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Sermon – Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YC, February 13, 2013

14 Thursday Feb 2013

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I have been thinking about death a lot lately.  We lost one of our beloved parishioners yesterday, and another parishioner is sick enough that we have been talking about death.  The journeys with those parishioners have made death much more present for me.  Then, last week I was listening to an interview with Oscar-nominee Bradley Cooper who talked about how he nursed his father through to death.  Cooper explained how the death of his father dramatically changed Cooper’s perspective on life – how that last gasp of air by his father was the very moment that Cooper’s entire worldview shifted.  Then, just this weekend I watched a film called 50/50, a dramatic comedy that chronicles the way a 27 year-old deals with a cancer diagnosis that gives him only a fifty percent chance of survival.  At every turn, death seems to be whispering to me.

Part of my job as a priest is to bring a certain sobriety about death as death approaches.  That is not to say that I am a party pooper, but my role is to name the truth that is approaching – earthly death and reunion with our Lord in eternal life.  In fact, the Church is one of the few places left in the world that openly and regularly talks about death.  In a world that encourages anti-aging treatments, who has desensitized us to death as we have moved away from an agricultural lifestyle, and whose medical advances have extended life much longer than before, we learn that death can be conquered and should be fought at all costs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[i] BCP, 848.

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

Sermon – Luke 9.28-43, TRS, YC, February 10, 2013

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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In the course of my life, I have moved around a lot.  By the time I was in third grade, my family had lived in four different places.  By the time I was ready to head to college, we had lived in three more.  From college until now, I have lived in five more places.  Having lived in so many new life situations, I have picked up a few tips about integrating into a new community.  One of the most important things to remember is that you only have a few months’ permission to reference how your last community did something.  So sentences that begin with, “At my old school…” or “At my last parish…” have a short lifespan.  For the first few months, people will tolerate and maybe even enjoy these stories because they are a way of learning something about you – what you prefer, what gives you joy, and what you do not like.  But the window for sharing this way does not last long.  When you share in this way for too long, people begin to wonder if you are dwelling on the past, not letting go of your old life and actually joining them in this stage of life.  When they hear you say, “In my last home town…” they now roll their eyes, thoroughly expecting you to tell them how perfect your life used to be and just how lame your – and consequently their – life must be now.  Only after years and years of experience have I developed the keen sense of when the looks of interest and engagement have turned to eye-rolls of impatience.

Of course, this reality is true of every single church.  The longer someone belongs to a church, the more often they can be found saying, “Well, when Father So-and-so was here, we used to…”  Whether the experience was a beloved mission trip, a particularly meaningful spiritual event, or even the old softball team, those events become legend among a parish – and become a sort of measure or even icon of how good life can be in church.  Anything new that happens is measured against this old, significant experience.

This habit can create all sorts of challenges.  For those who lived through the experiences, they become something that we cling to as so good and holy that we cannot open ourselves to something new.  In fact, nothing will ever match up to the memory because we have built up the memory so large in our minds that we probably block out anything negative about the older experience.  This kind of habit is a challenge for newcomers too.  Since the newcomers to church can never relive the event with us, they are forever excluded when someone starts telling these stories.  Sure, they enjoy learning something about the parish through these stories, but eventually they come to see these stories as a reminder of how they are still new, never fully belonging to the group.  Finally, the glorification of these old experiences tends to prevent us from lifting up the incredible experiences that are happening right here and now – hindering us from seeing the sacred experiences in our midst.  And lest anyone think I am picking on the long-timers in church, know that no one is exempt from this tendency; I have even seen children and teenagers catch on to this practice.

This same very experience happens to Peter on the mountain today in Luke’s gospel.  Tired and weary from an exhausting schedule, Peter, John, and James go up the mountain with Jesus to pray – and maybe even get a bit of rest.  In this exhausted haze, they see the glorious transfiguration of Jesus and the appearance of Moses and Elijah.  Blown away, Peter does the first thing that comes to mind – suggests they stay there, building dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah.  Surely something this incredible should be held on to and preserved, remembered and treasured.  Peter’s idea is not inherently bad.  Mountaintop experiences are blessed gifts from God, meant to be savored and enjoyed for years to come.

But what Peter reminds us today is that holding on to mountaintop experiences with a desperate clinging does not actually feed us forever.  As one pastor reminds us, “if we build a booth to [those mountaintop experiences], erect a frame around them and enshrine them, we can end up worshiping those moments or memories or persons to the extent that they become a hindrance, a stumbling block or even idolatry – rather than unmerited gift from God and resource for service to others.”[i]

This is one of those lessons that keeps coming back to us.  A few years ago, I was brought into a parish’s mission program to reform and revitalize the mission trips they had been taking to the Dominican Republic.  I immediately recognized all sorts of missing components – preparation and formation before the trip; fundraising that brought others into the experience; and meaningful worship and reflection during the trip, just to name a few.  I pulled from the myriad resources I had gathered from years of doing mission trips, including what I thought was a pretty dynamic daily worship liturgy – one through which I had had a few mountaintop experiences.  So imagine my surprise when half-way through the week, one of the teens approached me and explained that the liturgy was not working.  He wanted something a little more fresh, and had some suggestions if I was open.  I winced, realizing how I had become Peter once again – building a booth around a liturgy, instead of noticing the new ways that the Spirit was moving on that trip.

We have choices about how we respond to the many mountaintop experiences of our lives.  “We can ruin them with ‘if onlys’ (if only I could stay here longer; if only things would never change; if only I could relive that experience).  We can reminisce about our experiences, caressing and massaging them as an excuse to disengage from the world.  Or we can allow them to prepare us for what God calls us to do next.”[ii]  We always have a choice.

The great thing about our gospel text is that the text gives us some clues about what Jesus wants the disciples to do with their mountaintop experience.  The lectionary gives us the choice of ending the gospel lesson at the end of the Transfiguration event, cutting out the next seven verses of Luke’s gospel.  But the story of the Transfiguration loses some of the story’s power if the story does not include the experience of coming down the mountain.[iii]  The text tells us two things.  First, the disciples keep silent about what they see.  They do not run around boasting about the story or lingering there too long.  Instead, they go back down the mountain and continue Jesus’ work of healing.  This is the second thing the text tells us.  Sometimes the best way to share our mountaintop experiences is not to rehash them, but to simply serve those who we encounter, our actions being the greatest way to multiply our mountaintop experience.

