Christmas Eve Sermon: Broken cookies (2014)

            Each year, as I rush around trying to get two churches ready for Christmas, I often don’t have time to do all the other fun Christmas stuff – decorating, sending cards, caroling, parties, baking cookies. I just barely get gifts done, though sometimes (and this year is one of those times) I just have to accept that my family will be receiving Epiphany gifts instead of Christmas gifts. Luckily, they understand. But this year, I finally did it: I carved out some time one Saturday morning to bake some Christmas cookies. Of course, I made my favorite: spicy Christmas cutouts, trees and stars. Because 

Spicy Christmas cut-outs, made by Johanna :)

they are my favorite, my mom always made them for every occasion, choosing the shape accordingly: hearts for Valentine’s Day, leaves for autumn, we even had them at our wedding, in the shape of hearts and, naturally, airplanes.

            As I carefully lifted them off the cookie sheet and onto the cooling rack, of course, I found there were some casualties. There often are, especially with the various shapes and pointy edges of cutouts. In my family, and I’m sure in yours as well, the casualties were the ones the family got to eat, while we saved the ones that turned out perfectly cute and intact for giving to other people, and for putting on the pretty plate after Christmas dinner. No one outside the kitchen saw the mistakes.

That’s sort of a metaphor for life, isn’t it? Especially at Christmastime, we only put forward our very best face – the prettiest cookies and the best smiles – for other people to see, and we save the brokenness – both the broken edges on our cookies and our emotional brokenness – for a more

private place. After all, there’s no reason, especially at such a merry time as Christmas, to dwell on the dark shadows and brokenness of our lives, right?

But you and I both know: there are very real dark shadows and brokenness in our lives. Speaking personally, I have been very occupied during Advent year with the darkness of that season. That’s due to some family and personal things, but also the national and international scene, in which the news is dominated by illness, torture, racism, riots, threats, revenge, and last week even the whole-scale displacement of the homeless community in Rochester city. It has been hard to see the light when there seems to be so much darkness everywhere we look. It has been hard not to hear the angels’ song of “peace on earth” as mere wishful thinking.

Perhaps that is why we portray the Christmas story the way we do. I mean, it is an amazing story, miraculous, moving, but did you ever notice how much we either gloss over or sentimentalize the rougher edges of it? Like, Luke doesn’t tell us about the labor pains Mary undoubtedly felt, or about how her laboring screams filled that silent night. He doesn’t mention how scared and appalled Joseph was to be there for the birth, which was not in any way a normal or appropriate place for a man to be, but who else was there to catch the baby when he came out – the donkey? I don’t think so! There is no reflection on how mortified Mary and Joseph were when the dirty shepherds, the lowest of the low in society, showed up with their equally dirty sheep. Or what about when baby Jesus made a mess in those swaddling cloths, as newborns are prone to do, and they had no more clean ones to change him into?

No, those aren’t the parts of the Christmas story that we like to tell and put on greeting cards. Our preferred version shows two faithful, saintly people caring gently for their newborn who no crying makes, oxen and asses before him bowing, shepherds looking like upstanding citizens, and not a hint of the messiness of a stable that is home to animals. We don’t want to dwell on the gross, painful or difficult parts of the Christmas story any more than we want to dwell on the gross, painful or difficult parts of our own stories. Maybe, we think, just maybe, if the Christmas story can be clean and sweet tonight, so can our lives. Like the plate full of cookies that are not at all broken, our lives, too, can be perfect, at least for one holy night. That is, after all, the expectation we have for Christmas.

But from the very beginning, you see, the incarnation, Christmas, did not meet expectations.

