holy Family or even that holy night, we have a pretty romanticized picture of their life.  Our joy about the Christ Child seems to erase the reality of that poor family.  In fact, the Holy Family was a bit of a holy mess.  Mary is in the extremely vulnerable position of having her body taken over by the Holy Spirit and this child, all without the promise of a willing partner.  And Joseph is in a legal and cultural predicament.  I am sure that anyone in their community could do the math about Mary’s due date and wonder why Joseph stays with her, let alone assume ownership of the child.  Despite being obedient to God, I cannot imagine that Joseph’s dream wiped away all the tension between Joseph and Mary.

Of course, we are no stranger to this kind of messiness in families.  We all have experienced tensions in our relationships with parents, partners, siblings, and extended family.  Sometimes the tensions are from minor issues that eventually get resolved.  But sometimes the tensions break down communication, create broken relationships, and have ripple effects in our families.  Just this week, I have had conversations with people about an aging mother who is creating tensions among her children; a couple struggling with infertility; parents navigating the sexual orientation of their child; and a single person who feels lonely and hopeless.  We all know the messiness of life – in fact, we may have begun to wonder whether our dreams of peace and concord among our families is just a pipe dream.  Or maybe we would rather just divorce ourselves entirely from what our lives have become.

In the midst of messiness, another way emerges.  Joseph, a man who we know to be righteous and faithful makes a choice.  He had nothing to do with the messiness in his life, and he has every reason and right to just walk away and find a much neater, tidier life and a more conventional wife.  But Joseph makes a choice to believe God.  Joseph chooses differently.  “He claims the scandal, he owns the mess – he legitimizes it – and the mess becomes the place where the Messiah is born.”[iii]  Joseph’s choice is unconventional, a bit radical, and perhaps even a bit illogical.  But Joseph, having no idea where the choice will lead him, or how he will navigate his relationships once his decision is made, chooses to believe and to follow God right into the heart of the messiness, trusting that God will sustain him in the messiness and make something beautiful out of the mess.

Of course, Joseph had reason to believe that God could make a way through the messiness.  Just a few verses before the text we hear today in Matthew, Matthew lists the genealogy of Jesus.  In that genealogy, Jesus’ heritage begins with Abraham, goes through David, and ends with Joseph.  But in that list of forty-two fathers, four women from the Old Testament are also listed – all of whom had a history either before marriage or childbirth that made their story either strange or scandalous.  Take Tamar for example.  She was found to be pregnant long after her husband’s death.  Her father-in-law denounced her until he realized that he was the father.  Or look at Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah.  She became pregnant not by her husband Uriah, but by David.[iv]  Joseph comes from a long line of messiness and scandal, and yet, God moves through the messiness to create something new and powerful every time.  Perhaps a family history of messiness and divine action leads Joseph to take that leap of faith with Mary.

I wonder how all of this messiness resonates with your life.  We are still wrapping up Advent, and not quite yet to Christmas.  Like Joseph, we are not quite at the manger, finally arriving at our destination.  Now I recognize that some of you will be blessed by a blissful, picturesque Christmas with nothing but familial harmony.  That kind of reality may be entirely due to some good luck, and if that is what your Christmas looks like, then praise be to God.  But most of us probably are approaching Christmas with our fair share of messiness.  There are relationships to navigate or perhaps relationships that have entirely crumbled over the years.  You may have lingering questions about how God will act and what kind of goodness can come out of your mess.

Our invitation today is to remember that God still speaks to us in the messiness, and that God can still work not in spite of our mess, but through our mess for goodness.  And if you not convinced, perhaps then Joseph might be your best companion in the coming days.  Perhaps Joseph can journey with you as you wade into the messiness of your life, praying to hear God’s words for you.  Perhaps Joseph can fill you with hope and promise that your messiness, which may or may not be as severe as some of the Biblical messiness we have heard about today, has surely been seen by and blessed by God.  Perhaps Joseph can hold your hand at the stable, like he did with Mary, inviting you into a sure, steady trust that your God can do infinitely more than you can ask for or imagine this Christmas.  Amen.

[i] Arland J. Hultgren, “Commentary on Matthew 1.18-25,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/ preaching.aspx? commentary_id=1936 on December 18, 2013.