As we celebrate our fifty years of ministry in Plainview this year, our gospel lesson today challenges our patterns.  Those moments of baptizing individuals in this building when the walls were not yet finished, of finally obtaining parish status, of bowling leagues, of Cursillo groups, of conquering dark times, and yes, even of welcoming our first female rector – those moments are not moments where we invited to linger today.  Instead, as we look back at the last fifty years, we celebrate those moments not as “the good ol’ days,” but instead as the mountaintop experiences that keep pointing us back down the mountain.  Those experiences remind us of times of great intimacy and joy so that we can continue to name the presence of the sacred in our midst at this moment, and the ways that we are being transfigured everyday.  There will be moments, when like the disciples, we will need to keep silent about those times so that we can go down the mountain and let those moments manifest into the service of God in new and life-giving ways.  Our invitation today is to come down the mountain, celebrating the ways that our mountaintop experiences enable us to see God right here and now.  Amen.

[i] Phyllis Kersten, “Off the Mountain,” Christian Century, vol. 118, no. 5, February 7-14, 2001, 13.

[ii] Kersten, 13.

[iii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 456.

Sermon – Luke 4.14-21, EP3, YC, January 27, 2013

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

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The word is spreading.  The new rabbi in town is incredible!  He is clearly filled with the Spirit.  He has become quite the sensation in Galilee and everyone expects his appearance in Nazareth to be impressive – what home town would not love to see their son come home and preach a good word?!  Nazareth, expecting to be proud and wowed, sits in the synagogue.  And then it happens – Jesus does not preach a scintillating sermon.  Instead, he finds a bold text – a text from Isaiah that we all know contains the words that the Messiah will use – reads the text, and then he just sits down.  The room is silent.  We all just stare.  The shock is heavy in the room and words fail us all.  Our minds are running amok with questions.  Did he just read that text from Isaiah?  Is he saying he is the Messiah?  Is he the Messiah?  What does this mean?  What does he mean the scripture is fulfilled?  Of course, no one says those words aloud.  We just stare.  We stare in silence.

Words have mighty power in our lives.  As we celebrated the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King this past week, I have read countless quotes from his life and ministry.  He was a man who knew how to use words powerfully.  In an age where we are barraged by words – in media, in politics, in books – we sometimes forget the power of words.  We tend to skim words, to gloss over them, looking to quickly glean information because we are inundated with words.  In our haste, we forget the power of words.

The catch with words is that words have the power to make both positive change and to get us into trouble.  My grandfather always used to say, never put anything in print that you do not want the world to see.  We have watched these last months how words can cause trouble.  This fall’s political campaign led to many people saying words they regret.  Just in the past two weeks, two big athletes, Lance Armstrong and Manti Te’o, realized the chaos that their words could produce.  Teens every week are terrorized by the words of cyberbullying – with reputations ruined worldwide when seemingly private photos or acts are posted on Facebook for all to see.[i]

This is why that silent synagogue is so powerful today.  Jesus takes words that everyone knows, and he changes them.  The Messiah, the anointed one, has been long awaited:  so long awaited, that I doubt many people still believed the Messiah would come in their time.  So Joe’s boy rolling up into the synagogue and declaring that he is the anointed Messiah is a big deal.  These are words of power and weight – so heavy that the room is completely silent.

Part of the weight of Jesus’ words comes from whom he is claiming to be.  The other part of the weight of Jesus words is interpreting what they mean for the world now.  For Jesus, and for his followers, these words from Isaiah through Jesus become a mission statement of sorts.[ii]  If you remember, in Luke’s gospel Jesus is baptized, goes into the wilderness to be tempted, and this is the first that we really hear from Jesus.  These words are not just bold words – these words will define the entire remainder of Luke’s gospel.  If you were writing one of those fifth-grade book reports, you can almost hear the introduction, “The theme of Luke’s gospel is that Jesus brings good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed, and the year of the Lord’s favor.”  For the rest of this lectionary year we will be hearing stories of Jesus fulfilling these words – good news, release, sight, freedom, favor.  This is what Jesus’ ministry is about.  Jesus takes the words from Isaiah and he changes them.  And through changing them, he changes the world.

A video has been circulating this week called, “The Power of Words.”  In it, a blind man is sitting on a sidewalk, with a cardboard sign that reads, “I’m blind.  Please help.”  As he sits there, two or three of the tens of people who pass by actually drop a coin or two in front of him.  He silently feels for the coin and then puts the coin in his tin can.  Finally a woman sees him and stops.  She silently picks up his sign, turns the piece of cardboard over and writes something else on the sign.  Without a word, she walks away.  In the next several scenes everyone stops and gives the blind man handfuls of coins.  The woman eventually returns, and dumbfounded, the man asks her, “What did you do to my sign?”  She simply replies, “I wrote the same, but different words.”  As she walks away, we see that what she wrote is, “It’s a beautiful day and I can’t see it.”  She took a sign that said, “I’m blind.  Please help,” and she changed the words to, “It’s a beautiful day and I can’t see it.”  The video ends with these words, “Change your words.  Change the world.”[iii]  What the woman in this video does is she takes something we see everyday – a man asking for help, and makes him not so “everyday.”  By changing the words on his sign, she helps all see with fresh eyes.  Suffering and pain no longer seems acceptable simply because of her words.  She changes people with her words

This is what Jesus does in that temple.  He takes words with a certain set of values and meaning, and he changes them.  No longer will good news, release, sight, freedom, and favor be a future dream.  They will change now with Jesus Christ.  So perhaps part of the silence in that synagogue comes from the joyful realization that this liberation might actually happen in their time.  But another part of that silence comes from the implications.  If the Messiah is here, offering liberation from poverty, imprisonment, blindness, and oppression, then that means that the people of God will have to start living like the Messiah is here.  They too will have to work to bring good news to the poor.  They too will have to work to release the captives.  They too will have to care for the blind and the oppressed.  They too will have to honor the year of the Lord’s favor, the Jubilee Year when debts are forgiven, slaves are freed, and lands are left to rest.  Jesus’ words not only change the people of God’s reality, Jesus’ words will change the world, and the people of God’s behavior in that word.  This is big, silence-making news.