St. Martin Christmas pageant, "An Unexpected Christmas"

This year the kids of St. Martin showed us this in their delightful Christmas pageant, called, “An Unexpected Christmas.” It is sort of the prequel to the Christmas story. It takes place in heaven, with God and the angels, as God tries to figure out what to do about how far humanity has strayed from his original intention. God has the idea to send his son in the form of a newborn baby, to a peasant girl in a stable. The angels urge God to reconsider, to send an army, or at least to send his son someplace safe, like to a strong ruler in a palace. With each wacky, irrational, risky idea God has, the angels are aghast – all but one, who keeps commenting, “That’s brilliant! They won’t be expecting that!”

But that’s really the point of Christmas, isn’t it? That repeated line: they won’t be expecting that. The way that God chooses to come and dwell among us is completely unexpected, completely risky, and when it comes down to it, completely wacky.

But that irrational wackiness is what makes the Christmas story – the real Christmas story with all the rough, broken edges – such good news. It would have made sense for God to make His grand entrance into the earthly scene dramatic, noticeable, and more important than a baby born in a stable in a backwater town to an unwed teenage mother, announced only to the shepherds in the fields. But that more “important” version wouldn’t mean anything for the brokenness of my life. And so that isn’t what God chooses to do. God doesn’t come and take one of the perfectly intact cookies from a freshly polished silver plate. God doesn’t come into a family with a mom and a dad and 2.5 kids and a dog. God doesn’t come into a table laden with succulent and expertly cooked food, a sparkling Christmas tree with all the best ornaments on the front, and a meal in which no one says anything snarky or sarcastic, no one shares the pain going on in their lives, and everyone is just as merry as can be.

No, God comes to the earth among the lowly, the hungry, the displaced, the refugees, the weak, the despised. God comes to earth in the dark of night, when all the scariest and most mysterious creatures are out and about, where crime happens, where nothing seems quite as safe. God comes to earth among people who are terrified, like the shepherds; to those who are exhausted like those traveling many miles to their hometowns to be registered; to those in pain, like a young mother giving birth; to the overwhelmed, like the new father suddenly thrust into the role of midwife. God

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light...

comes into a plate full of broken cookies, the ones you never intended for anyone to see, but which, nonetheless, are a part of your story.

This is where God decides to come to earth, shining light into the darkest streets, and promising us that, merry Christmas or not, God is and always will be Emmaneul, God-with-us, on this dark night, and always.

Let us pray… Everlasting light, as you shone into the dark streets of Bethlehem that night, shine into our hearts this night. Come shine your light through our cracks and our breaks and our imperfections, so that we will find peace in the fact that you love us enough to be with us in all times. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Why I love/hate Christmas

I was having lunch with some pastor friends last week, and though we were enjoying each other's company immensely, the week-before-Christmas stress among us was palpable. I commented to an audience I knew would understand, "I liked Christmas a lot more before I was a pastor." They all agreed.

Since I said it, I have been unpacking that in my mind. I recently read this essay by Krista Tippett of On Being, on why she doesn't "do Christmas," and it got me thinking. I agreed with a lot of what she said, but would say it differently. I realized that while there are some things I hate about Christmas, the heart of it (the incarnation piece) I still love, more and more each year. Let me explain.

The first thing I don't love about Christmas is how much of it feels obligatory. Of course, there is the gift giving, and making sure everyone you love has "enough" gifts, and the stress of, "What can I get for So-and-So," when frankly, So-and-So doesn't need a darn thing, and so by getting So-and-So another thing, all you're really doing is giving So-and-So more stuff to deal with. I have started giving people gifts for other people through ELCA Good Gifts or similar, a gift which some people love but with which other people are not all that impressed. I don't care either way - I feel better about that than about contributing to people's overcrowded houses.

Another thing I don't love is Christmas kitsch: all that cheapo stuff that either gets tossed at the end of the season or at best clutters people lawns and lives. In a season when we are supposed to be "preparing him room" and "preparing the way of the Lord," what do we do but drag a bunch more stuff into our lives. I never liked Christmas kitsch, but pictures of Santa's real workshop in China put me over the edge. I hate that I participate in this when I buy cheap wrapping paper and ribbons, but I also love beautifully wrapped packages, so... I'm not perfect, all right? While I don't love kitsch, I do love beautiful, timeless, hand crafted Advent/Christmas decor. My house is full of hand-carved angels, homemade stockings, fair trade items... These are things that help me to remember the saints around the world who also are welcoming the Christ child, and I know that someone didn't have to breathe red glitter to make them.

