Fifth Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXTS: Isaiah 6:1-13 and Luke 5:1-11

 

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.” (Isaiah 6:1-3)

Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signalled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken. (Luke 5:5-9)

 

Why do you think people come to church? Ever asked that question?

In trying to answer that question, I’ll wager most committed Christians would say something about wanting to get closer to God.

Isn’t that one of the aims of a worship service? To help people draw near to God? To experience the presence of God? To encounter the living Christ?

Certainly, worship should be about all of that. But sometimes I wonder whether we really know what it is we’re seeking. We want to keep things calm and undisturbed and peaceful. We want a consistently warm and comfortable environment, because we think that will nurture our awareness of God’s presence.

However, when I read the biblical stories about people encountering the presence of God, what I do not see is calmness and peace and curated joy. No. What I see is awe, and even terror; a cataclysmic sense of vulnerability. I see people throwing themselves down on their faces, thinking they’re about to die. I see people who are suddenly not so sure they want to be close to God at all.

Maybe we need to think again about what it is we’re looking for on Sunday mornings.

In today’s readings we hear two well-known examples from scripture.

Isaiah went into the temple, probably not expecting anything different from what he usually experienced there; just a quiet time of prayer or a familiar participation in the corporate liturgy. But, suddenly, he is confronted by a dazzling vision of God—“high and lifted up”—seated on his throne and surrounded by seraphs: startling, six-winged entities who call out, “Holy! Holy! Holy!” so loudly that the foundations of the temple shake and the whole house fills with smoke.

Isaiah falls to his knees saying, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!”

Then there’s Simon Peter, going about his business as a fisherman. He’s met Jesus. In fact, Jesus has already healed his mother-in-law. However, at this point, he only thinks of Jesus as a rabbi with some success in prayers for healing. But in a surprising encounter in his own workplace, Peter suddenly hears the angels singing “Holy! Holy! Holy!” once again. He falls to his knees in anguish, pleading, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

It’s a sentiment echoed in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, where—after referring to his own encounter with the risen Christ—he immediately declares his own unworthiness: “For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God” (1 Cor. 15:9).

What is going on in these Bible passages? And how does it relate to our own hopes for greater closeness to God?

To be sure, God is love. And, yes, love can be comforting and welcoming and even familiar. Sometimes, though, there is also something absolutely terrifying about love. And when it arrives suddenly and unexpectedly and hits you like a freight train … you might get flattened. At the very least, you might fall to your knees.

We all know this. We’ve all observed it. Most of us have experienced it, to some extent. You know it especially if you have ever betrayed one whom you loved, and then experienced that person forgiving you. Knowing that, despite the pain you’ve caused them, they love you still. Looking into their eyes, you cannot stand it. And even though you’ve just been given the most precious gift in the world—one you begged for—deep inside you, something cries out: “Get away from me. I’m not worthy. I’ve sinned against heaven and against you. Punish me as I deserve and leave me!”

There is something about that look of deep love and desperate pain that burns holes in you, that rips away all your defences and leaves you standing naked. You know that you are loved, but it is more than you can bear.

I think that is what happened to Isaiah. I think that is what happened to Simon Peter. I think that is what happened to Paul. And I think that, at some point, that is what happens to each and every one of us if we would draw closer to Jesus Christ. For some, it happens at the moment of their conversion. For others, it can happen at any point along life’s path. God knows when you need it, but for everyone there comes a point where you’ve come as far as you can go on the journey of faith and the way ahead can only be trod by those who have looked deeply into the face of Christ.

For in that face is a love so high and so deep, so long and so broad that it can encompass the entire universe, that it can rejoice at the hatching of a sparrow and make stars explode to celebrate the return of a lost son. And in that face is the agonized pain of one who feels nails tear through his flesh with every litre of pollution that flows into the oceans, with every land mine that tears the limbs off a child, and with every thought, word or act by which you or I show ourselves to be less than human, less than we know we can be, less than the images of God that we were created to be.

When you look into that face, when you are engulfed by the extent of that love and that pain, you will, like Isaiah, feel like you are going to die; like no one can come out of such an experience alive.

Many a person gets stuck at “Go away from me, Lord.” They hold Christ at arm’s length, and for the rest of their lives they tell him, “Don’t come any closer.”

What will you do when you meet Jesus? Will you hold his gaze? Or will you avert your eyes?

That is the choice you have when confronted by the love of Christ. In fact, that is the choice you face at every step of the journey, at every experience of the love and goodness of God wherever it finds you. You can choose to turn away your face, say “No further, God,” and repress the memory, or you can fall deeper into the arms of Jesus, abandon yourself to his mercy, and go with him wherever he leads you next. You can be sure that just like Isaiah, Peter and Paul, the moment you surrender to the presence of God, you will hear the words of mercy: “Your guilt is gone, your sins are forgiven, be not afraid.”

And then will come the call: “Whom shall I send? Who will be my messenger, my fisher for human souls? Who will bear the love and mercy of Christ to others?”

That’s the choice we each face. Will you receive God’s mercy and hear God’s call? Or will you say, “Go away from me, Lord”?

That’s why we sing the same words as did the seraphim: “Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord.”

Will you risk encountering the risen Christ? Will you look into his face and receive his broken body, his blood poured out?

Still today, our God is asking …

“Whom shall I send”?

 

Fourth Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 4:14-30

 

Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone. When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read,  and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him … (Luke 4:14-17a)

 

“Today!” That’s how Jesus began his sermon: “Today!”

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

He was preaching in his hometown synagogue—in Nazareth, where he grew up. By this time, Jesus was about 30 years old, and he had moved to Capernaum, a much larger, more cosmopolitan town. Lots of Gentiles lived in Capernaum. And so did lots of fishermen. And some tax collectors. One of them—a fellow named Matthew—would later refer to Capernaum as “Jesus’ own city” (Matt. 9:1).

I wonder how the people of Nazareth felt about Jesus moving away. In those days, young men seldom left their hometowns. Most of the boys that Jesus had played with as a child—now grown into young men—would still have lived in Nazareth. In fact, they were probably in the congregation on that Sabbath day, as Jesus sat to teach in the synagogue where he had grown up. I wonder how they felt, seeing their childhood friend sitting in the teacher’s seat.

And, I wonder how Jesus felt. It’s difficult enough to give a speech anywhere, isn’t it? I’ve heard it said that public speaking is one of the things that people fear even more than death. You’d think it would be especially difficult to come back to your hometown to speak in your own synagogue or church. Most of us would be quaking in our boots, wouldn’t we? And all kinds of things can go wrong when we’re nervous. Like not speaking loudly enough; or speaking hesitantly; or trying to speak and having nothing come out.

But Jesus, apparently, had no problem. Someone handed him a scroll from the prophets, and he unrolled it until he found the part that he wanted. Then he read a couple of verses from the prophet Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

That would have pleased the little congregation. They would have known this passage very well. Everyone present would have recognized these words of scripture—words that held great promise for them and for their children; words that spoke of a messiah who would come to make Israel great again—who would set them free from the oppression of Rome.

Now, Jesus stopped reading before he got to the part where Isaiah talked about vengeance—but the people of Nazareth knew that part very well, too. They were all looking forward to the day when God would wreak vengeance upon the Romans. So Jesus read this familiar passage from Isaiah, and then he sat down to teach. Every eye must have been upon him. Every ear was alert to hear what he would say next.

And Jesus … well, he did not hesitate. The first word out of his mouth was “Today!”

“Today,” he said, “this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

Luke tells us that the people liked this. And they responded by speaking well of Jesus; they were amazed at his gracious words. They had heard glowing reports about his work in Capernaum. Now, Jesus seemed to be announcing that—having returned to Nazareth—he would begin his good work there.

“Today!” he said. “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Today! Here in Nazareth!

