"God Alone" (Third Sunday after Epiphany)

Psalm 62:5-12

5 For God alone my soul waits in silence, for my hope is from him. 6 He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken. 7 On God rests my deliverance and my honor; my mighty rock, my refuge is in God. 8 Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us. (Selah) 9 Those of low estate are but a breath, those of high estate are a delusion; in the balances they go up; they are together lighter than a breath. 10 Put no confidence in extortion, and set no vain hopes on robbery; if riches increase, do not set your heart on them. 11 Once God has spoken; twice have I heard this: that power belongs to God, 12 and steadfast love belongs to you, O Lord. For you repay to all according to their work.

            From time to time as a preacher, you come across one of those stories that other preachers love to tell. Maybe they heard a popular preacher tell it on the radio or a professor share it in a chapel sermon in seminary or maybe (these days) they found it online; whatever the case, there are those stories that preachers love to tell and retell, and one that comes to my mind this morning is a story that is attributed to the late Dr. Haddon Robinson, who was professor of preaching at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Massachusetts.

            Dr. Robinson was born in New York City, but he tells the story of a Baptist evangelist from Alabama, a preacher by the name of Monroe Parker. The story goes that Rev. Parker was traveling through South Alabama—the real South Alabama—on one of those days, late in the summer, that folks down there refer to as “the dog days of summer.” It was one of those hot, sticky days—the kind of day where you couldn’t even walk out of the house to check the mail without your shirt sticking to your back—and Rev. Parker was parched. Well, as he went on down the road, he came across a man selling watermelons on the side of the road. Now, this isn’t an unusual site in South Alabama; I knew quite a few folks who would have a little watermelon patch, and when they picked them (which, by the way, may be the hottest job in the world next to volcanic scientist), they’d load them in a wagon, a trailer, or the bed of a pickup, and park alongside the highway, usually somewhere close to a service station, and sell their wares. Well, the story goes, Parker strolled up to the man selling watermelons and asked how much would it take to buy one.

            “They’re a dollar and ten cents apiece,” the man said. So, Rev. Parker got to feeling around in his pockets, trying to come up with one dollar bill and one dime, but all he could come up with was a dollar. He held out his hand to the man and said, “All I have is a dollar,” to which the man replied, “That’s ok. I’ll trust you for it.” Then, as the story goes, Rev. Parker put the dollar back in his pocket and proceeded to pick out a watermelon, which he started to carry off to eat and get a little refreshment from the heat of the day, when the man hollered at him, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going with that?!” Rev. Parker said something to the effect that he was going to go sit down and eat his watermelon, to which the man said, “But you forgot to give me the dollar!” "You said you would trust me for it," Rev. Parker said to him.  "Yeah,” he said, “but I meant I would trust you for the dime!" Now, according to Dr. Robinson’s retelling, Rev. Parker replied, "Mack, you weren't going to trust me at all. You were just going to take a ten-cent gamble on my integrity!"[1]

Today, that story is probably close to a hundred years old, but it testifies to a reality of the human experience that is more real in our current culture than perhaps at any other time in recent human history. You see, we live in a world in which trust is becoming a very rare commodity, a world in which we are less likely to trust someone for a dime, never mind a dollar. It’s difficult to have trust in much of anything lately: we’re living in a time when a day can’t go by without hearing about some celebrity, athlete, or politician who has been unfaithful, committed a crime, or has been hiding something from the public for years. We live in an era when the very people we are supposed to be able to trust—doctors, ministers, elected officials—constantly and consistently let us down as we hear story after story that erodes our culturally created confidence in these authorities.

Just this week, former USA Olympic gymnastics team doctor Larry Nassar pleaded guilty to federal child pornography charges, and more than 125 women have accused him of sexual misconduct, many USA Olympic gymnasts among them.[2] He was supposed to be a medical miracle worker, a trusted doctor who would help injured athletes recover quickly and get back to doing what they loved to do, but instead, he used his position of power, influence, and authority to abuse young girls and women who were simply trying to live out their dreams through their hard work and God-given talents. We’re supposed to be able to trust our doctors, but can we? Anymore? Always?

Then there are the countless stories of young boys and girls who have been taken advantage of by those who wear clerical collars or stand behind pulpits to preach. Just this month, a pastor at a megachurch in Memphis confessed to the congregation there that he had a “sexual incident” with a seventeen year old girl when he was a youth minister at a different church in Texas.[3] The congregation gave him a standing ovation…but for the rest of us outside of that room that morning, it was just another reason to withhold our trust from another person in whom we should be able to confide.

Of course, it would take years to just list the number of ways various politicians, elected officials, and leaders in our various forms of government have corroded our trust. Whether it’s an overwhelming number of denied allegations, audio tapes, emails, or their own words, far too many of our leader have a consistent track record of malicious misdirection when it comes to our trust and confidence in them to lead.

We’re supposed to be able to trust these people and the institutions they represent. We’re supposed to be able to feel safe in their care, under their direction and leadership. We’re supposed to be able to place our trust in those whose expertise, experience, and vocation have given them the authority and opportunity to serve in roles of service and stewardship. But time and time again, we are let down, let down by their faults, let down by their egos, let down by their ignorance, let down by their own sense of self-preservation. Will there ever be a time again when we can place our trust in those occupy positions of influence, power, and authority? Was there ever really a time when we could trust them fully?

Of course, there are those who were born skeptical, those among us who place their trust—not in the given authority of individuals—but in the earn outcomes of their own hard work, determination, and abilities. They place their trust in their ability to persevere, their own self-perception as one who can overcome any challenge without even the slightest bit of assistance. They trust in their own physical strength, their own work ethic, their own skills, and they believe fully that those are enough to get them over any challenge, that those are enough to get them by in this world—that is until reality proves otherwise. I have lived a great deal of my life around these sorts of folks; they share my last name and a great deal of the genes that make up my DNA. What I have witnessed through them is that often our own strengths, our own determination to persevere, can be overcome by the relentless hardships of reality and the never-ending (and always rising) costs of life. What I have learned is that all the hard work, skill, and grit in the world cannot stay the hand of time nor ward off the inevitability of cancer. What I have learned is that to put one’s trust in his or her own strengths is to put our trust in a bucket with a rusted bottom.

So where do we place our trust? If it seems we cannot trust those who occupy the places and positions of power, if we cannot trust the institutions we’ve created, if we cannot trust our own power and abilities, then who or what can we trust? Who or what has the ultimate power? In whom or what do we find an ultimate purpose, our “ground of being?”[4]

If we listen to the voice of the psalmist this morning, we will find our answer: “For God alone my soul waits in silence, for my hope is from him.” The psalmist places his trust in God—not in the personalities posturing for political power, not in the insular institutions insisting on protecting the status quo, not even in the psalmists own personal resolve to endure whatever hardship through which he finds himself going. The only one worthy of the psalmist’s trust is the one who is beyond all comprehension and understanding. The one next to whom “Those of low estate are but a breath, those of high estate are a delusion; in the balances they go up; they are together lighter than a breath.” The psalmist sings, “On God rests my deliverance and my honor; my mighty rock, my refuge is in God. Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us…Put no confidence in extortion, and set no vain hopes on robbery; if riches increase, do not set your heart on them.” The exhortation it to rest fully and completely on God, to trust God at all times—no matter what those times may bring, to not place our trust even in those things that seem themselves to be evidence of their trustworthiness. In other words, even if placing your trust in others, in institutions, in yourself has led you to a life of comfort and ease, it does not warrant your trust to be placed in anything outside of God God’s self.

