Tag Archives: Mary

Sermon – Matthew 1.18-25, A4, YA, December 21, 2025

07 Wednesday Jan 2026

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By the time we get to the fourth Sunday in Advent, most of us are on the Christmas train.  We have bought presents for loved ones, greened our homes and church (although we did hold back on any red to get us through Advent!), we have been singing along with Nat King Cole and Mariah Carey for weeks, and based on the crowd at the grocery store last night, we’ve bought tons of food for the big day.  So, on this fourth Sunday in Advent, when we hear of Jesus’ origin story – although not the fun version from Luke that we’ll hear in few days – most of our eyes glaze over and our ears tune out, thinking “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Joseph was a pretty cool dude to stay with Mary and claim Jesus as his own.”

This year, though, I am especially grateful for some time with Joseph and Matthew’s gospel.  Like many people of faith, I normally resonate more with Mary – I have multiple icons of Mary and Jesus in my office, I love to pray the Hail Mary, and given my gender, I simply relate to the physical experience of Mary more than Joseph.  But on a very practical, everyday level, Mary can seem a little otherworldly – a saint so saintly that she can be hard to emulate.  Instead, I like the earthy, realness of Joseph today.

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 biological 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.[i]  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.

On the one hand, I like that this is a story of an ordinary man listening to and responding to God.  In that way, we hear the gospel lesson sharing a similar message to us today.  You don’t have to be some superstar like Mary, or have some band of angels come with messages, or even journey for months following a star.  You don’t have to be some holier-than-thou Christian, some uber-activist bringing on world peace, or even a sinless follower of God.  You just need to be like this everyday Joe – a Joseph who is willing to pay attention and to say a quiet yes – even if saying yes feels scary or scandalous.

Yes, on the one hand, I like that this is story of an ordinary man listing to and responding to God.  On the other hand, I like that Matthew’s gospel tells us that Joseph is not actually some ordinary man – some everyday Joe.  You see, Joseph is a direct descendent of not only Abraham, but also King David.  If we had read the 17 verses before the passage we read today, we would have gotten the genealogy of names that lead to Jesus – those hard names that every lector dreads reading.  But those names tell us so much.  Matthew, “…mentions Abraham – the patriarch who abandoned his son, Ishmael, and twice endangered his wife’s safety in order to save his own skin.  He mentions Jacob, the trickster usurper who humiliated his older brother.  He mentions David, who slept with another man’s wife and then ordered that man’s murder to protect his own reputation.  He mentions Tamar, who pretended to be a sex worker, and Rahab, who was one.  These are just a few representative samples.”  Scholar Debie Thomas asks, “Notice anything?  Anything like messiness?  Complication?  Scandal?  Sin?  How interesting that God, who could have chosen any genealogy for his Son, chose a long line of brokenness, imperfection, dishonor, and scandal.  The perfect backdrop, I suppose, for his beautiful works of restoration, healing, hope, and second chances.”[ii]

I like that Joseph is not just an ordinary man saying yes.  I like that Joeseph is a specific, special man, even if that specialness does not come from something he did.  In that way, Joseph is like every person in this room.  Like Joseph, your life is probably messy too.  You probably have misbehaving people in your family tree, that ancestor that people only talk about in embarrassed whispers, or that relative you do not want to introduce to anyone else for fear of guilt by association.  If God can use Joseph in all his messiness, specificity, and ordinariness, then you better believe God is likely inviting you, in your ordinary, messy, specificity into some scary, world-changing stuff too.  No wonder that the angel Gabriel’s first words to Joseph were, “Do not be afraid!”

I know you were hoping to hop onto the Christmas train and skip over this fourth Sunday in Advent.  But maybe this year isn’t supposed to be about some idyllic, picturesque Christmas.  As Debie Thomas says, “If we want to enter into God’s messy story, then perhaps [“Be not afraid” are] words we need to hear, too.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be afraid when God’s work in your life looks alarmingly different than you thought [God’s work] would.  Do not be afraid when God upends your cherished assumptions about righteousness.  Do not be afraid when God asks you to stand alongside the scandalous, the defiled, the suspected, and the shamed.  Do not be afraid when God asks you to love something or someone more than your own spotless reputation.  Do not be afraid of the precarious, the fragile, the vulnerable, the impossible.  Do not be afraid [to notice and embrace the] mess [of Christmas this year].  The mess is the place where God is born.”[iii]  Amen.           

[i] David Lose, “Matthew’s Version of the Incarnation,” December 17, 2013, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/matthews-version-of-the-incarnation on December 20, 2025.

[ii] Debie Thomas, “Into the Mess,” December 15, 2019, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/2484-into-the-mess on December 20, 2025.