Fair trade nativity, German transparancy, and in background,
an angel my mom quilted.

I don't love how secular Christmas is, or rather, how conflated secular Christmas has become with religious Christmas. So, I like Christmas parties, I like snowmen and reindeer, I like Deck the Halls, but I don't like that when I go to the store to get a nice Christmas card for someone, all I can find on a wall of cards is maybe 10 religious themed ones, and many of those way too schmaltzy for my taste. Can we be honest and less sentimental about what Christmas means? Why can I not find more cards that say, "A light shines in the darkness," or, "God came into the world in a way we could understand - what joy!" or, "May the peace, hope, and joy proclaimed by the angels be yours this season," or even simply, "Joy to the world!"

I'm probably gonna get some flack for this one, but I don't love that "Christmas is about being with those you love." No, it isn't. It's about Jesus. Spending time with people you love is certainly one of the wonderful things that happens at Christmas; having spent one Christmas in a country far away from anyone I know, I can vouch for how important this is. I cried that whole Christmas without my family nearby. But that is not what it is about.

Which brings me to what I DO still love about Christmas. I recently sang with my wonderful women's choir John Rutter's setting of Dancing Day. Part of the text: "Then was I born of a virgin pure, of her I took fleshly substance. Thus was I knit to man's nature, to call my true love to my dance... This have I done for my true love." And, like I often do when I sing Christmas music, I started to cry. That's amazing, is it not? First of all, this whole song is a love song from God to us, with the recurring refrain, "This have I done for my true love." God loves us so much that he came down to be with us, to be knit to our nature for better or worse, and to call us into God's dance, to be a part of the love and joy that is God's nature, just as God has come into what is often the pain and brokenness of our nature. WOW.

What I do love about Christmas is that is falls on Dec. 25, four days after the winter solstice. I know that in reality, Jesus was likely born in the spring or summer, when it would have been realistic for shepherds to be living in the fields with their sheep. But is not right after the winter solstice the perfect time to celebrate a light shining in the darkness? All during Advent we have come closer and closer to the darkest day of the year, and this is often a time of year that is dark in our lives, despite the abundance of Christmas lights. And now, just as we experience the days getting longer again, we celebrate that a light has come to shine in the darkness tonight and always. God will always be present in our darkness.

This, the promise of light in our darkness and the possibility that God could love us enough to come down and bring us into God's love, joy, peace, and hope - in short, the incarnation - is what I still love about Christmas, and what I continue to love more and more each year I experience it. There are some other things I really like (my sparkling Christmas tree, the abundant opportunities to give not only to loved ones but to strangers in need, the excuse to make delicious goodies and have fun parties, the meaningful traditions that evolve around the holiday), but all pale in comparison to the love of God that is in Christ Jesus, lying in a manger that dark night, bringing light and hope into the world.

The Grinch came to our house

Someone stole a box of Christmas gifts off our porch today. It was from Michael's mom. The thief took it into our backyard, ripped open the box, riffled through everything, then left the debris there for us to find.

This is strange and disconcerting in a number of ways. Of course, theft always makes one feel

violated. The thief had the thought to take the box into our backyard which is somewhat secluded so he or she could riffle through it in private and only take what he or she wanted. A thoughtful, considerate thief? Or a stupid one? (As one person at the postal inspector office said, "That's pretty gutsy," and another, "Wouldn't a normal thief just take the box and run?") And so far the only thing we have found missing is a vacuum tube (for an analogue guitar pedal) that Michael ordered and was there in a separate package - a nice, $7 tube, but still, seriously? You want that? And if this person was a guitarist who would be interested in such a thing, why not take the guitar socks? And for goodness sake, what makes the least sense of all: WHY would any thinking person leave the bag of jelly beans?! (Thanks for that, by the way!)