[ii] David Lose, “Matthew’s Version of the Incarnation,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft. aspx?post=2961 on December 18, 2013.

[iii] Martin B. Copenhaver, “Jesus’ Other Parent,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 31, no. 1, Advent 2007, 35.

[iv] Raymond E. Brown, “The Annunciation to Joseph,” Worship, vol. 61, no. 6, November 1987, 483.

Homily – John 10.11-16, Cemetery Memorial Service, December 21, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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Last week I attended the funeral of a parishioner’s mother.  As I sat in a cold pew, on a messy, snowy day, I remember thinking how hard Christmas would be for the family this year.  When death is so fresh at your door, hearing songs that proclaim this to be the “most wonderful time of the year,” do not exactly ring true.  When the loss is so new, finding the energy to send cards or get presents sometimes feels half-hearted, if not impossible.  When the absence is so overwhelming, even preparing a favorite recipe of the lost loved one can feel like ripping open one’s heart as you measure, stir, bake, and taste the memories.

I would love to tell families that coping with the loss gets easier over time, but my experience is that no matter how long ago your loved one passed away, the loss still creates an ache in your heart that never really goes away – especially during Christmas time.  Society, and even the Church, tells us that the Christmas season is supposed to be filled with joy, light, and hope.  But for those with grief, Christmastime just reminds us of all the Christmases that we enjoyed with our loved ones – the memories we have, the traditions we enjoyed together; even the bickering and disagreements would seem preferable to not having our loved one at all.  As time goes on and the family grows, you mourn all the new life that they will never see.

Part of the reason we gather today is to honor the shadow side of Christmas.  We acknowledge the pain, suffering, and grief that Christmas can bring.  We acknowledge the incompleteness, however slight, of the joy of this season.  We acknowledge that we might relate more to the Jesus who is in the tomb this season than the happiness of the Jesus born in a manger.  Today, on this winter solstice – the one day of the year with the least amount of light – we honor the fact that there are times of darkness in our faith.  And the Church stands with us, giving us permission to claim the darkness because, ultimately, we know that the light and the darkness cannot be separated.

That is why I find the gospel lesson today so affirming.  In John’s gospel, Jesus tells the disciples, “I am the good shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me.”  This is the reason why the Church encourages us to acknowledge grief today:  because Jesus already knows the hurt is there.  That is what makes him such a good shepherd.  There is no need to hide the fullness of who we are.  There is no need to try to fake good cheer.  There is no need to pretend to be constantly festive if we are not.  All we have to do is look around this room to realize that not only is Jesus with us in our memories or grief, our brothers and sisters gathered here today are also struggling with the conflicting nature of this season.

Acknowledging that hurt, we come together today to shine a little bit of light into that shadow side of Christmas.  Though we name the shadow side of Christmas, we also reclaim the light we find in Christmas.  Both in our gospel lesson and in the 23rd Psalm we proclaim the Lord to be our Good Shepherd.  We remember that the Lord is with us, that God’s rod and God’s staff comfort us.  We remind one another that we are not alone.  And we light a candle as we leave this place.  In the midst of darkness, we cling to that light – even if only a small flicker from our one candle.  We take that candle to our loved one’s grave remembering all the light that they brought to us.  But that flame goes with us too.  Perhaps we will find that just naming our pain today allows that flame to shine slowly, but steadily, in us.  Perhaps as we see the candles flicker at Christmas services in a few days or in our homes over this next week, we will remember the light of Christ reaching out to us, inviting us to remember that the darkness will not overwhelm us.  Or perhaps that flame will remind us of a deeper joy – not the joy of presents, eggnog, and parties – but the joy of a Good Shepherd who knows us, who loves us, and who will continue to shine a light onto our path.

On this winter solstice, I invite you to remember that after today, our days start claiming more light.  No longer will our days keep getting shorter.  Our days will slowly start to lengthen.  The light will refuse to let the darkness take over.  That is the good news that we proclaim today as we remember our loved ones.  Though there may always be a part of us that hides in the shadows of Christmas, Christ still shines a bit of light in our lives too – sometimes only as little light as is found on the winter solstice – but sometimes as much light as we find in the summer solstice.  So hold fast to the Good Shepherd.  Hold fast to the light.  Hold fast to the promise of resurrection life that is for our loved ones and for us.  Those promises can make even the shadow side of Christmas a little brighter.  Amen.