I don’t know what everyone expected at that point, but they must have been sitting on the edge of their seats. Today!

Was Jesus planning to start recruiting for a revolution right here in Nazareth? Was he preparing to rain fire from heaven on the Romans? What did “today” mean? Did it mean that Jesus would begin today to deliver them from their oppression? Did it mean that he would win the fight today? Would the Romans be gone by nightfall? Could Jesus actually deliver on this promise?

Today! The people had gotten out of bed that morning to a very ordinary Saturday. Now Jesus is telling them that they can expect something incredible today. I can imagine the smiles on their faces as they waited for him to explain.

But then Jesus reminded them of a dark page in their history: a time when Israel had been unfaithful, and God had sent a drought. People starved. Then God sent the prophet Elijah—but not to save the Israelites. No. God sent Elijah to save a Gentile woman.

Huh? What? His listeners must have felt confused.

Then Jesus reminded them of Naaman from the Second Book of Kings. Naaman was not only a Gentile, but also a Syrian army commander—a leader of the enemy camp! Besides all that, he was a leper. And what did God do? He sent Elijah’s protégé—Elisha—to heal Naaman of his leprosy. There were plenty of Jewish lepers, Jesus reminded them, but God sent the prophet to help a Gentile—a foreign soldier.

Well, that was the last straw! They had expected Jesus to help them, but instead, he reminded them of God’s help to Gentiles—that is, to the less worthy; to the enemy; to outsiders. It was as if Jesus told them to expect a big winner today, but they would not be the winners. Even worse, he told them to expect the winners to be Gentiles! Even, perhaps, enemy Gentiles.

That was more than the people could take. They had heard of Jesus working miracles in Capernaum, probably even among non-Jews. But now that he was on home turf again, they expected him to do great things for them.

Jesus said, “Don’t count on it!”

In their anger, they wanted to hurl him off a cliff, but Luke says that Jesus “passed through the midst of them and went on his way.” So God saved him, this time. His appointment with death would come soon enough. But not yet. And what did Jesus do? He left Nazareth and returned to Capernaum, and picked up where he had left off, ministering to the poor, the oppressed, and the blind. To Gentiles, and outsiders, and people of no account.

Today! The day of fulfillment came and went at Nazareth, and those folks missed it. They thought of themselves as God’s chosen people—which was true—but they had also hardened their hearts against God helping anyone else. They wanted God to be their God, and nobody else’s. But God had other ideas.

Today! Christ is here in our midst today. He is calling us to love the poor, the captive, the blind, the oppressed, outsiders, people of no account, the undeserving. Even … undocumented aliens.

The people of Nazareth could not understand that, because they thought of themselves as deserving and the rest of the world as undeserving. They expected God to reward them; but they also expected God to zap the bad guys!

They just didn’t get it. They could not see that God was calling them to reach out to the undeserving—not to knock them down, but to lift them up.

Today! Christ calls us to do the same—to love the unlovely and the fugitives; to help people who just can’t get it together; to have patience with people who seem determined to drive us crazy; to show a bit of sympathy for the person who got what he deserved.

Today! We aren’t all that different from the people who heard Jesus speak in Nazareth. We hope God will be merciful toward us—but we want him to smite our enemies.

Today! There’s a reason why we find it difficult to help down-and-outers today. The fact is that we are struggling, too.

We barely have time and money to keep ourselves afloat, much less anyone else. How can God expect us to help the poor today, when we ourselves are struggling to make ends meet?

How can God expect us to help the oppressed today, when we work for a boss who makes our lives miserable? When we serve people who do not appreciate us?

We have our own problems, God! Can’t you see? Save us, and then—maybe—we will be able to save someone else.

But the truth is that the people who reach out to the poor and needy are often those who are poor and needy themselves. Someone who has suffered understands suffering. Pain can breed compassion.

Over a quarter-century ago, Mother Teresa of Calcutta spoke at Saint Olaf’s Church in Minneapolis. She called her listeners to compassionate action—to help others in need.*

When Mother Teresa concluded her remarks, a woman in a wheelchair raised her hand to ask a question.

The woman suffered from cerebral palsy. Her body moved convulsively as she spoke, and she had a great deal of trouble forming words; it was painful just to watch her try to express herself. 
Mother Teresa waited patiently. Slowly and haltingly, the woman asked how she could help someone else.

Mother Teresa did not hesitate for a moment. She said, “You can do the most. You can do more than any of us—because your suffering is united with the suffering of Christ on the cross, and it brings strength to all of us.”

What a brave answer! If the woman had asked me that question, I would have felt sorry for her and said she didn’t need to do anything. That would have been a mistake. The woman needed an opportunity to do something important, and Mother Teresa told her how to do that. She joined a group known as “The Sick and Suffering Co-Workers of Mother Teresa.” And that woman, in her poverty of spirit, became an inspiration to everyone.

She lived only one more year after meeting Mother Teresa, but she had an inspirational ministry during that time. People quoted her as saying: “We are fortunate to have a share in Christ’s cross. Lord, let us suffer without regret, for in your will—and in our gracious acceptance of that same holy will—lives our eternal destiny.”

Today! Christ came to that woman on that day through Mother Teresa’s ministry, and she found herself ready; ready to receive Christ, ready to obey his call—ready to suffer, if need be, and to allow Christ to transform her suffering into spiritual witness. She received a blessing on that day, and she spent the last year of her life giving a bit of that blessing to everyone she could.

When Jesus came to Nazareth, he said: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

The people of Nazareth were not ready to hear Jesus. They were looking for what they could get rather than what they could give. The result was that they neither received—nor gave—anything. The big day came, and they went away empty-handed.

Today Jesus comes to us in like manner. He asks us: “Will you join my ministry to the poor and oppressed? Will you reach out to the dying and downtrodden? The broken? The refugee? The illegal immigrant? Are you willing to love the unlovely?”



Today! Christ is here today, and he is asking for a piece of your heart. So don’t be like that crowd in Nazareth; be like the woman in the wheelchair—ready to serve. If you’re willing to do that, Christ will make it possible—today!

Be ready now, for Christ is here. Amen.

_________________________________________

* http://motherterissa.blogspot.ca/2009/10/mother-teresa-1910-1997-minnesotans.html

Third Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 4:14-21

And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4:20-21)

This coming Sunday, many will begin worship by naming the liturgical date: “Welcome to God’s house on this third Sunday after Epiphany.”

The Epiphany of the Lord is always observed on the sixth of January. The third Sunday following that date is “Epiphany Three.”

That may not mean much of anything to you. And for a long time, it didn’t mean much to me, either! I don’t remember the liturgical calendar and the seasons of the church year having quite such a high profile in the United Church of my youth. Maybe it did, and I just wasn’t paying attention.

In recent years, though, I’ve come to appreciate the seasons of the church year.

We’ve just recently passed through the season of Advent—that span of waiting and anticipation preceding the festivities of Christmas. And soon—leading up to the sheer joy of Easter—we’ll enter the season of Lent.

Traditionally, Lent is comprised of 40 days of somber reflection—relieved, thankfully, by the Sundays in the midst of Lent.

Yeah. The Sundays are not actually part of Lent. But that’s a whole other story.

As of today, we are about halfway through the season of Epiphany. Epiphany Day—on January sixth—commemorates the moment when Jesus’ true identity was revealed to the Magi.

The word “epiphany” itself means “revealing”—and it carries the sense of a sudden illumination, like a light being switched on.

Now, in the “Revised Common Lectionary”—the schedule of Bible readings that we usually follow—the gospel lessons for the Sundays after Epiphany have been carefully chosen.

In other words, they’re part of a plan. And the plan is to focus the spotlight on Jesus and then click the brightness up a notch, week by week.