Jesus’ words change us too.  We too are left in silence as the weight of Jesus’ words hit us.  If we are to follow Jesus, we too are to be working for the poor, the imprisoned, the blind, and the oppressed.  As that reality waves over us, we too are silenced by the questions.  What does that mean for us?  How will this change my walk with God?  How uncomfortable is this work going to be?  How joyful will this work be?  Pondering these and probably many more questions is a good thing, even more so with Lent on the horizon and the looming of our own Jubilee year here at St. Margaret’s.  With the text ending as the text does today, we are invited to tarry in that silent pondering today.  But know that the pondering is not indefinite.  Jesus’ words hint at the immediacy of the work that is needed.  “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”  So do the pondering you need to do.  But know that Jesus is waiting at the back door, ready for you to join him in the messianic work of good news, release, sight, freedom, and favor.  Amen.

[ii] Ernest Hess, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 287.

Sermon – 1 Corinthians 12.1-11, EP2, YC, January 20, 2013

23 Wednesday Jan 2013

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About two thousand years ago, the Christian community that had formed in Corinth was a diverse group.  There were Greeks and Jews, slaves and free people, men and women, rich and poor.  Their only unifying tie was that they all confessed Jesus as Lord.  And like any good church, they were of a divided mind.  We learn from their correspondence with Paul, that they are particularly divided about what spiritual gifts are to be the most highly valued.  The running argument is that the gift of ecstatic speech is the most important, and those displaying that gift should be given higher importance in the community.[i]  Unable to settle this argument among themselves, they turn to Paul.

Unfortunately for those arguing for singling out the gifted, Paul proclaims a different reality – everyone is gifted.  Simply by proclaiming Jesus as Lord, each person is given a gift.  The gifts may be different, and there will be a diversity of gifts.  This diversity of gifts is necessary for the community, making the community richer and helping the community to see the fullness of God.

Paul’s explanation sounds lovely.  Everyone is special and everyone has gifts.  But truthfully, in the depths of our hearts, we do not really agree with Paul.  We have lived in a cutthroat, competitive world too long to know that not all gifts are really valued equally – not even in the Church.  Sure, some people are gifted teachers, or seem especially spiritual – but what we really need are people skilled in finances.  Or maybe we really value people who are wise or people who are good with technology.  Whatever the thing is that we value, the point is that we rank gifts.  And although we might not want to admit the fact, as modern Americans, we tend to roll our eyes at Paul, seeing his explanation on gifts as cute, but not really helpful if a church is going to succeed.

When I was in college I went to a multicultural church in a small city.  The church was primarily African-American and African, but several Anglos from the community and from the local college joined the dynamic parish.  As the parish grew, we often had conversations about what our diversity meant and how we would negotiate each others’ differences.  But one day, the pastor had an idea that he charged ahead with before really getting buy-in from the church.  He invited two local group homes to bring their residents to church on Sundays.  The residents had mental and physical disabilities, and many of them were in wheelchairs.  Some were more verbal than others, but many of those who were verbal could not form clear words.  You could tell right away that the church members were uncomfortable.  We did not know how to handle the outbursts or the behavior of the group home members.  Luckily, the pastor was much more generous than we were.  He noticed that the outbursts were not random.  In fact, sometimes a yell sounded a lot like an “Amen!”  And so in the church’s customary call-and-response format, the pastor engaged the group home members just like he did the rest of the church members.

That church learned relatively quickly what Paul was trying to teach the members of the church in Corinth.  Whereas the church in Corinth sees its own diversity and wants to begin ranking gifts, Paul is trying to explain that their diversity is their gift.  Every person in that community is needed to make the community whole.  The full range of gifts means that the community is richer and can live out the community’s call more fully.  Without the interpreter of tongues, the speaker of tongues is useless.  The healers heal the community.  The miracle workers help the community see God.  The prophets help send the people out beyond the community.  Only together can they live into the fullness of faith.  Each person is indeed gifted – but not for the sake of personal pride.  The gift’s purpose is to edify the entire community.[ii]

Furthermore, what Paul is also trying to explain is the gifts are not just for the person, or for the community.  The diversity of gifts tells them something about God.  The diversity of gifts gives the community a glimpse into the diversity of God.[iii]  Only when all those diverse gifts are being enfleshed does the community in Corinth begin to get a glimpse into the fullness of God.  Paul knows that understanding God fully is impossible – we are made in God’s image, but we are not God.  Only through the diversity of their diverse Corinth church, and through the diversity of their gifts, do they begin to see a glimpse of the diversity of God.

At that church in college, we had been pretty proud of ourselves.  We were a diverse parish in a community with a rough history of racial discrimination.  But those group home members made us realize we were still not living into the fullness of the body of Christ.  Without those group home members pushing us out of our comfort zone, we were keeping our identity within our own parameters, not God’s parameters.  Truthfully, the presence of the group home members made us wonder who else we were excluding.  We did not need long to look around our community and figure out who we had been excluding.  The apartment complex next to the church was clearly inhabited by many Hispanics, a group not present in our community.  Only once the group home members opened our eyes were we able to see how much we had been limiting God and how much richer we could be if we opened our doors to our neighbors.  One could argue that our group home members had the spiritual gift of prophesy.

So why is Paul’s letter so important to St. Margaret’s?  This past Wednesday, about eight St. Margaret’s parishioners went over to Plainview Reformed Church to make sandwiches for the INN.  Most of us had been there before, and we fell into a quick rhythm.  Some of us were good at scooping – which is a delicate skill because if you use too much, we cannot make enough sandwiches.  Some of us were good at spreading – an important skill if you do not want to tear the bread.  Others were good baggers.  Now bagging a sandwich may sound simple to you, but as the activity leaders kept reminding us, a sandwich bag that is messy on the inside or out sends the message that the sandwiches were made without much thought – or even without much love.  Even the youngest children who put stickers on the sandwich bags had an important role.  Without the sticker, the sandwich is just another sandwich.  With the sticker, the bag says that someone made this sandwich, and personalized the sandwich just for you – because you are special and worthy.  As that interfaith community gathered, with people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and abilities, we were a lot like that community in Corinth.