Now, I suppose, at first hearing that sounds like church business as usual: of course we aren’t to place our trust in anything except for God. But the truth is, when it comes down to it—I mean really comes down to it—trusting God just doesn’t make a hole lot of sense. After all, I can see the work of my own hands; I can sit across the table from another human being (or at least get an email from someone in his or her office); I can hold money in my hands, possess the deed to my home or the title to my car; I have the skill and knowledge to earn a paycheck in any number of ways should the need present itself. I can verify and authenticate references, run background checks, do a Google search, and simply look someone in the eye when I ask them a question, so why in the world would I put my trust in a God I cannot see, whose voice I’ve never audibly heard, and whose email address is not listed in my contacts?

Why should I place my trust in God? Because when everything else fails—and it will fail—when everything else fails, God won’t. Because there will come those times in my life (and in yours) when nothing will pull our lives out of the tailspin, when nothing else will bring us up from rock bottom…God spins right along with us…all…the way…down. Why trust God? Because God is there with you (and there’s nothing you can do about it), riding the waves of life’s reckless rhythms with you. When you look to put your trust in those things that you hope will deliver you, God is in the midst of the very thing from which you hope to be delivered! That’s the whole point of the cross! The cross tells us that God has left the power of heaven to dwell in the dirt of the earth, the bear the pains, frustrations, heartaches, and joys of life that we all experience. The cross tells us that God deserves our trust because God doesn’t just free us from our difficulties—God bears them with us!

Sure, the psalmist may sing, “Once God has spoken; twice have I heard this: that power belongs to God,” and the psalmist may mean that he has heard of the power of God to shake the mountains and crush enemies, but there is a greater power, a greater power that alone is worthy of our trust, and the psalmist testifies even to that power when he sings, “and steadfast love belongs to you, O Lord.” The greatest power, the power of God, the power that alone is worthy of our trust, if the power of God’s chesed, the power of God’s unfailing, limitless, reckless love, the sort of love that follows us through all of life’s peaks and valleys, the sort of love that walks alongside us in the present pace of life’s predicaments, the sort of love that goes on ahead of into the unseen future, the sort of love that proves its trustworthiness in the image of Christ on the cross, broken and dying—just like us. Amen.

           

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[1] You can find one version of this story here: http://www.sermonillustrations.com/a-z/t/trust.htm (accessed 1/19/2018).

[2] One of many stories about Nassar and his victims can be found here: http://abcnews.go.com/US/sexual-assault-victims-confront-olympic-doctor-larry-nassar/story?id=52378336 (accessed 1/19/2018).

[3] Find Baptist News Global’s story on Andy Savage here: https://baptistnews.com/article/metoo-spotlight-turns-southern-baptist-megachurch/#.WmLUZqinHIU (accessed 1/19/2018).

[4] To borrow a phrase from Paul Tilich’s Systematic Theology  (1951).

"Come and See" (Second Sunday after Epiphany)

John 1:43-51

43 The next day Jesus decided to go to Galilee. He found Philip and said to him, "Follow me." 44 Now Philip was from Bethsaida, the city of Andrew and Peter. 45 Philip found Nathanael and said to him, "We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth." 46 Nathanael said to him, "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" Philip said to him, "Come and see." 47 When Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him, he said of him, "Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!" 48 Nathanael asked him, "Where did you get to know me?" Jesus answered, "I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you." 49 Nathanael replied, "Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!" 50 Jesus answered, "Do you believe because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree? You will see greater things than these." 51 And he said to him, "Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man."

            Has this ever happened to you? You get home after a long day at work, maybe you fix yourself a glass of tea, kick your shoes off, and just sort of flop down on the couch or your favorite chair that’s worn just right for all your various nooks and crannies, and just when it feels as if all the worry and frustration of the day is sliding off your shoulders, your lovely spouse calls from kitchen, “Hey babe, come look at this!” Or maybe it’s your child, calling from their bedroom down the hall, “Momma, Daddy, come see what I did!” That ever happen in your house? Now, I know y’all are better people than I am, but when that happens in my house, I tend to (at frist) just shout back, “What is it?” “You got to come see!” “But I just sat down, can’t you just tell me what it is?” “No! Come see!”

            If I’m honest with you, most of the time, when Kohl asks me to come and see what he’s made or what he’s drawn or what he’s set up in his bedroom, I haven’t the slightest notion as to what it is or what it’s supposed to be, but I do what every good parent ought to do: I get up, go down the hall, and when I see what he’s done I say, “WOW! Look at that! Show me what it does. How’d you do that?!” I know it’s nothing all that amazing before I ever get up from my seat, but I know that he’s proud of it, that he’s got something he wants to show off to Momma and Dada, something he wants to share with us. And every, single time, whether it’s a weird-looking stick figure drawn with a marker on a cardboard box, an unidentifiable blob of play-doh, or a random stack of blocks and hot wheels—every, single time, I’m going to get up and go see it, because he’s just so proud of it, because he believes it’s worth showing off, because he believes it’s worth sharing with someone else, and hearing about it just won’t do.

            Maybe that’s why Phillip wouldn’t walk off and leave Nathanael alone. I mean, all we’re told about Philip is that Jesus finds him in Galilee and says to him, “Follow me.” We’re not told if Jesus mentioned to Philip why he should follow him. We’re not told what Philip was doing. Was he a fisherman like Peter and Andrew, a tax collector like Levi, a zealot, a guy just minding his business on an otherwise regular day?—we’re not told; all we’re told is that after Philip was found by Jesus, Philip found Nathanael and said to him, "We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote…”

            Now, we can gather from what Jesus says to Nathanael later that Nathanael was under a fig tree when Philip found him. What does that mean? Well, depends on who you ask: some folks point to the symbolism of the fig tree and its representation of Israel; I had a professor in seminary who made the case for fig trees being used as places of private prayer and devotion; still, some say it’s really nothing more than a way for Jesus to specify Nathanael’s location, a way of proving his divinity to Nathanael. Personally, I’m not terribly certain in any direction, but I know if someone’s sitting down under a fig tree, they’re most likely taking it easy, maybe resting beneath its broad leaves, out of the pounding sunlight, or perhaps taking a break to indulge in one of nature’s sweet blessings (though I’d prefer a pear tree). Either way, Nathanael is sitting under this fig tree, when Philip comes and says, "We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote…”

            Now, I can imagine this stirred Nathanael a bit. I can almost see it: Nathanael sitting under the fig tree, maybe reading a good book, glass of milk and a peanut butter fold-over next to him, when his neighbor Philip starts in about what he’s been up to. Nathanael (according to Jesus a few verses later) is an upstanding Israelite, has a strong prayer life, worships at the temple regularly, is up on his memory verses for Sunday school, tithes every week, tries his best not to cuss or think bad thoughts (you know, all the stuff good church folks do), so when Philip says to him, "We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote,” you can bet Nathanael had some sense of what Philip was talking about—and he likely got excited about it. Why, I can imagine that before Philip could finish his sentence, Nathanael slammed his book shut, shook the crumbs out of his beard, tucked his shirttail in, and slipped on his shoes—he got ready quick to find out where this one about whom Moses and the prophets wrote. But then…as quickly as he got excited, his spring unwound when he heard who this one was that Philip was talking about, or to be more specific, when he heard where this one was from.