It begins with the Star of Bethlehem lighting the way for the Wise Men, and it concludes with Jesus standing atop the Mount of Transfiguration, his face and clothing so brilliantly dazzling that those with him needed sunglasses!

It’s as if, on each of the Sundays during this season, we turn the dimmer switch up just a little bit more.

On the first Sunday after Epiphany in year “C”—which is what we’re in right now—the lectionary serves up the story of Jesus’ baptism, telling us how the Holy Spirit descended on him like a dove, and the heavenly voice spoke to him.

Then, on the second Sunday after, we read the account of the Wedding at Cana, when Jesus turned water into wine—and his disciples saw that, and believed. The light shines brighter and brighter on Jesus, and more and more people begin to realize who he really is.

But have you ever asked yourself, “When did Jesus know?”

When did Jesus know who he really was?

Some would argue that he always knew—and much of the Gospel of John supports that kind of thinking.

“In the beginning was the Word,” John says. “And the Word was with God, and the Word was God … And the Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:1, 14).

In John’s Gospel, Jesus always seems to know exactly who he is, and who he was, and who he will be. Not only that, but he seems to know exactly where he came from, and exactly where he’s going. John doesn’t give us an account of Jesus’ birth, or mention—as Luke does (2:52)—that he “increased in wisdom and in years”—growing smarter as he grew older.

Part of the reason for that, I think, is that John was trying to answer skeptics who were insisting that Jesus was just a man.

We Christians, of course, believe that Jesus of Nazareth was much more than “just a man.”

However, we also believe that he was fully human—that his humanity was every bit as real as his divinity. Faithful readers of this blog may remember that I’ve touched on this theme before. It’s what a young friend of mine referred to as “one of those paradoxes” of faith. Jesus was “fully God” and “fully human.”

If he was “fully God”—well, that helps explain why he could perform miracles and look into people’s hearts. But if he was also “fully human” … well, then, he must have had limitations, just like the rest of us. That’s what you mean (isn’t it?) when you say, “I’m only human.”

If Jesus was fully human, isn’t it likely that he came to an understanding of himself in the same way that we do? Slowly. Over time—and not all at once.

To be sure, there is that story from the Gospel of Luke (2:41-51) about Jesus’ boyhood, where he is found in the Temple, debating with the religious scholars.

You remember it. When his mother scolds him for disappearing without telling anyone, he replies: “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”

Smart-aleck kid! It’s as if Jesus knew—all along—what the rest of the world would only much later figure out. Maybe. But then again, he may only have had a vague kind of awareness that when he was in the Temple, somehow—for some reason—he felt at home. That’s probably the case for many of you: you who grew up in the church, or who’ve hung around one for many decades.

Today, I want to consider the possibility that Jesus’ first complete understanding of his identity and his mission might have come upon him in the synagogue at Nazareth, as recorded in our gospel lesson.

It happened after he had been baptized—after he had heard the voice of God saying: “You are my Son, the Beloved” (Luke 3:22).

It happened after he spent 40 days in the wilderness, trying to figure out what it meant to be the Son of God.

It happened after he had been tested by Satan—and found himself more than equal to the test.

It happened after he had left the wilderness of Jordan and come up into the familiar lush green hills of Galilee, full of the Holy Spirit.

He came to Nazareth, his hometown. And on the Sabbath, he went to the synagogue, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll was handed to him. Now, perhaps it was a prescribed reading for that day—kind of like our Revised Common Lectionary. But, for whatever reason, what presents itself is a passage from chapter 61 of Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

Then Jesus sat down to teach. All eyes were upon him, as everyone waited to hear what he would say. So he took a deep breath and announced: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

And that was it. Talk about a short sermon! Very brief. Almost as if he, himself, was taken aback. As if he had just received a sudden—and staggering—insight. As if, in that instant, everything became shockingly clear to him.

I wonder: did he sit down because it was the custom for rabbis to teach while seated? Or did he sit because, all at once, he needed to? Did this scripture reading make him weak in the knees?

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” he read. And it was! Luke says that it descended upon him in bodily form like a dove; that he entered the wilderness by its power, and that he came to Galilee full of the Holy Spirit.

“Because he has anointed me,” he read. That was true, also. In the same way that Samuel had poured oil onto David’s head to anoint him as Israel’s king, God had poured Holy Spirit onto Jesus, identifying him as the Messiah.

“To bring good news to the poor,” Jesus had read. “To proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

In a flash of insight, Jesus’ mission had suddenly become clear to him. He was the Lord’s anointed. He had been sent to accomplish all these things.

Maybe he had to sit down for a minute. Perhaps his voice was full of wonder as he spoke to the congregation, saying, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

When was it fulfilled? That very day.

Where was it fulfilled? In that very place.

In one dazzling epiphany, Jesus understood—completely—who he was and what he was meant to do. Right then—right there—that Scripture had found its fulfillment in him!

I think I would have had to sit down, too.

Think of all those times—30 years of Sabbath days—when Jesus had come to this very synagogue. Come there to seek God’s purpose. Waited there for a word from his Father. And now the waiting had ended, with a clear sense of call. An epiphany.

Epiphany can come anytime, anywhere. It can even come during a worship service—as you sit, surrounded by God’s people, and by God’s presence.

The light can grow suddenly brighter, and all at once you can see clearly what you could not see before: who you are … and what you are meant to do. It can make you suddenly weak in the knees. But when you are able to stand again, you may find yourself more certain than ever of what it is God has called you to do—and how it is that you will reply.

This coming Lord’s Day is the third Sunday after Epiphany. But it could also be the day you circle on the calendar and remember forever as the day of your own epiphany.

So may it be. Amen.

Second Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’ And Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.’ His mother said to the servants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.’ Now standing there were six stone water-jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, ‘Fill the jars with water.’ And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, ‘Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.’ So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, ‘Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.’  Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

(John 2:1-11, NRSVA)

Timing is everything.

Timing can be critical to the success of a joke, or an actor’s performance. In the world of finance, timing is a serious matter. We don’t want to pay our bills late—or miss paying them altogether! When we make investments, we want to buy low and sell high. When we take out a mortgage or a car loan, we want a good interest rate with favourable terms.

Timing is vital to our health. We want to become aware of a disease early, before it gets out of hand. If we have to take medication, we need to do it as directed.

Certainly, timing is essential when dealing with people. You need to be careful when you ask your boss for a raise or a friend for a favour. Catching that other person at the wrong time—like … just after he’s gotten a speeding ticket or she’s just lost an important account to a competitor … That will probably scuttle your request.

Timing even comes into play in such ordinary activities as cooking. “Better late than never” just will not do when you’re grilling a steak on the barbecue.

Timing is everything.

In our gospel story about the wedding at Cana, the timing goes all wrong. Not because the bride or groom speaks out of turn. Not because the presider mispronounces names or fumbles the vows. No. It’s just that the wine ran out before the party was over.

Now if it were us, we might call a friend aside and ask him to make a run to the local wine shop and pick up some more. But Cana is in first-century Galilee, not 21st-century Alberta—and so there isn’t a liquor store on every block.

In this time and place, running out of wine too early is not merely embarrassing, it’s a disaster! Wine is more than a social lubricant; it’s a symbol of the harvest, of God’s abundance, of joy and gladness and hospitality. And so when they run short of wine … they run short of blessing.

Timing is everything. The wine has run out before the wedding reception is over. And this is a catastrophe.

To make matters worse, Jesus’ mother doesn’t appear to have much of a sense of timing, either. At least that’s what Jesus seems to think.

“They have no more wine,” she tells her son.

Now, we don’t know why Mary was so concerned. Perhaps she was close to the family of the bride or the family of the groom. Or maybe she just was particularly sensitive to this kind of social faux pas. In any case, she expected her son to do something about it.