What Paul’s letter and our sandwich-making this week show us is that only when we all engage in ministry are we fully living into the life of faith.  Only when all our skills are being used are we even able to see a glimpse of the fullness of God.  Our invitations this week are several.  First, Paul invites us to discern our spiritual gifts.  Now, because you work in construction, you might have been roped into serving on the Buildings and Grounds Committee.  Or because you have young children, you might have been recruited to teach Sunday School.  But sometimes, what we do professionally does not translate to a spiritual gift.  Our best teachers, our wisest decision-makers, our most spiritual people of prayer might not do those things professionally or obviously.  Today Paul invites each of us to ponder whether we are using our spiritual gifts for the betterment of this community.  Second, Paul invites us to consider how each person here might help us to better see a glimpse of God.  That means that after church or during coffee hour, we might need to sit with someone we do not normally sit with and have a meaningful conversation.  And yes, you can have a meaningful conversation with a three-year old or a sixteen-year old.  Finally, Paul invites us to consider who is not here, helping us know God more deeply.  I have heard time and again how much we want to grow as a community.  For many of us, that desire is more out of a sense of preservation – we need to grow to continue to be a church here in Plainview.  But I wonder if we might instead begin to think of our growth as necessary for us to more fully see God.  We may know all sorts of people in our everyday lives who do not fit the St. Margaret’s mold.  Those are the people we need to invite to Church.  That neighbor you got to know when we all lost electricity during the Hurricane.  That woman with the purple hair who cuts your hair at the salon.  The waiter at your favorite restaurant who you have come to know.  Until we invite those people, we will not experience the fullness of God’s gifts for us.  The invitations from Paul today abound.  I look forward to hearing how your homework goes!  Amen.

[i] Karen Stokes, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 254.

[ii] Lee C. Barrett, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 256.

[iii] Troy Miller, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 257.

Sermon – Luke 3.15-17, 21-22; Isaiah 43.1-7, E1, YC, January 13, 2013

16 Wednesday Jan 2013

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A few months ago, the Vestry and I did a spiritual exercise.  We drew a straight line on a piece of paper, dividing the line into either five- or ten-year increments.  Then we drew dots above and below our line, marking major life moments.  The happy ones went above – births, marriages, graduations.  The sad ones went below – deaths, divorces, bouts of depression.  We connected the dots and saw what looked like a hilly landscape – with peaks and valleys.  Then, we took a different colored pen, and we mapped the highs and lows in our relationship with God – times when we felt close to God and times when we felt far from God.  That line too was filled with peaks and valleys.  Some of us found that two the lines moved together – when happy things were happening in our lives, we felt very close to God; when difficult things were happening, we felt distant from God.  Others had the opposite experience.  In the difficult times, they felt God’s presence the most, and while in happy times their connection to God lessened.  Each of us began to see that our spiritual life and our everyday life are connected, perhaps in unexpected ways.

What was interesting about all of our graphs was that all of us had times in the middle – where nothing dramatic was happening, and our relationship with God was pretty neutral – not particularly strong, but also not particularly distant.  Those were the times when life was simply ordinary – where life just chugged along.  Nothing remarkable stood out in that time, and that was okay.

Sometimes when we look at Jesus life – this God incarnate who took on flesh like ours – we begin to wonder if Jesus’ life is anything like ours.  If you step back and recall the lectionary texts we have heard since Christmas Eve, you might begin to wonder if Jesus’ life is not some action-adventure movie.  First he is born dramatically in manger; then we hear of fantastic angels and visiting shepherds; then John’s majestic words proclaim, “In the beginning was the Word…”; and then we hear the vivid story of the magi seeking and finding Jesus.  Today, some years later, we hear of Jesus’ baptism – yet another extraordinary event in which the Holy Spirit descends upon Jesus proclaiming him to be the Son of God.  To be honest, for a man who is supposed to be God incarnate, who is supposed to experience this world as we do and through that experience redeem us, Jesus’ life feels very little like ours.  We cannot imagine someone telling our life story and finding nearly as many dramatic tales and mountain-top experiences.  And yet, this is the way we hear about Jesus – drama, drama, drama!

What we miss in our gospel’s retelling of Jesus’ life is the ordinary.  There are all sorts of gaps in the story that we never really get to see.  Though we imagine the magi coming to the manger, in fact, Jesus was probably no longer an infant when they finally arrived.  And yet, we hear no details of the time between shepherds and wise men.  Then, after these magi do arrive, we find ourselves suddenly with an adult-version of Jesus today.  Luke’s gospel does give us an account of the pre-teen Jesus in the temple, scaring his parents with his disappearing act; but otherwise, we know very little about the ordinary time of Jesus’ life.  The omission of the ordinary can make us feel distant from Jesus.  Unlike our spiritual maps, Jesus’ map would be one long plateau of highs where the everyday and the spiritual are constantly in sync, without many low valleys.

Luckily, there is much more incarnation today in our texts than there seems to be at first glance.  The way that Luke tells Jesus’ story today makes Jesus’ baptism quite ordinary.  He is baptized along with many other people.  He is not first in line, and the world does not stop at the moment of his baptism.  In fact, when the Holy Spirit does descend upon Jesus, Jesus’ baptism is over, and he is found praying – another ordinary spiritual practice we do almost everyday.  Then, Jesus hears those wonderful words, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased,” By simply having those words spoken, we see that the incarnation is a fleshy, human experience.  Jesus needs to hear those words just like any of us need to hear those words from God.[i]  Jesus needs to know God’s approval, God’s love, and God’s claim on him – needs that we all experience.

