Sermon: What is Christmas joy? (Christmas Eve, 2022)

 Watch the full service (which is lovely, if I do say so myself!) HERE.

Christmas Eve 2022

One of the best things, in my opinion, about being a pastor, is that I get a hefty say in what Christmas carols we sing at our Christmas services. So, we always sing my favorites, and seldom sing my least favorites. And so this year, I was pleased to place Joy to the World, long in my top three Christmas hymns, as the sermon hymn tonight. 

Yes, I have always loved this one. But this year I have been thinking of it in a new way, because I have for the past year or two, been doing some deeper reflection on what joy really is. We throw that word around a lot this time of year, but I’m not convinced we really know what it means, or how we get it, or what difference it makes. When we proclaim in a moment, “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!” are those just words? Or what will that really mean for us?

I know what it doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean, “It’s Christmas and I’m happy about it!” I mean, sort of – but it is more than that. Joy is deeper than that, deeper than happiness. It also doesn’t simply mean, we got all the presents bought and wrapped, dinner didn’t burn, and the cat or the toddler didn’t destroy our Christmas tree. Those are good things, too, but there is certainly more to joy than that! 

So, what does it mean? I suspect we might all answer that a little differently, and I think I could preach 10 sermons on this topic and still have more to say. On this Christmas night, though, I’d like to share just a few thoughts on what joy means in the context of Christmas, and what difference it makes for us.

First: joy is intrinsically related to peace. Just look at this climactic moment in Luke’s telling of the story. The angel appears to the shepherds in the field, and declares, “I bring you good news of great joy,” and then in almost the next breath (if angels do, indeed breathe), “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace among those whom He favors.” You see – the good, joyful news here is that Jesus is born, and because of that, peace. News of great joy --> peace.

Once I recognized that relationship, I began to notice it in my life, too. Maybe you can relate: I sometimes get myself so tied up in a bundle of shoulds and anxiety, especially at this busy time of year, that there is little room left to actually enjoy it. But then, if I let go for a minute, let myself share a belly laugh with my kids, or fall into a good book, or I put my phone down and am fully present to a good friend as she shares something true… then all those tangles fall away for a moment, and I feel more settled, more peaceful. And that feeling of peace enables joy to enter in, and then the joy in turn brings me even more peace. The joy and the peace – they feed off of each other, helping me to go deeper into each. Joy is related to peace.

Second observation about joy: as I have sought to identify the moments in life when I have felt the deepest, most genuine joy, I have noticed again and again that a sure pathway toward joy is through connection. That belly laugh with my kids that I mentioned, or being fully present to a friend in need, or even going for a walk, or taking time for prayer – what all of these share is that they facilitate connection, with another person, or with nature, or with ourselves even, or especially with God. And when we find connection, we don’t necessarily find happiness, but we find joy.

Elliot Kone tells of a night in December of 1944, when he was a young sergeant stationed in France, shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. While they waited for their delayed orders to come through, he and another soldier, a private, went into a nearby village in search of food. The village they found was completely deserted; even the road signs had been taken, probably by retreating German soldiers. The only open building was a church, which they entered to escape the winter chill for a while. 

Sergeant Kone could play the organ by ear, and had often been drafted by various army chaplains to play for religious services. He knew quite a lot about the instrument, and so when he saw this church’s organ, he was eager to take a look at it. It was beautiful and well-made, but in poor shape, and no sound could be coaxed from it. He got an idea: “I think we could fix this if we had the tools,” he told his friend. “It would be a wonderful surprise for the villagers when they return.” His friend agreed, and since they had little else to do while they awaited orders, they went back to get the needed tools, and got to work. 

It was a labor of love, but soon enough, the instrument was echoing lovely tones through the church as the sun rose. Kone played a Hebrew lullaby from his childhood, then Faith of our Fathers, at his friend’s request, then several carols that he knew from memory. They imagined the faces of the people who would enter the church to see their organ up and running. They wanted to stay so they could witness that moment themselves, but they knew they had to get back to camp. By the time they returned, orders had come, and they were leaving imminently for the front.