[iii] Thomas.

Sermon – Luke 10.38-42, P11, YC, July 20, 2025

24 Thursday Jul 2025

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Professor Jennifer Wyant describes “…a famous legend told about Martha of Bethany that was popular in the Middle Ages.  In this story, which takes place after the resurrection of Jesus, she becomes a traveling preacher and ends up in a small town in France that, unfortunately, has a chronic dragon problem.  She manages to slay the dragon and, in doing so, wins the whole town over to Christianity.  In that same story, her sister Mary, on that same trip, ends up starting a monastery in the wilderness, meaning they both live out the roles assigned to them in Christian history:  Martha acts and Mary studies.  Martha represents an active faith, while Mary represents a contemplative faith.”  Wyant goes on to explain that “This dichotomy comes in many ways from Luke 10:38–42 [that we read today], in which Martha shows Jesus hospitality while Mary sits at his feet.  The two women embody different aspects of Christian discipleship in Luke’s Gospel, and both are lifted up as positive characters.  They are both doing good things.  There is no villain in this story.  But ultimately, Jesus tells Martha that Mary has chosen the better part, and this represents a tension point for most readers.”[i]

Now like any good Episcopalian, I am not big on dichotomies.  I am not a fan of either-or options – I am more of a both-and Christian.  So, I am not sure if this story gets my hackles up because I think dichotomies can be dangerous, or if I am defensive because both this story and the Old Testament lesson have women hustling around in stereotypically gendered roles, or if Jesus’ lack of support and criticism of Martha is so biting, or if I just see too much of myself in Martha.  If Martha and Mary’s story today has you similarly anxious, uncomfortable, or defensive, or if this story has you feeling a bit affirmed and self-righteous, then we all need to dig a bit more deeply into this story. 

Starting with the text will help.  On the surface, this is a story about an older sibling, Martha, taking on all the household work while the younger sister, Mary, sits with Jesus, enjoying the luxury of learning from Jesus while Martha does all the work.  But in verse 40, the translation we have says Martha is distracted by her many tasks.  Now according to scholars, the Greek translation says something more like, “Martha is ‘distracted by much ministry.’”[ii]  This is not a critique of stereotypically gendered work women must do.  Martha is not just distracted by preparing food, cleaning the house, and making beds for disciples.  Martha is doing the sacred, faithful work of hospitality – a crucial act of ministry.  Later, Jesus says Martha is “worried and distracted by many things…”  Here, the Greek word for “worry” is “‘strangle’ or ‘seize by the throat’ and ‘tear.’  The root meaning of the word ‘distraction’ is a dragging apart of something that should be whole.  These are [two] violent words.  Words that wound and fracture.  States of mind that render us incoherent, divided, and un-whole.”[iii]

This story is not about who is the better sibling, whether women’s work is inferior to men’s work, or even about judgment of identity for us Marthas in the room.  This is a story about how all of us have ministries – ministries of discipleship that involve learning and action, of studying the Word and showing Christian hospitality to strangers, of speeding up and slowing down.  What Jesus is really concerned about is our intention around our discipleship.  The question is not if we are doing God’s work, but how we are doing God’s work.[iv]  According to Debie Thomas, Martha is in “such a state of fragmentation, a condition in which she cannot enjoy [Jesus’] company, savor his presence, find inspiration in her work, receive anything he wishes to offer her, or show him genuine love.  Instead, all she can do is question his love…fixate on herself…, and triangulate.”  Martha seems to think she can “invite Jesus into her life – and then carry on with that life as usual, maintaining control, privileging her own priorities, and clinging to her long-cherished agendas and schedules.”  And unfortunately, “That’s not how discipleship works.”[v]

So maybe instead of getting some either-or clarity today, we need to ask some both-and questions.  How are we approaching our ministry these days?  Are we so wrapped up in our assumptions about other people’s behaviors that we have forgotten to look at our own?  Have we invited Jesus into our lives, but only under our own set of requirements and strictures?  Once we refocus our questions, some clarity comes into view[vi].  Maybe we need to take some more time at Jesus’ feet, praying, reading scripture, coming to church, or joining something like Faith and Film or Sunday morning Bible Study.  Maybe we need to look at those metaphorical dinner plates as an invitation to prayer, holding dear the bodies that will be fed by our labor.  Maybe we need step out of our controlled kitchens and go serve up a meal at Meals on Wheels or at From His Hands.  Jesus loves us and affirms us in our varied ministries.  And Jesus also knows that when we start looking at how we are doing our ministries, the real, life-giving, whole-making discipleship will come.  Amen.