But violated as we feel, we are mostly grateful:

Both Michael and I had, as our first thought (after, "Seriously?"), "I hope whoever did this was really in need, and I hope it provided for them something they truly needed." I love that I am married to a man who cares more about people than stuff. We are disappointed, but not devastated, because at the end of the day, the fact that my mother-in-law put together such thoughtful gifts for us (these were our

"stockings" from her/Santa) is really the best gift. We are truly blessed to have many loving and generous people in our lives. Maybe the person who did this doesn't have such love, in which case, I hope this little act brought them some comfort.

It turns out, the person hardly seems to have taken anything. Because these were stockings, it was a lot of little, mostly inexpensive stuff. No gift cards or anything. The main gifts Michael's mom sent us (the more valuable ones) already arrived safely in separate packages.

Our sweet doggie has intuited Michael's anxiety as he works on reporting the incident, and has nuzzled up to him to bring him comfort. (This was of course after Klaus had gotten through his own anxiety by chewing on his own ear a bit and then pulling his bed to a different spot, just to show everyone he is in control of the situation.)

The gifts that got thrown behind the garage were not the expensive things - the silk ties were both safe from the mud. In fact, the only things that got wet were some socks and Klaus's new Santa toy, and he won't mind that it is wet because he'd have gotten it wet with his slobbering anyway.

And finally, if I may put on my pastor hat for a moment, the most important gift of Christmas doesn't come in a box in the backyard, but in a manger in a stable. No Grinch can take that. Jesus came into the world among the poor, into the mess, into the ick of the world. Sometimes that ick looks like a thoughtfully assembled package ripped open and riffled through by a stranger in the backyard. Sometimes it looks like someone who's life situation drives them to such an act. But it always looks like love and grace beyond logic or comprehension.

Whatever the case, the Grinch was not successful in stealing Christmas. We have all that we need, and way, way more than we could ever deserve. Thank you Grinch, for showing us that. And thank you God, for giving us that.

Visiting

As a pastor, one significant part of my job is visiting people - the sick, the homebound, the grieving, and also the folks whom I see at church but may not really get a chance to talk to.

When I first considered being a pastor, this was the aspect of ministry I looked forward to the most. I did a lot of visiting during the year I spent in Slovakia, usually tagging along with the pastor, but sometimes by myself or with my host family, and it was part of what helped me discern this call to ministry - not because I loved it, but because I was so frustrated that, due to the language barrier, I couldn't engage with it better. "If only I could really communicate with these people beyond the few words I can pick up," I thought, "I would love visitation."

As it turned out, I was wrong.

Not all the time - sometimes I do love it, and I leave a visit energized, affirmed and content. But I am an extreme extrovert, and so a long period of concentrated time in which I don't have an opportunity to express myself externally drains me. Put me in front of a congregation all day long, put me at coffee hour, put me in meetings, put me in Bible studies, and I'm fine; but put me in the quiet of someone's hospital room and I've got maybe forty minutes before I need to get back in my car and sing along loudly with the music on my stereo. It is not something I like about myself (though it does serve me on Sunday mornings), but it is just the way I am built.

But this week, as a part of my pre-Christmas round of visits, I have had a couple of lovely encounters that have lifted my spirits and put me in awe of this aspect of my calling.