Jesus, however, seems to regard this as another instance of bad timing: “Dear woman,” he responds, “why are you telling me about this? The time for me to show who I really am isn’t here yet” (John 2:4).

Or is it? Mary knows better. Rather than raise an eyebrow at his tone or make an argument, she turns to the servants and tells them simply: “Do whatever he tells you.”

Now it could be that Mary knew her son would come around. He might protest, but eventually he’ll do what his mother tells him. Or perhaps Mary knew how to tell time better than Jesus thought. She was, after all, the one who gave birth to him. She was the one who nursed him as a baby and watched him grow. She was the one who dried his tears as a child, and followed after him when he grew to be a man. Mary knew that whenever her son was present, it was no ordinary time.

We know the rest of the story. Jesus instructs the servants to fill six large stone jars with water. Then he tells them to draw some of that water—now turned into wine—and take it to the master of ceremonies.

And once again timing becomes an issue. Usually, a host would serve the best wine first, to make a good impression. The cheap wine would be served later, when the palettes of the guests had been sufficiently dulled to not notice the drop in quality. But this host has bucked the traditional timing and saved the best wine for last! At least, that’s what it looks like to the MC.

And suddenly this couple has 180 gallons of fantastic wine—more than enough for even the largest crowd. No one would leave this wedding thirsty, for blessings flowed abundantly. And they didn’t even have to worry about “check stops” on the way home!

Timing is everything—and not just in this story, but throughout John’s Gospel.

In fact, there are two kinds of time that figure into John’s narrative. One kind is the sort of time we use to mark the everyday events of our lives. It is the sort of time that is measured in minutes and seconds, hours and days. It’s the time we spend standing in line, or commuting to work, or waiting at the stoplight. It is mundane, ordinary time—and it ticks on relentlessly with a dull, predictable cadence.

But in the Fourth Gospel, there is another kind of time at play, as well: a supernatural kind of time, wherein predictability fades away—and what emerges in its place is sheer possibility. This is God’s time, and it punches through the ordinary timing of our lives to offer a glimpse of eternity.

So when Jesus speaks of “the time to show who he really is,” he doesn’t mean a time and date on his calendar. No. He means the time when God will reveal his glory through his cross, his resurrection, and his ascension. He means that time when God will be accessible to all, once and for all.

That time, that hour, Jesus says, has not yet come.

Or has it? Once again, consider Mary. She seems to know—better than anyone—what time it is. For Mary seems not only to believe that Jesus can do something about this loss of blessing; she expects him to!

She knows her son. And she knows that, whenever there is need and Jesus is on the scene, resurrection and abundance are close at hand. Knowing this makes all the difference. Through the Holy Spirit dwelling in us and amongst us, Jesus is always on the scene.

As the apostle Paul once wrote, “The Holy Spirit is given to each of us in a special way” (1 Cor. 12:7). Because of that—because Jesus lives in us and we live in him—every moment is filled with divine possibility. Food and drink upon the Lord’s Table make Jesus’ sacrifice real in our remembering. An ordinary hug conveys boundless love and blessing. The smallest donation of food or money can tip the balance between scarcity and abundance.

A simple act of kindness can make all the difference in the world. And a smile—shared at just the right time—can shine light into the darkest place.

This peculiarly timed sign, you see, revealed something about Jesus. When he is present, anything is possible. Because, as John testified in the first verses of his gospel, Jesus reveals God’s grace in his own person: “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” (John 1:14).

When Jesus is on the scene, God is accessible and available to all.

Timing is everything. But do we really know how to tell time?

Maybe we think it’s nine ‘o clock on a Monday morning and all that’s in front of us is a pile of invoices. Or maybe it’s 6:30 on a Wednesday evening, and time to start the kids on homework. Or maybe it’s 7:30 on a Saturday morning and time—finally—to sleep in.

To be sure, that’s part of the story, but it’s not the whole story. The other part of the story is this: God is at work in our occupations, in our relationships, and in our family lives: working to care for and redeem the entire Creation. The question for all of us—and for each of us—is: are we aware of that? And what difference does it make?

The truth is, God is present with us in all of the ordinary, everyday experiences of our lives. Through those experiences, and through our whole lives, God is at work in the world. To us, it may seem like time is dragging on. Or it may seem like time is running out. But here’s the thing: because of Jesus, whatever time we think it is, it is also God’s time—and when God is around, all things are possible. That remains true even when the challenges ahead seem daunting.

That’s good news for us, as we embark on this new year, and contemplate the challenges and the opportunities being presented to us. It’s good news for us, because—and I hope you believe this, because it’s the truth—our Lord makes this journey with us.

What greater blessing could we possibly ask for?

Epiphany/Baptism of the Lord

TEXTS: Isaiah 60:1-6; Matthew 2:1-12; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

 

Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth,
   and thick darkness the peoples;
but the LORD will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.

(Isaiah 60:1-2)

As I mentioned in last week’s blog, the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 2025, took place this past Monday, ushering in the season of Epiphany. The first Sunday after the sixth of January is called on the church calendar, “Baptism of the Lord.”

Sure, Epiphany begins with the visit of the Magi, who frequently show up in manger scenes along with the shepherds and angels and animals (even though they really don’t belong there). But, look … Christmas and Epiphany really are different seasons. Epiphany has a different emphasis than Christmas. Epiphany, I think, is far more challenging.

Christmas is no problem for most people. The message of Christmas—the images that are part of Christmas—are imprinted forever on our minds from our earliest years. And the images and impressions we carry with us are not just Santa Claus and reindeer and Christmas presents under Christmas trees; not just Christmas cookies and gingerbread men. There is a central, deeper image we carry with us—the image of birth, the birth of a child in a stable; the image of a real baby in a real place. And we know about babies; we have held them; we were babies once, too. And we understand in our very bones that all babies are, in some sense, a miracle.

The images of the Epiphany are another matter entirely. The meaning, in Greek, of Epiphany is “a showing forth.” You might also say it is an explanation of what the birth of Jesus means. Human beings are a stubborn lot. It takes a lot to convince us of anything, even if we see the evidence right in front of us. Needless to say, recognizing the appearance of the divine and the miraculous amongst us takes a great deal of explanation: a number of ways of looking at a profound truth.

If you have ever walked into a brightly-lit room from the darkness of a winter’s night, you will remember your difficulty, for a few minutes, of identifying anything or anyone you are seeing. What you are most aware of is the glowing, transforming light—not necessarily what it “means” or, at first, what it is helping you to see.

January 6—Epiphany Day—is all about the familiar story of the journey of the Magi: the Wise Men from the East, the “Three Kings” who followed a brilliant star; followed it to a house in Bethlehem where they met a young boy. And in this very human child, they saw something Divine: the King, the Messiah, for whom they had brought their royal gifts. In the Christian Church in the West, this recognition has for centuries dominated our understanding of the Epiphany.

In Eastern Christianity, however, the emphasis at Epiphany has been placed on the next great moment of recognition or understanding: the Baptism of the adult Jesus by his cousin, John. This happened, of course, at the end of a mass baptism of new believers, when Jesus was revealed as the Christ, the Son of God.

This revelation was intended not only for the first witnesses, but also for those who would read about it later … and perhaps, even, for Jesus himself. If the carpenter’s son had been, up to this point, seeking his identity—seeking his mission—it surely became crystal clear when he heard the voice from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Epiphany and baptism. Bethlehem and the Jordan. The small child and the grown man. I think it is entirely appropriate to celebrate these great events together.  If we do that, we are able to see them side by side, the two traditions informing and explaining each other.

The whole idea of the Epiphany season is one of enlightenment. The wonderful birth in Bethlehem contained such a great mystery that the people of Earth could not be expected to absorb it all at once. There had to be assurances; there had to be proof beyond doubt. The three kings, the Magi—who were indeed wise—would not have worshipped just any child. They knew when they had found divinity.

