Christmas Eve Sermon: God creeps in

Christmas Eve, 2020

One of the best things about the pandemic for me was that when no one was going anywhere from March until September, I never set my alarm. Instead, my “alarm” was the sound of pitter-pattering feet, and the feeling of my two kids, then 3 and 4 years old, climbing into my bed with me. They would just wiggle their little bodies right in close, and I’d wrap my arms around them and for a few moments, the bed was full of love and everything felt safe and warm.

I lived for these few moments each morning. In a world full of fear and uncertainty and constantly changing news and advice, I needed this constant bit of love to creep in and wiggle its way right up beside me, even when, honestly, there really wasn’t quite enough room in the bed for everyone. We made room. Such love was and is a daily source of life and light.

Love, life, and light: three images we think a lot about during Christmas. Each year we hear the story of God’s immense love for us, about how in that love God came to live among us, to bring us life, taking on a body like ours. And then, having heard this story, we light candles, and in this magical moment we bask in the glow of knowing that the darkness of night cannot overcome us because the “light of the all people” has come to dwell among us.

I know that many hearts ache this year with the reality that, in a year when we need that promise more than ever, we can’t experience it in the way we look forward to each

St. Paul's, Pittsford, in 2019

year. We will, of course, still recall that light shining from the manger on that silent, holy night – I am counting on you lighting candles in your homes, maybe even going out on your porch to hold a candle and sing out into the neighborhood. Even if we cannot be together, a light still shines in the darkness and the darkness still has not overcome it! That does not change.

Even so, that darkness has made a pretty good showing this year. With all that 2020 has brought, it can be difficult to believe that there might be a light shining that could possibly overcome that… yet this is what makes it all the more important to believe exactly that! We need that light to creep in, to wiggle in like a sleepy 3-year-old climbing into mommy’s bed, and embrace us with its warmth.

This need is not so different from that first Christmas night, of course. Our hearing of the Christmas story has been sanitized over time, made more sweet and cute than aching and painful. It’s easy to miss or overlook why this light shining in the darkness was so important. The Roman occupation was no picnic. The hundreds of years of feeling like God had abandoned God’s people. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was more than ready for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. And into that darkness, God crept in, wiggled His way into humanity and into a manger in a stable in a quiet, dark little town, so that the shadows would no longer be quite so consuming. And in the dark streets of that little town of Bethlehem, shined the everlasting light.

Do you think God will do that again this Christmas? Do we believe that this will happen, that the light of Christ will creep in beside us, finding its way into a nook or cranny, onto the very edge of the bed or that little space up by the pillow, and shine away the shadows of fear?

It can sometimes be difficult to believe, I know. It has been a hard, emotional, exhausting year, one that has brought many to a breaking point or close to it. So how do we keep believing this light has come, or will?

Maintaining the hope and the belief that God’s brightness will still dispel the shadows starts with opening our hurting hearts even to the mere possibility that it can. It starts with making our hearts as vulnerable as God made Himself when He became a helpless child, completely dependent on a teenage girl and her terrified fiancé to take care of him. It starts with trusting that if God was willing to do that, then God must also know what is needed to take care of us in the effort.

This leap of faith, this vulnerability, can be terrifying. God knows about that, too! The Christmas story is full of a lot more fear than cheer. That Mary was pregnant at all was a risk, in a time when pregnancy was a leading cause of death – let alone that she was unwed, a real scandal! A long journey – probably about 80 miles – by foot. Giving birth to her first child, in a stable with no family to help her except her terrified fiancé. A group of trembling shepherds in the hills confronted by a host of angels. Might as well add to the story a deadly virus, social and political unrest, and an economic downturn, right? In fact, those things probably were going on in the background!

Nope, the characters in the story are no strangers to fear, any more than we are. And there are lots of reasons to keep our hearts safe from all our fears, to just shut ourselves away from it, distract ourselves and focus on something else. Same thing in the story. Mary could have said no to the angel. Joseph could have dismissed Mary quietly like he planned. The shepherds could have just gone back to work. It would have made for a much different story. But instead, the angel says to Mary, “Do not be afraid.” The angel says to Joseph, “Do not be afraid.” And the angel says to the shepherds, “Do not be afraid.” Be open to hearing this good news of great joy. To you is born this day, a Savior. You will no longer be in the shadow of death. A light has come to scatter the darkness.

And what do Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds do? They believe it. They tell people that they believe it. And after the shepherds have greeted this babe, this light shining in the darkness, Luke tells us, they return, “praising and glorifying God for all they had heard and seen,” giving thanks that when they were able to open their hearts, their ears, their eyes, to the possibility that such a darkness-shattering light could be true, as terrified and trembling as they had once been, now they had indeed been transformed.

Some years ago, I learned of this beautiful prayer from a book called Cloth for the Cradle. It gives words to the prayer and longing of our hearts this year better than I ever could, so in closing, I’d like to read it. Let us pray…

 

 

When the world was dark

and the city was quiet,

You came.

 

You crept in beside us.

 

And no one knew.

Only the few who dared to believe

that God might do something different.

 

Will you do the same this Christmas, Lord?

 

Will you come into the darkness of tonight’s world?

Not the friendly darkness

as when sleep rescues us from tiredness,

but the fearful darkness,

in which people have stopped believing

         that the war will end

         or that food will come

         or that a government will change

         or that the church cares?

 

Will you come into that darkness

and do something different

to save your people from death and despair?

 

Will you come into the quietness of our cities and towns;

Not the friendly quietness

as when lovers hold hands,

but the fearful silence when

         the phone has not rung,

         the letter has not come,

         the friendly voice no longer speaks,

         the doctor’s face says it all?

 

Will you come into that darkness,

and do something different,

not to distract, but to embrace your people?

And will you come into the dark corners

and the quiet places of our lives?

