Second Sunday After the Epiphany

TEXTS: John 2:1-11 and 1 Corinthians 12:1-11

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.’ (John 2:3-5)

Today’s gospel lesson might be familiar to you because it’s often read at wedding ceremonies—and the reason for that is obvious. However, the story of the wedding at Cana of Galilee is also commonly read during the season of Epiphany. In fact, that’s a tradition that even predates our modern lectionary. And the reason for that is obvious, too, if you think about it.

The theme of Epiphany, you will recall, is the revelation—the showing off to the world—of Jesus the Christ. During the Epiphany season, we hear all these gospel passages which “reveal” who Jesus is, and what he’s all about. Changing water into wine was the first of Jesus’ miracles—the first time he gave a real sign to his disciples of what was going on with him.

Now, when it comes to theology, this reading is a gold mine—albeit a challenging one. One of the things Jesus does here is replace a Jewish ritual with the reality of his presence.

Remember those “six stone water jars” that held 20 or 30 gallons each? They were there “for the Jewish rites of purification.” When full, they contained enough water to fill an immersion pool used for ceremonial cleansing. They were not supposed to be used for any other purpose. But Jesus ignores that convention, and turns them into gigantic wine barrels.

Wow! The Jewish rites of purification are superseded—overwhelmed, really—by who Jesus is and by what Jesus does. And there is much, much more. I could go on and on, talking about the theology of this passage.

I won’t, though. Because this is a blog, not a master’s thesis. And also because, first and foremost, this is a story—and it’s a great one!

Notice that Mary starts out as the real hero of the piece, telling her son he’s got to do something for this wedding couple. At first, Jesus seems reluctant to act. He tells Mary that all of this is none of his business, and that he has other plans about revealing his true identity. His time has not come.

Mary, however … well, she pretty much ignores that and assumes that Jesus is going to be a good boy and listen to his mother!

And he does.

Now, something we need to understand is this: in those days, running out of wine at a wedding was not simply a minor social inconvenience. It was not like, “Well, the wine’s gone, so we have to switch to beer.”

No. In first-century Jewish culture, this was a major breach of the requirements of hospitality. In fact, it was a disgrace—and it would be devastatingly embarrassing for this couple. Everywhere they went, for the rest of their married life, this would be remembered. They would become known for it. They would be ridiculed, and whispered about. The strain on their life together would be enormous.

Realizing all of this, Jesus must decide what to do. He must decide whether to change his timetable. Should he wait before making himself known, as he had planned? Or should he act right now, responding to this urgent need?

Well, we know how the story turns out. Jesus does act, the wedding day is saved, and the bride and groom are rescued from a major embarrassment. As you probably realize by now, this story is not about the bride and groom. It is about Jesus. It is about all that theology I mentioned a minute ago.

This is important.  The first time Jesus made himself known as the Messiah, he did so in response to real and important human need. Not according to his own plans, or his own agenda, but in order to solve someone else’s problem.

Think about it. Jesus’ first manifestation of his glory—the first of his signs—was not for or about himself. He did not make a great big circus out of it. He didn’t pitch a revival tent, gather a crowd, and then start healing the sick and raising the dead. No. Instead, the signs of his calling—and of his identity—were drawn out of him. You could almost say they were dragged out of him—not by his own plans and schedule, but by the needs of those around him. And by his mom.

So, this gospel passage begs the question: What does it mean for Jesus to be the Messiah? What does the Son of God look like, in human flesh? How does he behave?

The answers to those questions are found in his response to the realities of human life and need.

Jesus’ identity as God incarnate—and all the power that went with it—these were not things that he used for his own ego gratification. No. Jesus revealed his identity—and lived his life—completely for the sake of others. Who he was—and what power he had—was not for him. From the get-go, it was always—and only—for the benefit of others.

With that in mind, consider our Epistle lesson from First Corinthians. That passage deals with some of the interesting and peculiar things that were going on in the church in Corinth in the first century. There was some pretty weird stuff happening—and some extremely selfish stuff … and some very evil stuff. And at the core of it—as is so often the case when religion goes bad—there was a strong sense of “who is best,” and a strong sense of “this is mine.”

They were having all kinds of  spiritual experiences and encounters with God—which ought to be a good thing;! But they had become possessive and competitive about all of that. They were saying things like:

• “this gift is mine”;
• “this way of doing things is mine”;
• “this spirituality is mine”;
• “this special something is all mine!”

What Paul says to them in his letter echoes the point made by our gospel reading. What Paul tells them is basically this: “What you have is not for you. What you have is for others.”

“To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good,” is how he actually puts it.

This is a fundamental truth about the gifts of God. What you have is not for you. What you have is not even about you—not really. The Corinthians could never get their religion right—or get their lives right, for that matter—until they realized that what they had was neither for them nor about them. It was given to them so they could give it away—so they could use it to build, and to help, and to create.

What Jesus had—who he was, what it was that made him special and unique—this was not given for his own sake. It was given so that Jesus would have a choice. It was given to him so that he could choose to give all of himself for others.

What we have is not for us. Not really. All that we have—however little, or however much—is given to us so that we might become givers. It is given to us so that we might build up, so that we might help, so that we might become part of something greater, so that we might serve our neighbours and build up the larger body.

In one way or another, that is the purpose of our lives, and everything in them.

And this is good news!

I’ll say it again: this is good news.

It is good news that we do not live for ourselves alone, that what we have is not for us. We were not created to live apart from others—closed in upon ourselves, protective, possessive, and defensive. We are not at our best when we live that way. We impoverish ourselves when we live that way. And we do not have to live that way. We can choose to live beyond ourselves—to live for others and for the greater good. And when we choose to do that, miracles will begin to happen.

Our lives will become bigger. We will find ourselves re-created—reborn, if you like—and there will be more to us than we ever imagined possible.

At the wedding in Cana of Galilee, Jesus chose to set aside his own plans and his own schedule. Instead, he chose to reach out and bless the lives of others. In doing that, he showed us how divine our human lives can be.

And there will always be plenty of wine at the wedding!

Epiphany Sunday/Baptism of Christ

TEXTS:  Matthew 2:1-12 and Luke 3:15-22

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” (Matt. 2:1-2)

Today we are observing not one, but two important festivals from the calendar of the Christian church. And so we have not one, but two gospel readings.

The first one is prescribed for Epiphany Day (which was actually on January 6). It tells the story of the “three kings” who “traverse afar” to visit the baby Jesus in his rude manger in the stable in Bethlehem. Except, of course, if we read the Scripture text carefully, we see that they are not referred to there as kings, it does not say there were three of them, and they visited Jesus in “a house,” not a stable.

No matter. However many of them there were, they did visit Jesus, they did bring him gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and they did travel a long distance to see him.

These “wise men” (or Magi) were most likely from Persia, or even further east. They might have been on the road for as long as two or three years before they got to Jesus, who almost certainly was not an infant any longer by the time they saw him.

Then there’s our other gospel text for this morning—also from Matthew’s gospel—which is the assigned text for “Baptism of Christ Sunday”:

Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” (Luke 3:21-22)

Did we have to use both texts today?

Well, no, we didn’t. We could have ignored Epiphany altogether and focused exclusively upon the Baptism of our Lord.

But I think that would have been a real shame. First, both Epiphany and the Baptism of Christ are important festival days in the church year. Epiphany is held in such esteem that many Christians celebrate it with a church service and a family celebration, no matter what day of the week it happens to fall on.

And as for the Baptism of Christ … Well, there is an ancient tradition (well-known in the eastern church), which says that—at the moment of his baptism—Jesus finally understood who he was.

At the moment of his baptism, the carpenter’s boy saw, in a flash of brilliant clarity, just who he was in relation to God. Understood his vocation. Understood what God was calling him to do.