            Philip tells him it’s Jesus…son of Joseph…from Nazareth. I can see it: Nathanael countenance fading, the slight frustration of throwing his half-eaten sandwich down and losing his place in his book as he untucks his shirt and kicks his shoes back off: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?"

            Nazareth. Nazareth? Do you know how many Old Testament prophets came from Nazareth? Nazareth: Do you know how many notable events took place in Nazareth? Nazareth: I bet you can guess how many times that town is even mentioned in the Hebrew Bible. Nazareth was a place of no consequence, a one-stop light town, a place from where no one seemed to be, where nothing seemed to happen. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" Seems to be a fair question when all the evidence seems to point to “no.”

            Of course, when you’re from a place where nothing seems to happen and no one seems to care, you tend to highlight things that might otherwise be silly or inconsequential. Why, I remember when I moved to Birmingham to go to college, I think I told just about everybody that I came from a town with the world’s only monument to a pest—the boll weevil. Most folks didn’t know or care what a boll weevil is or why a small town in Lower Alabama would have a monument to it in the middle of their town, but to me, I figured folks over in Europe had surely heard of Enterprise, Alabama and its monument to a bug (it was in a text book after all!). When you’re from a place few people have heard of, it’s the small things that excite you, like gathering around the television with family and friends and making the local paper because your audition for American Idol made it on air (even if it was only 11 seconds long). When you’re from a small town, a community that’s anything but famous, you tend to focus on those things that have the best chance of being more widely known, those things that surely someone outside of your zip code have heard about.

So I’m surprised when Philip doesn’t mention some of those things about Nazareth. I’m surprised he doesn’t try to build up Jesus’ hometown just a little bit to impress Nathanael. Maybe I’m more surprised that Philip doesn’t try to explain what it is he sees in this rabbi with a common name from a forgettable town. I mean, why doesn’t Philip give his testimony here? Why doesn’t he tell Nathanael about how, like the apostle Paul, Philip was walking along the road to somewhere only to be struck blind and hear the booming voice of God Almighty calling his name? Why doesn’t he tell Nathanael about the way his hands used to tremor, how his back was bent and how he couldn’t speak until this Jesus from Nazareth touched him? Why doesn’t he tell Nathanael about the mysterious check he received in the mail a week after agreeing to follow this nobody from nowhere? Why doesn’t Philip tell Nathanael about how he kicked the habit without counseling, twelve steps, or rehab when he met this son of Joseph? After all, that’s the way to get them to walk the aisle, right? That’s how you get them in the baptistry, to pledge money, to make a decision, to join the church—you got to have a good hook, a good story, especially if the one you’re trying to sell them on isn’t a famous person from a famous place.

But Philip doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t try to sell Nathanael on the merits of Nazareth, and he doesn’t try to sell him a good story or share a moving testimony. What does he do then? Philip, in response to Nathanael’s question, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" simply says, "Come and see." “Come and see.” What is it? Come and see. Can’t you just tell me? Come and see. Is it worth getting up from under this tree? Come and see. Will it make me mad? Come and see. Will it change my life? Come and see. Is it worth all the fuss? Come and see…

You know, I’ve found that the things in this life that are truly wonderful, the things in this life that truly exceed my expectations, the things that really make this life worth living, are things that defy description. I can tell you all about the dirt road where I spent most of my childhood memories, about the woman who lived in the Jim Walter house on the right who used to whip me and my cousins with limbs of a peach tree for wrestling the living room, but if you want to really know what it was like, well, you’d have to go there and see it (as much as you can these days) for yourself. I can try to describe to you the way the air smells on a street in Port-au-Prince, the way the smiles from strangers and the laughs of children can melt any sort of ignorant prejudice you might harbor, but really, you’d have to go and witness it yourself. I could try to paint a picture of what it’s like for a couple dozen folks to sit around folding tables passing tamales and homemade hot sauce around, while drinking Sprite and Dr. Pepper after a hot morning’s work, but really, you’ll have to join us and find out what it’s really like.

I could tell you all about how a nobody from nowhere with nothing had his life turned upside down and inside out by a son of Joseph from Nazareth, but really, the best thing I can tell you, the only thing I can tell you, if you want to know about him, if you want to know what it’s like to have your horizons stretched farther than you ever thought possible, if you want to know what it’s like to have joy indescribable and life unbelievable, if you want to know what it’s like to live each day for someone other than yourself, then all I can say to you this morning is “Come and see.” Amen. 

"God has come to us" (A Homily for Christmas Eve)

John 1:1-5, 9-14

1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 He was in the beginning with God. 3 All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being 4 in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it…9 The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. 10 He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. 11 He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. 12 But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, 13 who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. 14 And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.

            “The Word became flesh and lived among us…” Matthew’s gospel employs language from the prophet Isaiah to speak of the same truth: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel," which means, ‘God is with us.’” We will most likely say that this season is to celebrate the birth of the Christ-child, the birth of a savior—and that is true, but the deeper meaning to those words is captured in Matthew’s use of Isaiah and most-poetically in the prologue to John’s gospel. You see, when we celebrate the birth of Jesus, we are celebrating the Incarnation, the arrival of God God’s-self in the flesh and blood and bone of a baby. When we gaze into the cradle at Christmas, we are viewing the Creator of the universe, vulnerable and helpless, small and fragile. When we proclaim the birth of Christ, we are proclaiming the arrival of God as one born in the most unexpected circumstances, to the least likely to wield power, in the most obscure of places.

            Of course, the Incarnation of God in Christ isn’t about the birth of a super-child who will go on to become a super-man, nor is it the story of a child born to be some sort of demi-god with herculean strength and human mortality. The Incarnation of God in Christ is a deep mystery with which we may be too reluctant to wrestle, for after all, if God has been born as a helpless baby who needs to be burped after he’s been fed, changed several times a day, and put down for a nap or two, who is steering the universe? If God is a child being cared for by a mother and father, who’s making sure the sun comes up? Who’s making sure time ticks onward? Who’s answering all those prayers about rain, money, and someone’s favorite team winning the game? If God comes to us as a child, as a adolescent, as a teenager, as a man, walking the very ground we walk, what does that really mean for our understanding of God? After all, if God has come to us, what are we supposed to do with him?!

            To get at where I’m going, I want to share some words with you from one of my patron saints, Clarence Jordan. This is what Clarence said once about the birth of Christ and the Incarnation of God:

What the virgin birth is trying to say to us is not that a man became divine, but that God Almighty took the initiative and established permanent residence on this earth!

Now we, today,…have reversed the incarnation. Instead of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us, we turn it around and we take a bit of flesh and deify it. We have deified Jesus and, thus, effectively rid ourselves of him even more than if we had crucified him. When God becomes a man, we don’t know what to do with him. If he will just stay God, like a God ought to be, then we can deal with him. We can sing songs to him if he’ll just stay God…. We can build our cathedrals to him. This is the bind we get in today. We reverse the action—from heaven to earth—and we turn it around and build it from earth to heaven. And salvation becomes something that we will attain someday, rather than God coming to earth to be among us. So we build churches, we set up great monuments to God and we reject him as a human being.