[i] Jennifer S. Wyant, “Commentary on Luke 10:38-42,” July 20, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-16-3/commentary-on-luke-1038-42-6 on July 19, 2025.

[ii] Amy-Jill Levine and Ben Witherington, III, The Gospel of Luke: New Cambridge Bible Commentary (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2018), 297.

[iii] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, Oregon:  Cascade Books, 2022), 51.

[iv] Matthew L. Skinner, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C., Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 265 and 267.

[v] Thomas, 51.

[vi] James A. Wallace, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C., Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 265.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2024

12 Wednesday Feb 2025

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Every summer, we hold a film series at Hickory Neck.  This summer, one of the films was movie called Children of Men.  The film is a dystopian film situated in London about a time in the future when the world has become infertile.  The youngest human, aged 18 has just died, schools and playgrounds are abandoned, a pall of grief and depression hangs in the air, and the world has become violent, unpredictable, harsh – with massive detainment camps of refugees and rebels fighting the government militia and civilians alike.  Into this setting, we meet Theo, a man who has lost hope and purpose, and we meet a young woman of color who would normally be in one of those detainment camps, who is secretly carrying the first pregnancy in over 18 years.  Theo’s world is thrown into chaos as he tries to get the young mother to safety so that the child will be able to live freely. 

In a powerful scene near the end of the movie, the mother has birthed her child in a dingy, rat-infested, crumbling room, and Theo needs to get her and the child to the safe haven.  But the crumbling building is overrun with rebels and a battle ensues as the military shows up.  In the din of violence and noise, the baby cries out, and all activity ceases.  Rebels hold their fire as they watch in reverence as the baby is carried down the stairs of the building.  The soldiers outside call for a ceasefire as the high-pitched cries they have not heard in almost 20 years fill the air.  Rebels, civilians, and soldiers alike stand in awe, many reaching out just to touch the baby and mother.  The awed silence is so palpable that even movie watchers hold their breath at this miracle.

I imagine that night from our gospel lesson was a bit like that breath-holding moment in Children of Men.   We know that Mary and Joseph are going to be registered in Bethlehem, but what we can forget is that Mary and Joseph live in a time of occupation – where taxes are extorted, registrations can drive folks from their homes, where rebellion against the state leads to death.  The mass movement of people for the registration creates another layer of chaos, leaving people jockeying for shelter, especially a couple so close to birth, and whose pregnancy is of a dubious nature from the beginning.  Even in the peaceful countryside where shepherds are just doing their work, a chaos of shocking news, a chorus from angels, and the blinding light of the glory of the Lord is shining in their normally darkened pastoral setting. 

And then, just like in that battle scene in the film, the shepherds arrive where the holy family have made due, and a whispered conversation leads to a stillness that makes you hold your breath.  But this stillness is not just about the miracle of life – no this stillness is about so much more – about a savior, the Messiah, who has been promised for generations who finally is here; about a promised peace in a world that has no peace; about promises for justice that Mary has sung about with her cousin Elizabeth, and now seems to be a reality.  Mary is so overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment that all she can do is ponder the words of the shepherds in her heart.

What is so unsettling about the parallels in this secular, dystopian film and the ancient biblical story is not just their similarities.  What is most unsettling is their similarities to our own time.  Our political landscape is just as unstable, conflicted, and threatening.  Our economic, mental, and physical health is just as unsteady.  And for some of us, our home life is a place of even more strain.  In so many ways, having ourselves a merry little Christmas feels like a stretch.  In fact, the very reason we may be here tonight – besides a family member telling us we had to come – is that we long for that moment of awe – that quiet, tremendous, encouraging peace that can only be found at the site of the Christ Child.  We want a word, or a song, or a meal shared that will leave us something to treasure and ponder in our hearts too.

That is what Christmas does.  Coming here tonight is not going to solve all our problems or the world’s problems.  In that movie, as soon as the child is out of sight, bombs and gunfire ramp up dangerously again.  At that manger scene, Herod’s paranoid tyranny means Mary, Joseph, and Jesus will have to flee to Egypt for safety.  And come January, we will have a transition in power in our own country.  But tonight, in this sacred space, we enter into a time of unfiltered joy.  We recall what matters most – the Savior born in a manger whose eventual salvation will give us meaning and purpose.  We lean into those gathered with us tonight – those who are family and friends, those who are fellow church members, and even those whose names we do not know – we lean into one another in this safe space of sanctuary, where none of the darkness outside can touch us – even if only for an hour.  We lay down any burdens on our hearts at the altar as we share a holy meal, fortifying ourselves for what comes next.  And we glorify and praise God, like shepherds who have seen a great light, and whispered holy truths. 