It seems to me that both stories—about the visit of the Magi and about the baptism of Jesus … Both of these are stories about birth.

In the first instance, there is the literal birth of a child. Jesus is born to Mary and Joseph and is visited by the Magi.

In the second instance, there is a metaphorical birth—the turning point where a light switches on, and a new life begins.

And the idea of revelation—of revealing or illuminating or uncovering something—intimately connects Epiphany and the Baptism of Christ. After all, the word epiphany means “a revealing,” or “an illumination.”

In the story of the Magi’s visit to Jesus, a whole bunch of things get revealed.

Traditionally, the big thing that happens is that Christ is made known to the gentiles—because, of course, the wise men were not Jews.

But a whole lot of other things come to light, also.

First, the Magi—who have approached the royal court in Jerusalem because that seems like a logical place to look for a newborn king …

Well, they find out that the incumbent king has no idea what they’re talking about! And so it’s up to the scribes to inform King Herod, who is none too pleased to discover that God is about to overthrow his dynasty.

Nevertheless, Herod points the wise men toward Bethlehem, secretly hoping they will lead him to the child so he can destroy it.

Then, the Magi make their way to Jesus … and they must have been shocked to discover him in humble surroundings (which ought to have revealed to them that when God makes a King, he doesn’t necessarily throw in a royal palace or an earthly throne).

I think Mary and Joseph must have been shocked, too; it’s not every day that you get a chest of gold at a baby shower!

Of course, the final revelation to the wise men comes in the form of a divine warning delivered in a dream: “Don’t go back to King Herod—the guy is bad news!”

Now, fast-forward about 30 years. John the Baptist, a charismatic preacher and desert mystic, has been moving about the Judean countryside, stirring people up with his hellfire-and-brimstone sermons and baptizing them by immersion in the Jordan River.

The child whom the wise ones visited has now grown up. And the man Jesus, moved by the Baptist’s preaching, comes to the riverbank to be baptized. John obliges him, plunging him into the cold, running water. And then there is this amazing, dramatic moment when everything becomes clear as crystal.

When Mark describes this same event, he has the voice from heaven speak directly to Jesus: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:11).

It is a moment of revelation—of epiphany—not only for those bystanders who heard the voice, but for Jesus, as well. In Matthew’s account, this is made quite explicit. Remember? It says:

“… when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him” (Matt. 3:16).

Notice that? “Suddenly the heavens were opened to him.”

A-ha!  This was an “a-ha” moment for Jesus—and, according to that ancient tradition, this was the moment when the carpenter’s son from Nazareth finally got it. This was the moment when he understood—fully and completely—exactly what God was calling him to do, and to be.

This was Jesus’ own, personal, moment of epiphany. This was the moment, perhaps, when everything suddenly made sense. All those stories he’d heard from his mother about the angels and the shepherds and the visitors from far away—that’s what they were all about!

And this idea she had about God being his Father … it was way more than just a figure of speech!

Well, maybe those kinds of thoughts were running through Jesus’ head … the Bible doesn’t really tell us. But when the heavens were opened to him, something got revealed—something that shook him to his core.

As I said, that’s the ancient tradition—and that’s why the feast of the Epiphany is linked as closely to Jesus’ baptism as it is to Jesus’ birth.

This is profound stuff! Serious stuff.

Immediately following his baptism, the devil makes a last-ditch effort to throw Jesus off-course. In all three of the Synoptic Gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—Jesus moves directly from the river to the desert. As Matthew’s account tells us: “Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil” (Matt. 4:1).

Luke’s Gospel adds a detail, saying: “Jesus was about 30 years old when he began his work” (Luke 3:23).

“When he began his work.” He was driven by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness to face daunting challenges.

Why? So that he could begin his work—begin it by preparing himself for it through prayer and fasting and contemplation. The wilderness—because of its isolation—is the perfect place to hear the “still-small voice” of God.

Jesus was by now a grown man—and a mature person by the standards of his time. He had most likely been earning a living since he was around 13.

Probably, he had taken up Joseph’s trade, had been a carpenter, had been settled in it. Maybe he had a prospering business, was good at what he did, thought he knew where his life was going.

But then something happened.

God happened! And in a flash, everything was different. His life was transformed. His plans were radically altered. And most everything he had considered important suddenly did not matter anymore. All that mattered now was following the path which lay before him, which God’s light had so brilliantly illuminated.

I wonder … Have you ever had an experience like that? An epiphany? Have you ever had a moment of such life-changing clarity?

We can still expect such encounters, because that’s what Epiphany is all about. It is like seeing the face of God, shown to us in the person of Jesus—first as a tiny infant, then as a grown man.

Moreover, there truly is something real … and present … about the love Jesus has for us. A love so great that it led him to lay down his life for us. Such great love has to make an impression upon us, doesn’t it? If we will just open ourselves up to it. If we do, it will change us forever.

That is the gift of epiphany. It’s more precious than gold, much better than frankincense, or myrrh. And it is offered freely, to anyone who will accept it.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Christmas 2C

Christmas Eve

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. (Luke 2:1-7)

“Is God really real?”

Kind of an odd question to ask, I guess, on Christmas Eve …

But … “Is God really real?”

That’s the question that was posed to me by a teenager in a congregation I served once, more than two decades ago. And I’ve never forgotten her question, because …

Well, because it shook me up so badly! It wasn’t a question I expected to hear, especially from her. You see, her family was very active in the church. She was very active in the church! In fact, she was one of the most enthusiastic members of a very active group of high school kids in my congregation.

And here she was, asking me: “Is God really real?”

What she meant, I discovered—what she was really asking—was this: “Is God a real Person?”

Is God a real Person—someone who thinks and feels and acts—or is God just a metaphor, a figure of speech, a way of describing our highest ideals, our best intentions?

And as I listened to my young friend, I became less shocked and more saddened. Saddened, because I realized just how easy it is for someone to grow up in a Christian community without ever encountering the Living God. Without ever understanding—perhaps, even, without ever being told—that God is not only a real Person, but is a Person with whom you can have a real relationship.

Yet, the reason we celebrate Christmas is precisely because God wanted to be in relationship with us. Christmas is all about what the Church calls “the doctrine of the Incarnation.”

Christmas is about God coming to earth, and taking on human flesh, and living and breathing and moving in this world as one of us … all so that we could see that he was, and is, real. Maybe part of the reason God did that was because people have always had trouble believing that he was real—or couldn’t see him as he really was.

If you read the Old Testament—especially the prophets—you’ll realize that God’s people seemed always to be forgetting about him. Over and over again, they began to act as if God was not real; and so they began to act wickedly, or to worship other gods. Over and over again, they had to be reminded of who God really was.

We human beings are slow learners. In fact—truth to tell—we’re kind of dull … at least, when it comes to matters of the spirit.

God gave us instructions to follow—rules, laws, commandments—not to spoil our fun, but to keep us from destroying ourselves. Which is what sin does. It destroys us. Sin is spiritual disease, and—left unchecked—it is always deadly.

But we could never follow the rules, or the laws, or the commandments, well enough. We kept messing up, and we kept getting sicker. Death became our ruler. Not even our best attempts at religion made things any better. Humanity just kept drifting further and further away from God. Further away from his righteousness. Further away from his love.

It was as if—never having seen God—we could not imagine what he was like, or what he wanted from us. Or what he wanted for us. Maybe, we couldn’t even make ourselves believe that he was real.

So, there was only one thing to do. God had to come, personally, to find us, to speak to us, to show us who he really is. To show us that he is really real!

That’s what Christmas is about. It’s about a God who loved us so much that he came to us in the person of his own Son, so that we could see him, and touch him, and listen to him. So that those who knew him best could write about him, and record his teaching, and leave us a testimony that, yes, “He really is real!”