A church in Georgia just set up a big $25,000 granite fountain on its lawn, circulating water to the tune of 1,000 gallons a minute. Now that ought to be enough to satisfy any Baptist. But what on earth is a church doing taking God Almighty’s money in a time of great need like this and setting up a little old fountain on its lawn to bubble water around? I was thirsty…and you built me a fountain. We can handle God as long as he stays God. We can build him a fountain. But when he becomes a man we have to give him a cup of water. So the virgin birth is simply the great transcendent truth that God Almighty has come into the affairs of man and dwells among us [emphasis mine].[1]

            Tonight, we come to gather around the Lord’s Table, to eat the bread and drink from the cup that remind us of the ultimate reality of God’s Incarnation—that God has endured the pain and cruelty of crucifixion, that Christ (in the words of the Apostle Paul): “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross.” Tonight, we are reminded that we serve a God who has refused to simply “stay God,” but has come to be among us, to share in our pains and our joys, to dwell among us in the midst of all that life throws at us. Tonight, on the eve of Christ’s birth, we celebrate the arrival of God and the great mystery of God’s love and eternal presence among us.

            So may we be encouraged in knowing that God is indeed with us. May we be strengthened in believing that God is not cloistered in the out-of-reach corners of a heaven beyond the sky. May we rejoice in knowing that the love of God that became real all those centuries ago in a stable in Bethlehem still lives among us and is forever calling us deeper into itself, deeper into that love that compels us to welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the prisoner, heal the sick, and strive for justice and righteousness for all people. May we celebrate God’s coming to us—though we may not fully comprehend all that it means for us, and may we rejoice in the truth that “the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.”  Amen.

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[1] From Clarence Jordan’s Substance of Faith

"A Great Light in the Darkness" (Fourth Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 9:2-7

2 The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness— on them light has shined. 3 You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. 4 For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian. 5 For all the boots of the tramping warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire. 6 For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. 7 His authority shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom. He will establish and uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time onward and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.

            In 1741, George Frideric Handel composed his masterpiece, a work often heard this time of year, his English oratorio Messiah. The most recognizable movement in Handel’s Messiah comes at the end of Part II, Scene 7, the 44^th movement; it’s the “Hallelujah” chorus, a piece of music that has been used in countless movies, television shows, advertisements, and the like. Second to the “Hallelujah” chorus, though, may be the 11^th and 12^th movements of Part I, Scene 3. Movement 11 begins with the first verse of our text this morning (Handel uses the King James Version of the text): “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined,” the words are sung by a soloist, who repeats the refrain for just under three minutes. Movement 12 is picked up by the full choir, and the text of verse 6 is sung: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counseller, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” It’s a beautiful piece of music, which Handel uses as an announcement of the Christ-child’s arrival and an entry point into the nativity story and the introduction of the shepherds in Scene 4.

            These words from Isaiah 9, however, were first given in a much different context. The prophet Isaiah is not proclaiming the future birth of the Messiah, rather the prophet is making the third proclamation involving the birth of a child as a sign that the present oppression and strife of the people of Judah is about to end. You see, the first (original) prophet Isaiah’s ministry took place during a most tenuous time in the history of Judah (the Southern Kingdom of the formerly united Israel): the Assyrians were the super-power at the time, and their reach was tremendous. The northern kingdom of Israel had decided to align with kingdom of Aram and sought Judah’s commitment in a revolt against Assyria. When the king of Judah, Ahaz, chose to abstain from such an alignment and remain neutral in the conflict, Israel and Aram turned their forces towards Jerusalem and Ahaz, threatening to attack if they did not join the revolt against Assyria. The people of Judah were between a rock and a hard place: either remain neutral in an escalating conflict involving the very empire that controls their existence and be attacked by an alliance including their own kin, or join that alliance and almost certainly be wiped out. It is into this tension that the prophet Isaiah speaks of a child being born—not once, but three times.

            In Isaiah 7, the prophet says to king Ahaz, “Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel. He shall eat curds and honey by the time he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before the child knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land before whose two kings you are in dread will be deserted.” In other words, the threat to Judah will be no more before a newborn child will be able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Then, in Isaiah 8, the prophet speaks of his own child as a sign of the sure end of threat from Aram and Israel: “And I went to the prophetess, and she conceived and bore a son. Then the Lord said to me, Name him Maher-shalal-hash-baz; for before the child knows how to call ‘My father’ or ‘My mother,’ the wealth of Damascus and the spoil of Samaria will be carried away by the king of Assyria.” Before Isaiah’s own child can say “momma” the threat will be no more.

            The third of these prophecies concerning the birth of a child comes in our text this morning: “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His authority shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom. He will establish and uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time onward and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.” The birth of this child, this son, will signal the coming of peace, the reign of God, the establishment of justice and righteousness…so when did all of this peace, justice, and righteousness come?

            Sure, Assyria would crush the Israel/Aram uprising, but they would continue to oppress Judah, and then Babylon would come, followed by the Persians, Greeks, and Romans. There’d be a small glimmer of hope around the mid-second century B.C.E. when the Maccabean Revolt would lead to the establishment of the Hasmonean dynasty of Israel, but it would be crushed by Pompey of Rome in 63 B.C.E. All that is to say, for all of Isaiah’s prophesying of peace, justice, and righteousness, for all of his pointing to the birth of a child as a sure sign of God’s coming reign, it never seemed to show up. The people of Judah were terrified, unsure of the future, and the prophet Isaiah gives them the sign of a baby—a baby! When there are armies threatening your borders, allies turning against you, your future uncertain, and your very life hangs in the balance, you don’t want someone to show you a baby! You want see footage of soldiers marching in step, tanks rolling out onto the battlefield, a sky filled with bombers, and a leader pounding the podium sounding the cry for action—you don’t want to see a baby!

            Of course, the same was true when Mary first heard those words from Gabriel in Luke 1: "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. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end." The Jewish people were under the oppression of the Roman government; king Herod (not of the line of David) was nothing more than a puppet for the Empire. There had been a growing sense of anticipation surrounding the coming of God’s deliverance, most especially with the recent memory of the Maccabean victory and the number of so-called “messiahs” that cropped up all over Judea. The people were waiting with bated breath for God’s anointed one to arrive and finally bring the longed-for peace, justice, and righteousness the prophets of old had proclaimed. They were scared, unsure of their future, always on the edge of their seats, hoping for deliverance…then an angel comes to a nobody in a backwater town and tells her she’s going to have a baby—a baby! When the world is dark and there seems to be little hope left, you don’t want a baby to be born! When tomorrow is uncertain, when the news is filled with more chaos, confusion, and unrest, you don’t want to be told that a baby is going to fix it all! No! You want aggressive legislation, a powerful proclamation of determined might and strength, a sign that things will get better even if it takes extreme force and the sacrifice of others’ lives. You don’t want a baby!