Later, Kone wrote that imagining the faces of those villagers upon seeing their restored organ, tempered the dread of battle. He thought of them many times in the years following, thinking of those unknown villagers as his brothers and sisters, a bond he shared with them even in the face of adversity. The experience forever connected him to them, and, he hoped, them to him, though they could never know it was a Jewish sergeant and a Protestant private who had repaired the organ in their Catholic church.

There is joy in connection – the sort of joy that can fend off fear and carry us through battle, that can connect us across nationality, across enemy lines, across time. 

And isn’t that joy in connection just exactly what God seeks to accomplish by coming to earth to become one of us, by being fully present with us? To go on walks with us, and to be in the midst of belly laughs, and to sit with us in prayer? Did not God come to us so that we would feel that seemingly impossible connection, and be able to find the resulting joy even in difference and in adversity, even as we face our daily fears and battles? 

And that is the last point I want to make tonight about joy: that joy can and does co-exist with pain. In fact, I’d argue that deep pain and deep joy are in many ways not so different from each other: both are vulnerable, both can come upon us when we are not expecting it, both can completely overwhelm us and make us feel out of control, both can change our lives. 

Pastor Norman Vincent Peale tells a story of a Christmas Eve early in his ministry. He was feeling happy, just leaving a wonderful visit with some parishioners, when he looked across the street and saw a house with not one, but two wreaths, side by side. One had the traditional red bow, bright and festive. But the other had a ribbon of somber black, the symbol of a death in the family, a funeral wreath. This unexpected juxtaposition of joy and sorrow had a strange impression on him, and he asked his parishioner about it. The parishioner explained that this was a young family with small children, new to the neighborhood, but that was all he knew.

Peale started to leave, but then decided to approach the house, and he knocked on the young family’s door. “It is Christmas Eve,” he thought, “and if there is joy or suffering to be shared, my calling is to share it.” When a young man opened the door, and the pastor introduced himself and offered his sympathy, the man invited him in. The death, he learned, was their 6-year-old daughter, and was quite recent. In fact, her coffin still sat in their parlor, as was the custom then. Peale was so moved he could barely speak. As if reading his thoughts, the father offered, “It’s all right. She’s with the Lord, you know.” He took the young pastor to meet his wife, who was reading to their two younger sons. Her face, he said, was lovely – sad, but serene.

Peale writes of the encounter, “Suddenly I knew why this little family had been able to hang two wreaths on the door, one signifying life, the other death. They had been able to do it because they knew it was all one process, all part of God’s wonderful and merciful and perfect plan for all of us. They heard the great promise that underlies Christmas: ‘Because I live, ye shall live also.’ They had heard it and they believed it. That was why they could move forward together with love and dignity, courage and acceptance.”

I know that many here tonight carry with them two wreaths – your festive outfits and smiles cover up some sorrow or pain that you feel. Hear me when I say, there is room in the Christmas story for both wreaths, both the joy and the sorrow. To sing “joy to the world… and heav’n and nature sing!” is not to deny the sorrow in the world. We know all too well that that still exists. Rather, singing these words is to say, with defiance, that we believe that this sorrow does not get the final word. It is to say that our pain does not have to be hidden or denied, and more, it will not keep God from coming to us this night, even still. Because God knew what he was getting into, that he was coming into a world of pain, a world with two wreaths: a red one looking toward love and joy, and a black one still in pain and sorrow. Christ comes there, into the joy, yes, and also into the darkness of night. And Christ brings to that place the joy that the world cannot give: the joy that brings peace, the joy of meaningful connection, and the joy that can exist even in the pain, shining into the shadows a light that will not, in the end, be overcome.

May we all find true joy – peace, connection, love and light – on this mysterious night, when God comes to us to make his blessings flow, and to rule the world with grace and truth. Joy to the world – the Lord is come!