As we’ve walked together through the season of Advent, as we’ve heard the familiar accounts of Scripture about Jesus’ birth, I hope we’ve gotten the message. I hope you all know—and believe—that these Bible stories are not fairy tales, or fancies, or clever metaphors—or anything other than what they really are.

Because what they really are is truth. And the truth is this:

“… God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not die but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to be its judge, but to be its savior.” *

Jesus did not come to condemn us. He came to rescue us. He came to do for us what we could not do for ourselves. He came to save us—save us from our sins, save us from our sicknesses, our selfishness, our cruelty, our loneliness, and our lostness. He came to heal broken hearts, and raise up the lowly and the downtrodden. He came to give us hope. He came to make the world right again, one person at a time.

We call all of that stuff salvation. It’s about making us and the entire Creation healthy and whole—not just for today, but for eternity.

We know that evil is real. It’s as real as our own heartache, our own guilt, our own regret. It’s as real as the pain of cancer, or the relentless gnawing of hunger. Only a real God can fix things like that. And only a loving God would care to try. But we are fortunate, because not only is our God absolutely real, but his love is absolutely real, too.

And, if you’ll let him … if you’ll invite him into your life—if you’ll let his love into your life—then your life will not only be changed; it will last forever. You will live forever, surrounded by God’s love—and you will know, without a doubt, that God is love.

That’s kind of what I told my young friend, all those years ago. And I think that, at first, it sounded as strange to her as maybe it sounds strange to you, right now. But not long after our conversation, she took a step of faith. She decided to believe that God was real. And then she decided to trust in this God, whom she had decided to believe was real.

And later, she told me that decision had made all the difference. “Today,” she said, “I don’t just believe that God is real; I know he is!”

Hearing all of this, you may still be skeptical. You may be asking yourself, “How can I know that any of this is true?”

I can only tell you this: faith is a gift. But it is a gift which will be given if you sincerely ask for it. So, if you’ve always wanted this gift, but you’ve never asked for it, perhaps now would be a good time.

All I’m asking you to do is consider it … and remember, our Lord is always listening.

Lord Jesus, deep in our hearts, we know you’re real—and deep in our hearts, we know we need you. We need the love you offer. We need the salvation you bring. We’ve tried to fix ourselves, but we can’t do it. We need you to come into our lives. Heal us, Lord. Comfort us. Pardon and restore us, one person at a time. Bring us closer to yourself, one person at a time. For your name’s sake. Amen.

________________

* John 3:16-17 (Good News Translation Copyright © 1992 by American Bible Society)

Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year C

TEXT: Luke 1:39-45

When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leapt in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” (Luke 1:41-43)

“Who am I, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?” So said Elizabeth, when her much younger relative came to visit her. Elizabeth was at the time pregnant with the child who would become John the Baptist, and Luke tells us that—at Mary’s greeting—the fetus within Elizabeth’s womb leaped for joy.

“Why has this happened to me? Who am I, that the mother of my Lord should visit me?”

Today, I’m going to tread on dangerous ground for a Protestant minister … because I’m going to offer you a message about the “Mother of God.” It is a theme around which Protestants have stepped warily, fearful of trespassing into the realm of idolatry. Today, however, I invite you to put old trepidations aside, step nearer with me, and take a closer look.

But first, let’s start with something less theologically flammable—like the incomprehensible vastness of the cosmos, and, in contrast, the speck of dust called earth, and the dust mites which live upon it; namely, us!

During the last century or so, we’ve become increasingly aware of our smallness. Since 1990, we’ve had the Hubble telescope up in space, offering us glimpses of stars and planets almost infinitely distant from us. Since 1997, we’ve been sending motorized robots to explore the surface of Mars, and Voyager One—which has been providing us with pictures of our solar system since 1977—exited the heliosphere in 2012, carrying the “golden record” into inter-stellar space.*

Advances like these have radically altered our perspective on our place in the universe. Also, the thoughts of brilliant minds—like Stephen Hawking and Paul Davies—have sharpened our awareness of the awesome immensity of things, and of our own apparent insignificance.

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established,” wrote the psalmist, “what are human beings that you are mindful of them …?” (Psalm 8:3-4)

Atheists of a nihilistic bent would quickly reply: “Nothing! Humanity is nothing!”

Others would say that—even if there is a Supreme Being who created this enormous universe—you cannot expect him, her (or it) to be personally interested in us.

To such people, our faith in a God who knows our names and guides our footsteps … Well, it’s just nonsense. To them, we are but chance flecks of consciousness in an unconscious cosmos. We do not count for anything.

To such people, our Advent and Christmas celebrations are the pathetic residue of primitive mythology. To them, Christmas is a game we play once a year, to brighten up a meaningless existence.

But, to such people, the Christian Church has this to say: “Let us tell you about the young woman who became the mother of God.”

Modern people are not the first to imagine a deep gulf between God and his Creation—between the divine and the human.  In very ancient times, people believed that the gods lived high above the earth, beyond the blue dome arching above us. Occasionally, these gods might visit the mountain peaks, or ride across the sky in the sun, the moon and the stars. Much later—by the golden age of Greek civilization—philosophers developed loftier, more abstract conceptions of deity—but these were more like an Ideal than like a living, loving Person. To thinkers like Plato, the idea of communing intimately with God would have seemed ridiculous.

In the early centuries of Christianity, the Church had to struggle against philosophies which declared that the sublime God could not tolerate any direct contact with human beings. God was pure spirit, they said, and he was far too holy to dirty his hands by touching the imperfect, debased, material world. According to this scheme of things, humanity and divinity could never meet.

However, there could be go-betweens. Some Hellenistic religions believed in superbeings who could act as intermediaries. Nevertheless, close relationship between God and earthlings was thought to be impossible.

Not surprisingly, some Christians who had been educated in this philosophy (saturated with it, in fact!) tried to force Christ into a more acceptable Hellenistic mould. As a group, we refer to them today as Gnostics.

Some Gnostics held that Jesus was neither God nor human, but a supernatural mediator. According to them, Mary gave birth to another class of being—one who came to bring knowledge of God to humanity, so that we crude earthlings could begin the long climb to purification and, ultimately, arrive in the highest heaven.

Another school of thought said that Jesus was divine—but was definitely not born of a woman. Rather, he came as a spirit in human disguise. People thought they were dealing with a man—but that was merely an illusion; the feet of Jesus never really touched the corrupt ground of planet earth.

The mainstream of Christianity, though, believed quite differently. And orthodox Christians tried to counter Gnostic teaching in a number of ways. Today, I want to talk about two of these ways: story and creed.

One way of countering Hellenistic philosophy was by the use of story.

Towards the end of the first century, as the Gnostic distortions began to gain strength, Christians started to speak more frequently about the birth of Jesus. They asserted that, while Jesus was—unequivocally—God, he was also—unequivocally—human, born of flesh and blood, just like all the rest of us. 

Before that—during the first three decades or so of the Church’s history—Christians did not much concern themselves with the birth of Jesus. It was his teaching, death and resurrection that occupied their worship and proclamation. In fact, the very earliest documents of Christianity—like most of the New Testament letters, and the Gospel of Mark—make almost no mention of Jesus’ birth.

But by the time Matthew and Luke were writing, the Gnostic influence was becoming very powerful. Realizing this, these two gospel writers set out to explain just how the eternal Word of God became incarnate. Using slightly different details, Matthew and Luke tell the story of how Jesus was born as a human baby. They declare that God can indeed have direct interactions with people. The gulf between heaven and earth was wide, but not impassable; it was, in fact, bridged by God himself—and he did it by taking on our human flesh.