 

We ask this not because we are guilt-ridden

or want to be,

but because the fullness our lives long for

depends on us being as open and vulnerable to you

as you were to us,

when you came,

wearing no more than diapers,

and trusting human hands

to hold their maker.

 

Will you come into our lives,

if we open them to you

and do something different?

 

When the world was dark

and the city was quiet

You came.

 

You crept in beside us.

 

Do the same this Christmas, Lord,

do the same this Christmas.

Amen.

Sermon: A visit from Mary, the mother of God (Dec 20, 2020)

 

This sermon is much better heard, as it is meant to be a performance, not a script. You can view it here. It starts around 33 min (just before).

Advent 4B

December 20, 2020

Luke 1:26-38

 

INTRODUCTION:

         First we had despair, then hope, then joy… now today, on this 4^th Sunday of Advent, we get to hear something that sounds like a Christmas story! We’re almost there, folks!

         But first, a quick recollection about one reason why Jesus coming was a big deal, which we’ll hear in Samuel. Way back during King David’s rule, David had this idea to build a house for God, a Temple. But God had other plans. “No, I’m going to build you a house,” God says, by which he means, a dynasty. God promised that from David’s line would come the One who would rule forever and ever, and be a blessing for the whole world.

For centuries, God’s people have waited and wondered when this Messiah would come. And the first one to hear that the time is upon them is not the king of Israel, but a peasant girl in Galilee named Mary, who is betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the House of David. (!) That’s the story we will hear today – in my humble opinion, one of the most remarkable texts in all of scripture. Just as remarkable is the song that Mary will subsequently sing, having heard that she will carry the Son of God in her womb. When the angel leaves, she runs to her cousin Elizabeth’s house, having just learned that Elizabeth, who was said to be barren, is now 6 months pregnant. Upon hearing Mary coming, Elizabeth feels her own child (who is John the Baptist) leap in her womb. In joy, Mary sings the song known as the Magnificat, so-called because that is its first word in Latin: “Magnificat anima mea dominum” – My soul magnifies the Lord. The words have been set to music countless times, including seven different settings in our hymnal alone. We will hear one of those as our Psalm today, and sing another as our sending hymn.

There is so much I want you to notice about this wonderful story: Mary’s gusty response to the angel, the table-turning nature of her song, the way women play a central role in this story, the way God’s promises come to pass in sometimes crazy, unexpected ways… But I’ll just say this: listen to these texts as if you’re hearing them for the first time. Take them in as if you were the one waiting all these years for a savior. What are you noticing for the first time? Let’s listen.

[READ]

An Egyptian portrayal of Mary,
from the Basilica of the Annunciation in the Holy Land.

         This morning, we have a visit from Mary, mother of Jesus…

         I felt the angel’s presence, before I saw it. It was an ordinary day, I was doing my work like I always do, humming to myself, when the air suddenly felt sort of… electric. Like all the hair on my arms and back was sticking up straight. I turned slowly around, and it was all bright, warm light, yet I didn’t need to squint. Instead, my eyes were wide open – open to see and take in this mysterious stranger whom I suddenly knew to be a messenger from God.

         I always heard about angels being terrifying. All of the scripture talks about it. Yet I must say… I was not afraid. Perplexed and confused? Sure. Amazed, to be certain! But not afraid. How could I be afraid of what felt so strongly of love?

         And then from the light came a voice that sounded like bells ringing: “Greetings, favored one,” it said. “The Lord is with you.” Now this was strange. Favored one? I almost laughed, as I felt the callouses on my hands and viewed my humble home. Favored was not a word I would usually use in reference to myself! Faithful, maybe, but also poor, young, and a woman – not favored statuses. As I wondered what sort of greeting this might be, the angel went on, “Do not be afraid Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.”

         Now this was unnerving. Like every woman, I envisioned myself having children one day. And for me, I figured it would be pretty soon, seeing as how I was engaged to that nice man, Joseph, a longtime friend of the family. But we weren’t married yet, and we certainly had not had relations, so what was this angel talking about that I would have a child now?

         But even more than confused, I admit that I was, at this point, afraid – not of the angel, but of the news. The stories about me don’t talk about this. They always paint me as meek and obedient, like some kind of ever-willing pawn in the story of God, as if I never had a thought or feeling about this situation. Believe me – I had feelings about it! I knew what happened to girls who got pregnant before they were married. I saw how they were mocked, or even stoned for this indiscretion. Though I was known for being somewhat more plucky than many of my friends, willing to face any challenge head on, that did not mean I wanted to voluntarily put myself in such a dangerous position! I trusted God, but… this was terrifying.

         As I processed all of this, the angel went on, describing this child I would apparently conceive, not by Joseph but “by the Holy Spirit.” He said the child was the Son of the Most High, and was the long-awaited descendant of King David who would rule forever over Israel. As I heard these words, my fears began to turn into excitement. I suddenly saw myself as a part of a much larger story, the story of my people, like Sarah and Tamar, Rahab and Ruth had been. Mine would not be the story of one terrified maiden worried about what people would say about her unplanned pregnancy out of wedlock. This was big. Since I was a little girl, I had been told of the promises God had made to the people of Israel, about God’s rescue plan. To our ancestor Abraham, God had made three important promises: first, that Abraham and Sarah’s descendants would become a whole nation. This had happened – here we were, the people of Israel. Second, that we would have our own land. While this had been rocky throughout our history, with various exiles and occupations over time (and we were currently occupied by Rome), we were, in fact, living in the Promised Land.

But that third promise was the one we still hadn’t seen: the promise that from our people would come a ruler who would be a blessing for the whole world. We had been hopeful many times… but for 400 years, we had heard nothing. Many had begun to lose hope that God’s promise would ever come to pass.

         And now here, this angel stood before me, telling me that the promise my people had hoped for and anticipated for thousands of years… would begin to grow in my own womb, hearing the beat of my own heart, filling my own being.