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Looking for life (in all the wrong places) (Dec. 11, 2022)

Advent 3A
December 11, 2022
Matthew 11:2-11
Isaiah 35:1-10

INTRODUCTION

The third Sunday of Advent is known as Gaudete Sunday, or “Rejoice!” Sunday. It offers us a bit of respite from all these difficult, end-times-y texts. Hooray! And so where does the Gospel reading drop us? In prison, obviously, with a doubting John the Baptist. 

Last week’s confidence has apparently waned: since we last saw John in the wilderness, he has gotten himself arrested for criticizing King Herod’s marriage practices. And he is starting to wonder why things aren’t looking the way he thought they would. But Jesus’ words, we hope, will set him back on track.

Isaiah is far more joyful. Last week’s reading from Isaiah was from before the exile, as the Assyrians are about to attack. Today’s text is written while the Israelites are in exile, in Babylon, and offers them a vision of healing and restoration – a joyous procession out of Babylon through the blooming desert, and back to Jerusalem and the land promised to their ancestors. It is a truly beautiful text. 

Today’s Psalm, you will notice, is not from Psalms, but is from Luke’s Gospel. This is the text known as the Magnificat: it is the song that Mary sings when she visits her cousin Elizabeth to tell her she is pregnant with God. Much of Luke’s Gospel gives the message that Jesus’ presence on earth means a total reversal of the ways of the world, and this song really sets that up: the low are brought high and the high low, the hungry are filled and the rich sent away empty. It is radical! And also, so very beautiful. Our choir will be singing that for us.

Lots going on in these texts. Take them all in, and listen for a word that will speak joy to whatever ails your heart this day. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

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

Several years ago, a video came out that claimed to test people’s awareness. Thinking of myself as a pretty aware person, I clicked on it. “This is an awareness test,” it begins. Two basketball teams are standing there, one dressed in white, the other in black. “How many passes does the white team make?” asks the voiceover. I watched carefully as both teams weaved in and out, passing the ball in a careful choreography. I counted 13. “The answer is 13 passes,” says the voiceover. (“Yes!” I thought, smugly!) “But,” he goes on, “did you notice the moonwalking bear?” Wait, what? I was stunned. A moonwalking bear? How could I miss something like that? Maybe it was just very subtle. But the video rewinds and plays again, and this time, sure enough, a 6ft man dressed as a bear saunters into the middle of the basketball passing, busts a little move, then moonwalks off the screen. At the end of the video, white texts appears against a black background, “It’s easy to miss something you’re not looking for.” 

I thought of this moonwalking bear this week when I read this story about John the Baptist. Here John sits in prison, and he is struggling – not because he is in prison (though surely also that), but because he is doubting. He has given his life to preparing the way for the messiah. With roots in the prophet Malachi, in particular the idea that the one who prepares the way for the Lord’s coming will refine and purify the people with both soap and fire (3:11), John has preached a message that is heavy on the judgment. And he likely expected that the long-awaited Messiah would be a person to be reckoned with, perhaps a military power like King David, who would defeat Israel’s enemies with strength and might. In fact, that’s what everyone expected, what everyone was looking for, and what John no doubt had in mind when he identified Jesus as the one they were waiting for. 

But Jesus has not fit that mold. No, instead of coming with an army, ready to defeat, he comes with love, compassion, and mercy. Instead of judgment, Jesus seeks out “the other,” reaching out to the margins to bring in those who would have been forgotten. Instead of military power, Jesus shares meals with tax collectors and notorious sinners. It’s not what anyone was looking for or expecting.

And so John begins to doubt. And this is where we find him in today’s reading: in prison for saying the right thing at the wrong time about King Herod’s marriage, and now waiting for his death. And he is wondering, “If Jesus is the real deal, why is everything still so broken? Why am I in prison? Why is he eating dinner with sinners and tax collectors, instead of over-throwing the oppressive government?” This is not how he expected things to go. And so he sends a message to Jesus, asking, “Are you the one we’ve been waiting for? Or are we still waiting for someone else?” 

