100 Days in One Dress

I'm wearing the same dress - not just all week, not just all month, but for 100 days straight. 

Why would I do such a thing?

If you can believe it, I've been considering doing this for a couple years already. I have over the past several years been trying to live more simply. I learned early on that living simply does not always mean living easily - for example, trying to avoid plastic was hard right from the start, but all the more so when kids came along with all their plastic toys and individually wrapped snacks that somehow taste better to them than the ones I make and pack in Pyrex. Similarly, the end point of major decluttering sounds spectacular, but the process of getting there while my family brings in more and more stuff is like shoveling while it is still snowing. Result: discouragement, followed by tossing up my hands and giving up.

I don't want to give up. As life has gotten more complex, I have longed for a way to simplify in a way that does not add more stress to my life, but truly does make my existence simpler, even more peaceful. Similarly, I have been focusing my attention lately on finding what makes me feel real joy - not happiness, which is so often circumstantial, but real joy, the sort that makes me feel whole and my heart at peace - and I find again and again how I too often let physical and emotional clutter compromise my joy. Life is too short; ain't no one got time for that.

After several months of thinking almost every day,  "How is it that I have so many clothes, and yet never feel like I have something to wear? How can I not like so much of what I have?" I resolved to try something drastic, something that would force a reset at least about this basic activity I have to do every day, something that was somehow taking a lot more energy than I want or can afford to give it: getting dressed.

Cue the 100 Day Dress Challenge. I had a couple of friends who had tried this wacky challenge put forth by the company Wool&. The company insists that their merino wool dresses are so versatile, so durable, so classic, that one dress can be worn for 100 days straight. They have several styles and colors to choose from; you just pick one, and then take pictures of yourself wearing the dress every day for 100 days to prove you did it. If you can complete the challenge, you are awarded a $100 gift card, almost enough to cover another dress. (The marketing here is brilliant - they are investing in their very satisfied costumers to do their marketing!)

It was just quirky enough to interest me and my NorCal hippie heart, just the thing to force the reset I craved. Honestly, I didn't intend to do the whole challenge. I received my dress right before Advent began, and I thought, "This will be a way to simplify my life during Advent, but that's all." But then we left for vacation for a week, which is the perfect time to pack a simpler wardrobe, right? And by then I'm almost halfway there so why not just finish it?

Hence, I'm just over 1/3 of the way through (okay, it's not THAT close to halfway!), and I will tell you what, I'm having such fun. I haven't repeated an outfit yet, and still have a bunch of outfits in mind that I haven't tried. Here are some of my looks from the first 29 days:

Here are some things I have noticed:

1) Knowing every day that I am putting on this dress takes one thing off of my mental load, which in turn leaves more room for things that truly bring me joy. I don't spend those few moments each morning standing in front of my closet thinking, "I don't want to wear any of this." If I have the energy, I get creative with the dress (something which, when I have that energy, DOES bring me joy). If I don't, I just put on a pair of leggings and a cardigan or jacket and call it done, and put my energy toward other things. 

2) No matter what I end up with, I look put together and am super comfortable. I wear a lot of black anyway due to my work, and it always makes me feel classy. The material is incredibly soft (not itchy), and doesn't hold odors, and de-wrinkles itself just by hanging on my closet door. Even when I'm "dressed up" I feel like I'm wearing pajamas (side note - some women do actually sleep in these dresses because the merino wool is temperature-regulating!). 

3) Using this as the base of every outfit is helping me to see my old clothes with a new eye. I find myself thinking,  "I wonder if I could..." and often, lo and behold, the crazy ideas look good! I'm simultaneously simplifying my routine AND getting out of my comfort zone - the best of both worlds! This exercise is breathing fresh air into my old wardrobe. One of the ideas behind this challenge is that you "go shopping in your own closet," pulling out things you haven't worn in a while to give them new life. People commonly exclaim, "I'm rediscovering my scarf collection!" If you buy something "new," you are urged to buy it from a thrift or consignment shop. (I admit I did get some new-new things for Christmas - mostly tights and leggings, which aren't great second-hand!)