         Could it be true? Could such hope really enter our lives once again through my own flawed vessel of a body? I believe I muttered then something about my disbelief, rooting it in some silly thing like not being married – as if such a thing could stop God from bringing about His promises!

         The angel paused then – I remember this – giving me a moment to collect my thoughts, all the while bringing to the space a depth of love that I had never before experienced. I tingled all over – was it the angel’s warmth, or could this be what it feels like to be, as the angel described, “overshadowed” by the Holy Spirit?

Discerning then that I was ready to hear more, the angel continued: “Even now your relative Elizabeth, in her old age, has also conceived a son; and this is the 6^th month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.” Elizabeth! My favorite relative! Tears sprang to my eyes as I recalled sitting with Elizabeth, talking about scripture in the ways that women do. How many hours had we laughed and cried together, as we recalled God’s mysterious ways, both those described in scripture and those we had seen. Elizabeth was the most faithful person I knew. She loved God so deeply and never doubted his providence or faithfulness. Though she never talked about it, I had seen the look on her face when she saw the children others bore, as she longed for her own child. But she and Uncle Zechariah had never been able to have a child. And now she would have a child!

         And then I knew. I knew with every bone in my body. I knew that everything would be fine. My dear Elizabeth would bear a child. And I would bear the Son of God, the descendant of David for whom we had waited so long, the blessing for the whole world. For nine months, I would hold Eternity in my own being. I would feed him with my own milk, my own body. I would give myself for him. I would sing him the songs of our people – songs of justice for the poor and hungry, songs of praise for the ways God lifts up the lowly and scatters the proud. I would teach him how God has kept His promises from generation to generation, even as he has uniquely blessed me to be the one who would help to bring about these promises. I would bear the Son of God.

         Tears streaming down my cheeks, I lifted my face to the warm, glowing light still filling my house. I straightened my shoulders, and raised my chin.

         “Yes,” I said, unwavering. “Here I am, the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me, according to your will."

Singing the Magnificat

 I wrote this blog several years ago, and just came across it. I wrote it for my choir's blog (Concentus Women's Chorus), but never shared it here. In a year when we can't sing in choirs like this, it hit me especially meaningfully. So, as we prepare to hear Mary's Magnificat this Sunday, enjoy this reflection:

As a pastor in the Rochester area, this season is a pretty busy one for me. While I love Christmas preparations at my church, the time I spend preparing for Concentus Christmas concerts is for me a sacred time. The music we sing, some ancient and some contemporary, is so beautiful, and the texts so compelling. Even our rehearsals seem to offer me a chance for worship and devotion - an opportunity pastors often covet, particularly at this time of year. But in this music, I am given the chance to enter the mystery that is Christ's birth, and dwell there - sometimes in unity and unison, then enchantingly breaking into simple harmonies, and occasionally into dramatic six or eight part complexity. I don't know any better prayer than to lift my voice and join in perfect harmony: "Glory to God!"

 

One year, before our Christmas concert, we sat together and reflected on what we were about to do, and what it meant to us. I offered, "I really believe this stuff we are singing! Not only do I believe it, but I believe it is something worth singing about. And so it is a joy and privilege to do it with you all today." As I have thought back on that, it has become more and more true. Not all the music we sing is sacred, in that it is not all about God or Christ or Mary (though much of it is). But to me it is all sacred because it all calls on the beautiful potential of life and love and beauty and of each of us contributing to its performance, both singers and collaborating musicians. Not to sound overly dramatic, but I truly feel that being a part of this is a religious experience, one I am privileged to experience every Sunday night.

 

But I especially feel it at our concerts. This year's Christmas concert fell on the third Sunday in Advent, known as Gaudete or Rejoice Sunday. Liturgically speaking, it is the day in the midst of the season of Advent, the season we wait and hope, when we remember with sparkling eyes what is coming - and rejoice in it! I was delighted that I would get to do that in song this year. Our conductor urged us to let the zest she knows we have shine through in our performance. "You know your notes, now just shine!" I made every effort as we sang to think about the words, and to make my face look like how I felt about them.

 

Our closing piece was a dramatic version (by Z. Randall Stroope) of the Magnificat, the beautiful song Mary sings when she learns she will bear the Son of God. The harmonies are tight and the accompaniment is four hands piano. There are occasional periods of unison or two part harmony, some parts unaccompanied, one solo section - the variation captures the intensity and variation of the original text, which was quite revolutionary, talking about the mighty being brought down and the lowly lifted up, the hungry being filled and the rich sent away empty, and overall about how God makes good on God's promises, as God has done for generations before and will do for generations following. 

 

As we sang this remarkable work, I did as I had done before - imagine the text and the message so that my face might reflect its meaning. But I found that I didn't get very far before I was so moved by it all that I couldn't sing - I was crying. "For God is mighty, and has done wondrous things to me... He plucked the mighty from their seats, exalting the humble... The hungry will be filled with good things in remembrance of his mercy. He helped Israel, as promised..." I quickly tried to think of something else so I could at least sing the notes. But then came the dramatic end in bold and beautiful harmony: "Glory to the Father! Glory to the Son! Glory to the Holy Ghost! As it was in the beginning and ever shall be, world without end. Amen! Amen! Amen!" I couldn't resist; it was too much to take in. I was completely overcome by the beauty, the drama, the impact, the setting, the women around me, and the promise on which my life and faith are based. This, I thought. This is what it feels like to have worshiped.

 

Glory to God indeed! Amen! Amen! Amen!

Sermon: Build Back Faithful (Dec 13, 2020)

 Full service can be viewed here.

