Christmas Eve Sermon: Birthing the incarnation (2015)

Christmas Eve 2015

            I came across a comic this year that made me laugh out loud because it hit so close to home. In it, a woman clearly meant to be the new mother, Mary, is talking to a young boy with a drum, who is ready to play a little rump-a-pum-pum for the baby. She says, “I appreciate the thought, but I just got Jesus to sleep.”

            It gives a little comical insight into what it was like for those new parents. There is not much written about Mary and Joseph’s experience in those first few weeks of Jesus’ life, but the topic has been the fascination of mystics and theologians for centuries. I’ve been thinking a lot about it myself this year, for the obvious reason that I have recently gone through the birthing process and managed a newborn myself.

But I especially thought about it during this year’s nativity pageant. As many of you know, St. Martin put on a pageant this year, and the Rehbaums were selected to play the holy family. And so, yours truly donned a white robe and Mary’s signature blue veil, and walked the walk and talked the talk of Mary. After so many years of hearing and telling this story, this allowed me to experience it in a new way. Kneeling in prayer, I heard the angel’s announcement that I would bear God’s own son, and my hand instinctively moved to my belly, imagining this truth. I stood with Joseph (aka Michael) in the crowd as we heard the centurion deliver the decree that we must travel to Bethlehem, and I remembered the fatigue I felt late in pregnancy just from walking to the kitchen, let alone 70 miles. I

felt anxious as Joseph and I debated whether we should even bother knocking on the door of the inn with the sign that said, “No vacancy.” I waited in desperation for the innkeeper and his wife to figure out where they could put this pregnant lady, and smiled with relief when they said they had room in a stable. And I waddled my pregnant bones down the steps toward our makeshift stable, grabbed my own young Grace, and laid her in a manger – then grimaced at the prospect of letting her stay there, and picked her back up. While Joseph and I kept our holy spots in that stable, we sang to Grace, stroked her and bounced her, and when she started to cry we discreetly checked her diaper, and bounced her some more, and whispered soothing things in her ear, and let her suck on my pinky… and finally took her someplace more comfortable so the show could go on without distraction.

Of course, Mary and Joseph didn’t have that last option. The stable was it for them. They were stuck with a manger instead of a rocking, vibrating bassinet, and bands of cloth instead of a cozy, zip-up fleece sleeper and an assortment of beautiful handmade blankets, and lowing cattle instead of an iTunes playlist with carefully chosen songs. They were stuck with this newborn baby boy, with no experience, no conveniences, and presumably no clue what to do next.

            My heart goes out to Mary and Joseph, trying to figure out how to parent this child under the worst of circumstances. Joseph being unable to get proper paternity leave and Mary fretting about her milk supply or fitting into her jeans were the least of their worries, as Jesus literally had his bed eaten out from under him by his bovine roommates.

            But even more, this year I find myself wondering: Why on earth would God decide to come to us this way?! To two faithful but inevitably faulty parents, with no clue what they were doing, and in such crude circumstances? As my friend who recently had her first child said, “Everyday, new aspects of parenting daunt me. Everyday I have to ask for help. I rely on others to care for me... Sometimes, I feel as tender as a newborn myself.” And God entrusted the Savior of the world into the arms of two such parents?

Such a tender, vulnerable being, in such unpracticed arms. As someone who has spent many, many hours the past three months doing absolutely everything for another human being – feeding her, burping her, carrying her from place to place, dressing her, wiping her cute little behind – this reality that we celebrate tonight baffles me: the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace, the Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God… come as a baby? And even before he gets to the vulnerable baby stage – did God not know how risky getting there was, how many things can go wrong with a pregnancy, not to mention labor and delivery? How likely it was that Mary would die in childbirth, like so many women did in that time? Entering the world by way of childbirth was not only an incredibly messy choice on God’s part, but also a terribly dangerous one, in which too many things could go wrong.