Years later, when John the Baptist welcomed new believers with water and the Word, he first had to make clear to them that he was not himself the promised Messiah. Then, when he baptized Jesus, everyone saw who the Messiah really was. All who witnessed the event should have realized the endless promise—and light—they had been given.

Each one of us must open the window into the Infinite that allows us to understand the miracle of this season. Whatever Christian tradition we embrace, whatever window we choose to open, the result should be illumination; the result should be a flood of light.

The imagery of Epiphany is full of light—the light of the star which led the Magi, and the enlightenment that took place when Jesus emerged from the waters of the Jordan:

• Light in our own understanding.
• Light in our very hearts and souls.
• Light which reveals.
• Light which makes all things plain.

Only weeks ago we experienced the shortest day of the year, winter solstice; and ever since, the days have been getting longer. Each new day contains more and more light. Considering that it is much more difficult to see even the most obvious things in the dark, this season invites us to travel toward the light so that we may see what it reveals.

“Arise,” says the prophet Isaiah. “Arise, shine; for your light has come and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.”

“Arise and shine.” Light is a symbol not only of revelation, but also of hope—hope for the entire world. But it can only shine brightly through us and through our actions.

Light makes things more visible. With that revelation, however—with that understanding—comes a responsibility. Jesus told us that we shall encounter him—meet him, face-to-face—in our sisters and brothers, and especially in the poor and needy, the sick and hurting. Once we step into the light, once we see clearly, we are called to bring all our gifts—no matter how humble—to honour Jesus and all that he stands for in our lives and in the world.

The light of Christ calls us not only to acknowledge the needs of others, but to minister to them, also. It calls us to come out from the dark places that represent complacency and false peace. So, during the Epiphany season—and especially on “Baptism of Christ Sunday”—we are both illuminated and challenged. We are given a glimpse of the Divine, and we are commissioned to a ministry.

Saint Francis of Assisi summed it all up in a prayer for Epiphany. He said: “Most high, glorious God, enlighten the darkness of my heart and give me, Lord, a right faith, a certain hope, a perfect charity. Give me, Lord, wisdom and discernment, so that I may carry out your true and holy will. Amen.”

And Amen.

Epiphany

TEXTS: Isaiah 60:1-6 and Matthew 2:1-12

Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples;

but the LORD will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.
Nations shall come to your light,
and kings to the brightness of your dawn.

(Isaiah 60:1-3)

 

Epiphany Day. It always falls on January sixth—a Monday, this year (2025). But of course, many congregations will celebrate it on the preceding Sunday.

In our liturgical tradition, “Christmastide”—or the season of Christmas—begins on December 25 and continues until January fifth. Then the season of Epiphany begins on the sixth of January and lasts until Lent starts on Ash Wednesday (March 5th, this year).

Just like the season of Christmas, the liturgical colour for Epiphany Day is white. And next Sunday is also white—even though the colour for the rest of the season of Epiphany is green.

But, I wonder—for all of the liturgical colours, and all of the minor controversies about whether we should mention the wise men on Christmas Eve (since they probably didn’t visit Jesus until a year or two later) …

After a month of “Jingle Bells” and holly sprigs and parties and brightly-lit trees and shopping for gifts … Are we any closer, really, to understanding what Christmas was all about?

Epiphany is our last opportunity to get it all straight before we enter a whole new season of emphases and reflections. Sometimes the meaning is right around the corner waiting for us, or hidden behind traditions we were led to believe were the real thing (but weren’t).

Enter the wise men. For all their wisdom, for all their cleverness in deciphering the significance of astrological phenomena, once they arrive in Judea, they start off on the wrong foot. And I mean big time!

Still, when you think about it, it’s quite logical that they should appear in Herod’s court, asking: “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?”

Where else would you look for a new-born king, except in a royal palace?

Trouble is, the incumbent king of the Jews knows nothing about this birth. And he is none too pleased to discover that he has a rival. Those of you who’ve read a bit further in chapter two of Matthew know that Herod’s jealousy becomes very bad news for the male children of Bethlehem.

Because, of course, that is where the infant king has in fact been born: not in Jerusalem; not in a palace, but in a barn; not to a queen in opulent luxury, but to a frightened peasant girl in a stable.

The nativity account is a story of reversals. For that matter, so is the rest of the Jesus story. Because the baby in the manger grew up to be a teacher who turned everyone’s expectations inside-out.

However, such reversals breed animosity. Whether in families, or churches, or international affairs, such reversals lead—inevitably—to conflict. One individual or group thinks they should be in charge, only to discover that—when the dust settles—somebody else is calling the shots.

Now that the Christmas season is over, it’s worth asking whether what we thought was all-important was, in fact, all it was cracked up to be.

Our Old and New Testament readings for today show that this is not a new concern.

First of all, Isaiah reminds us how Israel generally viewed God’s glory. It was about “bringing in” rather than “sending out.” The nations of the world (that is, the Gentiles) were expected to come to Jerusalem to discover the glory of the LORD.

Darkness may cover the world, but nations will come to your light. The wealth of the seas will come and the riches of nations; herds of camels will bring gold and frankincense.

If that sounds like a line from “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” that’s only because Matthew played up the connection.

In reality, Isaiah wants to exult in dreams of triumph—in his vision of what the LORD is going to do for his people. Although the politics of conquest had long ago taken the sons and daughters of Israel into exile, Isaiah is forecasting a new era—one which will see them return (v. 4b) and use the best of foreign cultures to enrich and glorify their capital city.

In a self-absorbed way, the returning exiles saw their country—and especially Jerusalem—as the centre of the universe.

If we took a modern concept like spiritual outreach and placed it back in the Old Testament, we would see that “evangelism” consisted of waiting for the world to come to God’s holy mountain. It required a physical in-gathering which involved the magnificence of the temple, the strength of kings and their armies, and a notion of justice that could only be understood from the perspective of God’s chosen people.

However, the Christmas story—and the gospels in general—turn this chauvinistic attitude upside-down.

The glory of the LORD is not to be understood in nationalistic terms. It is not a glory reserved exclusively for any particular nation, however prosperous or powerful it may be.

No. This is a universal message which transcends race, and nationality, and culture. As Matthew expressly states at the end of his Gospel, it is a message which is meant for all nations and all peoples.

Today’s gospel lesson should help us claim the reversal that Matthew intended. The glory of the LORD is not to be found in calling people to us so much as in our sending people out to share the gospel: the good news that God’s love in Christ opens doors in every land and every culture.

Where children sing Christmas songs in Chinese and Zulu, where nativity figures show varied racial types, wherever hope and forgiveness are being raised up in the name of Jesus … In such places, a universal spiritual movement is arriving.

There is another reversal that takes place in the story; and it, also, has practical application in our time. Even non-elected leaders worry that their power may be lost. Herod was a puppet king, placed in charge by the Romans; at any time, he could be overthrown by imperial whim or Jewish revolt.

Herod’s position was tenuous, and he knew it. When his plot to find—and kill—the Christ Child fizzled, he turned to the politics of extermination, ordering the massacre of all the male children of Bethlehem (see Matt. 2:16). Such plots are common in history. Think of Pharaoh and his plan to kill all the Hebrew boys, or the former policy in China of aborting female newborns and prohibiting second births. Had all gone as Herod intended, his henchmen might have returned to report that all was well and the pretender to the throne was dead. But—as Robbie Burns so astutely observed: “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley.”

The Herods of this world come and go. But the eternal King of Kings reigns forever.

Such reversals are common in literature and there’s a very famous one which I’m sure you all know. It’s a short story by William Sydney Porter … better known by his pen name: O. Henry.