I have much more to say about this experience from a faith perspective, but for now I'll just say: I'm having a lot of fun with this. And finding joy in getting dressed and in my life. I'm looking forward to what other lessons I will discover in the next 2/3 of the challenge!

Sermon: Incarnation, all the way (Christmas Eve, 2021)

 Christmas Eve 2021

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

            I came across a comic shortly after my first child was born 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 remember that first Christmas as a new mom, with a 3-month-old. That year, this mysterious story of the incarnation hit me a totally new way. The church I was serving at the time put on a pageant for the community – not with children, but with adults. The Rehbaum family, with our new little bundle of joy, was selected to play the holy family. And so, yours truly donned a white robe and Mary’s signature blue veil, and walked the walk (or rather, waddled the pregnant waddle) of Mary. After so many years of hearing and telling this story, participating in 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 my husband 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 upstairs, 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 with the animals. And I waddled my pregnant bones down the steps toward the makeshift stable we’d set up in the sanctuary, sneakily slipping out the pillow from my robe and grabbing my own real-life baby, and laid my child in a manger – then grimaced at the prospect of letting her stay there, and quickly picked her back up. While Joseph and I kept our holy spots in that stable, we sang to our daughter, 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 because she clearly hadn’t gotten the message that “little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes,” we 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 lowing cattle instead of a smart speaker ready to play whatever the new parents requested. 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 fitting into her jeans again were the least of their worries, as Jesus literally had his bed eaten out from under him by his bovine roommates.

            All this makes me wonder anew: 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 a friend of mine said after having her first child, “Every day, new aspects of parenting daunt me. Every day 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. It wasn’t so long ago that I was in a position of doing absolutely everything for another human being – feeding, burping, carrying them from place to place, dressing them, wiping that cute little behind – and when I remember those days, this reality that we celebrate tonight baffles me: the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace, 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. Couldn’t God have come as a fully formed man, just like Adam had?

It’s definitely crazy, but also… 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 disappointing. If I’m going to worship an incarnate deity, a God who is willing to become human, then 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 those things have always remained a part of the human experience. For God to be truly human, God has to experience 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 – the pandemics, the grief and loss, the mental illness, the job loss, the impossible family dynamics, all of it.

Ted Loder tells about an experience 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, it was missing a key piece. 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, 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 through pain and fear, just like we did. When we feel overwhelmed by fear and sorrow, pandemics and pain, loss and uncertainty – come to us again, and again, so that we would know your love with us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Mary's response to the turning world (Dec 19, 2021)

Full service can be view HERE. 

 Advent 4C
December 19, 2021
Luke 1:39-55

INTRODUCTION

Finally, on this 4th Sunday of Advent, we get some texts that sound Christmasy. Micah will announce the importance of the little town of Bethlehem, and Hebrews will tell us why the coming of Jesus is important. But the really Christmasy texts will be the Psalm and the Gospel – and I need to tell you, we will hear them out of order. They are actually part of the same passage, but reversed. So let me situate you: Just before the part of the Gospel we’ll hear today is the annunciation, when the angel Gabriel comes to Mary to tell her that she will be the mother of God. When Mary is, understandably, perplexed by this news, Gabriel adds that in fact, Mary’s cousin Elizabeth is also with child, and “it is the 6th month for she who was said to be barren, for nothing is impossible with God.” Then the angel departs from her, and that’s where our Gospel reading will pick up, with Mary leaving “with haste” to go see the cousin the angel mentioned. Upon hearing Elizabeth’s greeting, Mary will sing the Magnificat, which is today’s Psalm. 

So look carefully at the text of the Psalm and keep it in mind as you hear the story that precedes it. Notice especially how very revolutionary the text is, describing a major reversal in the usual order. In fact, the song our Advent series features today is a paraphrase of Mary’s song, and keeps repeating the line, “The world is about to turn.” So watch in our readings and hymns phrases and imagery of the ways God is turning, changing your world, or the whole world. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Magnificat window in Taize, France

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

Throughout our Advent series, “My heart shall sing,” we have been highlighting two themes: one is that the world is always ending and beginning, sometimes even in the same place, and second, that throughout scripture people’s response to God’s marvelous ways of bringing about new beginnings is to sing. Today, the final Sunday of Advent, we see both of these themes come to their peak in the story of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth, and the song the springs forth from her.