Now unfortunately, that tremendous gift, that sacred life-giving balm, is not without a price.  The price, is that we must leave this place, enter back into the dark of night, and carry on with life back out in the world.  Our invitation is to carry whatever light, whatever hope, whatever small sliver of praise and glory we find this night, and gift it to someone else.  To be like Theo, who refuses to allow the glory of a mother’s child to suffer; to be like shepherds, who share the good news of a Messiah; to be like your neighbor in the chair (pew) beside you, who is already thinking of someone who needs the gift of hope and healing who cannot be here tonight, but whom your neighbor will be sure to gift some of that love and peace to tomorrow.  Christmas is the Church’s gift to you this night.  You are Jesus’s gift to someone else tomorrow.  Amen.

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.

On Companions for the Journey…

31 Wednesday May 2023

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Mary as Prophet by Margaret Parker at Virginia Theological Seminary (photo by Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; reuse with permission)

Today is the Feast Day of the Visitation – that lovely encounter between Elizabeth and Mary, the mother of Jesus, when they are both unusually pregnant.  You may recall Elizabeth is older, and had likely assumed she would never have children.  Her child would become John the Baptist.  And of course, Mary, officially unwed and a virgin, is now newly pregnant with the son of God.  When the two cousins meet at the Visitation, John leaps in Elizabeth’s womb, and we get the profession of faith that is so familiar to us in the rosary, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb”[i]  Just a few verses later, Mary’s response to Elizabeth is the text we call the Magnificat, or the Song of Mary[ii] – a text sung at Evensongs for centuries. 

As I heard this text retold at the monastery today, I was reminded of how important companions are in our spiritual journey.  I imagine Elizabeth’s pregnancy was full of anxiety – fear that she might lose the precious child in her high-risk pregnancy.  And I imagine Mary’s pregnancy was full of a totally different kind of anxiety – so many social mores to manage, Joseph to worry about, and, well, the whole God-bearing thing.  And yet, only in this meeting of two women do we get two of the richest texts in our tradition.  Sometimes we need earthly companions to help us digest the big stuff that God throws our way.

I wonder who your earthly companions are these days.  I wonder whether you have reached out to them recently with whatever stuff God has been throwing your way.  We are a people made for community and relationship.  We are not meant to walk the journey alone – even though we are perfectly capable of doing so.  But how much more joy, surprise, reassurance, and victory do we experience when we walk together?  May this Feast Day of the Visitation be your invitation to find someone to walk with in this crazy season God has given you.

[i] Luke 1.42

[ii] Luke 1.46-55

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2022

05 Thursday Jan 2023

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When our girls were very small, our favorite book was Goodnight Moon.  We read that book so many times, I could have recited the book to you from memory.  “In the great green room there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of – the cow jumping over the moon…”  I read to our girls to calm them for bedtime, but truth be told, the cadence of a familiar book calmed me too.  Reading Goodnight Moon for the hundredth time became like taking a deep, steadying breath.

The same thing happened to me this year as I heard tonight’s gospel.  “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered…”  As I kept listening, I could feel my body physically relaxing, my breath slowing, and a sense of peace and comfort settling in me. 

In all honesty, the reaction is a bit strange.  Nothing about Luke’s birth narrative is all that soothing.  Governments are forcibly moving people, accommodations are extremely cramped, childbirth in such conditions is anything but luxurious, we are transported to far off fields with the smells and discomforts of tending animals, and angels are sharing wonderful, terrible news, and mysteries are being introduced that delight and terrify.

So why in the world did my body have such a viscerally peaceful reaction to these familiar words despite the discomforting story?  Because Christ’s birth happens in the middle of disruption, chaos, shame, and messiness is perhaps the reason why the story is so comforting.  Our lives have been full of disruption, chaos, shame, and messiness these last few years.  Whether it was the global upending of a pandemic, economic and political upheaval, the denigrating, objectifying, or persecuting of other humans, or something closer to home – like death, divorce, job loss, or even lost sense of purpose, there is something tremendously familiar and contemporary about this story.  Of course, the government is causing disruption and chaos.  Of course, Mary is laying her baby in a manger.  Of course, strange, dirty men are interrupting an exhausted family in the middle of the night.  “Of course!” is the exclamation we have all assumed of late.

The “Of course!” though is not why we are here and is certainly not why my body heaved a sigh of relief.  What causes that relief is the “And…” of our scripture.  And, God came among us in the form of a child.  And, angels came and sang stunning songs of reassurance, promise, and deliverance.  And, strangers became friends and praised and pondered this magnificent God.  We came here burdened with our “Of course!”s.  Maybe the cookies burned before you got here.  Maybe there were some tempter tantrums in the car – or before you even got in the car.  Maybe the storms are cancelling the plans of you or your loved ones. 