The first was with G. G. has recently moved into a memory care unit of her elderly care facility. She is at the excruciating point in her dementia that she recognizes how much she can't remember. She used to be able to laugh it off, saying, "My memory isn't what it used to be!" but now you can see the frustration in her face. When I arrived she was getting her hair done, so we chatted in the beauty parlor for a while, then headed back to her room. She could not remember how to get there. Even after I pointed her in the right direction, she was still very confused. A nurse came and helped her, encouraging her, telling G., "You know the way!" even as she gently guided her. Once we were safely in her room, I set up communion. As a part of the short service, I read her the Christmas story, then asked if she'd like to sing some carols. Back in the day, G. had a lovely alto voice, and sang strongly in the choir. Oh, did she love to sing! I asked her favorite, and we sang Silent Night - every word. It went so well, I suggested we sing Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and we did. I could see in her face that at first she was trying to remember the words, and then she just let go and sang them all, every last one of them, with nary a stutter. And to my surprise, on the final chorus, she broke into harmony! Again, on Joy to the World, she confidently belted out the harmony part throughout, perfectly in tune, every word in its place. What an incredible gift that this woman who literally cannot find her own way home, can still sing with joy the words of these carols that tell this story of God coming into our midst, adding her harmonies to those of the angels. Remarkable.

The second was with J. I had visited J. early on my time here, three years ago, but somehow she did not get on my usual rotation of visits, so I hadn't visited her since. She graciously welcomed me in, and I learned she had recently had some health issues, and was working on healing from that. Her family all lives 1000 miles away. She has a friend who helps get her to appointments. She is a fiercely independent woman, but is starting to come to terms with the fact that she may need help around the house. I could see how she struggled with this fact. I asked if she would like communion and she was delighted. I have done this a zillion times, so I started in with these familiar words, first the confession. I turned to her and said the usual absolution: "Almighty God has given his son to die for us and for his sake, forgives us all our sins. As a called and ordained..." and then J. burst into tears. I was stunned. I didn't know what to do, so I stopped, and reached out to hold her hand. Through tears she said, "I just need the Word of God so much."

Wow. Wow. Total reality check. This thing I do every Sunday and every home visit, that I can practically do in my sleep - I had taken it for granted. It never occurred to me how it is to hear those words, "For Jesus' sake, God forgives us all our sins," when you haven't had someone else say them to you in three years. We sat there, holding hands, for a few minutes, while J. cried. Then she wiped her eyes and said, "I'm okay." I told her she could keep crying if she needed to, and she said no, she had gotten it out. We went on with communion, and I could see in her face just how much she needed, craved this. I told her afterward that we could arrange for regular home communion visits, and it was as if I had given her the best Christmas present ever: the power and promise of God's grace, given to her and said to her face on a regular basis.

Of course in both cases, the true gift, was to me: witnessing the power of singing the faith; the joy one finds in pulling up the oldest of memories and singing them without caution; the reminder of the power in those words, "God forgives you"; the nurturing and sustaining power of this gift of life. And all this doing something that normally drains me, but this time, brought me life and love.

Merry Christmas to me.

Sermon: Tell me about the light (Dec. 14, 2014)

Advent 3B

December 14, 2014

John 1:6-8, 19-28

            My parents like to tell a story from my childhood that reflects how my call to be a pastor was a long time in the making. It happened at Christmastime when I was probably about 6 years old. I had a new friend who had come over to my house to play, and we were looking at the beautiful, wooden, hand-painted Advent wreath that dons my parents’ dining room table, which has all the characters of the Christmas story, marching their way around the wreath toward the manger. We discussed, as 6-

year-olds might, all the different characters, and their roles in the story. My friend looked thoughtful, then asked, “Where’s God?” I pointed and said, “He’s right there on the hay.”

            Now, at 6 years old I certainly didn’t understand such theological concepts as the incarnation or the two natures of Christ, but it turns out my 6-year-old explanation revealed something John the Baptist and I have in common: John, too, points to Christ, saying, “There is your God. There is your Christ, right there among you.” We think of John as the Baptizer, but in John’s Gospel, John the Baptist’s role is not primarily to baptize, but rather to witness, or testify: “He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him.”