But having recently gone through this myself, I have to say… I can’t imagine the incarnation happening any other way. Some traditions say that Mary’s labor was quick and painless, even that she immediately resumed her pre-pregnancy figure as Jesus happily nursed (having had no trouble, of course, with that initial latch). I find this possibility frustrating and annoying. If I’m going to worship an incarnate deity, a God who is willing to become human, I want – I need – God to go all the way. The thing is, life starts with pain. Every one of us here today came into the world through pain and mess and fear. Since that messy day of our birth, the pain and mess and fear of life have changed and evolved, but they have always remained a part of the human experience. If God is going to be truly human, God has to have experienced the whole kit and caboodle, including the risk, and the fear and pain of birth, and the vulnerability that follows.

Because if God was willing to share that experience with us humans, then I can truly believe that God means it – that God is willing to get down with us in the darkest, messiest, scariest moments of life, that God loves us enough to want to understand, that God cares enough not to bypass any part of the human experience, especially not the scariest, most demanding, and most vulnerable parts, even if that means coming into the world to the sound of groans and screams, and being clumsily fed by a young teenage mother, and inexpertly swaddled by a novice father. God came on that night and continues to come this night and every night into all the mess and fear of life.

Ted Loder tells about an encounter he had during a rough patch in his life: his mother was dying, his dad depressed, his marriage hanging on by a thread, his kids angry about it, and his professional life on the rocks. One night, as he walked down Lombard St. in Philadelphia to

meet his daughter for coffee shortly before Christmas, he saw a home that had dedicated their entire front window to an elaborate nativity scene. He was quite taken with it. But as he looked more closely he noticed two curious things: first, that all the characters seemed to be looking right at him, standing out there on the street; and second, to his surprise, that there was in fact no manger in this scene! He writes, “There was no manger, no infant Jesus in the window! In effect, the street was the manger, and I was standing in it.” He goes on, “I stood there with tears in my eyes. With a force that lumped in my throat, I realized that just where I was standing, the Christmas miracle happens. In the street, where human traffic goes endlessly by, where men and women and children live and limp and play and cry and laugh and love and fight and worry and curse and praise and pray and die, just there Christmas keeps coming silently, insistently, mysteriously.” (Tracks in the Straw)

            Just there – in all the fears and joys and sorrows and mess and beauty and vulnerability of life – just there, the Christmas miracle came that night in the form of a teenage mother giving birth in a stable to an audience of sheep and cattle, and it continues to come to us, in whatever situation our life finds us in this year. God cares enough to do that. God loves enough to do that, tonight, and every night.

            Let us pray… Everlasting God, you came into this world by humble means, showing us the extent of your love for us. When we feel overcome by the fear and pain of the world, make your extensive love known to us again, and again, as you come into whatever darkness we may be feeling. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: What then should we do? (Dec. 13, 2015)

Advent 3C

December 13, 2015

Luke 3:7-18; Philippians 4:4-7

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

            Friends, I’ll be honest with you: I am tired. I don’t mean the tired that comes from being a new parent, or from being a pastor during Advent, or from it being only two weeks away from Christmas. I mean my heart is tired. I am tired from too many shootings, from feeling that no one is safe anywhere – not at the movies, or at school, or at the mall, or at a holiday work party, or even at church – and the unwillingness of our lawmakers to listen to the pleas of the majority of Americans about improving gun control laws. I am tired from the lack of compassion for people in need, people who are fleeing unspeakable violence and seeking refuge, but finding a closed door. And I am so, so tired from so much hateful speech driven by stereotypes and fear, rather than heartfelt love of neighbor, and of the labeling of whole groups of people and rejection of all because of the acts of a few. And this is not to mention the daily stuff; surgeries, testing, loss, and all the usual things of human existence, seem to be in abundance all around me. I am tired.

            As a result, I am not feeling very Christmas-y. I’m not really feeling into the fact that this third Sunday in Advent is typically “Rejoice” Sunday. Historically, it was meant to be a little respite from all the waiting and repentance of Advent, a little glimpse of the joy to come in a couple weeks. But this year, I’m just not feeling much like rejoicing. I hear the words of Zephaniah and all I can hear are unfulfilled promises. I hear Isaiah’s claim that God will save us and so we need not be afraid, and I wonder, “Well what about those people who went about their daily lives only to be victims in yet another shooting?” I hear Paul’s plea – from prison, no less – to rejoice always, and again to rejoice, and think, “Uhh, I don’t have the energy to rejoice today, Paul. Maybe later.”