“The Gift of the Magi” is about a young couple who are short of money—but who desperately want to buy Christmas gifts for one another. Unbeknownst to Jim, Della sells her most valuable possession—her beautiful hair—in order to buy a platinum fob chain for Jim’s watch; while unbeknownst to Della, Jim sells his own most valuable possession—his watch—to buy jeweled combs for Della’s hair.

On Christmas, they give gifts which appear—at first—meaningless. But of course, in reality, their gifts reveal them to be … truly … and profoundly … wise.

The essential premise of this story has been copied, re-worked, parodied, and otherwise re-told countless times in the century since it was written. And there’s a reason for that: it’s because O. Henry’s tale has such power. It is a story of reversals, and its power is exerted upon us as we discover its meaning for our own lives.

These days, there are Scrooges and anti-Christmas politicians and secularists who oppose everything from nativity scenes and religious songs in public schools to the use of a phrase like “Merry Christmas.” And there are shallow souls who celebrate Christmas without having pondered even once the full and true meaning of the season.

Let it be our joy, however, to know that Christ was born for us—and for all. Let it be our joy to sing with the wise and the foolish that a life of love and forgiveness always triumphs over mean-spirited control-freaks. As hymnwriter Bernadette Gasslein has expressed it, poetically:

In the darkness shines the splendour

of the Word who took our flesh,

welcoming, in love’s surrender,

death’s dark shadow at his crèche.

Bearing every human story,

Word made flesh reveals his glory.*

Arise. Shine. Our Light has come. And the glory of God is shining upon us.

_____________________

“In the Darkness Shines the Splendour” words copyright © 1992 Bernadette Gasslein

A Prayer at the Turning of the Year

Inside St. Louis Cathedral for the celebration of the 11:00 a.m. Mass on January 1, 2025 – the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God – Archbishop Gregory Aymond and 600 worshipers struggled to make sense of the death and carnage perpetrated by a man who drove a pickup truck into a dense crowd of early-morning New Year’s revelers just five blocks away on Bourbon Street. Police said 15 people died and more than three dozen others were injured, many seriously, when a white Ford F-150 Lightning electric truck, rented by 42-year-old Shamsud-Din Jabbar of Texas, plowed into the crowd walking along the French Quarter’s most famous partying street at 3:15 a.m. on New Year’s Day.¹

January 2, 2025: Israel’s army bombs the so-called “humanitarian zone” of al-Mawasi in southern Gaza, killing at least 12 Palestinians, as other attacks continue throughout the Gaza Strip with at least 63 dead so far, medical sources reported.²

 

Bless the LORD, O my soul,
    and all that is within me,
    bless his holy name.
Bless the LORD, O my soul,
    and do not forget all his benefits—

who forgives all your iniquity,
    who heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the Pit,
    who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,

who satisfies you with good as long as you live so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

(Psalm 103:1-5)

 

Holy One:

When the earth trembles, and the seas rise, you still are God.

When the stars fall, and the mountains crumble, you still are God.

When our eyes grow dim and our hearts fail

When our legs collapse in fear

and our own strength evaporates

and our human wisdom is confounded

You still are God.

And you still are good

for you are good

all the time.

We embark now upon a season of uncertainty—filled with changes greater than we can imagine. Challenges so tall that we cannot see over them.

But still you are our God! We trust you to hear us, and we trust you to heal us, and we trust you to lead us. And still to you we raise our joyful song:

Blessed be the name of the LORD from this time on and for evermore.
From the rising of the sun to its setting may the name of the LORD  be praised.

Amen.

_____________________________

¹ https://www.clarionherald.org/news/archbishop-prays-for-truck-assault-victims/article_922e924c-c88d-11ef-bb0b-73557c05933e.html

² https://www.aljazeera.com/news/liveblog/2025/1/2/live-israel-kills-28-in-gaza-as-7th-palestinian-baby-freezes-to-death

 

Christmas 1, Year C

Text: Luke 2:41-52

After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. (Luke 2:46-47)

Those of you who are teachers may hear this passage and say, “Ah! A gifted child.” If you’ve known a gifted child—or if you were a gifted child—you know it’s a mixed blessing.

We don’t quite know what to do with a gifted child. Some schools have special programs for them—specially enriched to challenge the brightest children, to stave off the boredom of having to slow down to stay in the crowd with their average peers.

But then what?

If we carry enrichment and separation too far, we risk fostering a pampered intellectual elite. They may be clever, but socially inept. Or odd. And in the long run, turn out to be unsuccessful, or unhappy, or both.

If we minimize enrichment so they can be “normal” kids, then they may fail to achieve their potential. Educators and parents try to find the right balance. School boards and administrators have to make difficult educational and political judgments. In these times of tight budgets, “gifted” programs may feel the pinch, even as art and music programs do.

Let’s take these questions one step further. Suppose that you have a child who is a genius or a prodigy. The two are not exactly the same, but they are close. A prodigy can do amazing things at a very early age—playing and writing music (as with Mozart), or becoming an expert at chess, or mathematics. A genius is a gifted child or adult, but at a higher level of intelligence than the merely gifted.

Over all these questions hangs a thick fog: the hopes and wishes of parents who just know that their children are unusually bright. Such parents wait for teachers and school counsellors to recognize that fact, and if that recognition is not forthcoming, these same parents then call for justice for their child.

In a competitive world, where talent can make all the difference, it is not surprising that parents who want the best for their child would go to such lengths. Alas, children are not made gifted simply by their parents’ opinion.

I’ve put these thoughts before you because our gospel text for today is Luke’s story of Jesus in the temple when he was 12 years old, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking questions. This story makes us wonder:

Was the boy Jesus a gifted child? Precocious?

Was he a spiritual genius, or prodigy?

What is the importance of this story for us?

There’s a particular theological perspective on Jesus which would reject these questions altogether, saying they are denials of Jesus’ divinity.

Such a perspective argues this: If Jesus was truly and fully God, as the tradition of the church has claimed, surely he would already know everything—even at age 12.

If that’s so, the conversation with the child Jesus in the temple was only a startling demonstration of his divinity at an early age. He might seem like a spiritual prodigy, but he was really just God being God, only in the body of a 12-year-old Jewish carpenter’s son.

I say that theological perspective simply will not do. For the church has insisted that not only was Jesus Christ fully divine, but also that he was fully human. Full humanity would mean that he was not only born in a human manner, but that he grew and matured like every other child.

As a bright teenager in a Confirmation class once said to me, “For God to become fully human would mean that the unlimited God somehow had to become limited.”

A brilliant observation! Maybe that teenager was a sort of prodigy herself!

Limitation is, let’s face it, a condition of our humanity. In fact, it’s one of the things that defines our humanity.

So Jesus must have passed through all the normal stages of development as understood by modern disciplines like psychology and education. Bearing that in mind, it is indeed appropriate to ask what kind of 12-year-old he was—and what the story in the temple means to teach us.

The answer to the first question (“What kind of child was he?”) is more difficult than the second. Mostly, all we have is a “we don’t really know” kind of answer. There are many puzzles.

Luke is the only gospel writer to tell this story. Other stories about Jesus’ childhood appeared in later “gospels,” but these books did not make it into the Bible; for all their charm, they were judged to be too fanciful (or too weird) to be regarded as Scripture.

On top of that, stories of precocious children who grew up to be heroic figures were widespread in other religions of that time.

That is why I say, mostly, we don’t really know what kind of religious genius or prodigy Jesus might have been.

We can guess that he was different. Not many 12-year-old boys would have initiated a chat with the learned rabbis. Perhaps he was a mix of the brash and the brilliant.

The answer to the second question (“What does this story mean to us?”) is just a bit easier to make out. I think the story is meant to point out Jesus’ emerging identity—his emerging awareness of his vocation. His vocation as one who must be in God’s house; one who must be undertaking God’s business; one who must do his Father’s will.