So in Luke’s story, when a pregnant Mary pays a visit to her pregnant relative Elizabeth, the older woman exclaims: “Who am I, that I should be visited by the mother of my Lord?”

Mark those words: she calls Mary “the mother of my Lord.” In that sentence, the supposed rift between heaven and earth is closed. This—in story form—is a profound statement of faith.

The human woman Mary gave birth to the divine Child, and—in Christ Jesus—humanity and divinity come together. For God, flesh is not an insurmountable obstacle. A woman’s body is neither an impossible—nor an unworthy—place for God to reside.

A second way in which Christians countered Hellenistic thought was by the use of creeds. Especially by the fourth and fifth centuries, they tried to protect faith in the incarnate Christ through formal creeds, voted on at ecumenical councils. 

During this period, the phrase “mother of God” was written into creedal texts. Now, in doing this, the bishops were not imparting divine status to Mary. They were definitely not saying that Mary preceded God or that she created God! But they were insisting that the divine Child started as a human fetus, carried in Mary’s womb and later nursed at her breast.

God’s true Child, our Lord Jesus, was fully mothered by Mary. She was truly the mother who bore the Divine Son of God. And so, the gulf between God and earth is bridged by that creedal expression, “Mother of God.”

To the elite philosophers, this was shocking stuff! But the Christians persisted.

“Like it or lump it,” they said. “That’s how it is.”

By calling Mary the God-bearer, the Church declared that spirit and flesh were not antagonists. Christians affirmed that God and people were much closer than the Greek philosophers thought. But more than that, they made clear the following points:

• God does not despise this earth;
• Men and women are not too impure to have the most intimate contact with God;
• God has made us for fellowship with himself; and
• God loves us and treasures us as his beloved children.

Historically, Protestants have been wary of the phrase, “Mother of God.” We’ve been afraid that it comes too close to deifying Mary. But that was never the true intention of Roman Catholic teaching.

In any case, the birth stories of Matthew and Luke—and the creeds of the fifth century—were not trying to exalt Mary into a demi-god. They were simply testifying to the truth: that, in Jesus of Nazareth, God really did walk among us, as one of us.

Divinity really did issue from the body of Mary. She truly was the God-bearer, the mother of our Lord. Christianity as we know it is based upon this assumption. So, on this fourth Sunday of Advent—as a Protestant—I want to celebrate the phrase, “Mother of God.”

First and foremost, I want to celebrate it because it underscores the incomparable love of God. It also emphasizes the unique humility of God, and the saving beauty of God.

Secondly, it proclaims that there is hope for our race. If the Divine can become “incarnate in the virgin’s son,” then humanity and divinity are not poles apart! Human flesh is not a lost cause, for God himself has become “bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh.”

Cosmically speaking, we may appear as insignificant bits of chance consciousness on one irrelevant speck of dust. But, according to the Bible, we can be God-bearers. For we are made in God’s own image.

As Athanasius of Alexandria put it: “God became human so that the human could become divine.” And that, really, is what the Christmas story is all about.

So, thanks be to God for this good news! Thanks be to God for the one who was “blessed amongst women.” And thanks be to God for the fruit of her womb: Jesus, whose Advent we await.

__________________

* Voyager 1 carries a copy of the “Golden Record”—a message from humanity to the cosmos that includes greetings in 55 languages, pictures of people and places on Earth and music ranging from Beethoven to Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.”

Third Sunday of Advent

TEXTS: Luke 3:18-22 and Philippians 4:4-7

In many different ways John preached the good news to the people. (Luke 3:18)

Always be filled with joy in the Lord. I will say it again. Be filled with joy. (Philippians 4:4)

Good news! Be filled with joy!

Joy is a special kind of happiness which wells up from deep within the human soul. It is not superficial. And it is not complicated. Even a little child may know it. As someone has said, “Joy overflows in time, yet is the stuff of eternity.”

This special happiness is the dominant theme of the third Sunday of Advent. In chapter four of Philippians, Paul celebrates the truth that the Lord is near. In chapter three of Luke, John the Baptist preaches the good news to the people.

Joy is the overarching theme here. At least until Herod throws John in prison, and … Well, that’s a story for another day.

What brings happiness?

Most Canadians, I’m sure—if you were to ask them that question—would give answers reflecting the assumptions and illusions of North American culture.

What brings happiness? Most would say things like …

Wealth. Winning LOTTO MAX, or being a millionaire before the age of 30. Plenty of money equals plenty of happiness. Right?

Or being young; hence the multi-billion-dollar cosmetic industry which is focused on making us look younger than we really are. To appear youthful equals happiness.

Or good health. The gigantic market for health products testifies to our belief that good health guarantees happiness.

Or popularity. To be popular, to have admiring people around you, who flatter you. If possible, to be a sports star, or a movie star or a rock star … this is happiness!

Or a good marriage. To marry a person that you are in madly in love with … this surely is the very definition of happiness. Hence the happy ending the majority of people expect from cheap novels and romantic films.

Or having grandchildren! This remains a much-desired source of happiness for most of us who are parents of grown-up children.

Now, I haven’t paid Ipsos-Reid to conduct a poll, but I would suggest to you that all of these things would rate very highly on the list of Canadian assumptions about the sources of happiness.

You might wish to add a few more.  Like “success.” Or “power.” Or, for those of you who set your sights as low as I do … a bucket of fried chicken (with fries, gravy and cole slaw)!

Yeah. I’m really not that hard to please.

Now, before I proceed any further, let me acknowledge the good in most of those assumptions. They do have some validity.

For example, wealth. Wealth is not a bad thing. There is no virtue in grinding poverty; having some money certainly improves our sense of well-being.

Or youth. The energy of a young person is a considerable asset. Aging has its drawbacks.

Or health. Of course health is a good thing. Who would choose disease over health?

Popularity is not a bad thing, either. We all need to be liked and respected. Being unpopular is not fun.

A good marriage is a wonderful thing—and a love-match is a pretty good start.

And as for grandchildren … I think they’re awesome!

Be assured, I am not knocking these things. But I do ask the question: are they truly a lasting source of that profound happiness which we call joy? Can they be relied on to deliver what we want them to?

Sadly, the answer is “no!” An objective look at Canadian society flatly contradicts our widespread assumptions about the sources of sustainable happiness. The roots of joy are not found in wealth, health, popularity, youthfulness, marriage, or even grandchildren.

The evidence shows otherwise; evidence that we all can see and hear.

There are some “could-be” grandparents who boot their pregnant daughters out of the house because these young women insist on choosing motherhood. Not much joy of grandparenting there.

It’s the same with marriage. Apparent love-matches can turn sour before a year is up. Some of those who expected a life of unabated happiness wind up hating each other! And even in the happiest of marriages, the heart still seeks something yet more profound.

What about popularity? We all know that there are plenty of examples of lonely and despairing superstars, for whom authentic joy remains elusive. Some are even driven to suicide.

As for youthfulness … Look, we’ve all met many joyful elderly people. And we’ve all seen plenty of miserable young people!

The same can be said about good health. Some who are physically robust are spiritually desolate. On the other hand, some of the most radiantly joyful people you will ever meet spend their days on hospital wards or in extended care facilities.

Lastly, there is the biggest myth of them all: wealth.

Common sense shouts at us that wealth does not bring happiness. The world is littered with nasty, sour, and ruthless millionaires; who smile for the camera while their souls are as parched as a desert.

On the other hand, there are multitudes of ordinary folk with just barely enough money to scrape by, who are a sheer joy to be around.

What really disturbs me, is that I see many Christians getting caught up in the same illusions as the secular world. And what disturbs me even more deeply is that I find myself sometimes day-dreaming, getting sucked in by these illusions, tempted by these same false gods.