Advent 3B

December 13, 2020

Isaiah 61

 

INTRODUCTION

         Finally, in this third week of Advent, we start to get a sense of that joy we all expect out of this time of year. Advent 1, you may remember, brought more despair than joy, and week 2 we got a bit of hope, but not a lot joy. But on this 3^rd Sunday of Advent, the day often marked by a rose candle on the Advent wreath, we get some real live genuine joy. This 3rd Sunday of Advent is called “Gaudete Sunday,” or “Rejoice” Sunday, and it is meant to offer, at this halfway point, a little glimpse of the joy the Christ-child brings. So you will see that in our texts:

         Paul says it straight out to the Thessalonians, a fledgling church enduring great challenges: “Rejoice in the Lord always!” he exhorts. “Pray without stopping! Give thanks all the time!” Isaiah will speak of all the good news he is called upon to bring to God’s aching people. If you know your Gospels, you may recognize this text from Isaiah as the one on which Jesus preaches his first public sermon in Luke’s Gospel, finishing his reading by saying to the silent crowd, “This scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” indicating that he is bringing about this good news for the world. But that’s not actually the Gospel story we will hear today. We will hear, strangely enough, the same story we heard last week, except this time we’ll hear John’s version of it: the story about John the Baptist proclaiming the one who is coming. Though John has Jesus quoting the same text from Isaiah as Mark did, there are actually quite a few differences in this account, so, see if you can find them.

         As you listen to these joyful texts, notice what stirs your heart. Where do you find you need a word of joy proclaimed to your aching heart today? What feels like a salve to hear… but also, what word of joy might still be difficult to receive in a time with so much anxiety and sadness? Let’s listen.

[READ]

            Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         Well, we finally got what some of we’ve been looking for in the lectionary – some Advent joy! All four texts bring words of hope and joy to our aching, pandemic-heavy hearts. Boy, big relief, right?

         But I gotta say, that even though it is here… I’m still not really feeling it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have found several moments of genuine joy this season, but it is always tempered by the horrific news of soaring case numbers, full hospitals, people I know getting sick, stories of exhausted medical workers, increased levels of depression, and the persistent ache of missing cherished people and traditions. Though I appreciate the joy we hear about today, there are many moments when such joy feels forced, and while forced joy is sometimes necessary just to keep from sinking into the pit – it’s not quite doing it for me.

         But here’s the thing: being in this position puts us in good company. Because the original audiences for our readings this morning were also not in a very holly jolly place. The crowd around John the Baptist lived in a time of Roman oppression, and had barely heard “boo” from God in some 400 years. The Thessalonian Church was a struggling one, living as they did as persecuted minorities in a heavily Roman and Greek territory. These are deeply hurting communities who are hearing these hopeful, joy-filled words – a scenario we know something about!

         But I am especially moved this week by Isaiah. We’ve been studying Isaiah in our Advent Bible study this month, and finding so many contemporary applications, and today is no exception. First, a little background. The book we call Isaiah is actually three books, written by three different people in three different time periods. The first book is written pre-exile, and it is full of doom and gloom. “You have strayed from God, and you will pay!” sort of stuff. Second Isaiah speaks to the time after the prophecy of first Isaiah has come to pass, when the Israelites are in exile. After generations of apostacy and idolatry and abusive power, God has let them, as a last resort, suffer from the consequences of their actions, and their enemies overtake them, and they are sent to far-away Babylon. Being sent away from the Promised Land means they have lost everything that is meaning-making in their lives and their identity, including the Temple. Finally, in third Isaiah the prophet speaks to the people of Israel after they have returned from exile. These final chapters of the book are all about the rebuilding that must happen upon their return.

Our text today is from third Isaiah, this “rebuilding” period. Now your first thought might be that this would be a happy time – they’ve gotten to come home! Surely the promised joy and prosperity will follow! But picture it: their city has been destroyed. The Temple is in shambles. Though it has been 70 years since they were there, they surely had some hope and expectation that a return home would mean a return to a good, safe, comfortable life. But what they find there is anything but.

I’d like to stop here to point out how contemporary this feels. I have many times thought of this pandemic as a sort of exile. Though we haven’t been sent away somewhere, so much of what has brought meaning to our lives has been taken away from us. We are feeling disconnected, sometimes finding it hard even to connect with the people we love the most! Since March we have all been longing for the time when things will “go back to normal.” But what is “normal” anymore? And will it be for us like it was for the Israelites, where when we come home and get back to “normal” we are disappointed and grieving all over again that it does not look like we imagined it would?

Now enter today’s text. Knowing the context into which the prophet is speaking makes all the difference in how we hear these words. He’s not speaking generally about people who mourn, or are oppressed, or faint of spirit, or brokenhearted. He is speaking directly to people who are feeling those things right now. They are no doubt still feeling the pain and grief of what sent them into exile in the first place, and the pain and loss of their time in exile. And now on top of it, they are feeling the pain and disappointment of their return not being what they envisioned, and the fear of the hard work of rebuilding.

Now, when I’m feeling such a depth of emotion as all this, my inclination is to work quickly to get things back to normal, to what’s comfortable, back to something that looks pretty much like what I had lost. And I know I am not alone in this inclination. How many times have we heard or said ourselves, “I can’t wait until everything goes back to normal”? But the prophet’s words today, as hopeful as they are, offer a strong caution against this inclination. Remember, “how things were” is not a good look for the Israelites. Their old normal is a cycle of apostacy, idolatry and abusive power. It is what got them sent into exile in the first place! Going back to that normal may feel comfortable to them, but it is not God’s hope for them.

I think we need to keep this in mind, as we look ahead a few months toward our own period of rebuilding after this pandemic. We also cannot rebuild back to exactly what we were – not as individuals, or the Church, or as society. Just as Israel’s old normal was rife with bad behavior, our old normal was not all roses and sunshine. The pandemic and other events this year have revealed so many weaknesses in our society, so many broken places. The rich have gotten richer off this pandemic, while the poor are barely making it (if they’re making it at all). The well-off are able to stay safe and healthy and get the care they need, while those with less and especially people of color have gotten sick and have died at dramatically higher rates. We as a society need to look at these things and why they happened. We as a church need to consider how our mission is responding to what we have learned. As we build back, we must not build back the realities that allowed this to happen.