And just like in the other stories we have heard during Advent, that song, while joyful, doesn’t necessarily spring forth from a place of happiness. Last week when we talked about joy, I said that while happiness is often dependent on circumstance, joy is not. Today’s story shows how that is true.

Now, I used to think the annunciation, when Mary finds out she is pregnant, which happens right before the reading we just heard – I used to think this was an unequivocally happy moment for Mary. “Oh, how nice!” I thought. “She must have been so happy to be chosen as God’s mom!” But now that I am a bit older and wiser, I realize: no. She must have been terrified. Pregnancy in the first century was always a little scary, because of the high rate of women who died in childbirth. But just look at Mary’s particular circumstances. She is unwed, and engaged to a respectable man. By the laws of the day, he could have her stoned for what clearly looked like a sexual indiscretion. At best, she would be dismissed by Joseph (which was originally his plan before getting his own angelic visitation). This would leave her alone to raise this child by herself, and without much or any hope of any other man ever wanting to marry her. By all counts, this is a very dangerous situation for a girl who, tradition says, was only maybe 14 years old. 

What Mary does with this terrifying reality can guide us as we face our own terrifying or unsettling circumstances, our own moments of uncertainty. The first thing Mary does is seek out a faithful community. When the angel spoke to her, the angel mentioned that Mary’s relative Elizabeth, who was said to be barren, had also conceived and was in her 6th month. And so, in her uncertainty and fear, as well as her hope and trust, Mary packs up to make the long journey to the hill country. 

I read a commentary this week that named this gathering of Mary and Elizabeth as the first Christian worship, the first time people gathered around the Christ to proclaim the good news, to prophesy, to bless, to sing. I love that, and I love that Mary was compelled to do it not alone, but in community. There is certainly power in being with other people – something we have learned profoundly during this pandemic when that possibility was taken away from us. There is strength in community. There is hope. There is the assurance that we do not carry our fear and uncertainty, nor our joy, alone. And, we know that God works through community. 

Some time ago, I was going through a very scary time in my life, that involved a lot of discouragement and uncertainty. I remember one night in particular, sitting in my house and feeling so desperate and alone. I picked up my phone and started scrolling through my contacts, searching for someone, anyone who might understand how I was feeling. I found someone, another Christian woman, and called her, at 10pm. She listened, and said things like, “Oh, I have felt that way, that’s so frustrating.” And when we finished talking and I hung up the phone, I felt stronger. I felt more hopeful, and yes, I even felt some joy – not happiness, but the peace that often accompanies true joy. I was empowered to seek out more support from faithful women, and I found a support group. And suddenly, what had been a very scary situation became one that brought me purpose and hope. 

I imagine Mary feeling similarly after the angel departed from her. I imagine her sitting there, alone, and thinking, “Who will possibly understand? Who can I talk to? Who can share what I am carrying?” And then she remembers those words, “Even now, your relative Elizabeth is with child, and this is the 6th month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing is impossible with God.” And she is driven to seek out that faithful community, for she knows it will bring her the strength that she needs.

Once she gets to Elizabeth’s doorstep, she makes her next move – she sings, and in so doing, she calls upon an even larger community, one that spans across time. The song Mary sings, the Magnificat, is not an original piece. It is based on the song sung by Hannah, the mother of Samuel, who prayed and prayed for a child, and when she was given a son, she dedicated him to the service of God, and sang a song of the greatness of God, and the great reversals God brings about, and the ways that God is always bringing about a new thing. It is the perfect song for Mary to reference as she and Elizabeth rejoice in their own divinely ordained new thing, and as they anticipate the wondrous things God will do with the children in their wombs.