            Ordinarily I love those three texts, and would have been happy to preach on them, and avoid this strange text from Luke wherein John the Baptist begins his preaching with, “You brood of vipers!” and ends with, “He proclaimed the good news to the people,” as if unquenchable fire were some sort of good news. Normally, I would wonder, “Why in the world is this the Gospel reading on ‘Rejoice’ Sunday?!” But this year, I find myself drawn to John, and his unwillingness to mince words. John is saying it like it is, and he has given me the courage not only to let myself feel what I need to feel, but also to stand up here and tell you about it.

            But even more than John’s words, I am drawn to this question from the crowd, following John’s unrelating speech about the need to repent, to change our ways, to turn toward God: “What then should we do?” I’m drawn to it because this has been my question the past few weeks, as I watch violence, hate and fear fill my newsfeed. Another shooting, another slander, another stereotype: “What then should we do?”

I’ve seen several references lately to a very poignant quote from Martin Niemöller, who was a prominent Protestant pastor and outspoken adversary of Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Regime. He spent seven years in concentration camps for his outspokenness. He writes, “First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out – because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out – because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out – because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.” The quote so simply captures how complicity eventually leads to loneliness. Along a similar vein, a wonderful quote from Lutheran pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer from the same era, “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not

to act is to act.” Powerful and convicting words about the harmful potential of saying and doing nothing.

But what, then, should we do? What should we do when our hearts are heavy from reading about more tragedy in the news? What should we do when someone in need comes to our literal or proverbial door in search of help or safety? What should we do when people speak bigoted, hateful words about children of God, about our neighbors, whether those neighbors are Christian or not?

Ah, but here is the rub. In John’s sermon, he is not talking to the victims or the bystanders. He is talking to the perpetrators. But, I think he is still talking to us. So let’s change the question a bit: What should we do when we discover we are the one with a racist attitude? What should we do when we find ourselves afraid or unwilling to speak out about something important? What should we do when, instead of listening and learning about someone or something that is different from us, we decide that we know enough and suppose our assumptions are correct, without giving the “other” a chance to share their story? What should we do when, in the face of another tragedy, we just shut the blinds and the turn the other way and pretend everything is fine, and let someone else deal with that problem?

I don’t know about you, but I am guilty of all these things. I am the chaff John is talking about. I am convicted once again by Bonhoeffer’s words: “Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” What then should we do?

John’s advice to the crowd is practical. He acknowledges each group’s particular vocation and place in life, and instructs on how they can love and serve within that vocation. In short, “Do what you are good at, do what God called you to do, but do it better, more honestly, and as a service to others.” Be generous and kind. Be honest. Be loving. Work hard. Use whatever gifts and tools are available to you to make the world better, and that is how you can prepare for the coming of the Lord.

So what then, should we do? What would John the Baptist be saying to you in this time and this place, in this particular moment in history with its particular problems, struggles and brokenness? What then should we do, today, right now?

            This is the question I have grappled with for weeks, in particular around gun violence and, more recently, hatred and fear toward Muslims. With the Spirit’s help, I realized that I don’t know how to help because I simply don’t know enough about gun laws, or about Islam. Of course I recognized this in the context of the Advent season, in which we anticipate and hope for the coming of God in our midst as a human baby. Christmas is a season in which we marvel that God would so badly want a closer relationship with us, that God would become one of us, crossing the boundary between human and divine to really know and experience our lot. Advent is a season in which we prepare ourselves for that closeness of relationship, for God’s entry into our reality.