And here is where we can find some of that genuine joy we long for, even in the midst of uncertainty and grief. The prophet assures the Israelites, and us as well, that this difficult work of rebuilding a world that looks more like God’s vision for us, will not be up to us alone. The prophet uses this beautiful image of a gardener God, planting oaks that will display the Lord’s glory. God will tend this garden, this work. Then the prophet shifts to God not as a gardener, but as the garden itself, the soil that fertilizes growth. “As the earth brings forth its shoots,” the prophet writes, “and as a garden causes what is shown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.” God will make that happen, not us alone. God will be the force that guides and nourishes the rebuilding of His people. And so, the process of transformation will be communal, God and people together.

And of course, we have something that Isaiah only hinted at: we have the knowledge that many centuries after this post-exilic restoration, God would come among His people even more profoundly, in the person of Jesus Christ. And the One who is Immanuel, God-with-us, this season, is with us in every season. He will be with us as we face this devastating wave of the pandemic. He will be with us as vaccines begin to be administered, and we start to think about returning to those activities that bring us joy. And he will be with us as we rebuild a better society than what we had pre-pandemic – one that is infused with God’s justice, compassion and love. May we keep eyes and hearts open to understand God’s hope for us.

Let us pray… Nourishing, empowering God, sometimes, even in the midst of a joyous season, we still feel sad, scared, and tired. Help us to trust in these moments, that restoration is not up to us alone, but that you work with us and in us to bring about your vision. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Anxiously awaiting a Savior (Nov. 29, 2020)

 Advent 1B

November 29, 2020

Isaiah 64:1-9, 1 Cor. 1:3-9, Mark 13: 24-37

Full service can be viewed here.

 

INTRODUCTION

         While our culture tells us that Advent is the start of counting down to Christmas, the first Sunday of Advent begins not with a note of Christmas-y joy, but one of despair (I know, not what any of us were looking for today!). Our readings today reflect a realization that humankind is at the end of its rope, that we cannot save ourselves by our own power, and that we are in desperate need of a savior – which, it turns out, is the perfect posture to have as we look toward the first coming of that savior on Christmas! Still, even as we prepare to celebrate that blessed event, we also grieve that the world has yet to be redeemed, and so in this season of Advent, we pray that Christ would come again – soon! –  to rule over God’s creation in power and justice.

         You will see both of these themes in our readings today – the despair and the hope. You will see the despair in Isaiah and the Psalm, especially that first line of Isaiah. You’ll hear the people’s longing for a savior, but notice especially on that word, “YET,” how Isaiah’s tone changes. Isaiah trusts God even when God seems absent. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians offers words of encouragement to a Church that is waiting for what they believed was the imminent return of Christ. And the passage from Mark, known as “Mark’s little apocalypse,” looks forward with both awe and thanksgiving (and perhaps a little terror!) to the coming of the Lord.

It’s a pretty anxious bunch of texts, all in all. So as you listen, just notice that anxiety, keeping in mind the unique anxiety of our own time, and hear how God speaks to it. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Unfiltered photo of San Francisco sky this summer

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         Each year we think Advent will greet us with warm fuzzies. This year especially, if social media was any indication, people were really looking forward to some nice sparkly lights and greenery and our beautiful red banners to bring some cheer into this dark, anxious world. And while those decorations do help some, the readings today do not, at least not at first.

         “Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” Isaiah cries. Come down, already, God – where are you? Your people are suffering down here! We need you, right now! The Psalmist adds his plea, “Restore us, O God! Stir up your might, and come!” Our passage from Mark, the “little apocalypse,” describes a day that sounds a little too close to some days this year, in which “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.” And by the way, we do not know the day or hour this will happen. We simply have to wait and watch and keep awake.

No, it’s not very “warm and fuzzy” is it? The first Sunday of Advent greets us not with an escape from our anxiety, but by meeting us right in the thick of it, and, giving us the words that polite society wishes we would just keep to ourselves. These texts give voice to the prayers we have prayed, and to the feeling we already know, that “the world is not okay, and the suffering and pain are not over yet.”

         But honestly, I think this recognition of pain and suffering is ultimately better than an escape, because it lets us deal with what is all too real to us. It brings us to recognize that we are still in desperate need of a savior. Our world is still so full of pain and brokenness and sadness and “not yet,” and no number of Christmas carols or lighted trees are going to fill that void like our God coming down from heaven can do. And that is why we plead, with Isaiah: we want God to tear open the heavens and come down right now. We want God to “stir up [his] power and come.” We want our God to come and be with us, and know us, and truly to see us, even and especially when we suffer.

         I came across a compelling definition of suffering this week, from Father Richard Rohr, who is known especially for his work with contemplative practices. He defines suffering as the feeling of “not being in control.” No wonder this year has been so hard, then, huh?! 2020 has been a planner’s nightmare. Every day we plan for today, maybe for a week or two in advance. Sure, there are tentative plans further out, but what if schools close again? What if the vaccines aren’t distributed as quickly or efficiently as we pray they will be? What if there isn’t a peaceful transfer of power in January? What if a civil war breaks out? There are so many unknowns and “what-ifs,” and the thought of making plans too often seems laughable. We feel we have no control, and we suffer for it.

I remember those first weeks of the pandemic, how I fought this inability to plan anything, and grieved the plans I had made that would no longer come about. I remember those internal wrestling matches and frustrations, all too well. But as the pandemic has dragged on, I have noticed something: I’ve started to get more comfortable with not having plans. Not comfortable, mind you, but more comfortable. I have found myself increasingly willing and able to let go of my need for control over what happens, and to take it all one day at a time, placing it all in God’s able hands. In other words: I have learned how it feels to trust God.