That is not to say that their fears and questions have disappeared. While we may think we need to leave our questions and doubts at the door when we come to worship, Mary and Elizabeth do no such thing. Imagine the questions swirling in their hearts: Will they survive the rigors of childbirth? Will Joseph leave? Will Zechariah ever speak again? Will Mary’s family disown her? Will Elizabeth, in her old age, live long enough to see her son grow into adulthood? What will it mean for these children that God has some special plan for them – will they bring about God’s kingdom, or will they die trying? Yes, those questions still remain… and yet, still, these faithful women lean into their trust of a God who has been and will always bring about great reversals, who is always doing a new thing.

I first heard this week’s featured song, Canticle of the Turning, when I was on the precipice of my own new thing – I was about to head overseas to serve as a missionary. At that point, I didn’t even know what I would be doing, just that I would be living in a Slovak village called Vrbovce, working through a church. Gathered with the 60-some other young missionaries, we heartily sang, with Mary, “My heart shall sing of the day you bring. Let the fires of your justice burn. Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, and the world is about to turn!” We did not yet know how the world would turn as a result of our missionary work, nor what tears we may shed that would need to be wiped. But we knew that the justice burned in our bones, compelling us to service, and we knew that, come what may, God had called us to this time, this place, this mission, and was somehow using us to turn the world toward God’s vision. And so, we went forth with trust. And, like Mary, our hearts and voices sang.

In the wake of the incredible, life-changing, world-turning news that she would carry the Holy-of-Holies in her womb, Mary no doubt felt a healthy fear. Yet still, she trusted. She found strength in the promises of God, and the ways God had already acted throughout history, and she also found strength in a community of faithful women, present and past. And in response, she sang – sang a song that is a revolution, that testifies to the ways that God always has and always will bring about new things, and turn us toward God’s justice, God’s vision, God’s hope. In her story and her song, Mary has given us words to empower us, too, as we continue facing the constant stream of endings-turned-beginnings that come our way. The world is about to turn, yes, and has always been turning, and always will turn - toward God's justice, mercy and love.

Let us pray… God of our hearts, our spirits sing of the wondrous things that you bring to the ones who wait. When we are confronted with a new thing that brings about fear and uncertainty, increase our trust, show us the way toward a supportive Christian community, and make our hearts to sing of your strength. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Where joy comes from (Dec 12, 2021)

We had some issues with the software, and the service is in three parts. THIS is the part with the sermon. 

Advent 3C
Dec. 12, 2021
Luke 3:7-18

INTRODUCTION

This third Sunday in Advent is called Gaudete Sunday, Rejoice Sunday. It is when we take a break from the sometimes penitential nature of Advent and instead embrace the joy. You will see this sense of joy in our first three readings – though none of them are written from a place we would call joyful. Zephaniah writes from a context of spiritual and political corruption, in which leaders exploit the poor. The entire book up to this point has been lament and calls for repentance. The context of Isaiah, from which today’s Psalm comes, is the Babylonian exile, and all its suffering and humiliation. And Paul is writing his letter to the Philippians from prison! He is awaiting trial and death, having been threatened, rejected, beaten, and shipwrecked. And yet from each context come these words calling us to sing aloud, shout, rejoice, rejoice again, and sing praises. You see, joy is not dependent on circumstance.

Knowing these contexts prepares us to hear the Gospel reading, which is… less overtly joyful, unless of course you like being called a brood of vipers. And yet Luke will end today’s reading by saying that by saying these things, these tough words and calls for repentance to those gathered, John was “proclaiming the good news to the people.”

So as you listen, listen for the good news. Hear these readings as acknowledging that life can be hard, but joy can still exist, and find how God might be drawing your attention to how joy comes about in your life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Photo credit: my dad on his morning walk, North Ponds, Webster

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

After all those weeks of apocalyptic texts, I was looking forward to this week, this “Rejoice Sunday,” because I am ready to talk about joy! I approached these texts with relief, smiling as I read Zephaniah. Yeah, that’s the stuff, I thought. The Psalm, this week from Isaiah, is one that always brings to mind a certain song I once performed, and that fills my soul right up. Philippians is obvious – rejoice, and then say it again! This is great, I thought. So many options!

Then I got to the Gospel. Nothing says “joy” like, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” Yup, all the warm fuzzies. Nothing like axing trees and unquenchable fire to warm our hearts this Advent season! 