Still too fanciful, you may think? Maybe. Maybe not.

All children wonder about what they will become, imagine themselves doing something wonderful, something heroic. And by the age of 12—particularly for the gifted—this wondering may already be taking a definite direction.

Can you remember your 12-year-old wonderings? Mine were focused (believe it or not) around becoming a veterinarian. Unfortunately, I turned out to have no aptitude whatsoever for math or science.

For Jesus, though, his emerging vocational identity at 12—as depicted in this story—is that of becoming a learned rabbi, or teacher, which is indeed what he became.

One becomes a teacher by studying the texts, the ancient traditions; by engaging in discussion with those more learned; by asking questions; by trying out one’s own emerging answers with them. One becomes a teacher by explaining and listening and studying—and going over it all again.

As followers of Jesus in this new millennium, we claim him as our teacher. We want to learn from him. We want to engage him with our questions and answers, as he did the teachers in the temple. We seek his gifts of learning and teaching, that they might be our own.

But there is more to it than that. As followers of Jesus in every age have discovered, we are not merely gifted with teaching, but with a new identity, with a vocation that embraces all of life.

Unlike the giftedness of a select few geniuses or prodigies, all who are in Christ—all of us—are gifted with the identity, with the vocation of Jesus Christ himself. We are called—all of us—to his ministry of preaching and teaching, of healing, of compassionate service, and of prophetic witness (even through suffering and death, if it comes to that). In this way we are called to share in his risen life.

The way each of us learns what that means specifically, for each of us as an individual, is a process of prayerful reflection on our gifts and opportunities.

Not every Christian is called to preach from a pulpit. But every Christian is called to bear witness.

Not everyone is called to become a great teacher or professor or researcher. But everyone is called to teach by example—by the character of one’s life.

Not everyone is called to heal by entering the medical profession. But all of us are called to be a healing presence.

Not everyone is called to be a Mother Teresa—to serve in the slums or barrios of this world. But all of us are called to sacrificial service right where we are.

Not everyone can become a great social prophet, like Martin Luther King Junior. But all of us are called to speak out against injustice and for a better world.

We may not face death on a cross. But all of us will face suffering and death, in which we can witness to the resurrection love of Jesus Christ.

So, were you a gifted child? Are you a gifted adult?

Yes. Yes, of course you are. We all are—not as the world sees it, but from our gifted identity as being among those who are in Christ, and in whom Christ lives.

No mixed blessing here! It’s all blessing.

So as today we remember the story of a precocious child in the temple, let us give thanks to God that as people who follow him, we are all gifted as he was. Amen.

 

Christmas Eve

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5)

For today’s blog post, I’m going to quote someone else’s work, repeating a story that I’ve often used for “Blue Christmas” services. It has also been one of the most-requested messages I’ve ever delivered.

“When are you going to tell the candle story again?”

This seems like a good time to do that.

It’s a story I found on the internet years ago, submitted to a worship resource site by a minister in the Uniting Church of Australia. Her name is Jane Fry, and today she serves as the General Secretary of the Synod of New South Wales and the Australian Capital Territory. She did not write the story herself. But it recalls the true account of a Dutch veteran who was held prisoner in a Japanese internment camp during the Second World War.

I think the reason people have wanted to hear this story again is because it is so powerful. It’s not your usual kind of Christmas story … here it is, very slightly adapted from Rev. Fry’s version.

The Candle

Ah no, this is not really a Christmas story. It is not really a story either, it is an account, a plain account of something that happened somewhere. But it is not present-day news, which is what most reporting is about. This thing happened more than 80 years ago, but what does that matter? After all, the Christmas story, the real Christmas story, was not actually a story as such, and it is now old news too, around about two thousand years old. What then are 80 years here or there?

Furthermore, there is even a remarkable similarity, even though you might find it a bit far-fetched. The old Christmas story took place in a stall. The one that happened 80 years ago was also in a stall. Well, not a proper stall, but it looked like one.

It was a dark, gloomy shed. Inside, it was always half-light or darkness, but outside the light shone bright and glorious by day, and even at night it was still light outside, for the shed was in a tropical region under a glowing burning sun, as well as under a wonderful starry sky, and the moon seemed much bigger than here.

People lived in the shed. “Lived” is expressing it rather strongly. They were housed in it, because a little further off the sun or the moonlight sparkled from the barbed wire where it had not rusted in the course of years. For by now it had lasted years; or was it perhaps centuries?

We could not tell anymore. We were too tired and too sick and too weak to think about it, to count up the hours and the days. We had done that in the beginning, but that was long since past. We were much more concerned with eternity than with the day or the hour. Because so many were dying, beside us, opposite us, from hunger, dysentery and other tropical diseases; or simply because they did not want to live any more, their last spark of hope had been extinguished.

We did try a bit to keep going in that concentration camp. We did not really know anymore why. For a long time we no longer believed that the war would end and that we would be liberated.

We went on living out of force of habit, numbed and deadened, and with one great desire that now and again leapt at your throat like a wild beast: and that was to eat, eat no matter what. But there was nothing to eat, we were being systematically starved. Once in awhile someone would catch a snake or a rat. But just forget it, no one who has survived it wants to talk about it.

There was one man in that camp who still possessed something to eat. A candle. A plain wax candle.

Of course he had not bought it originally or kept it just to eat it. A normal person does not eat candle-fat, although they say that the Cossacks used to be very fond of it.

In any case, it is fat, and that you must not underestimate, when all you see around you are starved bodies and you know yourself to be one of them.

When the torture of hunger became beyond bearing he would take out the candle, which he kept well hidden in a little dented tin box, and he would nibble at it, but he did not eat it.

He regarded the candle as the last resort. As soon as everyone should go mad with hunger (and that would not be long now) he was going to eat the candle up.

I hope you don’t find that insane or gruesome. I, who was his friend, found it quite normal at the time.

Besides, he had promised me a bit of the candle. It became my life’s task, my constant care, to watch out that he should not eat the candle all by himself after all.

I kept watch and spied on him and his tin box day and night. Perhaps I remained alive because I had such an important task to carry out.

Now, all of a sudden, we discovered that it was Christmas. Quite by chance, someone found out after some lengthy calculations made from little nicks and notches cut in a plank. He told it to everyone and added in a rather flat and expressionless tone of voice, “Next year, we’ll be home for Christmas.”

We nodded or made no comment at all. We had heard that now for several years. But there were a few who held fast to the idea. After all, you never knew.

Then someone spoke, perhaps not with any particular intention, but perhaps on purpose after all—I never really found out: “At Christmas, the candles are burning and the bells are ringing.”

That was a strange thing to say. It sounded as a faint, hardly audible sound from a great distance, from long ago, something completely unreal. And I must say that the remark simply went past most of us, it just did not have anything to do with us, it spoke of something quite outside our existence, but it had the strangest and most unexpected consequences.

When it had grown late in the evening and everyone more or less lain down on the boards with his own thoughts or actually, quite without thoughts, my friend became restless. He groped for his box and brought the candle out. I could see it very well in the gloom, the white candle.

“He’ll eat it up,” I thought, “Will he remember me” and I looked at him through my eyelashes.

He set the candle on his plank bed and I saw him disappear outside to where a little fire was smoldering. He came back with a burning stick. Like a ghost, that little flame wandered through the hut till he got back to his place again. Then the strange thing happened:  he took the burning stick, that flame, and he lit the candle.

The candle stood on his bed and was burning.

I do not know how everyone noticed it right away, but it was not long before one shadow after another drifted over, half-naked fellows, whose ribs you could count, with hollow cheeks and burning, hungered eyes. In the silence, they made a ring around the burning candle.

Bit by bit they came forward, those naked men, and the minister and the priest.