John tells us how: repent. But God gives us the power to do it. By the power I find in the hope of Christ, I sent an email this week to the Imam at the Islamic Center of Rochester. In the email I said I want to build relationships, and to educate myself. I asked if there was someone from his community who would be willing to sit down with me and let me listen while they simply tell me about what it is like to be a Muslim in America right now, about what is beautiful and life-giving about their faith. I haven’t heard back yet, but I’m as excited as I am anxious to see how this turns out. But in my prayer this week, this was how John the Baptist answered my question, “And I, what should I do?” As a faith leader in this time and place, and one who enjoys meeting new people, and one who is concerned about what is happening in this country and this world, this is what the Spirit compelled me to do. And what about you? What should you do?

            I started this sermon by saying that I’m not feeling up to rejoicing, and that normally I shy away from this strange text from Luke in which he calls the threat of unquenchable fire “the good news.” But you know, I think this is good news, and cause for rejoicing. Because the gospel is about how God changes the world, about how God brings salvation to every nook of cranny of the universe, and about how God participates in our reality and has a relationship with us, so that we might also participate in and be a part of that salvation that God brings. And in this time of history, and during Advent, God compels us toward self-reflection, repentance, and finally toward active love for the world that is fueled by the promise of that salvation. I think that’s pretty good news after all. And so, let us rejoice. Again I say, rejoice!

Let us pray… Saving God, when our hearts are heavy with the fear and hatred of the world, grant us the humility for self-reflection, and the strength and the courage to speak up against that hatred, so that we might participate in the salvation you bring. And may the peace of God which surpasses all understanding keep our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: On the other side of repentance (Dec. 6, 3015)

Advent 2C

December 6, 2015

Malachi 3:1-4, Luke 1:68-79, Luke 3:1-6

Grace to you and peace from the one who is, and who was, and who is to come. Amen.

            In the seventh year of the presidency of Barack Obama, when Andrew Cuomo was governor of New York, and Kirsten Gillebrand and Charles Schumer were the US Senators from New York, during when Elizabeth Eaton was presiding bishop of the ELCA and John Macholz was bishop of pstate New York Synod, the word of God came to Bethlehem/St. Martin Lutheran Church in the country/suburbs.

            What is that word of God? Well, hate to tell you, but despite the Christmas decorations, it isn’t about the sleeping babe of Bethlehem, at least not just yet. Today, on this second Sunday in Advent, we get to talk about John the Baptist, and with that, we get to talk about sin.

            “Sin?!” you ask. “But when do we get to the Christmas-y stuff?” Well, we may not want to talk about sin during this season, but John sure does! You remember John, Jesus’ wild and crazy cousin, son of Elizabeth and Zechariah. When he wasn’t eating locusts and wild honey, John was all about talking about sin – from the very beginning! His dad even prophesied about it when he was born! You may have noticed our Psalm today wasn’t a Psalm at all, but rather from Luke; it was the Benedictus, which was spoken by John’s father, Zechariah. Let’s do a little refresher course on how all of this hangs together:

            Zechariah was a priest, and one day he gets elected to enter the sanctuary of the Lord in the synagogue and offer incense. While he’s in there, lo and behold the angel Gabriel appears and tells him, “Hey, guess what? Your wife [who is, by the way, getting on in years] is pregnant! This child’s name will be John, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, and lead many people to God, and prepare the way of the Lord.” Zechariah is understandably shocked by this, and because of his

disbelief (because let’s face it, it’s pretty unbelievable!), the angel makes him unable to speak for the next nine months. Fast-forward now to John’s birth and subsequent dedication, and they name the kid John, despite no one in the family having that name. And as Zechariah writes that on a tablet (because remember, he couldn’t speak), his mouth was opened and his tongue freed and he begins to speak, and what are the first words out of his mouth? These words that we read a moment ago for the Psalm. And in this prophecy, Zechariah lays out what will be the purpose of his little son, John: “And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;” he says, “for you will go before the Lord to prepare his way, to give his people knowledge of salvation
by the forgiveness of their sins.”

            So there you have it, the role of John the Baptist: to give knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of sins. And to address our earlier question about what sin has got to do with Christmas… Well, what could be more Christmas-y than the forgiveness of sins? After all, our sin is the reason Jesus had to be born at all. Plus, Zechariah tells us that it is by the forgiveness of sins that we will come to have knowledge of salvation.