And yet, Luke tells us in that last verse that it was with words like these that John proclaimed the good news to the people. And good news certainly is joyful, so… what good news are we to wrestle from this text?

Let’s look first at the fact that all these people are swarming toward John’s difficult words. You might not think that “you brood of vipers” would be an effective opener, yet there they all are! And not just humoring him, but engaging with him. “And what about us?” they ask. “What can we do?” They’re into it! People don’t ask question about how they need to change their lives unless they, you know, see a need to change their lives. If everything is going hunky dory, I can’t imagine they would stick around, but it is not hunky dory. They heard John’s message and felt that stirring in their hearts, that voice saying, “Listen to this. Don’t turn away.” Boy, turning away from difficult messages is tempting, isn’t it! Not many people take criticism well. More often, when criticized, we make excuses, or dismiss the criticism, or bite back, flipping the comment back on someone. “Well, what you need to do is…” because it could never be us who has the problem, right? And yet, deep down, we know that we do have the problem. We are feeling restless, resentful, angry, depressed, lonely, afraid, tired. Things are not how we’d like them to be. And those flocking to hear John’s message feel that, too. They know a change has to happen.

So that’s the first, difficult step toward finding the good news, and with it, the joy: recognizing that this message is one we need to hear. That message may be an ending, one of those endings that we try so desperately to avoid. But we’re not stopping there at the end. We’ll keep going toward the message that will bring a beginning. So now, what is that message we need to hear? 

Menacing as it is, I find good news in that image of an ax at the root of the tree. The ax and the fire tell us that the time has come to get rid of the things that do not bear fruit in our lives – that keep us from living joy-filled lives. Get rid of them! And really, why would we want those things in our lives anyway, if they are keeping us from joy? Yet, making a big change is hard. In my head, I think it is easier to chip away at it, little by little… but man, that gets exhausting, right? Having to work so long and hard and tediously? Sometimes we need someone to say, “Hey, I’ve got an ax here. Want some help?” 

When I was undergoing chemo treatments at age 15, I was terrified of losing my hair. I didn’t want to look like the cancer patient I was, because my 15-year-old ego was already fragile enough. But sure enough, the hair started to go. For several days I woke with hair on my pillow and in my mouth, and watched it gather round the shower drain. I was heavy with despair. One day, we invited my hairdresser to come out to our house (I wasn’t well enough to drive there). She tried to style what was left, to no use. So… she buzzed it. Took the hair styling equivalent of an ax to my beautiful curly brown locks. And I. Felt. Liberated. My heart was lighter, I was smiling, I didn’t cry again for the rest of my treatment. I was rid of this thing I had been insistent about hanging onto, this thing I thought I needed to feel strong and confident. Of course, my strength and confidence never came from my hair – it had always come from God – and now, with my hair gone, I could see that.

I wish that cutting off our sin was that easy and fast! It isn’t, but, the work of repentance is as effective at bringing about joy. It may take some digging to find what exactly needs to be buzzed, because, like my hair, things that need to be cut off may look very much like the things that are giving us what we crave. But don’t be swayed. With God’s help, you can discern the difference. Some things may make us happy, but that happiness is only fleeting or surface deep; this is not what will bring us lasting joy. But if you can look at some aspect of your life – not another person, or another person’s problem or a circumstance outside of yourself, but rather, a habit or feeling or common reaction that is yours –  when you look at it and imagine it gone, and you feel in the depth of your heart a lightness, freedom, peace, and joy… that is a good indication that this is something that needs to be thrown into the fire. Repent of those things: turn away from them, go a different way. Don’t let them any longer rob you of that joy that God desires for you.

Once we’ve turned away, how do we know which way to go? It is so much easier imagining how someone else needs to change, right, which way they should go, rather than do the hard work ourselves! John gives some suggestions for a direction: be generous, kind, merciful, and just. Don’t give in to the greed and selfishness that the world tells us will put us ahead of others. Live your life with an eye more toward those godly qualities; live it more like one who loves and is loved by God. 