            But that’s what we’ve got, a baby. That’s what we celebrate this season: the birth of a baby. That’s who we’ll celebrate tomorrow—a baby, born in a barn to unwed parents, surrounded by the poor field workers and their unwashed flocks. That’s who we get, a baby—not a conquering king, not a strongly worded piece of legislation, not a powerful alliance sure to secure victory, not an army of countless soldiers, or an earth-shaking deity with blazing eyes and lightning bolt in hand. A baby, a fragile, helpless baby. Surely such a babe cannot stem the tide of war. Surely a baby cannot bring peace and justice to a world twisted by greed and sin. Surely a baby cannot bring the righteousness of the kingdom of God—a God who made the universe and everything there was, is, or ever will be. Surely a baby can’t save us…can it?

            Tomorrow morning, most of us will gather with family and friends around a tree in the living room, a table in the dining room, or on various couches and chairs spread throughout our homes, and we’ll open presents, share stories, laugh and cry at memories of loved ones no longer with us. We’ll eat good food, share in family traditions, and maybe even take a nap (or two). Most of us will have the luxury of forgetting about the troubles of the world (at least for a day), but what happens next? What happens after all the torn wrapping paper has been put in the trash can? What happens after the leftovers are put in the fridge? What happens when friends and family pile in their cars and head home? What happens when we take the decorations off the tree and the wreath off the door?

            Whatever darkness Christmas Day seemed to hold back will slowly start to seep its way back into our worlds. The weight of work will once again bend our backs; the news of war and devastation will once again break our hearts; the stress of life and all that it entails may once again begin to shrink our sense of purpose, our sense of hope, peace, joy, and love. But even though the darkness may try to overtake us, a light still shines. Even though weight of this life’s worries may try to bend us, One still holds us up. Even though the evil, greed, selfishness, and sin of this world may try to shatter our hearts, there is still One whose love holds us together and calls us to hold one another up: a baby. A baby born to live, to show the way of God’s kingdom through selfless sacrifice, a baby born to teach us all that the ways of God are not the ways of this world, a baby born to reveal to us that the very nature of God is not judgment, condemnation, or wrath, but love, a baby born to die so that the world may know that God has come to make a way where there once seemed to be no way, to cut through the darkness with the everlasting light of love.

            Whenever we think we need a soldier, a conquering king, a divine warrior filled with power and might—we are given a baby, because darkness is not overcome by power. Sin is not overcome by strength. Selfishness and hate are not defeated by bombs or sheer force. No, sin, self, hatred, and darkness can only be overcome by the power of love—selfless love, born of God. It is the kind of love which seeks nothing in return, nothing for itself. Love that seems to all others as weakness, as loss, as powerlessness, it is that sort of love that pierces the darkness with its light. It’s that sort of love that says to those seeking a sign, “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us.” It is that sort of love that we celebrate this season, that sort of love we celebrate today, that sort of love whose birth we celebrate tomorrow. Whose life, death, and resurrection calls us to let go of ourselves and take hold of that fragile, life-giving love so that we may be the bringers of justice and righteousness, so that we may be the bearers of hope, peace, joy, and love, so that we may be a great light in the darkness. Amen. 

"The Coming of Jubilee" (Third Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11

1 The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; 2 to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; 3 to provide for those who mourn in Zion-- to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, to display his glory. 4 They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations…

8 For I the Lord love justice, I hate robbery and wrongdoing; I will faithfully give them their recompense, and I will make an everlasting covenant with them. 9 Their descendants shall be known among the nations, and their offspring among the peoples; all who see them shall acknowledge that they are a people whom the Lord has blessed. 10 I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my whole being shall exult in my God; for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels. 11 For as the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.

            During this season of Advent, I have chosen to preach from the Old Testament lessons from The Revised Common Lectionary (an ecumenical resource for Scripture readings during the Church year). I think the Old Testament (Hebrew Bible) gets a bad wrap sometimes; people often point to its archaic understanding of people and the world. I think a lot of that comes from the way some Christians use the Old Testament as a reservoir of proof texts, particularly passages from books like Leviticus.

            I’m always a bit fascinated whenever I hear someone quote a passage from the book of Leviticus. Really, I am. I mean, have you ever read it? It’s pretty dry; it’s mostly a list of super-specific details about what to do and what not to do in terms of ritual purity and the practices of observing certain feasts and holy days. Of course, whenever I do hear someone referencing Leviticus in conversations outside of an Old Testament seminar, it’s usually some reference to Leviticus 18 and it’s specific laws about sexual relations (oddly enough, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone mention the line just before it about child sacrifice to the false god Molech[1]). You see, what’s interesting to me is that those are the only verses in the entire book that really get any attention, when there’s a lot of really interesting stuff in what may otherwise be viewed as some overly-detailed instruction manual for an ancient religious system.
            Take, for instance, Leviticus chapter eleven. Chapter eleven outlines what foods are clean (or kosher) and which foods are unclean. Verses four through six say, “among those that chew the cud or have divided hoofs, you shall not eat the following: the camel, for even though it chews the cud, it does not have divided hoofs; it is unclean for you. The rock badger, for even though it chews the cud, it does not have divided hoofs; it is unclean for you. The hare, for even though it chews the cud, it does not have divided hoofs; it is unclean for you.” I suppose those are fair enough: after all, I can’t imagine I’d like to eat a camel or a rock badger (whatever that is), and though I know folks may have had to do it once upon a time, I have no desire to eat a rabbit or hare. Unfortunately, verse seven breaks my heart: “The pig, for even though it has divided hoofs and is cleft-footed, it does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. Of their flesh you shall not eat…” There goes the ham, pork chops, barbecue, and bacon! More than likely, most of you have eaten two of those in the past 48 hours! It doesn’t get much better, because verse ten says, “anything in the seas or the streams that does not have fins and scales, of the swarming creatures in the waters and among all the other living creatures that are in the waters—they are detestable to you and detestable they shall remain. Of their flesh you shall not eat…” That means both catfish (which don’t have scales, but skin) and shrimp (which have shells and not scales) are both dietary abominations! Lord help me!

            Of course, we can relax about chapter eleven, because the Apostle Peter had a vision in the tenth chapter of Acts involving a sheet with all kinds of unclean animals on it and a voice from heaven telling him to “Kill and eat,” and “What God has made clean, you must not call profane."[2] In fact, Jesus himself said in the gospel of Mark, “Do you not see that whatever goes into a person from outside cannot defile, since it enters, not the heart but the stomach, and goes out into the sewer?" To which Mark adds the parenthetical statement, “Thus he declared all foods clean.”[3]

            But then there’s the nineteenth chapter of Leviticus (which follows immediately after the oft-quoted chapter eighteen), particularly verse 19: “You shall keep my statutes. You shall not let your animals breed with a different kind; you shall not sow your field with two kinds of seed; nor shall you put on a garment made of two different materials.” Any of you ever plow a field with a mule, maybe while sowing corn on one row and tomatoes on another? Sinners! And woe unto you if you did it whilst wearing a poly-cotton blend!

            Of course, for the ancient people of Israel, these laws that seem somewhat ridiculous to our post-enlightenment minds were extremely important, and I think several of them are still of great value and importance to us today. For instance, the two verses immediately before the one about not breeding two types of animals and not sowing two types of seeds or wearing two types of materials says this (maybe it sounds familiar to you): “You shall not hate in your heart anyone of your kin; you shall reprove your neighbor, or you will incur guilt yourself. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.”