God’s embrace…

19 Thursday Dec 2013

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This time of year is always a little crazy for me.  The plus side is that we have established with our family and friends that given my work, we really cannot get away for Christmas.  We do however, more than welcome folks to come and stay with us.  So our place has become a wonderful place of hosting various family and friends since my ordination.  That being said, while in the midst of finishing bulletins, preparing multiple sermons, and tending to any work that needs to be finished before I take several days off, I also need to make sure the house is clean, the shopping (food and gifts) has been done, the decorations are all ready to go – the list goes on and on.

Needless to say, anxiety is pretty high around our place this time of year.  I try to soak in the quiet of Advent, and I try to proceed with a steady calm, but I regularly fail.  Sometimes I wish I could get through Christmas, make time freeze for a couple of days, and then pick up in the middle of Christmas dinner.  But no matter what I do, I still have not figured out that time freeze trick.

Tonight, though, I was reminded of the little gifts that God gives me in the midst of anxiety and overwhelmedness.  After her bedtime routine, some quiet play in her room, and much stalling, my daughter always comes to me and asks me to rock her a little while in the dark before singing her to sleep.  Tonight, as she lay on my chest and growing belly, we rocked in the quiet.  It occurred to me how close her body was to the other growing child in my womb.  It was almost like the two were hugging each other in the quiet.  Of course, then I realized that I had the pleasure of hugging both of them, as the three of us rocked back and forth in a brief moment of calm and peace.  I rocked for a minute or two more before realizing that the three of us were not actually alone.  God’s arms were wrapped around all of us, holding us tightly, rocking gently with us.  The image took me by surprise, but also created a wave of relief for me.  It is so easy for me to get wrapped up in the busyness of this time that I forget that God is with me, even though I flit around as if God is not.

In the midst of these last days of preparation and waiting, I invite you to imagine the times when God might be enveloping you too – when you least expect it, when you most need it, but more importantly, when you do not even realize it.  That is the gift of our awesome God – a God who carries us, despite the fact, that we, like a four-year old, insist that we can do it by ourselves.  Ever faithful, ever patient, ever awesome is our God.

Sermon – Matthew 11.2-11, A3, YA, December 15, 2013

19 Thursday Dec 2013

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This sermon was only preached at the 8:00 am service, as our Bishop delivered the sermon at our 10:00 am service on Sunday.

Today marks fifty years of ministry by St. Margaret’s in Plainview.  On this day we remember our very rough beginnings at the Plainview American Legion Hall – a place where we often had to clean up empty beer bottles and ash trays before worship.  We remember the many people who have come in and out of lives and the ways in which they have made our ministry and life together richer.  We remember the pastoral leadership of the parish, and the ways in which each priest challenged and comforted us.  And we remember our own journey here – what brought us to this place, the ways that we connected, the ministries that we joined, and the reasons why we stay.  We take all these memories and we together say, “Thanks be to God for all that has been.”

Earlier this week, the bishop visited with our Vestry to talk about the work we are currently doing in Plainview.  We shared with him our new initiatives in outreach – the ways that we have adopted local families in need, the food we grew this summer in our Garden of Eatin’ to feed our neighbors, and the sandwiches we make with our interfaith brothers and sisters to feed those who do not know from where the next meal will come.  We shared with the bishop our evangelism efforts – our new website, blog, and Facebook page.  We talked about our efforts to spread the word about St. Margaret’s in our community – our mailings, signage, community presence at events, and even our challenge to get off campus more.  And we also shared with the bishop our ministry to spiritually feed everyone who comes through our doors – through education programs for adults and children, for spiritual offerings here and off campus, and through prayer and pastoral ministries.  The bishop was pleased with our efforts to reach beyond our walls and to find community partners in the process.  Together, we all said, “Thanks be to God for all that is.”