I love this earthy advice, which speaks to any vocation – whether tax collector, soldier, stay-at-home mom, doctor, teacher or custodian, you can live into your vocation in a way that is generous, kind, merciful and just. You don’t have to take on a bunch of extra in order to find a joyful life. You just have to live the one you’ve got in a way that embodies the life God wants for you.

Our featured song today, which we will hear during communion, is another that I would not normally associate with Advent, but it beautifully illustrates this life that John describes to the crowd. “When the poor ones, who have nothing, still are giving; when the thirsty pass the cup, water to share; when the wounded offer others strength and healing: We see God, here by our side, walking our way.” The people in this song – the poor, the thirsty, the wounded – refuse to be limited or defined by their label. They are poor, but still have something to give. We all do; we all lack in many things, and we all are gifted in many things, and we all have something to share with our neighbor, whether it is a coat or a listening ear. And in these ordinary ways, when we are kind, generous, merciful and just, the hymn claims, “We see God, here by our side, walking our way.” Or as Paul says in Philippians, “The Lord is near.” And suddenly, with that nearness of God and that faithful living – in our work, in our daily lives – suddenly, there we find the joy we crave. 

That is what needs to be fed as we look toward the coming of our Lord. So much demands our energy – our responsibilities, yes, but also all those things we considered earlier, things that we think are giving us what we need but are not, things we need to cut off, like an ax to a tree that doesn’t bear fruit. Those things suck our energy and they don’t deliver what they promise. Our joy, our life, comes in taking an ax to those things that do not give life, and turning toward the things that do: the things marked by generosity, kindness, mercy, justice, and joy.

In a recent conversation with my spiritual director, we were talking about joy – how to find it, how it feels, what keeps us from it. As I described how I experience joy, how I really know I have found it, she looked me in the eye and said, “That feeling of joy and wholeness that you described – that is your natural state. It is God’s intention for you. Follow that joy.” And that is what we do in this Advent season: we follow the true source of our joy, our Lord and savior come to us, to love us and show us the way to life.

Let us pray… God of joy, it can be terrifying to make the necessary changes in our lives, even when we know they will lead to joy. Give us courage to move toward joy, to live our daily lives in ways marked by generosity, kindness, mercy and justice. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Freedom is Coming (Dec 5, 2021)

Full service HERE. Sermon is at about 34 min.

Advent 2C
December 5, 2021
Luke 3:1-6 and Luke 1:68-79

INTRODUCTION

The second Sunday of Advent always focuses our attention on John the Baptist. Though you won’t find John in any nativity set (at least not one I’ve ever seen), he is an essential character in Advent, because he is the one who announces Jesus’ coming, urging us repeatedly to “repent.” 

We’ll first hear this message today in our reading from Malachi – though John was not likely who Malachi was talking about (he was likely speaking more about the temple priests as messenger), we have nonetheless come to think of John the Baptist as “the messenger” Malachi refers to, the one who calls us all to repent and prepare the way of the Lord. Philippians reflects some of the fruit that preparation will yield.

The Gospel reading has the most obvious John the Baptist story, as John bursts on the scene with his famous quote from Isaiah: “Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight!” Luke, a historian, tells us the very specific time when this happened, citing 7 different rulers of the day, before adding that the word of God came not to them, but to this guy in the wilderness. 

But I actually want to highlight our Psalm today. You will notice it is not a Psalm at all, but actually from Luke. Luke’s Gospel gives us three different canticles, or songs, around the preparation and birth of Jesus. Most well-known is the Magnificat, Mary’s song, which we’ll hear in a couple weeks. Today is the song of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. John’s parents, Elizabeth and Zechariah, were both associated with the Temple – Zechariah was a priest. In their old age, they dearly longed for a child, but were barren. When an angel told Zechariah that Elizabeth was pregnant, he didn’t believe it, and so what did the angel do? Took Zechariah’s voice, of course! For 9 months, he was mute. At baby John’s circumcision, when Zechariah finally accepts this miracle, his mouth is opened, and he sings this song of praise. In my humble opinion, they are some of the most beautiful words in scripture, a powerful song of praise and liberation. 