            There’s one more interesting chapter in Leviticus, a chapter that acts as a sort of foundation for our passage from Isaiah this morning and in many ways as the foundation for the ministry of Jesus. It’s chapter twenty-five, a chapter that begins with this command: “The Lord spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai, saying: Speak to the people of Israel and say to them: When you enter the land that I am giving you, the land shall observe a sabbath for the Lord. Six years you shall sow your field, and six years you shall prune your vineyard, and gather in their yield; but in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of complete rest for the land, a sabbath for the Lord:” In other words, every seven years the people were to leave their land alone, let it rest. They were not to till the ground, plant seeds, reap a harvest, or even pull weeds: the land was supposed to rest and whatever it yielded naturally the people could eat (and share with one another and even the wild animals).

Now, every farmer who has ever farmed will likely bristle at the idea of leaving their land alone for a whole year, but it’s in the book! And as crazy as that idea sounds, what follows in chapter twenty-five may be even crazier: “You shall count off seven weeks of years, seven times seven years, so that the period of seven weeks of years gives forty-nine years…And you shall hallow the fiftieth year and you shall proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: you shall return, every one of you, to your property and every one of you to your family.” Every fiftieth year will be a year of jubilee: a year when financial obligations are forgiven, property is returned, slaves are freed, the land is allowed to rest—it is a year of joy and celebration, liberation, forgiveness, and rest. The people of Israel (according to tradition) were given this command by Moses on the first month of the second year after their exodus from Egypt (somewhere around the year 1450 B.C.E.[4]), but there’s little to no evidence they ever actually practiced it.

Move the clock forward to the end of the sixth century B.C.E., and the third prophet in the tradition of Isaiah takes the imagery surrounding the idea of jubilee and speaks to the recently liberated people of Judah: “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” The promises of jubilee are given to the people by God through the prophet: good news to the oppressed and brokenhearted, liberty to the captives, release to prisoners—the year of the Lord’s favor. It’s jubilee, coming for the people of God after years of foreign captivity and exile. What’s more, this coming jubilee will be so overwhelming and wonderful, so thoroughly realized, that the nations will recognize the people of God by their response to this coming jubilee: “Their descendants shall be known among the nations, and their offspring among the peoples; all who see them shall acknowledge that they are a people whom the Lord has blessed.”

The nations will recognize God’s people by their joy. That seems like a fitting claim on this third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday (gaudete is “rejoice” in Latin); it’s the Sunday of Advent marked by the theme of joy. I can’t help but think that the people of God, experiencing jubilee, would most certainly be filled with joy. I mean, if I were to go home this afternoon and find a few letters in my mailbox telling me my student loans, mortgage, and car note were forgiven, why I might just dance in the streets (even though as a Baptist, that would be a sin, and I’d have to walk the aisle next Sunday, still…); folks would know I had my debts forgiven. Or what if you had to sell your parents’ home—your childhood home—to help pay for a parent’s end of life care and medical expenses, only to go home this afternoon and find a certified letter with all the proper paperwork returning your family land to you—wouldn’t you be tingling with just a bit of joy? Or imagine the outcry of joy if today, millions of refugees huddled in cold camps, were told they could return home to their families…that’s what jubilee might have looked like. That would most certainly capture the attention of the nations.

Of course, amidst all this talk of joy and jubilee, one can’t help but wonder if it ever really happened. I mean, there’s not a lot of biblical evidence suggesting that the people of Israel ever recognized the year of jubilee after the exodus and before their exile to Babylon. What’s more, even after their release from captivity, the people weren’t exactly jumping at the opportunity to establish the precedent of jubilee. Why not? I mean it sounds pretty good, right? Release to the captives, liberation, forgiveness, return…that all sounds pretty good to the ones needing to be released, to the ones in need of liberation and forgiveness, that’s good news to those who long to return home. It’s good news to the lowly and oppressed, but is it good news to the rest of us?

I suppose that’s why this passage of Isaiah got Jesus in so much trouble. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus begins his public ministry by reading this passage from Isaiah in a synagogue in Galilee, by the time he’s done explaining its meaning, “They got up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff.” Why would folks get so bent out of shape over a passage of scripture about the coming jubilee of God? Why? Oh, I think we all know why, don’t we? Because if there is forgiveness going around, somebody has to be doing the forgiving. If there’s debt being forgiven, somebody’s losing income from the payments. If there’s land being returned, prisoners being freed, captives returning home, somebody somewhere is losing something, and that somebody is always somebody in power, somebody with more than enough to go around. In other words, when there’s talk of Jubilee, it’s good news—joy—for those with nothing to lose and anything but good news or joy to everyone else.

Could it be that the reason jubilee has yet to arrive is because there are so many of us who claim to be the people of God who refuse to let it happen? Is it possible that those of us who sing the songs of Christmas, who sing hymns most Sunday mornings, who quote passages from Leviticus, Isaiah, and Luke are holding back the dawn of the Day of the Lord? Could it be that those of us who call on the name of Christ are the very ones who seek to throw him off a cliff at the mere mention of jubilee?

On this third Sunday of Advent, a Sunday marked by the theme of joy, there are so many in our world who have yet to experience true joy. During this season, we may be tempted to pursue our own joy as we gather with friends and family, take vacations, give and receive gifts. But what if this season isn’t about pursuing our own joy? What if this life isn’t only about pursuing our own joy? What if, as the people of God, this season (and every season) is about pursuing the joy of others? What if the ancient practice of jubilee was more than a novel idea? What if forgiveness was more than a promise from God to us? What is liberation was more than a spiritual notion? What if joy is truly found in bringing good news and joy to others?

In this week leading up to Christmas, may you, the people of God, be bearers of the good news of God’s coming joy. May you be proclaimers of God’s coming jubilee. May you seek the joy of others this season, and in that pursuit, find the deepest and truest meaning of joy itself. Amen.

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[1] Leviticus 18:21, “You shall give any of your offspring to sacrifice them to Molech, and so profane the name of your God: I am the Lord.”

[2] Acts 10:13-15

[3] Mark 7:18-19

[4] According to dating derived from 1 Kings 6:1

"A Highway for Our God" (Second Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 40:1-11

1 Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. 2 Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord's hand double for all her sins. 3 A voice cries out: "In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. 4 Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. 5 Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken." 6 A voice says, "Cry out!" And I said, "What shall I cry?" All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. 7 The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass. 8 The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever. 9 Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah, "Here is your God!" 10 See, the Lord God comes with might, and his arm rules for him; his reward is with him, and his recompense before him. 11 He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.

            Today is the Second Sunday of Advent, a Sunday when we reflect upon the theme of peace. Peace is one of those words we toss around a lot this time of year, right along with words like hope, joy, and love. We speak about Jesus being born as the “Prince of Peace,” we sing songs about angels proclaiming “peace on earth,” and even set aside special times and services to pray specifically for peace, yet in spite of our best efforts to sing such songs, pray such prayers, and make such proclamations, peace has not yet come to the world: there continues to be unrest and conflict around the globe and even here at home; nations struggle against nation, political party fights with political party, religions are rife with division within their own ranks while lobbing theological (and sometimes literal) bombs at one another; racial tensions seem to be the highest they’ve been in a generation; and the threat of nuclear war has come back around to rear its ugly, destructive head. No, it seems peace is still just a word.