As always, Jesus’ answer flips the question on its head. “Go and tell John what you see and hear,” he tells the messenger. “Those who lacked understanding are finding clarity. Those who were crippled are able to walk. Those who were ill are healed, those who couldn’t receive the good news have their hearts opened, those whose lives were ending are finding new life. The poor have good news brought to them.” In other words, help John to turn his attention away from what he expects to see, and tell him what you see happening. Stop counting the passes. Watch instead for the moonwalking bear. Because it is easy to miss something you’re not looking for.

Now, I don’t want to get down on John. He was doing the job he was called to do, and doing a biblical job of it, fulfilling the scriptures. Yet he was so focused on the judgment, that he missed what Jesus was really doing, not with strength, but with love: bringing life, healing, and restoration. Like what Isaiah describes in our first reading today – the desert in full blossom, strengthening of the weak, understanding to the perplexed, a song of rejoicing for those who had no song to sing, a highway where there was previously no way. Jesus’ work may be less obvious or glamorous than some impressive battle that puts all the bad guys in their place and delivers a win for the good guys. But his is the work of peace, of mercy, and of lasting life.

Now, if John the Baptist, the forerunner of Jesus, can miss what’s going on, what Jesus is doing, I have to wonder if it can and does happen to us – that is, do we get so caught up in what we think we are looking for that we miss the true life that God is offering to us?

Further, I wonder if we even know what the thing we’re looking for looks like? What does life look like? That’s not to say we aren’t looking for it. I think we are all looking for life, for people and activities and being that truly fill us with life. But I also think we are looking for life in all the wrong places. We think life comes from feeling we have the power in a situation, but exerting our power hinders the opportunity for connection. Or maybe we think life comes from cramming our days full of Very Important Activities, and constant movement, but these activities, rather than filling us up leave us feeling depleted. Or maybe we think life looks like mindless escape through social media or TV or exercise, but these are only that, an escape from the very things that are sucking our life from us. 

But none of that’s not what Jesus is about! So what are we looking for? What would, or what does life really look like, feel like, to you? This is an awareness test: what form of life is moonwalking through your game of daily living, and are you noticing it?

For me, what I recognize as true life, the sort of life that Jesus brings, always comes with joy. And by joy I don’t mean the feeling of happiness, which is so often fleeting and circumstantial. I mean the deep and lasting state of joy, that feeling we get when we feel a genuine and even vulnerable connection with another (whether through a shared laugh or even a shared cry), or perhaps a connection with nature, or certainly a with God. Joy comes with connection, and with joy comes life.

At our last Mom Group gathering, we talked a bit about this. In this season that is so full of “joy,” we sometimes work ourselves to the bone trying to make that joy happen – with lights, and cookies, and ALL the special traditions and memory-making activities. But all that manufactured joy can be so exhausting that it has the opposite effect! It doesn’t give life; it sucks the life out of us. So in our Mom Group, we committed first, to make sure we found some time just to play – whether with our kids or alone – to do something that was purely for the fun of it. 

And second, we committed to be willing to let go of some “shoulds.” This second one is especially difficult, at least for me. But it is also so important. Because giving ourselves space – not space that we immediately fill with something else, but that we actually keep free – is what leaves our hearts open to God surprising us with those life-giving signs that God is working, in and around us and the world. Those open spaces are what free us up not to count the 13 passes, but to see the moonwalking bear, strutting into our hearts and busting a move. Those open spaces allow us to see the Messiah bringing sight to the blind, healing to the crippled, good news to the poor. They allow us to see and be a part of the kingdom work of healing and restoration. They allow the dead, those whose life and joy have drained out of them, to feel once again alive – not by their own power, but by the power of the one who will come and save us.