            I don’t know about you, but I think that this Advent, the world could really use some more people testifying to the light. This Advent has felt to me especially dark – difficult losses among people dear to me has caused that darkness on a personal level, but also the national scene in which cries of brutality and racism and torture and budget cuts on programs helping those in the most need have blanketed the news. I have found it difficult to go about my merry Christmas way when I imagine how people of color feel watching the news these days, or the experience of those starting or joining riots because they feel so desperately helpless and unheard by the powers that be that they feel that rioting is the only way they can get their voice heard, or those who once were filled with hope but are now filled with a great big empty hole in their lives. Where is the light in the lives of these people and so many more who live in darkness, and who will testify to that light?

            Could it be you? Could you be the one God is calling to testify to the light, just as John did 2000 years ago? After all, we were all called to this vocation in our baptism, when we were handed a

lighted candle and told, “Let your light shine before others,” and we all have that light that is Christ inside us. Why shouldn’t we be the ones to testify to it? What would that testimony look like in today’s world, with the particular darkness we are facing now?

            I know what you’re thinking: “I don’t want to because I don’t want to offend people.” Or, “I never find myself with the opportunity to do that.” Or maybe, “I can’t because I don’t know how.” Well here’s what I have to say about that: First, you won’t offend people if you first listen, truly listen to their story without judgment. Sometimes listening with authenticity is the best way to testify to the light, the most compassionate and Christ-like thing you can do. But sometimes, like in the case of injustice, something needs to be said. In that case, being honest about own story of how the light has been present in your life need not offend – it is your story, not a story you are trying to foist upon someone else, so tell it that way. As far as opportunities to testify go, every day is an opportunity to testify to the light because every day people are longing to hear a word of hope spoken into their darkness, or whatever wilderness they happen to find themselves in.

Then there’s the question of not knowing how to testify to the light. Okay, so let’s address that: how do we do it? Let’s look at how John the Baptist does it: notice that his statement of faith isn’t all that eloquent; he says simply, “I’m just a voice crying out in the wilderness.” We talked

about that last week – we all have had wilderness experiences, and sometimes it is in those times that we experience God the most profoundly. At least it is the place where we most need and crave God. John knows about the wilderness, and he knows others do, too. And so John calls out from that shared, human, wilderness experience, “I know it is dark out here, and hopeless, but guess what? God is coming! In fact, he is already among you.” His testimony is as simple as that. He identifies with those around him, and then tells his own experience.

            Now, I know you all have experiences of God, or you have experiences in which you sought God, or experiences in which you craved God. I find it hard to believe that you would come here week after week if you had no experience, nor any interest in experiencing God. But I also know that many of you haven’t talked too much about that, at least not with people outside of the church. How do I know this? You remember back in September we took the Congregational Vitality Assessment? One of the areas that you scored yourselves the lowest was in the category, “This congregation equips members to share their faith with others.” Well! You better believe I’m not going to see that and let is slide! This church should be equipping you to share your faith – to testify and to witness – to others, because the world needs that voice of one crying out in the wilderness to an aching world. You should be able to articulate why your faith matters to you, where you find light when the world is dark, and to be able to articulate that to others who too often find themselves in the wilderness, with nowhere to find hope.

            And so today we will take a step toward equipping you to testify to the light. In your bulletin you will find a small insert. On one side it says, “Why does your faith matter to you?” Perhaps you have never really thought about this question. Why do you keep coming back to church? Why do you

John the Baptist from Isenheim Altarpiece

hope your kids and grandkids stay with the church and keep involved into their adulthood? What does this faith, or your relationship with Jesus, provide for you? Why does it matter?  

Or, if you’d prefer something more seasonal, on the other side you will find another question: “Why do you celebrate Christmas?” I’m not looking for, “Because I like Frosty the Snowman,” or, “Christmas lights are so pretty.” I mean, what difference does this holiday, this holy-day, make to you and your relationship with God? In your mind, why come to church that night, and what is there to celebrate, and why does that make a difference to you?

            Write your testimony on that little slip of paper, and consider it a good answer if anyone ever asks you, “Why do you go to church?” If you would be willing to share your answers with me, put them in the offering plate; I’d love to share some of your testimony (anonymously!) in our next newsletter, to give inspiration to others in the new year. Or if you’d rather, you can think about it and email me or call me with a response later.