Christians know—or should know—that real joy is only to be found in the generous, supreme love of God in Jesus Christ. It’s called grace.

Joy is knowing the grace of God. Joy is knowing that you are treasured and cherished by the very Spirit who is the Source of our existence.

Joy means losing the anxiety which is bred by slavish religion, or arid godlessness. It means finding “the freedom of the glory of the children of God,” as Paul told the Romans (Rom. 8:21).

Joy is to know that in success or failure, in sickness or in health, poverty or wealth, youth or old age, living or dying, our lives are guarded by this amazing grace.

“Salvation” is the word commonly used to describe the ministry of Christ in our lives.

Salvation has two meanings: rescue and healing. Both of these apply.

Christ rescues us from all the illusions and bondages that the world would thrust upon us. More than that, Christ’s love heals the depths of our being. In fact, he is the love which restores us to health. He enables us to bask and delight in the affection of God. In Jesus Christ, we see the immense, rescuing, liberating, healing love of God—focused in one human life. He is Emmanuel—“God-with-us.” That is what we are preparing to celebrate as we draw near to Christmas.

So I return to the words of the apostle Paul: “Always rejoice in the Lord. I tell you again: Rejoice!”

You remember the story of Paul, don’t you? Because of Emmanuel, that devout but miserable fellow—Saul of Tarsus—became Paul, the joyful servant of the risen Christ. He had been a legalistic religious fanatic: proudly racist, fearful of those whom he considered heretics, anxious lest he break one of God’s commandments—and murderously hateful toward this new sect of Jesus-followers.

But when—on that road to Damascus—he was confronted with the blinding love of God in Christ Jesus, joy and liberty filled his being. Joy was the by-product of his new faith. It welled up unquenchably from the eternal, intimate presence of God.

Years later—after having been flogged on numerous occasions; shipwrecked while on missionary journeys; after having been spat upon and beaten, driven out of one town after another … After having been ridiculed by intellectuals; scorned by his fellow Pharisees; pelted with stones; and shackled in prisons …

Finally, when he was held under arrest in Rome awaiting his trial and execution, Paul was able to write to “all the saints in Christ Jesus who are in Philippi,” saying: “Always rejoice in the Lord. I tell you again: Rejoice! … The Lord is near. Have no anxiety about anything.”

Christian joy does not depend upon life’s circumstances. Its source is eternal. That, perhaps, is the message we most need to hear right now, as we speed down the hectic fast lane to Christmas.

So, if you haven’t already … please take some time to fuel up with the love of God. Fuel up on Jesus before you get back on the Christmas freeway. Fill your tank with the joy of the Spirit—then journey on in faith and hope and love.

Advent 2: The Sunday of Peace

TEXT: Luke 3:1-6

“Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” (Luke 3:4b-6)

The second Sunday of Advent is the Sunday of Peace—the Sunday of John the Baptist, who called all of Israel to prepare for the coming of the Messiah; John, who sought to prepare them for peace by proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

“Prepare for peace … by preaching a baptism of repentance …”

Sounds great, doesn’t it? But how does that work, exactly?

I think it’s beyond question that all caring people want peace in this world, and—in wanting peace—they hope for much more than simply the absence of conflict.

They want true peace—peace that incorporates justice; peace that has in it a sharing of the world’s resources; peace that includes love, and joy, and hope—in short, a peace like the people of Israel hoped for as they looked for the coming of the promised Messiah.

Peace with justice. Wow! What a familiar concept, for us mainline Christians! So how is it, then, that John the Baptist—who prepared the way for Jesus by his preaching—never talked about forming action groups or political parties to agitate for peace? How is it that he never urged his listeners to write letters to political leaders, or to march in protest rallies?

He never did. We do not hear John the Baptist urging us to boycott companies that harm the earth. Nor do we hear him speak about mending the relationships between nations and groups as a way of getting ready for peace. We may want to hear him say that … but he never does.

No. John spoke about individuals getting right with God.

Yikes! John the Baptizer … he urged individual men and women to get right with God through personal repentance. Through changing their personal behaviour—and through displaying the fruit of their repentance by caring for others.

Yup. It’s not about political activism. Or even about passing a theological exam. It’s about how authentically you live what you say you believe.

John sounds kind of like his cousin Jesus, doesn’t he? Near the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says:

“… Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you. You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you …” (Matthew 5:39-44)

Look at the beginning chapters of any of the gospels, and puzzle out for a while the question: What is it that God is trying to tell us about being prepared for his coming? The message God sends through John the Baptist is this: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight … Bear fruits worthy of repentance … Whoever has two coats should share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” (Luke 3:4c, 8a, 11b)

There is a relationship between preparing the way for Christ, and doing good works—between making straight paths for the Prince of Peace, and making peace your way of life. Cliché or not—the words are true that say: “peace begins with us.”

We can only prepare for the Prince of Peace by proclaiming peace through our own lives. We can only make his paths straight through our personal, individual commitment to what peace is—through our commitment to who God is, and what the kingdom of God is all about. This is the foundation of peace.

How can we make ourselves ready—and make the world ready—for the reign of the Prince of Peace?

Only by striving, ourselves, to be peacemakers. And we can only become peacemakers when we ourselves live by the laws of peace—the laws given by our God.

The Scriptures assert over and over again that God’s message must be heard before faith can come; and how can that message be heard, if there is not first of all a messenger?

Just as John the Baptist was a messenger for the Living Word, preparing everyone for Christ’s coming through his preaching, so we are called to be messengers of Jesus by preparing his way in our own lives, and—through our lives—preparing his way in the world.

You know, God’s call to us does not normally occur by supernatural means. Most often, God’s call comes to us—and, indeed, God himself comes to us—through the most ordinary of means, and through the most ordinary of people.

It is a rare person who has a vision of God right out of the blue. Not even Saul of Tarsus was unaware of Jesus before he met him on the road to Damascus. Real people communicate God’s call to us. Real people show us God’s way of peace. And real people lead us toward God’s Kingdom, and prepare us for God’s work in our lives.

The German philosopher Frederick Nietzsche—a man famous for his unbelief—once said, “I might believe in the Redeemer if his followers looked more redeemed.”

This is the challenge that John the Baptist laid before the people of Israel when he came out of the wilderness and went into all the country around the Jordan preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins and saying to them, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming … He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” (Luke 3:16)

We can prepare ourselves—and we can prepare our world—for true peace by living our personal lives under the guidance of Christ’s love and wisdom and insight.

That requires humility, to be sure—humility, and the desire to walk in the path of Christ. And it takes repentance; it takes the heartfelt desire to turn from holding everyone else responsible for creating peace, and taking those responsibilities upon ourselves. We are called to become peacemakers, trusting in the God of peace to help us. That means looking for the right solutions—the solutions that prepare others for the coming of God by first ensuring that God’s blessings are seen in us and shared by us.

In the classic Walt Disney movie, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, there is a lesson for us about all this. It’s the lesson that Mickey Mouse—the apprentice—learns when, taking advantage of his master’s absence, he tries out his skill at wizardry.

Mickey discovers that he has enough magical power to make things happen—but he lacks the knowledge to keep that power under control. To relieve himself of the hard work of scrubbing the floor, he brings to life a bucket of water and a mop. However, the single bucket and mop quickly multiply beyond his expectation, until ocean-size waves of water flood the sorcerer’s chambers.

Only with the return of the master is control reasserted. The apprentice then picks up his mop and returns to doing his job the hard way—having learned an important lesson about the limits of his own knowledge and skill.

So it is with us. If we try to build peace by setting in motion great social movements; if we look to prepare the way of the Lord by lending support to good causes—but without first seeking the wisdom of God—then these forces can overwhelm us.