Of course, Jesus is not the first person who needed to hear that loving approval.  We also hear today of God’s love and care for the people of Israel in our passage from Isaiah.  As a people in exile, who have suffered a great deal and who may wonder if they will ever find favor with God again, we hear this lovely passage for them.  God’s words for Israel are a healing salve, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you…  You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you…”  These are words we long to hear throughout life:  certainly in those valleys of our spiritual timeline, but honestly, even in the highs and in the normal time.  We are all riddled with insecurities and doubts, and we long for the kind of love that can love us no matter what.  We need to know that we are fully accepted – something that other humans can rarely express.  As one pastor says, “Our sense of belonging comes not from the acceptance of our peers or the status of our communities but from the One who claims us and will never let us go.  What makes us worthy is…God’s gracious love.”[ii]

I love you.  You are my beloved.  With you I am well pleased.  These are words that we need to hear no matter where we are on that up and down journey of our spiritual life.  And these are words that even Jesus needs to hear.  That this affirming love comes at Jesus’ baptism is no surprise.  In the waters of baptism, “God seals God’s love for us, no matter what we might have done and what might happen.  In the waters of our baptism, God gives evidence of what God says to Jesus…  ‘You are my [child], the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”[iii]

But like the fact that we need to hear over and over again that we are loved, we also need to remember again and again our baptism:  that time when we, as beloved children, covenant together to fully love all God’s children.  Throughout the Church year, we reaffirm our baptismal covenant because we need the reminder that not only are we beloved children of God, but also we are beloved children who behave a certain way:  proclaiming the Good News, seeking and serving Christ, and striving for justice and peace.

After Jesus’ baptism and the proclamation that he is beloved, Jesus goes out into the wilderness to be tempted.  This will be the first of many trials for Jesus.  But Jesus holds on tightly to his beloved status – the rock that helps him seek, serve, and share during his lifetime.  We too hear those words from God afresh today:  I love you.  You are my beloved.  With you, I am well pleased.  Now go out there and love as I love you.  Amen.

[i] P. C. Enniss, Jr., “The Power of Approval,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 32, no. 3, Easter 2009, 15.

[ii] W. Carter Lester, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),222.

[iii] Lester, 222.

Sermon – Matthew 2.1-12, EP, YC, January 6, 2012

09 Wednesday Jan 2013

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Today we celebrate the last event in our Christmas narrative – the arrival of the wise men.  There is something about these three men that vividly draw us in to the story.  The years of seeing pageants, singing the hymn “We Three Kings,” or seeing varied artistic renderings of the kings have filled our minds with myriad images.  You may imagine the men as varied ethnically.  You may imagine their fine clothing and expensive trappings.  You may imagine them as learned men on a life quest.  What I like about these wise men is that their intriguing story not only invites us all into the posture of a spiritual seeker, but also their story gives us a picture of what being a seeker entails.

From the very beginning of the Christmas stories, we learn that all are welcome to a spiritual encounter with our Lord.  With Mary we learned that the young, the faithful, and the unexpected can have intimate encounters with God.  With the shepherds, we found that those who are on the margins of society can be recipients of divine revelation.  And with the wise men, we learn that outsiders – people from the East – or in biblical terms, Gentiles, can be led to a spiritual connection with God.[i]  What we learn from these three distinct groups is that relationship with the Christ Child is open to all.  No matter who you are, where you are from, or what your social standing is, you are welcome with Jesus.  The Episcopal Church, whose famous signs read “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You,” learned this very basic way of being from Jesus – who welcomed all to his birth.  The magi this week teach us this core value once again – all are welcome to an encounter with Christ.

The wise men also teach us that seeking is active.  Nowhere in the text does the text say that the magi stumbled upon Jesus by chance.  The magi were looking for Jesus.  In fact, they were so bold in their seeking that they came into King Herod’s empire asking where the King of the Jews was – clearly implying that King Herod was not the king they were seeking.  They seek this king of the Jews in full view of all – not afraid or embarrassed, but boldly owning their search before others.  They continue their search, following that star for who knows how long, without the promise that they will find the Christ Child, but with a hopeful, active searching.

The behavior of the magi teaches us that we too are to be active seekers.  But being active seekers can be tricky for us, because we are easily distracted – so busy with family, work, and life that we forget the foundation of that entire life.  Seeing Christ in our lives requires active seeking.  A relationship with Christ is mutual – the richer our contributions to that relationship, the richer our relationship becomes.  We too are to be active seekers of Christ in this life.

Third, the magi teach us the posture of humility while in the presence of the sacred.  The gifts that the men give are those kinds of gifts that are humbly given only on the most special of occasions.[ii]  The magi recognize the amazing thing that God has done in Jesus Christ, and they offer the most special of gifts.  But even more than the gifts is the nature of the wise men’s response.  When they see the Christ Child and Mary, they do not congratulate themselves for a search well done.  Instead, the magi fall to their knees, on the dirty, filthy ground, sullying fine garments, in order to pay homage to Jesus.  That these three powerful men could be brought to their knees by a mere child shows us the power of Christ, and the humility we all can show before God.

The Episcopal Church has often been teased as being an aerobic church – with so much switching between standing, sitting, and kneeling that you actually get a workout.  What I love about our piety is that the physicality of our worship invites us into the kind of humility that we find in the magi.  Kneeling especially requires humility and sacrifice – our bodies rarely enjoy kneeling.  Through the discomfort and distinctiveness of kneeling, we discover new things about ourselves and about what we are doing – whether we are praying, confessing, or receiving the body and blood of Christ.  The magi remind us of how this simple posture can reorient ourselves toward God.

Finally, the magi teach us about obedient listening.  Now unless you are a dog owner, or the parent of a little one, obedience is not a word we particularly enjoy.  As individuals we like to think of ourselves as not needing to “obey” anyone.  Even when we think of God, we prefer words like cooperation, sharing, or advising rather than the word “obedience.”  But the magi remind us that obedience toward God is essential.  Social mores, and even the fear of punishment, could have led the wise men to disregard their dream warning them about returning to Herod.  But instead, the magi obediently listen to their dream – to the word of God that comes to them in the night – and they leave from the country by another road.  Just verses later we discover that their dream was a most helpful warning; Herod had nothing but ill-intended wishes on his mind when he asked the wise men to return.  That is the way with God though.  We are not given the future, only the current word of God for us.  We are encouraged to trust and obey God when God speaks.

The magi did not just bring gifts for Jesus today.  The magi give us gifts too.  Through them we learn that the kingdom of heaven is a welcoming place for us.  We learn through them that the faith journey is one of active seeking after God.  Through them we learn the posture of humble reverence before God.  And finally, we learn through them that obedient listening is the most direct way to cooperate with God.  We are grateful today for the witness of the magi, who teach us the best ways to seek and find God.  Their instruction today gives us permission to be the seekers that Jesus invites us to be.  Welcome to the journey, seekers!  Amen.

[i] William J. Danaher, Jr. “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 214.

[ii] Paul J. Achtemeier, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 215.