And, you are here, hearing a familiar, reassuring story.  And you are among others just like you – who long for peace, comfort, and joy.  And you will be fed at the Eucharistic table, a food more glorious than the best roast beast!  We are here for our “and…” tonight.  But not just for our own sense of peace – we are here for the “and…” that God gives us to take out into the world.  And, hearing the story of the Christ Child reminds us of our bountiful blessings.  And, singing familiar songs reminds us of what really matters in life.  And, having reconnected with a community of believers, we are given a chance to go back out into the world and be harbingers of peace, shepherds of joy, caregivers of love.  That is the gift of this familiar story tonight.  You will likely experience some “Of course!”s on the way home tonight or in the coming days.  But now you have your, “And…”.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 1.18-25, A4, YA, December 18, 2022

21 Wednesday Dec 2022

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I have always loved stories and images of Mary and the Christ Child.  Mary is revered around the world, a patron saint to many, an intercessor for others (just think of all the “Hail Mary”s said globally), and a spiritual companion to some.  I remember in the Holy Land visiting a chapel honoring Mary, the mother of Jesus.  The chapel commissioned artists from around the world to depict their unique cultural version of Mary and Child.  The walls are lined with these floor-to-ceiling renderings of the sacred pair.  I was so taken with the images that I now have my own collection of Mary and Child paintings in my office. 

I also remember that same day in the Holy Land, after spending what felt like hours meditating with these stunning paintings, then going down the road to a chapel dedicated to Joseph.  The chapel was much smaller, rather nondescript, and quite frankly, easily forgettable.  The only real memorable thing about the chapel is how distinctly different the Joseph chapel is from the Mary chapel. 

I am struck this year, particularly as we baptize little Melody, how glad I am that we get Joseph’s story this Advent as opposed to Mary’s.  On baptism Sundays with children, we have two realities.  The first reality is the adorable, belovedness of the child, the glossy photos with family and fonts, the perfect hopefulness of initiating a child of God into the family of faith.  We often skim over the second reality.  We will hear right at the beginning of the baptism some questions for the family about renouncing Satan, evil powers of the world, and sinful desires.  I often joke with the family how inappropriate talking about evil seems at a child’s baptism until you remember those painful sleepless nights of new parenting.  But the reason we talk about that second reality is because we are initiating someone into the life of faith, and for those of us who have been at the life of faith for a while, we know the life of faith is not all roses, glossy photos, and cake.  There will be real struggles.

And that is why I love that we start off Melody’s journey with a story about Joseph.  We are told Joseph is a righteous man.  He is devoted to God and lives an ethical life.  He represents reality number one of baptism.  But then, Joseph is presented with reality number two.  When he learns Mary is pregnant before their marriage is consummated, he has three options:  the harsh one would be to have her publicly held responsible, most likely by stoning; the generous one he plans to choose of quietly divorcing her, which saves her life, but will leave her in poverty with child in tow; or the unheard of third one, especially for a righteous man, of marrying her anyway and living forever in scandal.  As one scholar explains, “In choosing Joseph to be Jesus’s earthly father, God leads a righteous man with an impeccable reputation straight into doubt, shame, scandal, and controversy…[God] requires Joseph to embrace a mess he has not created, to love a woman whose story he doesn’t understand, to protect a baby he didn’t father, to accept an heir who is not his son.  In other words, God’s messy plan of salvation requires Joseph – a quiet, cautious, status quo kind of guy – to choose precisely what he fears and dreads the most.  The fraught, the complicated, the suspicious, and the inexplicable.”[i]

I would much rather Melody start her faith journey off with a story that lets her know, honestly and unequivocally, how messy this journey will be.  We have a hint of that messiness in Matthew’s gospel from the beginning.  In the verses before what we heard today, is a long list of Joseph’s forefathers: from Abraham, who almost kills his son Ishmael and twice risks the life and safety of his wife Sarah, to Jacob, the trickster who steals his inheritance and livelihood twice, to David, who steals another man’s wife and has her husband murdered, to Tamar, who pretends to be a sex worker, and Rahab who is one.  The genealogy of Christ is a “long line of broken, imperfect, dishonorable, and scandalous people.”  As Debie Thomas explains, “The perfect backdrop, I suppose, for God’s relentless work of restoration, healing, and hope.”[ii]

That’s what telling Joseph’s story does for Melody and all of us today.  Joseph reminds us that our faith journey will be messy.  Our faith journey will not take us where we think our journey will.  Our faith journey will invite us to love people we never thought we could.  Our faith journey will sometimes seem meaningless or small, like that Joseph’s chapel in the Holy Land.  But as the angel tells Joseph, so the angel of the Lord tells us today, “Do not be afraid.”  Do not be afraid of the messiness of this journey.  Do not be afraid of going where society may deem too messy.  Do not be afraid to love with abandon, even if your loving is not seen by the crowds, or recognized all over the world.  When we come out of the waters of baptism, we walk right into the mess – because the mess of the world is where God is.  And we want to be there too.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 12.