            And because I won’t ever ask you to do something I wouldn’t do, I’ll go first: Why does my faith matter to me? In my life, I have faced my share of difficult moments, both mundane and severe. I have been mad at God, and delighted by God. I have been devout and I have been apathetic. But at the end of each day, I find my hope in the fact that God loves me – and everyone, no matter their skin color, nationality, gender, or sexual orientation – so much that he decided to dwell among us and take on our lot, for better or worse. I find hope in the fact that I am forgiven each and every day for my many mistakes, a gift that also encourages me to try harder next time. I find hope in the fact that God turned death into life on that first Easter morning, and continually does this in my life in little ways and in huge ways, showing me what new life can look like all the time. That is why I come to church; that is why I celebrate Christmas; that is why my faith matters to me.

            Okay, your turn. I’ll give you a few minutes, then close us in prayer. May the Holy Spirit provide you with the words to articulate what you know to be true…..

            Let us pray… God of hope and fulfillment, your servant John pointed toward Christ, testifying to the light that is Christ. Give us the courage to do the same, to be a voice crying out in the wilderness, to tell the world why our relationship with you matters so deeply. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: When parents leave their children in the wilderness (Dec. 14, 2014)

Advent 2B

December 7, 2014

Isaiah 40:1-11

Matthew 1:1-8

            Michael and I have been watching old episodes of the hilarious TV show, Modern Family. We recently watched an episode in which Haley, the fashionable, beautiful 17-year-old daughter, is trying to write her college application essay. She agonizes over the prompt, to write about an obstacle she has overcome. She laments to her mom that they have sheltered her, not let her experience real life, and as a result her life has been too easy and thus she has no obstacles to write about. Her mom, Claire, gets an idea. Her response is to look very somber and anxious. “Well honey,” she says, “there is a reason we shielded you from the truth.” Haley looks concerned. “Oh honey… you’re old enough, so I guess it is time you know. Come on.” Claire grabs her keys and a very confused Haley, and they drive out into the dessert a few miles from their suburban Los Angeles home. She brings the car to a

stop, looking distressed. “I can’t do this,” Claire says, building the suspense. “I can’t get out of the car.” “Mom, what is going on?” Haley wants to know. “Okay,” says Claire. “I want you to read what’s carved on that tree.” Uncertain, Haley gets out of the car, and takes a few cautious steps toward the tree. As soon as she turns her back, Claire hits the gas and drives away, leaving her daughter alone in the desert, calling, “Have fun gettin’ home! There’s your obstacle!”

            Later, having found her way home, Haley storms through the front door, with sticks and debris hanging from her normally carefully coiffed hair. “What was that?!” she shouts. “Are you psychotic? I had no money, no cell phone…!” Claire tells her to go write it in her essay. “Use spell check!” she bellows. No more sheltering for Haley. She had finally overcome an obstacle. (Season 3 episode 7)

            Leaving kids out in the desert, or wilderness, is no new idea. God uses the same one with his own children, but for a very different purpose. ‘As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, “See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord.’”’ This powerful quote from Isaiah is how Mark decides to begin “The good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” Why on earth would Mark choose to start his

gospel with a quote from 540 years ago? Why would Mark start Jesus’ story there, in a declaration coming from out of the wilderness?

            The reason Mark starts there is that the good news must start in the wilderness. It must start with us realizing our need, own brokenness, our darkness, our places of fear. If we didn’t start in the wilderness, then it would be like a plumber showing up at your doorstep when, to the best of your knowledge, you did not have any plumbing problems. If that happened, you would probably tell the plumber that he must have the wrong house, and send him on his way. And would we not say that to Jesus if we didn’t start off by realizing our need for this savior?