But the bishop did not let us off so easily.  He reminded us that we still had work to do.  He reminded us that this community is a largely un-churched community – full of people who have fallen away from the church or who have never known church.  He also reminded us that our mission field is not just in Plainview.  Our mission field is also in every place that each parishioner lives.  We are all agents of sharing the good news of Christ Jesus, and that our work more about welcoming people into a relationship with Christ than to grow the church.  The bishop also reminded us that there are still potential partnerships available to us.  There are ways that we can feed our current ministries through partnering with others, and we should not shy away from that work.  In many ways, I understood the bishop to be saying, “You have already made some great changes and are thinking outside of the box.  Now, keep making changes and keep thinking outside of the box.  Your work is not yet done.”  And so, with the bishop, together we prayed, “Thanks be to God for all that is yet to come.”

In many ways, I see parallels between what we are doing today and what is happening in our Gospel lesson today.  We are looking back, looking at today, and dreaming about tomorrow.  John the Baptist is in a similar situation.  As he sits in his cold jail cell, he thinks back to the prophets of old – of Isaiah who proclaimed that there would be one crying out in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.”  He recalls all that was said about the coming of a Messiah, and what the people of God could expect from the Messiah.  As he thinks about this rich past, he also looks at the current time.  He remembers how Jesus comes to be baptized by him, and how John feels unworthy to tie the thong of his sandal, let alone baptize him.  He begins to feel that his prayers have been answered, and God is finally acting in human history.  But he also feels those cold floors, those shackles on his limbs, and the permanence of those prison bars.  Is he mistaken?  Is Jesus not the Messiah?  If Jesus is the Messiah, surely his messenger, John, would not be sitting in this cell.  Perhaps there is more waiting in John’s future – perhaps the time is yet to come.

I have been thinking a lot this week about John’s jail experience and the many other prophets we know who have spent time imprisoned.  Of Dietrich Bonhoeffer who just a few months before the Nazis hanged him wrote, “Who am I?”  Though he eventually wrote, “Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine,”[i] I imagine Bonhoeffer could relate to John the Baptist’s prison questioning.  I also think about Nelson Mandela in South Africa, Aung San Suu Kyi in Burma, or Martin Luther King, Junior in the United States who all sat in confinement fighting for a world ruled by equity and justice.  Though we admire them, surely they had dark nights of the soul during that time.  That is the funny thing about expectations though.  When things do not work out as we planned, we sometimes wonder whether God is acting at all.  John surely wondered whether God was present in Jesus.  Dietrich, Nelson, Aung San, and Martin must have wondered whether they were on the right track too.

I am sure that sitting in a jail cell leads one to wonder and dream about the future.  But when John inquires of Jesus what the future holds, all Jesus says is to look around.  He does not give John definite answers.  He simply points him toward the movement of the Holy Spirit all around him.  In some ways, as we look at the next fifty years we could also wonder about where we are going.  We too could wonder if the changes we are making are the right ones.  We could wonder if God will come in and light a blazing fire that will spark a renewal of ministry and blessing in this place.

And so today, in the midst of celebration and anticipation, we are given the wonderful collect of third Advent.  “Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us…”  We do not pray for reassurance, for confirmation, or for hope.  Instead, we pray that God will come among us and stir things up.  Now I do not know about you, but stirring things up is not exactly the reassurance I was hoping for today.  It is not the “well done, good and faithful servant,” I might have wanted to hear on our 50th anniversary.  But in some ways, I think this prayer is better.  This prayer, “Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us,” is a prayer focused more on the future than the past.  The prayer is our way of saying, “Okay, Lord.  We have been good and faithful servants.  Now, come among us and keep stirring our pot – because, as our bishop reminds us, our work is not yet done.”  We ask God to stir us up – to give us a new fire, a new spark for the work Christ has given us to do.  We know that in the stirring, we may come out looking differently than we expected.  We know that in the stirring, we may find ourselves disoriented or even trying life together new ways.  But we also know that in the stirring, the Holy Spirit moves in us to make us a better people for God.  Today we are grateful for all that has been and all that is.  And now we ask God to stir us up so that we can celebrate all that is to come.  Amen.

[i] John P. Burgess, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 72.