Or, to use Jesus’ words in the Gospel reading, I have started to really understand what it means to “keep awake” – to understand that command not just with my head, but with my heart. Constant vigilance, constant prayer, constant reminders to myself to let go of my need to control, and to place it all in God’s hands, trusting that whatever happens, God’s love never changes. That God is faithful.

In this way, our suffering, as Rohr defines it, is lessened. Not because we are more in control, and not because the cause of the suffering has gone away. Rather, suffering lessens because that lack of control no longer has the power to suck the life and hope out of us. Is it still frustrating? You bet! Which is why I’m also grateful for passages like we have today, that offer this from-the-gut shout at God. The suffering and pain are real, and we can’t ignore that. But then after that shout, a nice deep, cleansing breath… and finally, a prayer offering all that anxiety into God’s control. All of this goes a long way toward getting our heads above the tumultuous waves of our struggles.

This sort of struggle, and the act of attentive waiting for God to act, is nothing new to God’s people. This is precisely the context to which Paul is writing in his letter to the Corinthians that we heard this morning, and he offers some pointers on how to manage the interminable time we are currently experiencing. The first century Church believed that Christ would return any minute. Talk about the need for constant vigilance! And also, the constant disappointment and frustration. It’s like being 41 weeks pregnant and waking up each morning to realize, “Darn, still pregnant” – except it goes on for generations! Paul encourages the early Christians that during this time of waiting, they should strive to be spiritually prepared for the great day of transformation that Jesus would usher in. In other words, rather than digging in our heels and looking back to what was, we ought to be constantly open to the possibility of change and growth. But lest this constant vigilance get discouraging and exhausting (as we all know it can!), Paul reminds them that God has enriched them with every gift they need to endure this time. “In every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind,” he says, “so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ.” You have what you need. He assures them that God will strengthen them during this time of waiting and watching. And then comes perhaps the best news of all: “God is faithful.” No matter how long we have to wait, we will never be left alone, nor do we have to rely upon our own power to get through this. God is faithful to the end.

These are difficult weeks, my friends. What is often a season of joy and nostalgia is covered by a shroud of anxiety and disappointment this year. It is okay to be honest about that pain and suffering, like Isaiah. It is okay to pray for it to end, like the Psalmist. But as we lift up what weighs on our hearts, let us also remember God’s promises: that God can hold all of our pain and ultimately does have control, that God has provided us with all that we need while we wait, that God will strengthen us to the end no matter how long it takes, and above all, that God is faithful and trustworthy.

Let us pray… Faithful God, some days we long for your presence, and all we can do is raise a cry of desperation to you. Thank you for receiving it. Help us to trust you, to relinquish our own need for control into your able hands, and to keep watch each and every day for the ways that you are already coming down into our lives. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: A suffering king?! (Nov. 22, 2020)

 Full service can be viewed here. 

Christ the King (A)

November 22, 2020

Matthew 25:31-46

 

INTRODUCTION

Today we come to the end of the church liturgical year with a celebration of Christ the King Sunday, sometimes called “Reign of Christ Sunday.” Interestingly, this is a fairly recent addition to the western liturgical calendar. It was instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI. That was a world that was ravaged by World War I, and the hope was that by lifting up Jesus’ humble kingship, the Church and the world might find a needed alternative to empire, nationalism, consumerism, and secularism. Though our circumstances have changed in the past 95 years, the need for this alternative sort of reign certainly has not! We are still constantly reckoning with the goals and ways of earthly leaders versus the way that God rules.

So as you listen to today’s texts, just keep that question in mind: how is the leadership and rule being described in these readings different from the sort of leadership and rule we see from world leaders? Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         Some time ago, I saw a meme on Facebook that was a picture of Jesus knocking on a door. Jesus was of course fair-skinned, brown hair and blue eyes, wearing his trademark spotless white robe with a blue sash over one shoulder. The caption read, “If Jesus knocked at your door, would you answer?” The person who posted it said, “Of course!” And who wouldn’t open the door to such a Jesus, who looks like the one on every Sunday School classroom wall? As a rule of thumb, I always open the door to anyone with a halo encircling a perfectly coiffed head.

         But today’s famous (or is it infamous?) gospel story challenges our certainty that we would open to the door if Jesus knocked. What if the person knocking was wearing an orange jumpsuit? What if her clothes were tattered and insufficient? What if you had just seen him standing by the offramp with a cardboard sign asking for help? What if she smelled of days in the hot sun with no shower, her hair matted, her a child in her arms, and when she opened her mouth a jumble of foreign sounds came out?

In other words: what if the person asking for help was hungry, thirsty, a stranger, naked, sick, or in prison? Would we be so quick then to open our hearts and our homes to this person?

I have a confession, my friends: I’m pretty sure I am a goat in this scenario.

But I’m also pretty sure we are all goats, at least some of the time. Because I would bet that each of us are convicted by this text in some way. I remember several years ago, I was on my way to church to lead a Bible study on this very text, and I found myself at a red light next to a man with a sign asking for help. And you know what I thought? “All I have is a $20.” And then for good measure I assured myself that if I gave him that $20, he’d probably just use it for drugs or something, so withholding it was probably in his best interest. Then off I drove to lead a Bible study on helping “the least of these.” I am ashamed of my hypocrisy that day (and the many other days something similar has happened), but I also have a hunch that you all get it – I suspect most if not all of us have had a similar thought at some point. And yet, here it is: “As you did not do it to the least of these members of my family, you did not do it to me.” Yes, I saw Jesus standing on the corner that day, asking for help, and I left him there.