You could not see that they were minister and priest, they were just pieces of starved skeleton, but we happened to know that they were. The priest said, in a croaking voice: “It is Christmas. The light shines in the darkness.”

Then the minister said: “And the darkness overcame it not.” That, if I remember rightly, comes from Saint John’s Gospel. You can find it in the Bible, but that night, round that candle, it was no written word of long ago. It was the living reality, a message for the moment and for us, for each one of us.

Because the Light did shine in the darkness. And the darkness did not overwhelm it. We could not then reason it out, but it was what we felt, gathered silently around that candle light.

There was something extraordinary about it. The candle was whiter and more slender than I ever saw one later in the world of people.

And the flame. It was a candle flame that reached to the sky and in the flame we saw things that were not of this world. I cannot describe it. None of us who are still alive can. It was a mystery. A mystery between Christ and ourselves. For we knew then quite certainly that it was him, that he was living among us and for us.

We sang in silence, we prayed without a word, and then I heard the bells beginning to ring and a choir of angels intoning their songs. Yes, I know that for a fact, and I have a good hundred witnesses, of whom the greater part can no longer speak, they are no longer here. Nevertheless they know.

Out there, deep in the swamps and the jungle, sublime angelic voices sang Christmas carols to us, and we heard the chimes of a thousand bells. It was a mystery where it came from.

The candle burned taller and taller and more elongated, till it reached the highest part of the high dark shed and then right through it, right up to the stars, and everything became incandescent with light. So much light nobody ever saw again. And we felt ourselves uplifted and free and knew hunger no more. The candle had not just fed my friend and me; no, the candle had fed us all and made us stronger. There was no end to the light.

And when someone said softly: “Next Christmas we’ll be home,” then we believed it implicitly this time. For the light proclaimed it to us, it was written in the candle flame in fiery letters; you can believe me or not, but I saw it myself. The candle burned all night. There is no candle in the world that can burn so high and so long.

When it was morning, there were a few who sang. That had never happened in any year before.

The candle had saved the lives of many, for now we knew that it was worthwhile going on, wherever it might lead, but somewhere, in the end, a home was waiting for us all. That’s how it was.

Some went home before Christmas the following year. They are back in life now in Holland. But they find the candles on our trees are small, much too small. They have seen a greater light, one that is always burning.

Most of the others had also gone home before it was Christmas again; I myself helped to lay them in the earth behind our camp, a dry spot between the swamps. But when they died their eyes were not as dull as before. That was the light from the strange candle. The light that the darkness had not overcome.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

 

Fourth Sunday in Advent (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 1:39-55

 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

Those often-quoted words begin Charles Dickens’s novel, A Tale of Two Cities. I repeat them to you today because they are words that are as true of our time as they were when Dickens wrote them.

They were true in the days of Mary and Joseph, as well. It was—and is—the best of times; and it was—and is—the worst of times. Today as we celebrate the fourth Sunday of Advent, and we look at the candles that have been lit—the candles of hope, peace, joy, and love—I want to ask you all to remember that in these times there is much to celebrate.

And you know, that is always true. There is always much to celebrate, no matter how bad the times are—and no matter how much worse we think the times may become. The Christmas message is the message of Emmanuel—the message that “God is with us.” And nothing can change that—no matter how many negative forces may try to rob us of the hope, the peace, the joy, and the love that God intends for us. Nothing can take from us that which is from God—that which is good, and true, and pure, and lovely, and gracious.

Jesus was born into a world like ours—in fact, in a world even worse than ours.  It was a world in which tyranny ruled everywhere, and poverty—with its attendant hunger and suffering—was the lot of all except a privileged few.

Mary and Joseph were not persons of privilege. They lived in an occupied country, subject to the foreign power of Rome, which had conquered them. Mary’s relatives Elizabeth and Zechariah were not privileged, either. The old priest and his wife may have been respected members of their community—but they were as poor as everybody else.

Some might say it wasn’t much of a world to bring a baby into. And yet, when Mary went to visit her aunt Elizabeth, the baby in Elizabeth’s womb leaped for joy! And Mary said:

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.”                                                           (Luke 1:46-55)

When you look at the time of Jesus realistically, you might easily think that it was the height of foolishness for Mary to sing for joy to God as she did. The times were bad—and everyone knew that they were going to get worse. Roman soldiers—and Herod’s tax-collectors—were everywhere, just like the crosses that kept appearing on the roadsides, displaying tortured human bodies.

What was there to celebrate in Judea 2,000 years ago? And what today—in our time—is there to celebrate? People we love get sick and die. Our society is threatened from without by terrorism and from within by crime and despair. Our children’s futures are uncertain. The worst people have nuclear weapons; and around the world, newly-won freedom is turning into anarchy and chaos, even as millions starve in the midst of plenty.

It was in Jesus’ time—and it is now—the worst of times. But, my friends, it was then—and it is also now—the best of times.

I say that because the Spirit that took hold of Mary, and conceived within her a child, is here with us today. And just as the Spirit, working in Mary, brought forth life and light to the world in the person of Jesus—so it still brings forth life and light to the world through its working in us. That light and that life cannot be destroyed—no matter how bad the times are.

You may remember the Dr. Seuss story about the Grinch who tried to steal Christmas from the people of Who Town. He attempted to steal Christmas by removing all their Christmas decorations, all their trees, all their presents, all their food—all the exterior things that they enjoyed so much.

But Christmas continued!

Christmas continued despite this theft, because the villagers had Christmas inside them. As it was with the villagers in Who Town, so it was with Mary and Joseph and Elizabeth and Zechariah, and so it is—and so it can be—today, with us. So it should be for us, today.

For years now, I’ve listened as people have told me that Christmas is not like it used to be. Like grinches, they keep on trying to steal Christmas by looking at the bad things and forgetting that good things exist too. It seems to me that goodness shines brightest where it is most needed—right in the midst of the bad things. As it says in the Gospel of John: “… the Word became flesh and lived among us … full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14)

Where is Christmas today as it used to be? Where it has always been: wherever people are moved by the Spirit of love, which is the Spirit of Christ.

It is to be found even in that most commercial of all places—the shopping mall. I know this, because I know a young woman whose boyfriend lives far away. She doesn’t get to see him as often as she’d like—and so she was excited to learn that he would be coming to visit her on Boxing Day. What good news!

She really needed some good news, because—in the weeks leading up to Christmas—first her purse, and then her car, had been stolen.

Knowing how her boyfriend loves hockey—and remembering that there was a game on Boxing Day—she went online to the TicketMaster site to see if there were two seats left together for the game. There were—and two good ones, at that!

But … since her purse had been stolen, her credit cards had been deactivated—and so she could not make the purchase online.

By the time she got to the TicketMaster kiosk in the mall, the seats were gone. Crestfallen, she turned to go. But then, the clerk—a kindly grandmother type—called her back. “Give me your phone number,” she said. “You never know.”

They aren’t supposed to do that, of course.

The next day, the young woman received a call at home from the ticket clerk. Somehow, two tickets—also good ones—had become available. “I’ll hold them for you until you can get here,” the clerk said.

They aren’t supposed to do that, either!

Christmas is found wherever people genuinely care about one another. In such places, and at such times, the gift of Emmanuel—of “God with us”—is freely and generously given; and nothing and nobody can steal this from us, even if we live in the worst of times. God bestows—upon all who will receive it—his Spirit of love and hope, of joy and peace.

This is what makes Christmas what it is; it makes this the best of times, for those who believe. The Spirit of Christmas is alive everywhere. Just look around you.

Consider what God has done. Consider God’s very great promises to us. Accept his commands, act on the promises—and you, too, will find the Christ Child being born in your heart. Then you will be able—with joy—to say with Mary: “Our souls magnify the Lord, and our spirits rejoice in God our Saviour!’

Merry Christmas, everybody. Amen.