In fact, that liberation theme can be found throughout this morning’s worship, so keep an eye out for it, and consider, in what ways does God continue to free us from that which would keep us bound? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

South Africa has been in the news a lot this week, with the rise of the latest Covid mutation, Omicron. But I have been thinking about South Africa for a different reason this week: I have been reading about apartheid, because this week’s featured song for our Advent series, “My Heart Shall Sing,” comes out of the anti-apartheid movement. Apartheid, as you likely know, was the system of legislation in South Africa for some 50 years, in which the white minority upheld segregationist policies against non-white citizens of South Africa. Though it claimed to bring peace and prosperity to a diverse South Africa, it actually did the opposite; as Americans ought to know, separation does not bring equality. Indeed, the non-white majority was oppressed, stripped of all power, relegated to shantytowns and other far inferior facilities, and often victims of gross human rights violations. The word “apartheid” means “apartness” in the Afrikaans language, and “apart” was certainly a defining characteristic of the system: not only were whites separated from non-whites, but the non-white majority was also separated into different groups, divided along tribal lines, splitting the majority into many smaller minorities, so to further decrease their political power.

Various forms of resistance arose, of course – some peaceful, some more violent. That is bound to happen when a group is oppressed; we’re seeing it unfold in America right now. Whatever the cause may be, one frequent characteristic of resistance movements is that they often give birth to songs of resistance – folky, easy to learn songs that bring together those fighting for a common cause. Think of America’s own Civil Rights Movement, and songs like, “We Shall Overcome.” The anti-apartheid movement was no different in this way. One of the songs that arose out of that movement fighting for an end to apartness and oppression, was one that is likely familiar to our ears, one that looks to the future hope of freedom, proclaiming an insistence that the freedom they crave is coming – we know it! 

[Choir sings]

Freedom is coming… freedom is coming… freedom is coming, oh yes I know.

Oh freedom! Oh freedom! Or freedom! (Freedom is coming, oh yes I know!)

Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! (Jesus is coming, oh yes I know!)

Oh yes, I know! Oh, yes I know! Oh, yes I know!

I have heard this song most of my life, but never thought of it as an Advent song. But as I read this week’s readings, and reflected on the themes and messages of Advent, I suddenly saw freedom all over the place – all the longing for it and the assurance that it was both on its way, and already here. The already-and-not yet of God’s kingdom, a kingdom in which we are free from sin, from death, from all our enemies, even as we continually strive for that. 

Listen again to these words of Zechariah’s song: “Blessed be the God of Israel! You have come to your people and set them free! … This was the oath you swore to our Father Abraham: to set us free from the hands of our enemies.” You see, freedom is what God is all about, and what the coming of our Lord and Savior is all about. We say as much in the prayer of confession: “We confess that we are captive to sin, and cannot free ourselves.” We suffer from this thing, this sinful human condition, that puts separation, apartness, between us and the God who loves us and made us. While there is certainly plenty of physical oppression and captivity in our world – whether imposed politically, or socially, or in more personal ways, perhaps an addiction or another disease – we all, every one of us, long for freedom, don’t we? We all find ourselves captive to something. We all find ourselves captive to sin.

But freedom is coming. Freedom is coming. Freedom is coming, oh yes, I know it is. I know it is! Freedom is coming, as a babe in a manger, as a peasant itinerant preacher, as the leader of a resistance movement against Roman oppression. Freedom is coming. 

My attention was captured this week by the meaning of the word apartheid: “apartness.” We experience our own apartheid, don’t we, our own apartness, from God – that is what so often holds us captive, that distance from God. But freedom is coming. God’s closeness is upon us. Advent is about preparing for the apartness to grow smaller, even to disappear. It is about preparing the way for that to happen: bringing down mountains, humbling our inflated egos; filling in the valleys, how we get stuck on the endings without looking up to see the beginnings God is making; making straight the pathways, so that all the distractions would prevent us from seeing the salvation of God, would be removed.

And when that nearness comes to us, when the apartness is truly gone and God is not only near us but in us, in every step and thought and word and deed – that is when we have true freedom, when the power of sin and death is no more, when we are no longer blinded by the fear and threats of ending and loss, and can instead see the salvation of God, bringing about new beginnings. 