Isn’t this a strange image for a king? Today, as I mentioned, is Christ the King Sunday. When we think of kings, we think of power and riches, wisdom and strength, glory and might! And in fact, these are words we use to describe God as well, when we think about Him crowned and on his heavenly throne. Yet in today’s Gospel about the last judgment, Jesus describes himself as the very opposite of those things – identifying with those we see as weak, helpless or in need.

For some, the possibility of Jesus being needy is downright offensive. In 2013, Canadian sculptor Timothy Schmalz debuted this sculpture in Toronto. [Show picture of “Homeless Jesus.”] At first, it looks like a non-descript homeless person, with face covered by a blanket. It’s quite realistic – in fact, someone famously called the police upon seeing it, thinking it was a real homeless person on a bench! But if you look closely at the feet, they give away the person’s identity – you can see on the feet the telltale scars from nails. The non-descript homeless person is Jesus. Schmalz’s sculpture was first offered to two different churches, both of which declined. Since it was installed, several other casts have been made and installed all over the world, including one in Buffalo, and reception has been mixed. Some have called it an “insulting depiction” of Jesus that “demeans the neighborhood.” Some have called it “creepy” and uncomfortable. On the other hand, people will often sit on the bench beside homeless Jesus, hand on his scarred feet, and pray. It appears Homeless Jesus is as appalling as he is compelling.

However you feel about the sculpture, the image Jesus paints of himself in today’s text has a similar effect: though we love this idea that when we serve the least of these, we serve Christ himself (at least I love it!), we also prefer not to associate Jesus with “those people” who make us uncomfortable. I want a Jesus who doesn’t make me squirm, who instead brings me comfort in my own affliction. I mean, I’m okay with him suffering no the cross, but only because it helps me to know that he understands my plight and brings about salvation, but in the end, I still prefer my Jesus to be powerful beyond measure, and able to bear all the burdens of the world – not sleeping under a blanket on a park bench.

Now: Jesus is that powerful, of course. But his power is not in spite of, but because of his willingness to suffer, to be so close to the suffering of this world that he is living it, right alongside those who suffer today. This is important, because there are so many who are suffering today. Heavy on our hearts right now is that Covid-19 cases are soaring across the country – a million new cases in the US just this past week. The dramatic spread is largely because millions of people are refusing to wear masks, and attending large gatherings, even indoors. This sort of behavior flies in the face of caring for “the least of these,” the very ones with whom Jesus identifies. We know now that following guidelines isn’t only about us and our own safety, it is about the safety of others, especially those in vulnerable populations. So in that way, balking at guidelines to satisfy our own needs and desires of the moment is a refusal to see and tend to our most vulnerable neighbors, and so also a refusal to see and tend to Jesus. Yes, it is our king Jesus who is lying in a hospital bed, struggling to breathe. Our Jesus lost his job during the first wave of the pandemic, and has struggled since to feed himself and his family. His kids are growing out of their clothes and he can’t afford to buy them new ones. Our king, our Jesus, is one of millions stuck in prison cells, feeling expendable as so few notice or care that the virus is ripping through jails and prisons at an unstoppable rate.

Yes, Jesus is in all those places. That is where our king chooses to be.

But it’s not just where God chooses to be. It is also in those places that God’s love is made most profoundly known. And so if we want to know Jesus, see Jesus, be with Jesus… if we want to, as that meme I mentioned said, open the door to Jesus, this is where we will find him: in the faces of the least, the lost, the broken and the wounded, in all of the un-pretty places of life.

Next week Advent begins, and we will we turn our hearts toward watching, waiting, and hoping for God to show up in the un-pretty place of a stable. We will remember that God has been showing us all along that his love is made known to us in the humble, creepy, demeaning places of the world: among the animals, with the strangers and outcasts, on a cross. We will see that kingship to God means presence with and love for us in these places. And we will see, as we see every day, that this is love God shows to us even when we are more goat than sheep. We are all goats, every one of us. Yet Jesus loves us still, is present with us still, and saves us still. Thanks be to God.

Let us pray… Suffering God, we thank you that you are present in all the places that need you the most. As we strive to love and serve our neighbor, open our eyes to see that we are serving you, and open our hearts to receive your love. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Trust and generosity (Nov 15, 2020)

Full service can be found  here and here (some technical issues today, had to restart the software!). Sermon in second link. 

Pentecost 24A

November 15, 2020

Matthew 25:14-30

 

INTRODUCTION

         Today we continue our jaunt through the end of the world. It should be a real blast today. Zephaniah offers us this very uplifting description of how the last days will look – it’s the sort of text, full of judgment and destruction, that makes you wonder if you really want to say, “thanks be to God” at the end! Texts like this were often drawn upon by New Testament writers in describing the end of the world. 1 Thessalonians offers a bit more hope, saying that while the coming of the Lord will be a dark and terrible time, and one that comes just when we thought we were safe and secure, we need not worry because we are children of the light. Paul implores us to keep living faithfully, always ready for the day of the Lord.

         The Gospel continues through chapter 25, which contains four parables about accountability and judgment (next week we’ll hear the fourth, the infamous parable about the sheep and the goats). Remember that in the overall narrative this is like, Wednesday of Holy Week, just before Jesus will die, so we know that the underlying question in all these parables is, “What are you gonna do when Jesus is no longer here in the flesh? When the going gets tough, how will you respond?” One textual point to keep in mind as you hear this parable of the talents: a talent in this case is a sum of money equal to 15-20 years wages, so no small amount. It is intentionally outrageous, to hit home the points Jesus is trying to make.

         As you listen to these texts, notice how they make you feel – anxious? Hopeful? Relieved? And keep in mind the question I mentioned above: when the going gets tough, how will you, as a Christ-follower, respond? Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            Today’s parable, the Parable of the Talents, is in some ways a preacher’s dream, especially during a stewardship campaign! It is so rich, and there are so many angles to take. The biggest challenge, really, is not finding something to say, but rather, which thing to say! Pardon the pun, but it is an embarrassment of riches!