Let us pray… Life-giving God, it is easy to miss something we’re not looking for, even when that thing is exactly what will bring us life. Open our eyes and our hearts, and help us to leave them open, so that there would be space to receive all the ways you are giving us the life and joy that we crave. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Sermon: A shoot of hope (Dec. 4, 2022)

Advent 2A
December 4, 2022
Isaiah 11:1-10

INTRODUCTION

If you were hoping we might get some warm fuzzies this second week of Advent where they were lacking last week… I’m sorry to disappoint. Actually, we will get some warm fuzzies, in our first reading from Isaiah. This is a classic Advent text: the image of the peaceable kingdom, where the wolf lies with the lamb, and other predators live in peace with their prey, and a little child shall lead them. It is what we hope for and picture when those angels sing to the shepherds in the fields, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace among those whom he favors.” And that description of a peaceful kingdom was very good news for Isaiah’s audience – I’ll be getting into the context in my sermon, so I won’t spoil it for you here… stay tuned!

As for the Gospel… this second Sunday of Advent we encounter John the Baptist in the wilderness and his cries for all to “repent!” You won’t see John in any of the nativities we bless after worship today, but he truly is a centerpiece of the Advent season. Difficult as his message of repentance is to hear, it is a necessary one in the preparation of our hearts. Today he says so quite extremely, saying that the ax is at the root of the tree, ready to cut down everything that doesn’t bear fruit (or maybe it already has begun its chopping – it’s unclear). Either way: yikes. 

I don’t love these stump images during this season, but they, too, are important, and even hopeful ones, to aid in our preparation for Christ’s coming. And yes, the God who comes to us “out of the blue” can come to us even in a stump. As you listen, recall some of the dead ends you have encountered, and how they ultimately directed you down the path of new life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Peace, by William Strutt

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

When I was a kid, my parents had a wonderful picture above our piano that I loved. It is a work called simply, “Peace,” by artist William Strut, and is his depiction of today’s reading from Isaiah: a child in a white dress is at the center, and she is surrounded by all kinds of animals – a cow, a lion, a wolf, a lamb. I loved it because of the child, because seeing that made me, as a child, feel important. I was also smart enough to know that it was strange for all these animals to be together, and the possibility that they could be was simply captivating. 

Now as someone who knows more about the Bible than I did as a child, I have an even greater appreciation for this image. It continues to be a beautiful and captivating one. But now what I find so compelling about it comes from this part of the passage that precedes the description of the Peaceable Kingdom, because that part gives some context for why that image is so important. 

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” To understand the magnitude of this opening sentence, the first thing we need to know is, who is Jesse? Jesse is the father of King David. You may remember David from such stories as, David and Goliath, or more scandalously, David and Bathsheba. (Side note: if you don’t know that second story, be sure to come to Bible study today, as that is the story we’ll be learning about!) David didn’t start off famous; he was a shepherd, born in a little town called Bethlehem, but then became the third king of Israel, and the greatest. He’s a complex character, not without his faults and sins, but overall is considered a great and righteous king of Israel. What is significant about him for today, and for the season of Advent, is that Hebrew scripture says that the messiah promised by God to the Israelites would be from the House of David, a direct descendant of King David (a.k.a. Jesse’s son). 

Everyone with me so far? Okay, now, fast forward a couple hundred years to the 8th century BCE, when Isaiah is writing the text we hear today. Since David, the Israelites have had a string of bad kings. Their current king, Ahaz, was making some terrible choices. The Northern Kingdom of Israel has likely already been destroyed at this point, and now the Assyrian army is in position to decimate Judah, the Southern Kingdom as well, and with it, Jerusalem. And here comes this prophet to make some sense out of what was happening. “God is using the Assyrians,” he explains, “to decimate this unfaithful people, until there is only a mere remnant remaining.” (You know, real cheery stuff.) He tells them this by means of a metaphor, comparing the proud of Jerusalem (all those bad kings) to a forest of trees that will be chopped down. “He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.” Merry Christmas, everyone! You can imagine how the Israelites might be feeling right about now: enemies attacking, and no sign of the Davidic messiah they have so longed for. They are, no doubt, feeling pretty hopeless.