            Of course, peace cannot happen on its own. Jesus said in his Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” not “Blessed are the peacekeepers,” or “peace-observers.” Peace doesn’t just arrive. It takes preparation, laying the groundwork for understanding, conversation, and reconciliation. Those things themselves are not easy, for one doesn’t just pick up the phone to call an old enemy and say, “Hey, we’ve been threatening each other with violence for years now, but what do you say about having a cup of coffee and burying the hatchet?” Peace doesn’t come so easily, but then again, nothing worth having, worth holding on to, comes so easily—freedom, for instance.

            For over a generation the people of Judah had gone without freedom. In the year 597 B.C.E. the Babylonians captured Jerusalem and the king, Jehoiachin was deported along with many of the elites of Judah to Babylon. A decade later, the city would be destroyed, the temple burned down, the monarch removed, and even more of the people would be deported to Babylon. The people would remain in exile until around the year 538 B.C.E. when the Persian king, Cyrus would conquer Babylon and allow the exiles return to their homeland (the books of Ezra and Nehemiah tell the stories of the people’s return to Jerusalem). It is into this atmosphere of expectation, the apparent arrival of answers to prayers, that the prophet (whom most scholars call “Second Isaiah”) speaks.

            The prophet’s words are aimed at a people who have longed for freedom, longed for restoration, but have yet to receive it. They are words that initially ring with relief: “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord's hand double for all her sins.” The prophet is commissioned to speak words of comfort to the people because their penalty has been paid, their sentence has been served, and God is releasing them from their punishment in captivity. This prophet, however, knows that you can’t just show up and tell folks who’ve been waiting for years that everything is now fine and they can go home. This prophet understands that a people who have been held in captivity for a generation will likely be gun-shy, skeptical not only of the prophet but of the God for whom the prophet speaks. It’s why he says, “All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass.” The people are frail, frightened, suffering perhaps from post-traumatic stress disorder, so when the prophet arrives and says God is coming, of course, like grass scorched by the hot sun of a dry summer, the people would wither.

            Could it be, that for some, the arrival of God isn’t good news? Could it be, that there are those in this world who’ve had such negative images of God handed to them, that to proclaim the presence of God, the coming of the Almighty, is to proclaim terror and induce fear? Is it possible that there are those in our lives who have only had these horrendous images of God proclaimed to them—images of a God who sits on a throne in the sky, watching them like some divine prison guard, waiting for them to step a toe out of line so he can send them to hell? Is it possible that there are those among us who have only heard of a God who sets an impossibly high bar for righteousness and unfairly judges those who cannot reach it? Could it be that there are people who have only been told of a misogynistic, prejudiced, judging, all-powerful God who’s only concern is that people follow his rules or else they’ll have to burn for eternity? If that’s the sort of God I had heard of, I don’t think I’d see God’s arrival as good news. So you can see why the people of Judah might be as frail as grass—they could only recall God’s judgement, God’s punishment in the form of Babylon and their exile from their homeland.

            Of course, those of us who, like the prophet, know better, those of us who have experienced the grace, forgiveness, and love of God, we have an uphill climb before us in proclaiming the truth of just who God is, even this time of year. While it is true that “The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever,” there are still those among us who have been hurt by those who claim to pronounce the word of God, and there are those who simply refuse to believe because of what they see in the words and actions of others who call themselves the people of God, and still others who refuse to hear because God has seemingly let them down, forgotten them in some unlit corner of life, where hard times, bad luck, and the “wrong crowd” seem to congregate. It is not an easy task set before us; proclaiming the arrival of God is surely difficult enough without the baggage of false claims and religious abuse of power, but it’s the prophet’s calling—it’s our calling: “Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good [news]; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good [news], lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah, ‘Here is your God!’"

            “Here is your God!” While these are certainly powerful words to be spoken, they are words that will undoubtedly ring hollow in the absence of conviction, for without such conviction, without the lived-in testimony of a life of faith, without the well-worn callouses of failure and redemption, without the truly hard work of a life lived in faithfulness, such a proclamation will be received with the same sincerity as one who shouts, “Peace!” while aiming at his enemy! Proclaiming the arrival of God is about more than just pronouncing the words, for if one is to truly hear the arrival of God as good news, one has to believe that the God who is indeed coming is indeed good, and for those who have lived in captivity, those who have been held in the dark corners of life, those who have been handed an image of God that is less than good, to believe in a God who is good, a God of liberation and love, takes flesh and bone, it takes preparation.

            That is why the voice cries out, "In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together…” Notice, it’s after everything is set right, after the valleys are lifted up, the mountains made low, the ground made plain and level that the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all peoples shall see it together. It isn’t after the prophet stands up, taps the mic, and says, “here is your God.” It’s after the way has been prepared, after justice has come, after reconciliation, after a great “leveling.” Folks cannot hear the arrival of God as good news until the way has been prepared; they cannot hear the good news of a God who was born, lived, died, and resurrected if that news is coming from those whose lives do not reflect some portion of the power of that truth!

            We can shout from the rooftops, “Peace on Earth!” but until we strive for reconciliation, until we have sought to understand one another, until we have truly sought to find in each other and our enemies the commonality of our shared humanity, we are shouting in the wind! We can tell others that “God is love,” but until we show that love to others, until we strive to put others ahead of ourselves just as Christ did, until we proclaim that love with our lives, our words will be meaningless.

            Like that highway in the wilderness, we are preparing for the arrival of God. We are making the crooked places straight. We are lifting up our brothers and sisters from every valley. We are bringing every high mountain of self-righteousness to the ground. We are making the ground level so that we may see one another as we truly are—children of God, and together, we are striving to make the rough places plain, so that the way of the Lord will be clear, so that the arrival of our God will be one of hope, peace, joy, and love. You and I, together, along with our sisters and brothers around the world, are called to be a highway for our God, making the arrival of God good news for those who might otherwise see it as anything else. You and I, we are called to make peace, to put flesh and bone to the words we proclaim about our God. You and I, we are called to shout the good news of God’s arrival in Christ Jesus from the mountaintop, to speak it in conversations, to tell it to whomever may listen, but above all else, you and I are called to prepare the way of the Lord through out very lives.

             So, on this Second Sunday of Advent, may the word “peace” be more than just a word; may it be a reality that comes through your hands and feet as you seek to live a life of peace. On this Second Sunday of Advent, as we draw closer to the cradle of Christ, may the arrival of Jesus’ birth be more than just a holiday on the calendar; may it be the truth that shapes each day of your life, the truth that is reflected in the love you have for God and others. Amen. 

"The Works of God" (First Sunday of Advent)

Isaiah 64:1-9

1 O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence-- 2 as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil-- to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence! 3 When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence. 4 From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him. 5 You meet those who gladly do right, those who remember you in your ways. But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed. 6 We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away. 7 There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity. 8 Yet, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. 9 Do not be exceedingly angry, O Lord, and do not remember iniquity forever. Now consider, we are all your people.