However, if we do seek God’s wisdom—and the insight into ourselves provided by God’s wisdom—then we can indeed make straight paths for our God. We can prepare his way into the world by striving to conduct ourselves according to God’s will. We can make the rough places smooth by demonstrating God’s love in our individual lives.

This is, I believe, the only way that we can receive the Messiah. I also believe that this is the only way that the world can be prepared for him.

But now, I want to conclude by saying something else. And this is important: Do not wait until your discipleship is perfect before you dare to live it out! Because if you wait for perfection—if you wait until you’ve “got it all together”—then you will wait until you die … and you will never actually do anything.

Seek God’s will, and acknowledge your own weaknesses. Proclaim God’s truth, and allow for the possibility that you could be mistaken.

Or to put it another way: let your words and actions point to Christ, and not to yourself. Remember that you are but a humble apprentice. Remember who your Master is. Remember those things, and do the best you can. Do the best you can, with the Lord’s help—and I promise you, you will prepare his way!

FIRST SUNDAY IN ADVENT

TEXTS: Jeremiah 33:14-16 and Luke 21:25-36

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with … the worries of this life …”  (Luke 21:34)

Do you remember the “Calvin and Hobbes” comic strip? Created by American cartoonist Bill Watterson, it was syndicated from 1985 through 1995.

“Calvin and Hobbes” follows the humourous antics of Calvin—a precocious, mischievous, and adventurous six-year-old boy—and Hobbes, his always-forthright stuffed tiger. Set in present-day suburbia, the strip depicts Calvin’s recurrent flights of fancy and his friendship with Hobbes. In one of these comic strips, the following conversation takes place …

In the first frame, Calvin declares: “Live for the moment is my motto. You never know how long you got.”

In the second frame, he explains: “You could step into the road tomorrow and WHAM, you get hit by a cement truck! Then you’d be sorry you put off your pleasures. That’s what I say—live for the moment.”

And then he asks Hobbes: “What’s your motto?”

Hobbes replies: “My motto is—look down the road.”

Today’s Scripture readings are about what’s coming down the road towards us. They are about the promises God has made to us—such as the promise made through the prophet Jeremiah:

“The days are surely coming … when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute righteousness in the land.” (Jer. 33:15)

Stop for a minute, and think about that. What does it mean to us now, this promise of God? What does it mean, when Jesus says to us that there is a day coming when the Son of Man will come in a cloud with power and great glory?

What do these promises mean to us now in the midst of a busy life? A hectic life? A life where our kids expect to be driven here and there, and ask for things that we simply cannot afford? A life where our employers demand too much of us—and then dispose of us as they please? A life where our lodge, our children’s school, our hockey team—and, for that matter, our church—demand from us hours and resources that we simply do not have?

What do these promises about the future mean when we are caught up in trying to do all we can do right here and now in this present time? What do they mean when we are struggling to live one day at a time—when we are trying to be too many things to too many people?

What do they mean when we watch the news or read the newspaper and discover that senseless tragedy continues throughout the entire world—that crime and starvation and terrorism and war and earthquakes and floods abound? What do these promises mean, while coronavirus mutations stalk us, day and night?

In the face of all this, can we rely upon the promises of God? How should we react to what we witness happening all around us?

Here is Jesus’ advice: “When these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (Luke 21:28).

In other words, we should steadfastly cling to hope. We should watch, and we should pray—pray that we may be able to escape the time of tribulation, and pray that we may be able to stand before the Son of Man when he comes.

The promise of God—the promise of Christ—is that the future is not going to be like the present. The promise of God is that those things that are wrong in this world—those things that are evil—will surely pass away. The promise of God is that a new heaven and a new earth will come upon us—a new world of everlasting peace and everlasting justice, of infinite joy and boundless love.

Jesus calls us to believe in this future. That is why he mentions the signs of his coming, how the powers of the heavens will be shaken—how the stars and the moon and the sun itself will appear to go off course, bringing terror and fear to all the earth. That is why he says:

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.” (Luke 21:34-36)

Be on guard so that your heart is not weighed down. Wow. As I was reading those words of Jesus—as I was preparing my blog for this week—those words caught me … frankly … off guard.

The passage spoke straight to my heart. It told me, “Don’t get so caught up in the worries of this life that you are unprepared for the return of the Master.” It told me, “Be alert to the bigger picture.” It told me, “Understand your place in the greater scheme of things. Be on guard.”

It’s too easy to forget that, in the end, God’s will shall be done. And all I can do—all any of us can do—is to seek to understand God’s will, as best I can—and try to obey it, as best I can. And then trust God for the outcome.

Because the outcome is not up to me. When I lose sight of that truth, I begin to feel overwhelmed, and sorry for myself. Soon, I’m grumbling and hard to get along with. All because I’ve lost my focus.

How about you? What do you feel lost in today? Are you lost in the moment that is at hand?

Are you lost in the concerns that this moment brings? Has your life been so overwhelmed by one thing or another so that you can’t appreciate what else is going on?

We’ve all heard the expression, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” In today’s gospel reading, Jesus tells us not to sweat the big stuff!

He says we should not be distracted from him by anything, even by huge, major issues—warfare, floods, famine, creation seeming to fall apart. Nor even by an ongoing pandemic. Jesus says we should view these things as signs of what is to take place. Portents of the radical change that’s coming—change that will usher in a better world.

However, I think Jesus is telling us something else, too. He’s warning us about those smaller things—those personal things—that can be more distracting than any war or disaster halfway round the world.

Those personal events are dangerous, precisely because they are subtle and sneaky. We don’t realize what’s happening until it is too late. All of a sudden we’re trapped. We’re depressed. We’re working too hard. We’re so focused on one thing, that we miss the bigger picture.

That’s why Jesus tells us to be alert—to watch. He warns us against getting so caught up in the everyday things—or even the big, global crises—that we lose sight of the larger scheme; that we fail to look down the road; that we fail to see God’s approaching Kingdom.

Make no mistake about it—the Kingdom is coming. A righteous Branch has sprouted from David’s line—and he will do what is just and right in the land.

He has come—and he is returning! We are called to be ready for him when he does—to be praying and loving and doing the things he has commanded us to do. Listen once again to what Jesus said:

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

Yes. I’m repeating that quotation. Because that is the primary theme of Advent. It’s about being alert to what is going on around us; asking what the signs around us mean to tell us; readying ourselves for the fulfillment of God’s Word in our midst; preparing ourselves by prayer; having within ourselves the blessed hope that God wants us to have.

Jesus does not inform us about the signs of the end and the coming time of judgment in order to frighten us, but rather to reassure us. He wants us to understand that God is keeping his promise, and that the time of his rule is close at hand. Jesus tells us about the signs of the coming of the Kingdom so that we can prepare ourselves for it.

Look around. Look down the road. And then—with your head held up high—walk on the road towards the approaching Kingdom.

Walk in prayer. Walk in hope. Walk in righteousness and in love, trusting that—just as so many of God’s promises were fulfilled in the birth of Christ—so, too, shall the rest be fulfilled, to his praise and to his glory.

Welcome to the first Sunday in Advent—the Sunday of Hope!

Reign of Christ (Christ the King)

TEXT: John 18:33-37

Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” (John 18:33)

Pontius Pilate knew what a king was. He served the most powerful king in the world at the time: Caesar, the emperor of Rome. Being a king in those days meant wielding absolute power—unlimited authority. In Pilate’s world, kings demanded unquestioning obedience, and they had the power to compel obedience if it was not willingly given.

Now, the Jewish religious leaders of the day were certainly not kings, but they did have their own measure of power. And, as religious leaders of all kinds have been prone to doing—all through the centuries, and even in the church, and even today—they saw Jesus as a real threat to their own power over the people. He was dangerous.