Let’s just stop here for a minute and let that sink in. Even though this all happened centuries ago, hopelessness is not something in any way foreign to us. That feeling of being at the end of your rope, with nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. You’re out of ideas. You’re out of energy. You’re out of time. Hopeless. It is such a precarious place to be. It can look sad and alone, it can feel chaotic and overwhelming. It can feel like the brink between win and lose, between yes and no, even between life and death. However it looks, hopelessness is hard, and a state we will do anything to avoid. 

Back to our story – that hopeless state is where the Israelites are: under enemy attack, with no trust in their short-sighted leader, with no sign that a Messiah might ever come to save them, and surrounded by the stumps of so many failed leaders. 

And that is when they hear these words from Isaiah: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” Here, in the midst of war, they hear a word of hope: the savior promised to you will come. Jesse’s family tree, the line that you thought was dead, is not dead. There is life in it. There is hope sprouting out of it.

Have you ever seen that in nature? A little piece of life sprouting out from somewhere you would otherwise think life is impossible? A dandelion pushing through the pavement, perhaps? Or a tree growing out of a rock? 

There was a couple in my first call, who shared a wonderful story about new life sprouting. When they first moved to Webster some 50 years ago, they planted four trees, one for each member of the family. The tree planted for their son Mike was a beautiful, flowering crabapple tree, with twin trunks that blossomed each year. As a young adult, Mike became very ill and eventually he died from a brain tumor. At the same time, his tree, too, started to get diseased. Some time after Mike’s passing, during a wind storm, one of the twin trunks was broken… But then to their surprise, they began to see a new shoot growing out of that broken trunk, as if it was a sign that Mike was still very much alive, living a new sort of life. That shoot grew for a couple more years. Then, one day, when that couple was preparing to move from Webster to Boston, they heard a loud crack. They went outside to see that the entire diseased part of the tree had blown over, and all that was left was that one, new shoot, still standing strongly, and reminding them of the new life that their son was living. 

Stories like this – they have a profound ability to bring hope to a previously hopeless situation. One ray of light in the midst of darkness. One beginning in the midst of endings. One yes in the midst of so many nos. One sprout in the midst of hopelessness.

And at this, Isaiah goes on to describe who and what that sprout will be, what hope he brings, and the resulting Peaceable Kingdom, the image that so captivated me as a child: a place where lambs and wolves lie down beside each other, where babies and snakes, enemies since creation, can enjoy tummy-time together, where bears and cattle graze side-by-side, and where a little, innocent child, can lead them all. Where no one is attacking anyone else, physically or emotionally, where people no longer hunger, and where everyone lives in the righteousness of God. A place where there is, in a word, peace. This peaceable kingdom, Isaiah says, will be possible. 

And is it? Do you believe it is? Have you ever seen a glimpse of this kingdom? A kind word from a notoriously nasty co-worker? A shared laugh with a friend, that has the effect of lifting some of the weight from your shoulders? A chance to spend quality time with someone you know won’t be around forever? Glimpses like these can’t always make the pain go away. But they can provide just that little bit of hope we need to continue on, and if they cannot take the pain away, at least that hope can bring us some sense of peace in our hearts. 

Fast-forward another 800 years. The emperor at the time, Caesar Augustus, put out a decree that everyone should go to his hometown to be registered. There was a man named Joseph, who was engaged to be married to a young woman named Mary, who was with child. Since Joseph was a descendant of David, he had to travel with his pregnant fiancé to Bethlehem, the birthplace of his ancestor, David. And while they were there in Bethlehem, Mary gave birth to a son, and they named him Jesus, Emmanuel, which means, “God is with us.”

Let us pray. God of all the ages, there are so many things that would try to steal our hope and leave us in despair. When we start to slip into hopelessness, give us glimpses of you, like a shoot growing from a stump, to remind us that you are Emmanuel, God-with-us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service can be viewed HERE.