            I got an email about a week ago (maybe some of you got the same email). It was from Amazon (the online retail giant) informing me of some changes that are coming with my Amazon Prime membership. You see, I became an Amazon Prime member years ago, primarily for the free, two-day shipping and access to streaming movies and T.V. shows. Well, this email informed me that I may no longer have to wait an agonizingly long two days to receive my orders anymore. In fact, if I happened to live in one of 5,000 cities and towns, I could get free one-day or even same-day shipping. Imagine that: I could possibly get whatever I found on Amazon the same day I ordered it without paying a dime for shipping! Of course, we don’t live in one of those 5,000 cities or towns, so I guess I’ll just have to settle for the snail-like two-day shipping option.

            That email from Amazon did cause me to think, though, about what has happened to our collective patience. Do we really need same-day shipping on most things we buy online? Do we really need drones dropping off groceries at our door-step? Do we need immediate access to television shows and movies without waiting for their air dates or release on DVD? Are we spoiled by the instantaneous nature of the ways in which we consume things these days? Of course we are!

            It’s hard, though, because we live in an “instant” world. In fact, we’ve become so accustomed to the nearly instantaneous speed of life that we complain when things are even slightly slower than what we’re used to. Don’t believe me? Less than a decade ago, I can remember thinking that 3G data speed on my Blackberry was incredible, but now, if I have to wait on an email to load on my smartphone I get frustrated. Take a beat to think about that sentence or any other similar sentiment you’ve had: I get frustrated waiting on an email to load on my phone.

            Of course, along with this instantaneous satisfaction comes the specificity with which our desires can be met. In other words, it’s not just about how fast we can get something, but how precisely we can have our wants and needs met. This is so common to us that we don’t even realize it’s happening all the time. For instance, just yesterday (December 2^nd), we were at the grocery store. Now, there’s nothing odd about a family going grocery shopping on a Saturday in December—well, except for the fact that in the grocery store there were fresh ears of corn, tomatoes, avocados, and all other sorts of fresh produce. Why is that odd? Because these things don’t grow here this time of year; some of them don’t grow around here at all, yet there they were, in boxes, packages, and bags, ready to be bought for a ridiculously low price, and we acted like it was nothing along with the other shoppers in the store (especially the woman who nearly bought all the avocados!).

            We get things when we want them and how we want them, and we rarely (if ever) stop to think about how semi-miraculous it all is, how much it might actually cost us or someone else, how much it just might be spoiling all of us. We live in a world where our every want can be met almost instantly, where we can travel to almost anywhere on the globe in less than a day, where we can communicate with anyone, anywhere, instantaneously with a device we carry in our pockets or wear on our wrists! We don’t have to wait on things to grow in our gardens or on farms anymore; we can have full-grown chickens in weeks, tomatoes year-round, and guacamole on the table at Christmas! With all of this speed and efficiency, with all of this productive possibility, is it any wonder that one of the things that frustrates us the most, the very thing that will cause our blood pressure to rise and our tempers to flare is having to wait? Slow internet connections, stalled traffic, waiting too long for our dinner at the restaurant, standing in line behind someone with a wad of coupons at the grocery store—all things that can unnerve us in a world that has trained us in the art of instant gratification.

            This acclamation to such immediate satisfaction, I believe, has also led us down a path of inevitable frustration, depression, and blame. When we can get just about anything we want almost immediately and almost exactly the way we want it, it can be hard to hear the doctor tell us the radiation is going to take 6 weeks or we’ll need rehabilitation for 100 days. In a world that offers us immediate delivery on whatever our heart desires, it can throw our world into chaos when we don’t hear the phone ring for days after that interview we had. When a pregnancy doesn’t happen, when a tumor won’t go away, when the medicine takes too long to work, when the addiction won’t let us go, when pain hangs on longer than we want it to—the immediacy of everything else in this world seems to mock us, to only add to the weight of our frustration and pain. After all, when everything else can be delivered in an instant, why not hope, peace, joy, and love? Why do these things take so much time? Why does it always seem that God takes so much time?

            Can’t you hear the same sentiment—that sense of frustration in waiting—in the words of the prophet? “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence—as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil—to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence! When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.” The people of God have been through the perils of exile, have (possibly) returned to their homeland, and now they cannot help but wonder where God has been. They want some immediate assurance, some great sign that God is indeed with them. The prophet cries out, wishing God would rend the sky apart, shake the mountains, make his presence known among the people in a real and undeniable way, but when God doesn’t show up the way the prophet (and the people) want God to, the prophet turns inward and blames himself and the people for God’s apparent absence: “From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him. You meet those who gladly do right, those who remember you in your ways. But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed. We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away. There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.”

            The prophet does what we all do when it seems that God tarries, when it feels as if God is not answering our prayers: the prophet blames himself, looks in the mirror and says, “the problem is that I’m just too bad to be loved by God; we’re just too sinful to have God among us; God has turned God’s back on us because we’re just so wicked.” I suppose it’s an easy place to go when we get bad news, an easy place to hide when it seems as if God isn’t listening anymore, when things aren’t going our way, I suppose it’s just easier to give into more superstition than faith, to say that God doesn’t answer our prayers or join us in our lives until we get all of the bad out. That, however, is just another excuse we tell ourselves, because admitting that we’re awful, sinful, no-good people is apparently easier than waiting.

            I think the prophet even comes to understand that truth before the words even leave his mouth, because right after he says, “you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity,”  he says, “Yet, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. Do not be exceedingly angry, O Lord, and do not remember iniquity forever. Now consider, we are all your people.” It is as if the prophet needs to remind himself and the people of God—as if he needs to remind us—that silence from God is not abandonment, for we are now and forever shall be God’s people, clay in the Potter’s hands, and like a potter working clay on a wheel, it takes time for the work to be complete.

            I think that’s why we need Advent, a traditional season of the universal Church that can sometimes be overlooked by newer traditions and churches. There is so much in our culture that feeds our need for immediate satisfaction, and it is that same drive that causes us to hum Christmas songs the day after Halloween, to get the tree out the first week of November, to binge-watch our favorite Christmas movies beginning the week of Thanksgiving. We want Christmas to be here now—right now, but deep down, we know we have to wait. It’s that waiting that can be holy, that waiting for Christmas, waiting for the revelation of God, waiting for the Good News, waiting for appearance of the divine—it’s that waiting that can motivate us to do more in the meantime, to gather more together in anticipation, to tell as many as we can about what’s coming, to bring a small portion of that hope, peace, joy, and love to as many as we can with the time we have to wait.

You see, it’s while we are waiting for God’s arrival, for Christ’s arrival, that we are to be about the work of proclaiming and living into the reality of God’s arrival. It’s while we wait that the Potter shapes and molds the clay; it’s while we wait that we are being transformed into something wonderful and holy; it’s while we wait that we are called to transform the world into something wonderful and holy; it’s while we wait that we truly experience the work of God, though it may not be in ways that split the sky or shake mountains. No, in fact, it might be in the most surprising and otherwise unnoticed ways, like giving a plate of hot food to someone who’s hungry, like taking the time to listen to someone else’s struggles, like slipping a few dollars in a red kettle. Yes, I’m more and more convinced that God moves among us while we wait, and God works in the most surprising and unexpected ways, why, God even works through a scared, young, unwed woman and her betrothed to literally bear the Good News to the world, while they wait, while we all wait. How will you be a part of the works of God, while we wait? Amen.