Sermon – John 1.1-18, C1, YC, December 30, 2012

31 Monday Dec 2012

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Our Christmas text today from John sounds more like the introduction to a dramatic movie – you can almost hear James Earl Jones’ deep voice saying the words, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Of course, John’s version of the story is not as action packed as Luke’s version of the story.  Luke’s story of an evil empire, of a scandalous marriage and birth, of magnificent angels, and of rebellious shepherds is much more like the Christmas blockbuster we would all flock to the theaters to see.  John’s version of the story is a little more like the movie at the independent film theater that you might be dragged to with your artsy friend – or maybe you would just wait until the film came out on DVD, to watch if you had time.  John’s story is less engaging because he takes us away from the dramatic and relatable details of that holy night, and takes us to the cosmic understanding of that night.  The language is beautiful, but we have a difficult time finding a way to connect to the story.

The good news is that John gives us more than we realize at first glance.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  The beginning of John reminds us of the beginning of another great story of our faith – the beginning of Genesis.[i]  We hear the similarities from Genesis:  “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep…”  We can hear James Earl Jones’ introduction here too.  In Genesis the world was in darkness and chaos – “tohu wavohu” are the Hebrew words for this dark chaos, this formless void.  By referencing this time of darkness from Genesis, John hints that when Jesus is made flesh among us, the world has fallen once again into a time of darkness.  In fact, even though God forms the world and gives the world light, the light seems to battle with darkness from the earliest days.  Though God gives the world covenants, laws, judges, kings, and prophets, the darkness still fights with the light.[ii]

And so, in the midst of this struggle between darkness and light, we pick up the story with John.  God, unwilling to cede the world to darkness, takes on flesh.  Jesus Christ becomes the incredible gift to us – God incarnate to show us the way to lightness.  Of course, Moses and Job saw glimpses of God’s glory and light.  But when the Word becomes flesh, God puts flesh on light, glory, grace, and truth, “so that followers who want to know how [light, glory, grace, and truth] sound and act have someone to show them.”[iii]  John does not start his gospel telling us the story of Jesus’ incarnation; Instead, John tells us of the significance of Jesus’ incarnation.  John cuts right to the importance of this event instead of letting us linger in the blockbuster version of the story.

What is challenging about John’s version of the story is that John immediately invites us into a choice when we hear the significance of Jesus becoming incarnate.  John explains, “[Jesus] came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.  But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God…”  When we hear these words we often think of those people who did not accept Jesus.  We hear John’s words in the past tense, thinking ourselves as separate from a time when Jesus had to be accepted or not.  Unfortunately, we do not get off so easily.  We too can be people who do not accept Jesus, and who do not live in the light.  We turn our eyes from those in prison, from those barely keeping out of poverty, and from those victims of discrimination and intimidation.  We allow the darkness to spread, not claiming the light of Jesus in our lives, and not shining the light of Christ into the darkness.

I stumbled on a commercial recently about parenting.  The commercial shows three quick vignettes – a father drinking milk from the carton, a dad shoving some dropped trashed under a bench, and a mother yelling angrily at the car in front of her.  At the end of each scene, a child is shown to be watching, taking in every last bit of behavior from the parents.  The commercial warns parents that children are constantly watching, listening, and learning from all of us.  We are our children’s teachers and children learn by imitating us.  The commercial is eye-catching in its honesty and simplicity.

What John is arguing for today is somewhat like this commercial.  Like children and parents, the world is watching us.  The world, knowing us to be persons of faith can see when we are agents of the darkness or of the light.  A few weeks ago, when a police officer gave shoes to a homeless man, the world saw his light.  When young dancers agreed to perform during their Christmas Break to raise funds for the victims of Hurricane Sandy, the world saw their light.  When we empty our pockets and purchase gifts for those suffering right here in Plainview, our community sees our light.  Whether we want to admit the reality or not, the world is watching us for some hint of light in this world that can be so dark.

Being an agent of light can feel like an overwhelming responsibility.  But John’s gospel gives us two words of encouragement.  John first tells us that to those who claim the light, who claim Jesus in their lives, God gives power to become children of God.  In other words, God will give us the power to become the light in the world.  Second, John tells us that we have all received, grace upon grace.  God’s grace can lift us up out of the darkness, and allow us to shine Christ’s light in the world.  Through God’s grace and power, we can be agents of light.  We can be agents of light in a world that still struggles with darkness.  We can be agents of light because “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”  Amen.

[i] Paul J. Achtemeier, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),189.

[iii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),191.

Sermon – Luke 2.8-20, CD, YC, December 25, 2012

27 Thursday Dec 2012

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In the wake of the tragedy in Newtown, fear has been a rampant part of our lives.  Parents have been afraid for the safety of their children.  I talked to many parents who really did not want to send their kids back to school in those first days, even though they knew logically that this was not an option.  We have also turned into a country fearful about guns – either fearful that they will be taken away from us or fearful that they will be used as a crutch to solve society’s ills instead of more peaceful means.  And at a time when we focus on the Christ Child today, many of us fear the loss of innocence.  We long for a more simple time – a moment of pure clarity when everything is made plain.

Over two thousand years ago on this day, things were made plain for a rag-tag team of shepherds.  “Do not be afraid,” the angel says.  “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”  Good news.  Great joy.  All the people.  These are words that do not strike fear in the hearts of the shepherds.  They are words that instead set them free from fear.  They are words that open up a window into hope.  They are words that fill them with joy.  For if this is good news of great joy for all people, then even people like unsavory, undesired, unloved shepherds are included in this news.  And with this outpouring of good news, the shepherds are blown away by the most awesome chorus of voices praising God’s name.  Fear is a fleeting feeling for these shepherds.

This fearless joy can be our gift too.  We can let go of our angst about safety, about politics, about control, and take hold of the Good News of the Christ Child.  We can gather around the host of angels and let the Good News rain down on us, and liberate us from fear.

Of course, that certainly sounds easy, and maybe even feels easy on this holiest of days.  But can we really expect us to be able to live free from fear?  The shepherds help us answer that question.  The response of the shepherds is full of immediate action.  The shepherds go with haste to find Mary, Joseph, and the child lying in a manger.  The shepherds gather with the Holy Family, and share their story.  Finally, the shepherds go out glorifying and praising God.  The shepherds go, gather, and glorify.