            During Advent, we talk a lot about preparing ourselves and our hearts for Christ’s coming, and in our Gospel today, John tells us precisely how we are to do that: repent. “He went into all the region around the Jordan,” Luke tells us, “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” I think there’s some baggage around the word, “repent,” maybe because it is often associated with fundamentalist street corner preachers telling us we need to repent or we’ll burn for eternity. I don’t know about all that, but I do know that repenting is not such a bad thing.

I like the way our reading today from Malachi describes it. He describes repentance as being like refiner’s fire and fuller’s soap. In both of these images, a substance is washed, scrubbed, beaten

down, burned – it goes through an assortment of strenuous, high impact treatment in order to get rid of all the gunk and come out with something precious, pristine, stronger and more valuable than before. Repentance can be like that! It sure isn’t easy, having to reflect on the grime and grub on our hearts, to name it, to deal with it in a healthy manner. But once we do, do we not come out stronger, shinier, and more beautiful than before?

            I don’t know, do you really believe that? If we really believed that, would we not be more ready, even more eager to participate in this repentance that John the Baptist and Malachi both proclaim? So then what keeps us from doing it? Why is repentance so hard for us? Maybe it’s because we think we’re not so bad, that there’s not so much gunk on our hearts that needs to get off, and so why go through the trouble? I’m ready enough, prepared enough for Jesus. Bring it on.

            Or maybe, we are worried that there is so much gunk in our lives that after it’s gone, after the fuller has scrubbed it away and the refiner has purified it… that there won’t be anything left. Sort of like when I told Michael I was going to clean our 20-year-old washing machine with hot water and vinegar, and he worried the old thing would fall apart, that 20 years of grime was all that was holding it together! Don’t worry, it didn’t. But we’ve grown so accustomed, you see, to the false truths that guide our lives, that if we get rid of all that, everything we have known, what will we have to rely on anymore? How can we be sure that what is on the other side of repentance will feel as safe and comfortable as it does on this side?

            Perhaps you have seen the TV show, Lost, about a group of people whose airplane crashes on a strange island. One of the best parts of the show, I think, is learning the back-stories of the characters. In one episode, we learn about Sayid, an Iraqi man who served in the Republican Guard

as an interrogator and torturer – a time of his life he deeply regrets. By chance, he ends up in the hands of the husband of one of the women he tortured, who insists that Sayid confess to what he did. Terrified of what this man might do to him, Sayid repeatedly denies having touched her. Finally, Sayid is left alone with the woman, and, having shared with him her story, she asks him again to confess. Finally, through tears, he does, apologizing profusely for what he has done to her and others, baring and risking his soul to her. Through the intensity of his sobbing, she says, “I forgive you.” Sayid looks at her in astonishment, the look of a man who has felt the utter fear of repentance, and the shocking relief of forgiveness. How could he know before she said those words what would happen if he admitted to what he’d done? But having felt that relief, how could he ever go back?

            It is hard to face our demons, the things in our lives that fester inside us and draw our attention from God. It is hard to give up our false “yeses,” our reliance on things that ultimately hurt us and keep us from feeling peace. The work is difficult, and we fear we cannot be sure of what lies on the other side. We would rather stay where at least we know what to expect, even if that means our relationship with God suffers.

            But is this not why Jesus comes to earth? To bring us back into a right relationship with a God who loves us so much? John the Baptist is right: Christ’s coming is about forgiveness. It’s about getting past those demons – the ones that haunt our past and the ones that plague our present, but the ones that need not persist in our future. In Christ, we are forgiven of our sins, our demons, our dirty thoughts, our less-than-cheery moments, the ways we hurt ourselves and our neighbors. Every last one of them: forgiven. And in that forgiveness, we are not left the nothingness we may have feared. Rather, we are left with the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding. We are left with a Christ to stake our lives on. We are left with a closer relationship with the God who made us and loves us no matter what.