[ii] Thomas, 13.

Sermon – Luke 10.38-42, P11, YC, July 17, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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Sean is the primary income earner for his family, and his wife cares for their two small children.  Sean came home after a long day at work to find the house in utter chaos.  Out of exhaustion and disappointment, he asked his wife what she had been doing all day.  She curtly responded, “Keeping our children alive.”  Sean, properly chided, went to the kitchen to start making dinner.  Hannah had been sitting in the staff meeting listening to her supervisor being praised for the success of the PR event last week.  She had put in hours on that event, and her supervisor did not mention her creative and physical input at all during the meeting.  Susan complained to a fellow co-worker on the way back to her office, rolling her eyes about how self-centered her supervisor can be.  That afternoon, her supervisor sent her an email that apologized for not mentioning her name at the staff meeting; he had been distracted by a death in the family.  Sam had been working at the Habitat construction site for a couple of months, and rarely saw the homeowner who was supposed to be putting sweat equity hours into her home.  One day, Sam complained to the site supervisor about how the homeowner must be falling behind on her sweat equity hours.  The site supervisor explained that the homeowner had a rare disease the prevented her from doing physical labor, so she had been doing her hours in the Habitat office.  In fact, the supervisor had heard that she had been so productive, that the office staff was struggling to find enough work for her to do. 

Just like Sam, Hannah, and Sean, holy scripture today is going to, as pop singer Lizzo would say, get us into our feelings.  I am not sure if Martha and Mary’s story gets me into my feelings because the story involves women arguing about stereotypical gender roles, or if Jesus’ lack of support and criticism of Martha is so biting, or if I just see too much of myself in Martha, but this story puts all my defenses on high alert.  If Martha and Mary’s story today has you similarly anxious, uncomfortable, or defensive, do me a favor and take a deep breath. 

Starting with the text will help.  On the surface, this is a story about an older sibling, Martha, taking on all the household work while the younger sister, Mary, sits with Jesus, enjoying the luxury of learning from Jesus while Martha does all the work.  But in verse 40, the translation we have says Martha is distracted by her many tasks.  Now according to scholars, the Greek translation actually says something more like, “Martha is ‘distracted by much ministry.’”[i]  This is not a critique of stereotypically gendered work women must do.  Martha is not just distracted by preparing food, cleaning the house, and making beds for disciples.  Martha is doing the sacred, faithful work of hospitality – a crucial act of ministry.  Later, Jesus says Martha is “worried and distracted by many things…”  Here, the Greek word for “worry” is “‘strangle’ or ‘seize by the throat’ and ‘tear.’  The root meaning of the word ‘distraction’ is a dragging apart of something that should be whole.  These are [two] violent words.  Words that wound and fracture.  States of mind that render us incoherent, divided, and un-whole.”[ii]

Now let’s take another breath.  This story is not about who is the better sibling, whether women’s work is inferior to men’s work, or even about judgment of identity for us Marthas in the room.  This is a story about how all of us have ministries – ministries of discipleship that involve learning and action, of studying the Word and showing Christian hospitality to strangers, of speeding up and slowing down.  What Jesus is really concerned about is our intention around our discipleship.  The question is not if we are doing God’s work, but how we are doing God’s work.[iii]  According to Debie Thomas, Martha is in “such a state of fragmentation, a condition in which she cannot enjoy [Jesus’] company, savor his presence, find inspiration in her work, receive anything he wishes to offer her, or show him genuine love.  Instead, all she can do is question his love…fixate on herself…, and triangulate.”  Martha seems to think she can “invite Jesus into her life – and then carry on with that life as usual, maintaining control, privileging her own priorities, and clinging to her long-cherished agendas and schedules.”  And unfortunately, “That’s not how discipleship works.”[iv]

Perhaps after we have taken one last long breath, we can let go of our feelings and start to ask some questions.  How are we approaching our ministry these days?  Are we so wrapped up in our assumptions about other people’s behaviors that we have forgotten to look at our own?  Have we invited Jesus into our lives, but only under our own set of requirements and strictures?  After we have gotten into our feelings, Martha, Mary, and Jesus invite us today to take that breath and refocus[v].  Maybe we need to take some more time at Jesus’ feet, praying, reading scripture, coming to church, or joining something like Faith and Film.  Maybe we need to look at those dinner plates as an invitation to prayer, holding dear the bodies that will be fed by our labor.  Maybe we need step out of our controlled kitchens and go serve up a meal at Meals on Wheels or at From His Hands.  Jesus graciously handles our feelings every day.  But Jesus also knows that when we start looking at how we are doing our ministries, the real, life-giving, whole-making discipleship will come.  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine and Ben Witherington, III, The Gospel of Luke: New Cambridge Bible Commentary (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2018), 297.