            Perhaps it is a parable about God’s providence. At the beginning, the Master gives the servants five, two, and one talent respectively. A talent, as I mentioned, is a currency equal to about 15-20 years of labor – a huge amount! If we think of God as the Master, then we can read this to mean that our God is one who entrusts to us exorbitant riches, charging us to use what God provides to us for good and for gain. That seems a reasonable interpretation, yes?

            Or, perhaps it is a parable about what we understand as “talents” – our particular gifts and skills – and being good stewards of these talents. This is a common reading of this text because it makes a lot of sense: God gives us many gifts, and good, faithful people will use those gifts to serve the world. Those who are willing to share their gifts with the world, especially for the purpose of serving God and neighbor, will find great return for their efforts. On the other hand, those who “bury” their gifts and never share them will be diminished, perhaps in the form of losing that skill they once had. Moral of the story: use it or lose it, and if you use it, God will be praised and pleased.

            Or thinking more metaphorically, perhaps the talent currency in this parable is actually a metaphor for faith and love. If we exercise our faith by reading our Bibles, praying, going to church, and serving our neighbor, and if we spread God’s love throughout the world, telling others about God’s saving grace, then faith and love will increase. If we don’t tend to it, it will diminish, and eventually, we will lose it. It’s like that song my mom taught her kindergarteners: “Love is something if you give it away – you end up having more!” That’s a very nice interpretation. After all, who could argue with the idea that love and faith are something to be shared?

            All three of these, though, get a little close for comfort to works righteousness – the idea that in the final judgment we will be judged based on what we do or don’t do with what God has given us. And Lutherans don’t believe that our actions determine our salvation – we believe God’s actions determine our salvation. God is a God of grace, and while I do think God cares about whether I get out there and live out my faith, or sit on my bum and do nothing, I don’t think that this, finally, will be what determines whether I am sent to heaven or to the outer darkness where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

            So what if this isn’t a parable about retribution (do this, don’t do that, and you will receive your reward accordingly)? What if it is a parable about trust in God, and about expectations?

            What makes me go there is the third servant’s explanation to the Master about why he buried the talent. He says, “I knew you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground.” Traditionally Christians have read this parable allegorically, in which the Master is God… but this does not describe the God that I know! The God I know is gracious and merciful, full of compassion, and abounding in steadfast love – not harsh and greedy and overbearing. But you see, the third servant expected the Master to be harsh, greedy, and overbearing… and so that is what he was.

            Have you ever experienced that? Like, you expect someone to be one way (liberal, conservative, smart, not smart, etc.), and so everything they say and do you fit into that mold and it then becomes proof for your expectation? I see that so much in our increasingly divided country, in which we are quick to label people based on what we expect to be true of them. We even do it with our experiences – you expect a conflict to be awful and painful, and that is exactly what it is… or on the other hand, you see conflict as an opportunity to grow, and that is what it becomes. Our expectations about a person or a situation are very powerful, and can become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

            The problem is, this allows expectations to become a barrier to growth, a barrier to connection, and a barrier to relationship. And they can definitely become a barrier to trust. That is the real issue with this third servant. He does not trust. He assumes the Master is a certain way, and so he does not trust. Instead, he fears. He even says as much: “I was afraid,” he says.

            Now, fear is a great motivator. It can even motivate us to do acts that on the surface seem faithful – like go to church, or pray, or tithe. But is this truly faith, if you are acting out of fear? In my experience, fear seldom (or never!) motivates us to act in true faith or generosity. Only trust can do that – trust in a God who will take care of us, and bring us into God’s abounding joy.

            It’s quite telling that Jesus chooses a tale about money to make this point. I think he does so because he knows that money has the power to negatively affect our trust in God. That’s why he talks about money more than anything else in the Bible, apart from the kingdom of God itself. Money has a strong grip on us. Its wiles so often disguise themselves as honest and admirable – how good we are at justifying spending our money on selfish needs – and yet if you’re anything like me, my justifications and explanations mostly serve to mask the fact that I’m not always certain my management of my money is entirely faithful.

            As we think this month about stewardship, and prepare to make our commitments for the coming year, let me share a bit about my own stewardship journey. When I was first starting out as an adult with a job, I was a cheerful giver, glad to finally be making money so I could then give it away. But then my student loan deferment ended, and I got a mortgage, and with a cancer diagnosis my medical bills started accumulating, and then we had a couple babies and the daycare costs that go with them… and suddenly I was justifying hanging onto a little more of the money God had entrusted to me to offset those costs. And then the wily ways of money made their move – the more I hung onto, the more I felt I needed to hang onto, and the better I became at justifying my tight grip. And not coincidentally, the less joyful I felt about returning to God what has always been rightfully God’s. I regret to say that giving started becoming more of a burden then a joy.

            “I knew you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground,” said the servant to the Master… and earlier I observed, and I hope you agreed, “But that’s not the God I believe in!” And yet, how quickly we slip into exactly that – believing that if we loosen our grip on our material gains, our God will no longer take care of us. How quickly we slip into not trusting the God who gave us our very lives. How quickly we slip into expecting that God will work the way that the world works.

            The third servant did not trust. That is why he saw the Master as harsh, over-bearing, and greedy. A trusting servant sees the Master as gracious and merciful, full of compassion and abounding in steadfast love. A trusting servant knows that God will provide. A trusting servant is able, then, to joyfully give their talents – in both senses of the word – toward God’s work in the world, because that servant knows that a God who would give his only son so that we would not perish but have eternal life, would also provide for us our every need.

            Let us pray… Gracious God, we know you to be a loving and merciful God, a God we can trust with all our heart. Help us, then, to trust, and to give our whole selves to you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.