            Wilderness, at least the metaphorical sort, is all around us, is it not? Mark tells us that John was in a physical wilderness, proclaiming the need for repentance and for baptism, but wilderness can take on all kinds of forms. It need not be a wasteland by the River Jordan, nor a desert outside an LA suburb. Going back to that scene from the Modern Family episode: Haley’s mom taught her a lesson about obstacles in a physical desert, but in a way this was symbolic of Haley’s life more generally. Haley’s character is notoriously a girl without direction or vision or goals in her life. She has, up to that point, lived a sheltered life where everything falls into her lap, and indeed she has never faced the need for help or comfort. She is not like the Israelites to whom Isaiah speaks, who have been in exile, cut off from their roots and their history and their religious center, and who long for the comforting message Isaiah delivers about a God who is coming to bring them back to life. And Haley is also not like the crowds that John speaks to, who live under the oppressive political thumb of the Romans. She is not even like you and me – people who have lived through times of pain, spiritual drought, confusion, brokenness, longing, and loss. She had never had a real need in her life. She didn’t feel that need until she found herself alone in a literal wilderness.

            The difference, of course, between Haley’s wilderness experience and the one that John the Baptist refers to, is that in Haley’s experience, her mother leaves her there alone to fend for herself, to find her own way home. But in our own wilderness experiences, those times when we feel lost, abandoned, or even oppressed by people or situations, we are promised that God never leaves us alone. God is always there. And in fact, it is often when we are in the wilderness, stripped of the comfort, safety, and stability of our normal lives, that we are able to feel and perceive God’s presence most profoundly – if not in the moment, at least in hindsight.

            Why is that? Am I alone in this experience? I have found time and time again that whenever I am at my lowest point, when I am my most broken, my most weak, my most vulnerable – even, dare I say, when I am the maddest at God for not being around when I need him – it is when I am in this place, this wilderness, that I am most receptive to God’s urgings. Maybe it is because that is when I am so desperately searching for a godly presence. Maybe it is because my defenses are down. But I

also believe that the primary reason is that it is here, with the most vulnerable, those who are in the darkest places that is where God promises to be: with us in our wilderness. As we will hear on Christmas Eve, “A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.”

            In my story about Haley, her wilderness experience prepared her to write a college essay on overcoming obstacles. For what do our own wilderness experiences prepare us? In the words of both Isaiah and John, these experiences help us to “prepare the way of the Lord.” Is that true?

Think about it this way: did you ever notice the irony that when we prepare for a special guest in our home, we put things away and get rid of clutter, and yet when we prepare for Christ as our special guest each Christmas season, we do this by adding more clutter to our schedules and our homes? We fill our lives with more, more, more. Yet in the wilderness experience, we feel we are left with nothing, and so God’s presence in our hearts becomes abundantly clear, God’s presence is what fills our lives. Does your life this season, with all its busy-ness, allow for the fullness of God?

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m not telling you to put away your trees and your garlands and your lights, nor to cancel all your holiday parties. I have a line-up of parties myself, and we’re getting our tree after church today. What I am suggesting is that we think intentionally about how we might, in the words of one beloved Christmas carol, “let every heart prepare him room.” Perhaps this can be done by remembering a time in your life when you were in the wilderness, and remembering how Christ was with you in that time. Perhaps it can be done by making that story not only a past event that is never spoken of again, but rather one that is a continual part of your continual living, a part of

the story you still tell. Perhaps it can be done by sharing the story of that experience with someone else this Advent, giving voice to the way your faith has shaped your life.

            However you prepare room in your hearts for Christ this season, I hope that you will find time to do it intentionally, prayerfully, and faithfully, remembering how God has been in the wilderness of your life, and giving thanks for that presence. May your Advent reflections prepare a way for the Lord in your hearts.

            Let us pray… Lord God, we often find ourselves in the wilderness of life, feeling lost, confused, and alone. But you have shown that it is sometimes in these weak and vulnerable moments that you do your best work. Make us aware of your presence here, and empower us to share stories of your presence with others whom we meet. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.