[ii] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, Oregon:  Cascade Books, 2022), 51.

[iii] Matthew L. Skinner, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C., Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 265 and 267.

[iv] Thomas, 51.

[v] James A. Wallace, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C., Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 265.

Sermon – Matthew 2.13-23, C2, YC, January 2, 2022

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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Today is a very weird day for us scripturally and liturgically.  Even though there are two Sundays appointed for Christmastide, we rarely get to enjoy both because the feast of Epiphany, which falls on January 6, usually gets substituted for the Second Sunday of Christmas.  This year because we get to celebrate the second Sunday of Christmas, we go from Christmas celebrations on Christmas Eve and last Sunday, to the flight to Egypt this week – which takes place after the magi arrive.  And next week, we will go backwards to hear about the magi’s arrival which happens before this week’s lesson.  Like I said, today is super weird.

But the timing is not the only weird feature of today.  The structure of the Episcopal lectionary varies from the Revised Common Lection today and cuts out verses 16-18 of the second chapter of Matthew.  Now, normally, cutting out a few verses is not that big of a deal, but today cutting out verses is a huge deal.  We go from learning that Joseph has a dream warning him to flee to Egypt because Herod wants to destroy the baby Jesus (because the magi arrived and told him a baby has been born king of the Jews – and Herod is not interested in anyone taking power from him), to Herod dying and Joseph receiving another dream in Egypt telling him to go back home to Israel with his wife and baby Jesus.  But in those three omitted verses is an atrocity so mind blowing, I can only surmise the lectionary crafters eliminated the verses because they thought we would be too distracted by the atrocity.  In those three verses, Herod realizes he has been tricked by the magi, and so he sends his men to kill every male child under the age of two in Bethlehem to make sure a new king does not arise.  In essence, Herod is so determined to keep his power that he kills about twenty infants and toddlers[i] to secure his leadership.

But the weirdness does not stop there today.  This text is laden with meaning and parallelism.  Joseph is spoken to in dreams which causes him to safely journey to and from Egypt.  Another Joseph – the son of Jacob and great-grandson of Abraham with the coat of many colors – he had dreams too that led to his bondage in Egypt at first, but eventually to his security and power in Egypt when he interprets dreams for the pharaoh.  So, we hear a parallel story of two Josephs.  We also hear a parallel story of Moses and Jesus.  As one scholar explains, “At Jesus’ birth, violent forces seek his life, just as violent forces had sought the life of Moses.”[ii]  If you remember, the reason Moses was raised in the security of Pharaoh’s home was because Pharaoh’s daughter found Moses in a papyrus basket floating down the river – floating away because Pharaoh had ordered every male Hebrew child be killed because the Hebrews were becoming too numerous and he feared losing his power.  In essence, Jesus’ and Moses’ stories track one another – Jesus is the “Son of God and the expected prophet like Moses who will deliver Israel through a new exodus.”[iii]

Here’s the thing about the weirdness today.  We do not really want weirdness right now.  We are still in the twelve days of Christmas, and we want babies, and angels, and mom’s pondering, and dad’s standing righteously, and shepherds praising and marveling, and magi adoring the Christ Child.  In part, we want the sentimental comfort and joy of Christmas because our lives are running short on comfort and joy lately.  In fact, the wave of the Omicron variant is pressing upon us, and in a time when we thought we would be moving toward freedom, we are making a U-turn toward oppressive restrictions.  We have enough turbulence, terror, and violence in today’s world – the last thing we want to do is read about that mess (and more accurately, that repeated mess!) today in church.

But here’s where we find hope.  Matthew may lay out murder and fleeing and the continuation of a violence and oppression.  But as Dean Culpepper reminds us, “Matthew dares to see things as they are and still affirm that God is working, even in the worst that we can do.”[iv]  Today is not about glossing over the mess of this world.  Today is about naming the mess of this world and still being able to see God at work, doing something as radical as sending the Christ Child to us.  That is the real joy of Christmas this year.  “Nothing can defeat God’s promise of Immanuel, God with us.  Even when we cannot celebrate peace on earth…we can celebrate Immanuel, …the love of God and the promise of peace.”[v]  And that promise is better than any glossed over, sentimental wishes of a Merry Christmas.  That promise is weird, but tremendously good news, indeed.  Amen.