What to do? Well, they knew that one sure way to get rid of him in was to claim that he was disloyal to Caesar, that he was setting himself up as a political ruler, and that he was inciting the people to revolt against Roman authority. So they told Pilate, “This man wants to be king.”

Now Jesus of Nazareth finds himself in Pilate’s court, on trial for his life. Here is this humble, itinerant rabbi from backwater Galilee, accused of treason, standing before a man who represents all of the power and might of imperial Rome. Yet scarcely have proceedings begun when we realize that this trial is not going to go the way anyone expected.

Consider Pilate. He clearly has grave doubts about Jesus’ guilt. The governor appears oddly uncertain. Indecisive … even inept. And fearful of the crowd outside his window.

“Are you the king of the Jews?” Pilate asks Jesus. And Jesus calmly responds, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?”

Desperately, Pilate asks another question: “What have you done?” And Jesus tells him, “My kingdom is not from this world.”

The kingdoms of this world depend for their power upon armed might and the threat of violence. But Jesus says, “My kingdom is not like any you have ever seen before.”

And suddenly, Jesus the defendant has become Jesus the prosecutor. Pilate the judge has become Pilate the defendant, standing before Jesus the judge. Every statement shows Pilate more and more confounded by Jesus. It is a scene filled with irony. Jesus would be crucified, but it was Pilate who was defeated. Pilate wore the vestments of power, but Jesus wore the royal demeanour.

Jesus was a king, but not as we usually think of kings. He was a servant king—like the “man of sorrows” to whom Isaiah referred (Isaiah 53:3).

Rarely, there have been earthly kings in whom we have glimpsed something of that servant-role.

During World War Two, London was subjected to numerous bombing raids. Buckingham Palace—the home of King George the Sixth and Queen Elizabeth—was, of course, a prime target. Most families who could afford to leave the city left—or at least, sent their children away. But King George and Queen Elizabeth chose to stay.

The Queen said, “The girls will never leave without me, I will never leave without the King, and the King will never leave.”

This example of the king gave enormous encouragement to the working people of London, those who had no choice but to stay through the bombing. The good king does not leave his people, but endures alongside them.

Jesus was that kind of king. Or consider Princess Diana. She was not a monarch, but she was royalty. She was the beautiful, fairy-tale princess—and when she married Charles, the Prince of Wales, multitudes across the globe watched the telecast of their wedding. Years later, two billion people watched her funeral.

In the media coverage around her tragic death, everyone wanted to talk about what made Diana special: her beauty, her accessibility, her vulnerability, her compassion—the list went on and on. Everyone who had ever had any connection to her had a chance to speak.

In Diana, the princess of Wales, royalty stooped. She had her flaws, to be sure—but her greatness was demonstrated as she set aside the trappings of privilege to be with those who were downtrodden. Diana’s concern for ordinary people—even for the most wretched—was genuine, and freely expressed.

One physician accompanied her on hospital rounds where there were no cameras. He said she did not hesitate to caress and linger beside patients with disfigurements and symptoms that were distressing even to medical personnel. That capacity, the doctor said, cannot be faked.

Royalty stooped. The princess let go of her right to be served, and became the servant. She did not pay someone else to minister to these sick and dying people. Instead, she walked among them, touching them and comforting them.

Jesus was that kind of king.

Chapter two of the Epistle to the Philippians tells us that Christ Jesus—though he was in the form of God—did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself and took the form of a human being. Royalty stoops. Jesus—who is God—becomes an ordinary, humble human being.

We find yet another example in the legend of Denmark’s King Christian the Tenth. According to the story, when Denmark was occupied by Hitler’s forces during World War Two, the order came that all Jews were to identify themselves by wearing armbands with yellow Stars of David. King Christian said that one Danish person was exactly the same as the next one.

So the King donned the first Star of David, and let it be known that he expected every loyal Dane would do the same. The next day in Copenhagen, almost the entire population wore armbands showing the Star of David.

The Danes saved 90% of their Jewish population. The Danish people knew their king loved them and that he would identify with them to the extent of putting his own life on the line by wearing the Jewish star.*

These examples of human royalty—of remarkable human royalty—point to the sort of king that Jesus was. He stooped. Because Jesus was humbly obedient, God exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name.

Jesus is Lord—but not because he held onto power and demanded the absolute allegiance due him. No. Jesus is Lord, because in him God has come near to us. In Jesus, royalty stoops. In Jesus, the idea of what a king is has been turned upside down.

In the end, Pilate ordered Jesus to be crucified with the words “King of the Jews” posted over his head. Pilate, most likely, was being sarcastic. He certainly could not have actually believed what he had ordered to be written. And yet, just as certainly, Jesus was a king. He just was not the sort of King that anyone expected.

I wonder if that’s true for us, also. We name Jesus as King in our hymns, and in the language of our prayers. But how often do we stop to think about what that means? About how Jesus is a King? About what it means when he says that his kingdom is not from this world?

Jesus wants to be the King of our lives—of your life and of mine. He does not seek to rule with absolute, overwhelming, crushing power, but as a humble servant. In Jesus, royalty stoops to stand with us, to love us, to be in relationship with us.

I wonder: will we allow this kind of King to be Lord of our lives?

Next Sunday, as the Advent season begins—as the journey toward Bethlehem commences—I hope our common pilgrimage leads us into paths of service. I hope the run-up to Christmas is, for each one of us, about something more than parties, wine, and expensive gifts.

I hope we take the time to  stoop. Because Scripture tells us that we are royalty, also. As the apostle Paul says in his Letter to the Romans, the Holy Spirit “bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ …” (Romans 8:16-17a).

Mark that. We are children of God. Siblings of Christ the King. In chapter two of First Peter, we read that we “are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for [God’s] own possession, that [we] may proclaim the excellencies of [the One] who called [us] out of darkness into his marvelous light” (1 Peter 2:9).

Through Advent and Christmas, let’s shine that marvelous light into this world’s gloom. Let’s use the royal power we’ve been given. Let’s glow brilliantly—with an incandescent love. Let’s stoop to lift up our neighbours who are struggling or hurting at this time of year.

Whether by making a loaf of sandwiches for some hungry folks, or putting a jar of peanut butter or a tin of soup into the Food Bank bin, or breaking through someone else’s loneliness with a visit or a phone call … Let’s find ways to show forth the love of Christ in these coming weeks—to make this a happy season for everyone.

Each of us has the royal power to do exactly that. Let’s exercise it. Amen.

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*According to popular legend, King Christian X chose to wear a yellow star in support of the Danish Jews during the Nazi occupation of Denmark. In another version, the Danish people decided to wear a yellow star for the same reason. Both of these stories are fictional. In fact, unlike Jews in other countries under Nazi rule, the Jews of Denmark were never forced to wear an identification mark such as a yellow star. However, the legend conveys an important historical truth: both the King and the Danish people stood by their Jewish citizens and were instrumental in saving the overwhelming majority of them from Nazi persecution and death.

25th Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 28B)

Mark 13:1-8

“… Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Mark 13:2)

Jesus was speaking to his disciples about the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, but most Biblical commentators also hear him speaking about the end of the world—or, at least, about the last days. And that subject, it seems, fascinates most of us. At least, in popular entertainment, “end-of-the-world” stories always draw a huge audience.

For example, there was the movie entitled “2012.” Remember it? It was one of the highest-grossing films of 2009, earning over $166 million in North America alone—and almost as much again in world-wide release. If you saw the movie, you know the plot: it is December 21st, 2012, the day the Mayan calendar says the world will end—and cataclysmic events are unfolding.

The basis for that plot had to do with the fact that a new cycle of the Mayan Calendar happens every 1,872,000 days. The old cycle finished on the winter solstice of 2012 … which was December 21st of that year. Hearing that, some people concluded that the end of the world was going to happen on that day.