Homily – Colossians 4.2–6, John of the Cross, December 12, 2013

19 Thursday Dec 2013

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Today we honor Juan de la Cruz, or John of the Cross.  Though he died in 1591, John was widely unknown until more recently.  Born in 1542 in Spain, his father died when he was three.  His mother and siblings were thrown into poverty.  He received early education in an orphanage, but by 17 he had learned carpentry, tailoring, sculpting, and painting through apprenticeships.  He was able to do his university studies with the Jesuits; after school he joined the Carmelite order.  In 1567, he was ordained to the priesthood and recruited by Teresa of Avila to reform the Carmelite order.  He studied extensively, was a spiritual director, and devoted himself to the search for God.  Because of his attempts to dramatically reform the Carmelites, he was eventually imprisoned.  There he wrote poetry as a comfort.  His “Dark Night of the Soul” became his most famous piece.  As John of the Cross has been rediscovered, he has become known as “the church’s safest mystical theologian” and “the poet’s poet.”

I was thinking John must have known a lot about the dark night of the soul.  He had a rough childhood, fought to get an education, and then found incredible resistance when he tried to make the devotion of the Carmelites better; his prison cell must have felt like a dark night.  I am reading an Advent devotional right now, and it has felt pretty dark at times.  I can tell the author has experienced some rough times, though she never specifies what they are in her poetry.  But the darkness of her soul pervades her writing.  I have wondered as I read why she is putting such darkness in our Advent devotional – a season of light.  But then I thought about the realities of this season – the pain the season can bring of lost loved ones, of unfulfilled dreams, of unmet expectations, of pressure and anxiety.  Perhaps the author, like John of the Cross, is willing to expose the dark night that can live in the soul.

So where is the light for us to grasp in Advent?  I appreciate those words of instruction in Colossians: “Devote yourselves to prayer.”  Prayer is one of the places that we can dump darkness and discover light.  Prayer is the conversation in which we can struggle vulnerably and honestly with God, and eventually end up on the other side renewed and refreshed.  This is one of our Advent invitations:  devote yourselves to prayer.  Whether you already feel bathed in light or you are longing for the light, prayer is the place where we meet God and we find strength for the journey.  Amen.

Homily – John 6.57-63, Clement of Alexandria, December 5, 2013

13 Friday Dec 2013

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Today we honor Clement of Alexandria, priest and philosopher in the mid-to-late second century.  Clement was originally a Greek philosopher who sought truth in many schools until he met Pantaenus, head of a Christian school in Egypt.  Clement later became head of that school and was for many years an apologist for the Christian faith to both pagans and Christians.  His background and abilities helped him to commend Christianity to the intellectual circles of Alexandria.  He had a liberal approach to secular knowledge and his work prepared the way for Origen, one of the most eminent theologians of Greek Christianity.

We honor Clement today because he did what so many of us simultaneously hope to do and fear to do.  We long to share our faith experiences with both the Christians and non-Christians in our lives.  We have had some incredible encounters with God and we want to share that experience with others.  And yet we fear sharing because we worry that people may ask us questions we cannot answer.  We worry we do not have the intellectual acumen of Clement to tie together our experiences in a logical way.

Perhaps we feel a bit like the disciples in John’s gospel today.  As Jesus explains that he is the bread of life meant to be consumed, the disciples complain, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”  Their complaint is not hard to understand – I am sure any of us hearing Jesus’ metaphor for the first time would be especially baffled.  All we need is one hearty experience trying to explain to a child that a wafer is Jesus’ body and we all get a little nervous about this crazy faith of ours.

In the midst of our hesitancy, we find encouragement through Clement.  Clement gives us permission to interweave our sacred and secular worlds.  Clement used his gift – the gift of a brilliant secular mind – to interpret his faith and make it accessible to the faithful and those without faith.  God gives each of us similar gifts too.  God empowers us with “spirit and life,” as Jesus Christ says.  God gives us a unique spiritual journey that can speak truth because ultimately we, too, are a mixture of sacred and secular: who better to interpret this crazy world and our crazy faith than us?  Clement invites us to share our own truths with others – knowing that our truth is a part of the bigger truth of Jesus Christ.  Though we may not have everything figured out, we have experienced enough of God in us, and we have been given gifts to enable us to share that truth with others.  Amen.