“In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness, and in the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Jesus is coming, my friends. Freedom is coming. Our salvation is near.

Let us pray… Oh Jesus… Yes, we know that freedom is coming. Help us to see it. Help us to trust it. Help us to live in. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated: CELEBRATION (2021)

 This is part 3 of a 3-part talk I gave for the Breast Cancer Coalition of Rochester's event, Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated. Part 1 is about hope, and Part 2 is about healing.

Celebration 

Hope, healing, and celebration. My story is laced with these words – and yes, also with their opposites. I know I don’t have to tell you that cancer brings out all of the emotions, sometimes simultaneously. During my experience with cancer, I have had some of my highest highs, and my lowest lows, and their being so intertwined made them all the lower and all the higher!

I have felt the despair and grief one feels with the recognition of losing something that was so important to you (whether that is a breast, or a lifelong dream, or a way of life that you previously enjoyed)… And, I have felt the hope that comes with knowing the strength of the community around you, and the deep knowledge that none of them will let you fall, but that if you do still fall, they will be there with you, even down in the gutter, letting you cry, and then getting you a glass of water to replenish your tears.

I have felt the anguish of waiting for results, and of making impossible decisions, and of not knowing what thing is the right thing to do, and of looking at yourself in the mirror for the first time after surgery and being repulsed by what you see… And I have felt the sweet relief of being on the other side, and feeling my broken body and my broken heart start to come back together, of finally hearing, “Scan and blood work were all clear – see you in a year!” 

I have felt the fear of not knowing how things would turn out. I felt the anger that cancer would happen to me – again, and again. I felt how difficult it was to pray, and to stand up each week and tell other people about God’s love and grace, even when I didn’t always feel like I was experiencing it myself… And, I smiled broadly, and I fell in love with my nurses and doctors, and invited them to my wedding, and gave thanks every day for another day of love and life and joy and grace. I witnessed the incredible ways that those deaths I was experiencing in my life were turning into opportunities, how relationships blossomed and grew in ways they never would have otherwise. I rejoiced in the warm, strong arms of my beloved, and in the frequent phone calls from my parents in California, and the notes I received from strangers who were thinking about me. I gave thanks for the many circles of prayer in which I was held. 

In short: in the midst of all those dark emotions, I also experienced celebration. I looked out from the darkness of all that loss and fear and anger and uncertainty, and found in each of them that there was always something there to dispel that darkness.  

Here is what I have learned: sometimes celebration is balloons and cake, but the much more profound celebrations are the ones we wrest out of the hands of struggle. Because these celebrations are all the sweeter precisely because they have been hard-earned, and we have seen the opposite and said to its face, “No, you cannot take my joy. You cannot take my life.” 

And so I celebrate. I continue to live in hope – that light will shine in the darkness, that small gestures can break apart even the hardest of despair, that empathy heals all manner of ill. I continue to heal – recognizing that healing comes in all sorts of forms, sometimes of the body, sometimes of the spirit, and accepting that it sometimes hurts a bit to heal, and that’s okay. 

But most of all, I celebrate. I celebrate so many brave women and men who have faced this mess that is cancer, and not let it crush them. I celebrate the gifts I have gained from the experience, the depth I have grown, the ways I have experienced life even when death looked me in the face. I celebrate love – the love of my people, my village, and a God who never left my side.

The three words that structure this event are cyclical. We hope. We heal. We celebrate. We find years later that we fall back into a need to heal. We grasp once again to look for hope. And then we are given little gifts to celebrate. Rinse and repeat. One does not negate another; indeed these beautiful words only serve to enhance each other. 

Tonight, I celebrate, but most of all, I am grateful – grateful to see so many beautiful survivors and caretakers. Grateful for the hope you have shown just by being here. Grateful for the ways you have shown others how to heal, even as you are just figuring it out yourself. Grateful for opportunities to celebrate all these things. Thank you. Thank you for being a light in the darkness. Thank you for being an inspiration. Thank you to you, and thank you for you.