This is the invitation of the gospel for us today.  We too are to go, gather, and glorify.  First, we are invited to go.  When God speaks to us, we are to respond.  The shepherds go with haste.  And so, instead of pondering things in their hearts, or worrying about whether they might run into trouble along the way (which would have been a valid concern given the registration taking place in Bethlehem by Augustus and Quirinius)[i], the shepherds go with haste.  So our first invitation is to let go of our fears and simply act.  Act with immediacy when God calls us.

Next, the gospel invites us to gather.  This incredible God experience does not happen for the sole benefit of the shepherds.  The shepherds gather, creating a community of faith who share the Good News.  We too are invited to gather with a community of faith.  We do that today, as we gather on this holy day.  But we are invited to gather regularly, so that we can share in the faith journey together, making sense of God’s call as a community.  This work of discernment is not done alone.  We need a community of faith to shape us and form us.

Finally, the gospel invites us to glorify.  The Shepherds leave that manger scene with nothing in their hearts but praise of God.  Glorifying God seems so simple, but sometimes glorifying God is what is the most difficult for us.  We become so accustomed to coming to God, asking for things – for healing, for direction, for peace.  We struggle with God, and long for God.  But we sometimes forget to simply glorify God.  Just two weeks ago, we heard in the letter to the Philippians the call to “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.”  This is one of those days when we really need a large gospel choir who can lead us into glorifying God with those words, “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say, again I say, Rejoice!”  Sometimes we simply need to let go of everything and glorify God.

This Christmas, the Church does not let us go home with a message of comfort without action.  Instead, the Gospel is full of action:  go, gather, and glorify.  Now, I know you want to go home, eat a feast with friends or family, watch some basketball, and enjoy a day free of the obligations of work, school, and to-do lists.  But remember that even those meals, those times with others can be a place to go, gather, and glorify.  Go to your next stop with joy overflowing from the news of angels.  Gather with a community, not letting the opening of presents override your telling of the miracle of the Christ Child.  And glorify God – in your prayers over your meal, in your conversations with others.  Perhaps focusing on glorifying God will get you out of the normal kvetching that often happens at Christmas meals.  So, go, gather, and glorify.  May this be our work this Christmastide.  Amen.

[i] Michael S. Bennett, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),118.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2012

27 Thursday Dec 2012

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When my daughter was first able to express her desire for a particular bedtime book, I found that she wanted to read the same book over and over again.  After a while, I knew the words and images of Goodnight Moon by heart.  Knowing them by heart meant that I always knew how many more pages we had to go, and what the next rhyme would be.  I knew which pages would be in color and which ones would be in black and white.  I remember several times trying to convince my daughter to try one of the other lovely books on her shelf, but she wanted the familiar.  Just the other day, I stumbled across Goodnight Moon at the bottom of a stack of books, and a broad smile spread across my face.  I sat down and turned the pages on my own.  Memories of rocking my much smaller daughter to sleep, of turning on her music mobile, and of tiptoeing out of the room flooded my mind.  Rereading those words and seeing the pictures again brought to mind a very happy time.

Sometimes I think the Christmas story from Luke is like that for all of us.  We have heard the words hundreds of times – from priests, in pageants, and even in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”  We long for the familiarity of the words.  We close our eyes as the words wash over us, the familiarity giving us a sense of peace and calm.  This is why we came here tonight – to have the familiar story retold to us, to center and ground us in the story of our ancestors.

In truth, we all could use a familiar comforting story lately.  We have had a rough couple of months.  Between the mess of Superstorm Sandy and the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, we are emotionally exhausted.  Add on to that the normal stress of Christmas – traveling to be with family or hosting people, running around trying to get the perfect Christmas presents, making sure the kitchen is stocked with the ingredients for everyone’s favorite recipes, and getting out those Christmas cards.  The roads are crazy with traffic and our minds are in a hundred different places.  Although we come to Church nicely dressed on Christmas Eve, our appearance only masks the chaos within ourselves.  In the midst of all of this, we long for a familiar, soothing story.  We need a “once upon a time,” story where we can turn off our minds and settle into the goodness of God’s incarnate son.

The problem with this desire for comforting familiarity is that Jesus’ birth story is not exactly a comforting story.  We prefer to hear the story this way:  “Once upon a time, there were two people in love who were given the gift of birthing God incarnate.  And when this sweet baby was born, angels appeared to shepherds who came to celebrate the Christ Child.  And they all lived happily ever after.”  We do the same thing with our own family stories:  “Once upon a time, grandma and grandpa had mommy and daddy who had me.  Every Christmas we gathered together and celebrated with our whole family in great joy, peace, and harmony.”  We leave out the part where our drunk uncle always marred the celebration, our grandma always managed to insult our mother, and we always just wanted the day to be over so we could go home and sleep off weeks of Christmas anticipation finally fulfilled.

When we treat Christ’s story as a “once upon a time” story, we forget the real details too.  A very pregnant Mary and a troubled Joseph have just taken a long journey, bowing to the demands of the empire.  The city is so crowded, they are forced to sleep and birth their first child among hay and animals.  Later, angels in their astounding and shocking glory appear to shepherds – the lowest on the social strata – to share the news of Jesus’ birth.  These grubby men with their loud animals barge in on what is already a messy temporary home to share the angels’ story with Mary and Joseph.  In the framework of an oppressive empire, we find our savior being born not in the majesty due a king, but in a very normal, vulnerable, if not impoverished setting.  When the news is announced, the news does not come to the Temple priests or religious leaders of the time.  Instead, the news is given to nobodies, with little influence or power.  This amazing, incredible thing – God taking on human flesh, becoming incarnate to save us, happens in the form of a vulnerable baby in a nondescript setting.[i]  This version of the story does not have quite the same ring as the “once upon a time” version we most prefer.