            Let us pray. Blessed are you, O Lord our God. We have so many things that are heavy on our hearts, so many things for which we need forgiveness. Grant us the courage to repent, so our hearts would be ready for the coming of your Son, and all the love and joy that comes with him. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In thanksgiving for Grace

This is my latest letter to Grace, describing her at almost three months of age - complete with some of our favorite pictures of her so far!

November 27, 2015

Dear Grace,

Two months old!

“She is pure delight.” This is how I respond when people ask me how you are doing. And on this day after Thanksgiving – your first ever and our first being grateful for you – it seems appropriate to tell you why.

I thank God constantly that you are who you are, and that we ended up with a baby like you. You are wonderful for every reason an infant can be wonderful: you eat well and happiily, you only cry when

Helping mom in the kitchen,
making pumpkin soup from scratch.

you have a legitimate need to communicate (hungry, diaper, tired, gassy, want to play), and you sleep like a champ (you were sleeping through the night the second night at home, and now you sleep from about 11pm to 7am). For all of these reasons, you are an amazing child who is a joy to care for.

In addition to your basic needs being fairly easy to fulfill, you are also gorgeous. You have these incredible, bright blue eyes that are often wide open and taking in the world; a rosy complexion with reddish hair; great big, pinchable cheeks; pink, cupid’s bow lips; and a heart-shaped face. Everyone, strangers and friends alike, say, “She’s so alert!” And you are – mild-mannered and alert.

Caught a smile!

But although we love those things about you, what makes you “pure delight” is your budding personality. You are so curious, little one! And determined, my goodness. Though you certainly enjoy a good cuddle, what you really want to do is learn and grow. You love being in a front carrier so you can see everything that is happening, especially when we go to new places (the first time we went to the mall, on Halloween, you had a ball!). When we are sitting on the couch, you would rather try to stand than lie still, and the amazing thing is that at almost 3 months, you can hold your weight on your pudgy little legs. Actually you’ve been doing that for weeks. If we hold your hands for

balance, you can hold your weight up. Remarkable. (That is, until your head falls one way and your bum goes the other, but you wiggle yourself back upright.) Your neck strength and head support has been there from day one, and just this past week you rolled over the first

Morning fun with mama!

time by yourself – a month ahead of schedule! You grab things and manipulate them – including, unfortunately, my hair, which I now have to wear back all the time as a result! Any time you work at these things, your eyes are wide open and your face set in determination to master the skill.

You are also very ready with a smile. Often when we go to wake you in the morning, you turn to look

at us and offer a huge, bright grin, which melts our hearts every time. Dad’s favorite part of the day is when he comes home from work and you welcome him with a smile. Any time you meet a new person who engages with you, you show them a gummy grin and laughing eyes. You play with us, interspersing each game with smiles and giggles. Lately you have been extremely vocal, trying out your little voice in all kinds of different sounds. You often try to mimic us, and your dad is convinced he has taught you how to say, “Hi!” which is appropriate for the daughter of two extroverts. You likely are an extrovert yourself – you rarely cry

Napping after first walk in the snow.

when in a group of people, and will happily be handed around during coffee hour at church, from one set of loving arms to another. You also have started to try singing. When I sing to you, you make sounds with your voice that are longer tones than when you are trying to talk. This brings me so much joy, I can’t even tell you. Often when I’m singing a song and you join me, I dissolve into laughter because I’m so overcome with joy. (Unfortunately, I used to be able to sing you sleep, but now you are so eager to join me, I think it sometimes wakes you up instead!)

Cute from red head to bowed toes!

In short, my dear, you melt our hearts. You are charming and personable and love being with people. You seem to love life. Everyone who meets you is taken with you – but most especially your family. Grace, my love, we cannot wait to see how you continue to grow and learn and take on your own special and unique personality. Every day with you is a joy.

                                                         Your adoring Mama

Klaus is sitting on Grace. Grace isn't so sure about it.

"Daddy's Little Princess Leia" -
the only time she's his princess.
(Usually, she's "president.")