Cable television networks have long been cashing in on apocalyptic conjecture. Over the past several years, the Discovery Channel—along with Science, National Geographic, and some other cable channels—have aired seemingly endless “special reports” about one looming disaster after another. There has been no shortage of “doomsday documentaries” about how the world will end because of a comet or a meteor hitting the earth … or because of some global pandemic … or because the caldera—the super-volcano—under Yellowstone National Park will finally explode, plunging the entire planet into something like a nuclear winter.

And then, there are the environmental doomsday scenarios. These do seem more plausible. Unless we change our collective behaviour in some drastic ways, we may very well destroy the planet by drilling for petroleum, building pipelines, driving cars, and dumping waste plastic into the oceans. But that’s a gradual process—and apparently not exciting enough for a disaster movie (maybe that’s the problem).

The point I want to make is: if you look at the history of any time period, you will find predictions about the end of the world. In the 19th century, a preacher by the name of William Miller predicted that the end would come on March 21, 1844—and lots of people believed him. But when that date passed without incident, he revised the date to April 18 of the same year … and then to October 22. That’s like what Harold Camping did in 2011; his dates were May 21, and then October 21 … but we’re still here! Throughout Christian history, there have been literally hundreds of very specific end-time predictions—going all the way back to the first century. None of those predictions came true, but there were always people who were eager to believe in them.

There is something ingrained within us that is fascinated by the idea of the end of the world. We want to speculate on how it will happen—even if we hope we’re not around when it does.

There have been times, though, when people thought they just might be watching Armageddon unfold. World War One was called “the war to end all wars.” In the dirt, gas, and rot of the trenches, almost 10 million soldiers died. The casualties of that war—military and civilian combined—are thought to be around 19 million. Yet, we know that this was not “the war to end all wars.” The Second World War came along only two decades later. And I’ve actually lost count of how many conflicts have flared up since then.

Even so, for most Canadians, war has been something that happens somewhere else. Except for the veterans among us, we have no direct experience of war. The last actual war on Canadian soil dates back to the War of 1812—over 200 years ago! Since then, it has been rather peaceful around here.

You know, when we have these extended periods of relative calm, we think nothing will ever happen to change it. We think that nothing can disturb the way we live our lives.

This must have been what the disciples were thinking when they walked out of the Temple with Jesus. Impressed by the architecture, some unnamed disciple says: “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!”

It was true. The Jerusalem Temple was a magnificent thing to behold. The stones the disciple referred to each weighed about 40 tons. And, if necessary, the Temple could hold about 75,000 people within its walls. Not only was this place massive, but it was also holy. It was where the presence of God resided—behind the curtain, in the Holy of Holies. It’s no wonder that the disciples were awestruck.

Yet, Jesus says to them: “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

Now, this is pretty unbelievable. Forty-ton stones will be thrown down? A place large enough to hold a small city would be so completely destroyed that not one stone would be left on another? This must have seemed impossible. Yet, only 40 years later—in 70 A.D.—the Romans took the Temple apart and utterly destroyed it, just like Jesus said. At the hands of Roman soldiers, the seemingly impossible happened.

We’ve witnessed that in our own time, haven’t we? On September 11, 2001, we watched two buildings that people thought would stand forever come crashing down. And for a whole generation, that event has become the sort of defining moment that the Kennedy assassination was for my generation. Everybody remembers where they were—and what they were doing—when the twin towers fell.

When people go through tragedy or disaster or war, their innocence is lost—and reality becomes much scarier. On 9-11, we all witnessed the impossible happening—and in that moment, our world became unstable, and chaotic, and terrifying.

According to some scholars, Mark’s gospel was written shortly after the Jewish-Roman War. If that is correct, then the destruction of the Temple would have been as fresh in people’s minds as the destruction of the World Trade Center is in our minds.

In the nation of Israel at that time, there were many who wanted to get rid of the Romans. There was a huge push for nationalistic loyalty, and certain Jews—the Bible calls them “zealots”—were recruiting fighters to go against the Romans. They claimed that this was the moment when the Messiah was coming—and they expected him to lead the Jewish forces in a glorious war of liberation.

Well, we know how that played out, because it was around this time that the Jewish revolt was crushed, and the Temple was destroyed. If Mark was indeed writing just after all this took place, then his presentation of Jesus’ message is most significant—because it is the opposite of a call to arms.

Mark wrote in his gospel that this was not the moment of the end of the world. The Messiah was not “on his way”—he had already come. In fact, God himself had already been here—in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

In every lifetime, there is an event or a war or a moment that makes people think the world is coming to an end. During these times the calls go out, just as they did during the Jewish-Roman war. There is a call to arms and a buildup of nationalistic pride and passion. “This is it,” they tell us. “This is the moment we have been waiting for! It all ends here.”

And for some—for those directly involved—their individual worlds might, in fact, end. But for most, life goes on.

True, there will come a day when everything shall change. It will be “the end of the world as we know it.” God promises that it is coming—but we don’t know when.

We want to find out, though. Our human nature really wants to fix a date on the calendar. It’s always been that way.

Peter, James, John and Andrew are intrigued by Jesus’ statement, and so they go to him and ask him: “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?”

He tells them: “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs” (Mark 13:5-8).

Jesus is telling them that there will be many times in our lives when things look like they are coming to an end—but those are just deceptions.

Once, years ago, I attended a lecture about the Book of Revelation. I remember that the lecturer unfolded this huge map explaining how Revelation predicts the end of the world. I heard about bar codes being linked to the Antichrist. I heard that there was a road being built from China to the Middle East, and that—somehow—this meant that Armageddon was about to begin. The list went on and on.

Then, more recently, I learned about something called the “Rapture Index.” This is a website* that places a numeric value on how close we are to the “rapture”—that is, to all living Christians being suddenly removed from the earth. That’s supposed to happen right before things get really bad, according to some. Just like on Star Trek, the Lord will beam us all out of here before the Tribulation hits.

Anyway, on November 8th—this past Monday—the “rapture index” was 186 (unchanged from the previous week). That means that there is an imminent threat that the rapture will happen at any moment.

You know, many of us dive into works of fiction like the Left Behind series; or we take seriously those television evangelists who say that they have figured out when this event will take place. But if you tune all that stuff out, what does Jesus say?

To the disciples who were asking the exact same question we all ask, Jesus says: “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

Wars and rumours of wars. Nation rising against nation. Earthquakes. Famines. Just the beginning of the birth pangs.

I wonder: how many of you know the first signs that a woman is going into labour? Guys … do you know?

I do. I remember this quite vividly. She might start to clean up around the house, getting ready for the new arrival. Contractions might start—but many times these are just Braxton-Hicks contractions, or practice contractions. Then there are about a thousand other supposed indications that childbirth is near.

I can’t tell you how annoying it is to listen to everyone and their grandmother giving their opinions on when your wife will have her baby:

• “Oh sweetie, he has dropped! It definitely will be this week.”
• “I can see that your nose is getting bigger! That means any day now.”

But you know, a baby comes when a baby comes. We can try to guess, but—unless we have a C-section planned—we do not know the day or the hour.

In our gospel lesson, Jesus is telling us the same thing. He says we should not be focused on that. We should focus on what we can do for God today, and not worry about tomorrow.

Sure, it would be great to know when the new heavens and new earth will come into being. But, really, we should focus on who is coming, and stop obsessing about when.

Jesus Christ will come again. But—instead of trying to figure out when that will be—we should focus on what he is calling us to do now. That way—when it is the end of the world as we know it—we will have laid a good foundation for the Kingdom of God. And we will hear our Lord say to us: “Well done, you good and faithful servants—well done!”

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* https://www.raptureready.com/rapture-ready-index/