The good news is that the messy, uncomfortable, tense version of this story has much more meaning than our glossy version of the story.  As strange as this may sound, Jesus’ birth happening in this un-peaceful setting is what makes this story so full of peace.  From the very birth of Jesus, we discover what this new life will be about – the poor, the marginalized, and the outcast.[ii]  Why would this kind of news be good news for us?  This is good news because not only does Jesus give us our mission from the very beginning of his life – to serve the poor, marginalized, and outcast – but also Jesus reminds us that we too are impoverished without God.  As Bede reminds us, “Though he was rich, yet for our sake he became poor, so that by his poverty we might become rich.”[iii]

You may not know this about me, but I am a big fan of religious art, especially art portraying Mary and child.  Certainly fine art depictions and iconography of Mary and Jesus are fascinating, but what I most like are renderings that catch me off guard.  One of my favorites is an icon from Cameroon, depicting a very African Mary and Jesus.  A more recent addition to my collection is of a dimly lit room, with a sweaty, exhausted Mary, messily splayed out on a make-shift bed, surrounded by women helping her recover from childbirth.  In the dim background, a baby is being held, without much detail, but a light halo around his head.  Something about the raw, gritty nature of the scene opened up for me something fresh about that night.

What I like about this painting is that it offers the raw, real version of the Christmas story.  The painting takes us out of the idealized “Silent Night,” version of Christmas, and throws us into a night that is much messier.  Besides, there was little about that night that was silent.  Surely Mary cried out in childbirth, Jesus screamed as a newborn, and there was a commotion with all those animals around.  Surely the heavenly host singing did not make for a silent night.  Surely that noisy night was as loud, noisy, and messy as our lives.

And that is where I find comfort in the birth story tonight.  Imagine your favorite aunt leaning over to whisper in your ear a story like this:  “Once upon a time, two scared young people said yes to God, and in the most socially unacceptable way, brought a young baby into this world.  They did not have a nice place to stay, but they made due.  Later, a crew of crusty sheep keepers came and told them a fantastic story of angels affirming what Mary and Joseph knew all along – their precious little son who had already caused so much trouble for them was actually going to save the world.  And as all those gathered around looked at one another – disrespected shepherds, a socially outcast couple, and a vulnerable little baby – they laughed.  The laughed because they knew the truth – God has a funny way of breaking into the world and bringing salvation to those of us who need saving!”

Now maybe this version is not the version you needed to bring you that sense of longed for familiarity.  Maybe you just want to hear, “And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”  But this rougher version offers us the interpretation we need to understand why tonight’s familiar story is so full of hope.  For if God can redeem the messiness of the world, maybe God can redeem the messiness of our lives too.  Amen.

[i] Charles L. Campbell, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),121.

[ii] Robert Redman, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),120.

[iii] Redman, 120.

Sermon – John 14.1-6, Cemetery Christmas Memorial Service, December 22, 2012

23 Sunday Dec 2012

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Less than two weeks ago, I would have told you that St. Margaret’s was progressing nicely toward Christmas, ready to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child.  We have had a blessed Advent, and have been looking forward to some wonderful liturgies, including this service.  But then tragedy struck Newtown, Connecticut, and since that time, many of our parishioners have been struggling not only to find their “Christmas Spirit” again, but have even been struggling with God in all this.  I have heard all sorts of questions from our parishioners.  “What kind of God allows this to happen?”  “Where was God when those poor children were being slaughtered?”  “How are we to trust God now?”

I imagine the emotional state of those who are active here at St. Margaret’s is a bit close to what many of you have already been struggling with for months or even years.  Christmas is one of the hardest holidays in the face of grief.  Parishes around the country celebrate “Blue Christmas” services because despite what all the media hype tells us, Christmas can be very hard for many of us.  All of the forced happiness and gift giving masks the pain, loneliness, and heartache that Christmas can bring.  When we are blessed to have our family around, we are reminded of the deep dysfunction and hurt that families sometimes create.  When we are away from family, we long for some idealized version of Christmas we have imagined in our heads.  And when we have lost someone to life beyond this life, we are reminded of all the Christmases we had with them, wishing we could have just a few more.  When faced with the kind of death we saw in Newtown, Christmas can be a time when we would rather rage at God than meekly sit at the Christ Child’s feet.

And so, today we gather.  We gather to lift up our “blue” feelings, our pain and our suffering, our anger and our sense of loss back to God.  We come today to lift that back to God, because we really do not know what else to do with all of that “stuff” inside of us.  Of course, we all experience death differently.  For some of us, the death of our loved one is recent, and the pain is as fresh as the day we lost them.  For others, our loved one has been gone for a while, but the hurt still lingers and catches us off guard at times.  And for others, our loved one has been gone for a long time, but the hollow in our heart will never fully close.

We come to God with all of our “stuff” because somewhere in the depths of our beings we know that God – and only God – can handle our “stuff.”  God can handle our anger, our pain, and our grief.  God can take our frustration, our fickleness, and our fears.  God can handle our lost hope, our distant hearts, and our distrust.  We know all of this because we see how Jesus treats Thomas in the gospel lesson we hear today.  Thomas is the one among the disciples who is always brutally honest, saying what no one else is willing to say, even if what he has to say does not portray himself in the best light.  This Thomas is the Thomas who refuses to believe in the risen Christ until he touches his wounds.  And today, in our gospel lesson, this Thomas is the panicked disciple who worries about how to find the way to this spacious dwelling place that Jesus has just described.  Jesus does not rebuke Thomas for his questions or even for his implicit doubts.  Instead, Jesus stays in relationship with Thomas, teaching him patiently what he needs to learn.

Jesus is patient with Thomas because the words that Jesus offers that day are critically important for Thomas to understand.  Jesus is explaining to Thomas and the other disciples gathered what they can now expect about the experience of death.  Through Jesus, they are promised resurrection life.  They are promised a dwelling place with abundant rooms – a place where Jesus will take them himself.  “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”  Jesus words are like the words of a soothing mother, teaching the disciples that the experience of death is changed through the life and death of our savior Jesus Christ.

In times of grief, whether grief over violence against children, or the grief over our own loved ones, Jesus words are what we cling to this holiday season.  If we can hear those words, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” we may use this as our mantra to get us through this challenging time.  Do not let your hearts be troubled.  But if we cannot hear those words today, then remember Jesus’ presence with Thomas, even in the midst of Thomas’ confusion and pain.  Jesus stays with Thomas, helping him through this news.  So even if we need to be angry with God or are not ready to let our hearts stop being troubled, Jesus will stay with us.  Jesus is infinitely patient, preparing the way for us.  May you find some peace this Christmas season from Christ’s presence with you.  Amen.