[i] R. Alan Culpepper, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 167.

[ii] Culpepper, 169.

[iii] Culpepper, 169.

[iv] Culpepper, 169.

[v] Culpepper, 169.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2021

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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Church on Christmas Eve is always a funny thing.  For years, I scoured the stores for matching dresses for our girls.  I served in churches where people would sport tuxedos and fur coats for the night’s services.  Family pictures were regularly taken by the Christmas tree – either at home or at church.  Quite frankly, I was a little relieved when I became a priest and never had to worry about a new outfit because no one would see the outfit under my vestments anyway.  And then the pandemic hit.  Last year, we had to watch Christmas from home – maybe in matching pajamas, but more likely just in a pair of jeans or sweats.  A year later, we are all out of the habit of dressing for public, and, if you are here at Hickory Neck, you know jeans are just as acceptable as that fancy dress or jacket in the back of your closet or that some of you are fabulously sporting tonight. 

I am not really sure where the notion of dressing up for Christmas came from, except maybe an older tradition of always dressing up for church.  But nothing about our Christmas story screams high fashion.  Mary and Joseph are traveling to Bethlehem under order of the oppressive government and are likely in traveling clothes, dirty and weary from the road.  Mary also gives birth this night, so her body is likely sweaty and soiled.  Meanwhile, her child is not in a matching layette, but in bands of cloth.  Both are likely an exhausted mess.  And the shepherds who later come visit are likely not to fresh-smelling themselves, probably in their most utilitarian clothing for tending to sheep in the dark cold of night.

And yet, in these most basic settings, the privilege of the miraculous happens.  Mary births not just an ordinary baby, but the Christ Child – the Messiah – as Isaiah says, the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”  Meanwhile, not only does an angel appear in the blinding glory of God, but also a whole multitude of the heavenly host shows up.  All to ordinary people, dressed in ordinary garb, going about doing ordinary things.  But as scholar Sarah Henrich says, “Heaven and earth meet in obscure places, not in the halls of power.”[i] 

This week I read about such a meeting of the heavenly and earthly in the Washington Post.  In November 2020, Kim Morton was sitting at home with her daughter watching a movie in Baltimore County, Maryland, when her neighbor sent her text telling her to look outside.  Her neighbor, Matt Riggs, had hung a string of Christmas lights all the way across the street from his house to hers, as he explained, to brighten Kim’s world and to show her that they were always connected, despite the isolation the pandemic had created.  Kim had been struggling with anxiety and depression, had lost a loved one, had a lot of work stress, and had started experiencing panic attacks.  Matt knew her pain himself, and so decided they both needed a reminder that they are not alone in their pain. 

But here’s the funny thing about Matt and Kim’s story.  The neighbors saw what Matt did, and they wanted in too.  Neighbors across the street from one another started talking and said, “Let’s do it too!”  Slowly, but surely, neighbors started reaching out to one another with expressions of connection, love, and quite literally, light.  By the time Christmas arrived, 75% of the neighbors had joined in with strings of light crossing the entire drive.  And this year, in November 2021, the whole neighborhood held a house-to-house light hanging party.  Kim, the initial recipient of the lights said, “It made me look up, literally and figuratively, above all the things that were dragging me down.  It was light, pushing back the darkness.”[ii]

Matt and Kim’s story did not happen in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, or even New York City.  Their story happened in a little neighborhood, outside of Baltimore, that no one had heard of until the Washington Post came along.  And although Matt and Kim never mention Jesus, the truth is that heaven and earth met in an obscure place, shining connection, love, and light.  This Christmas, the ordinary, earthy setting of Bethlehem and the shepherd fields are reminders – reminders that we can have all the fancy bow ties and heels we want, but more often, we will see and experience the sacred in the ordinary moments where Jesus shows up and offers us love.  The birth of the Christ Child tonight is a reminder that we, like ordinary shepherds can be used to be sharers of the Good News in tiny, ordinary ways – ways that show Christ’s love and light, and in ways that help us experience sacred connection with our neighbors.  Amen.

[i] Sarah Henrich, “Commentary on Luke 2:1-14 [15-20],” December 24, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christmas-eve-nativity-of-our-lord/commentary-on-luke-21-14-15-20-20 on December 22, 2021. 

[ii] Sydney Page, “A man strung Christmas lights from his home to his neighbor’s to support her. The whole community followed,” Washington Post, December 21, 2021.