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.

Third Sunday of Advent (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 3:7-18

So, with many … exhortations, [John] preached the good news to the people. (Luke 3:18)

A large two-engine passenger train was crossing Saskatchewan. After they had gone some distance, one of the engines broke down. “No problem,” the engineer thought and carried on at half power. Farther on down the line, the other engine broke down and the train came to a standstill.

The engineer decided he should inform the passengers about why the train had stopped, and made the following announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that both engines have failed, and we will be stuck here for some time. The good news is that you decided to take the train and not fly.”

We like to play the game of dividing things into bad news and good news; black or white, smile or frown, dance or drag the feet. But things are not as simple as that. In many cases the thing we call bad news is actually good news. That is, the bad news is good news in the long term.

If just before I leave on a long journey I notice a fault in a car tire, I may react as if it were bad news. But in fact discovering that fault is good news. It might well save a lot of trouble later in the trip.

If a physician says, “I’m afraid we must take out your appendix,” we may react as if it is bad news. But in truth it is very good news; it’s wonderful that a potentially life-threatening situation can be so easily rectified.

Good news is not necessarily “nice” news. Good news may be uncomfortable news. In some cases it may involve considerable cost. It may even bring distress and pain in the short term.

Think about the final sentence in the Gospel reading for today: “So, with many … exhortations, [John] preached the good news to the people.” (v. 18)

In the passage leading up to this summary, we hear how John the Baptist thundered at some of those gathered around him by the Jordan. He said, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?”  (v. 7) 

And a little later he speaks of the Messiah who will come, “His winnowing-fork … in his hand, to clear his threshing-floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” (v. 17) 

This is the good news? Doesn’t sound more like bad news for a heap of people?

John’s tough words were not spoken to the merely curious, nor to those who came to scoff, nor to spies who came to gather evidence against him. His words were spoken to those who had asked to be baptized by him. These are the ones he calls a “brood of vipers.”

You know, if you were looking for someone to go door-to-door recruiting new church members …  Well, I don’t think you’d hire John the Baptist! He’s just a little bit too caustic.

In today’s gospel, it seems the prospective converts are getting a harsh blast from the desert preacher. What John is saying amounts to this: Baptism is not enough! The outward form is not enough. Just because you’ve been baptized, he says, that does not mean you have truly repented.

Nor is your heritage enough, says John. Don’t tell me you are the children of Abraham; that’s not enough!  God can make children for Abraham out of the stones on the ground! Don’t put your trust in your religious heritage, because by itself it means nothing.

Not surprisingly, they ask him, “What then should we do?” (v. 10)

John’s answer is to call for repentance—but not that kind of penitence that is just sentimental whitewash. Penitence, after all, can be limited to just feeling sorry. For some, it can be just a self-centred indulgence. Feel sorry, weep a little to justify yourself—then do nothing about your sin. Penitence can be easy. Penitence can be “nice” news.

Repentance, though, is something else. Repentance is the “very-bad/very-good” news. Repentance is the pain that can heal. It involves taking drastic action. It is usually difficult, and it is always uncomfortable.

Repentance involves a fundamental about-face—a turning away from self-interest toward God. It means embracing God’s will. Repentance means radical change. It results in a transformed outlook, and a new kind of behaviour. This was the challenge John the Baptist threw out to his listeners when he demanded that they “bear fruits worthy of repentance.” (v. 8)

To the ordinary people, he says: “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” (v. 11)

To those disloyal Jews who were employed by the occupation army of Rome to gather taxes, John insisted that repentance meant giving up extortion and only collecting what was fair.

To the soldiers—who were probably there as bodyguards for the tax collectors—he said: “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.” (v. 14)

Repentance is a costly business!

“So, with many … exhortations, [John] preached the good news to the people.” (v. 18)

Good news. Really great news, actually. It sounded harsh—and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel—but it revealed new possibilities of health in the Kingdom of God. “Repentance and its fruits” comprised John’s message of hope and happiness.

If you’re like me, you tend to run from the hard truth. If you’re like me, you don’t care for discipline all that much.

I think most of us are like that. We shrink from honest confrontation with our own tricky, scheming souls. I guess that’s why so many of us hear a call to repentance as only bad news.

But the good “bad” news is that God is not willing to forsake us—to abandon us upon the stormy seas of our own foolishness and sin.

The call to repentance is a call to truly come home, no matter how arduous the journey—to come home and begin bearing the good fruits that are appropriate for each of our lives. 

John the Baptist’s message always looms large at this time of year. His good/bad news is aimed straight at the human heart—but it ricochets off our egos first! His message stings. But it will not harm you or me this Advent.

So … How about it? What shall we do with John and his exhortations? Can we—will we—hear his challenge as good news?

May God grant us wisdom, and courage—and above all, humility—as we consider these things. Amen.

Second Sunday of Advent, Year C

TEXT: Luke 3:1-6

 

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins … (Luke 3:1-3)

Have you ever thought to yourself, “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be”?

Maybe it was the latest report of rockets falling in Ukraine. Maybe it was images of starving children scrambling for food amidst the wreckage of Gaza. Maybe you heard about the 16-year-old boy who made his first appearance in Saskatoon youth court this week, charged with first-degree murder in the death of a 20-year-old woman in a hotel parking lot. Maybe it was the latest family gathering that ended in shouting. Maybe it was the stupid thing I said when I should have just kept my mouth shut.

“This is not the way it’s supposed to be.”

If you’ve ever felt like this, then you have an idea of what the Bible means when it talks about sin.

And the biblical concept of sin is complex. When you say, “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be,” two things are going on. First of all, you have a sense that something is not right. But there is also a second thing happening.

To be able to say that something is not right, you first need a vision of what things are supposed to be like. In other words, sin is a derivative concept. You have to have some sense of what is right, to begin with. Only then can you say that something is wrong.

The Bible’s vision of how things ought to be is called shalom. We translate this word as “peace,” but it means much more than an absence of warfare or a calm state of mind. In the scriptures, shalom—or “peace”—means universal flourishing, wholeness, harmony, delight.

The prophets spoke about a day when crookedness would be made straight, when rough places would be made smooth, when flowers would bloom in the desert. They looked forward to a world where weeping would cease, where the lion would lay down with the lamb, where the foolish would be made wise, and the wise would be made humble.

They foresaw a time when dealers of death would become givers of life, beating their swords into ploughshares. All nature would be fruitful and benign. All nations would sit down together at the same table. All of Creation would look to God, walk with God, and delight in God.

According to the writer Cornelius Plantinga, shalom is a “rich state of affairs in which natural needs are satisfied and natural gifts fruitfully employed, a state of affairs that inspires joyful wonder as its Creator and Savior opens doors and welcomes the creatures in whom he delights. Shalom, in other words, is the way things ought to be.” *

Sin is the way things are not supposed to be. Sin is the violation of shalom. Sin is an affront to God because it breaks the peace of God. And what is it that breaks God’s peace? Twisting the good things of Creation so that they serve evil purposes. Splitting apart things that belong together. Putting together things that ought to be kept apart. The corruption of integrity—personal and social and natural integrity.  A moment’s reflection or a look at the evening news can supply endless specific examples.

I know, I know … All this talk about sin is kind of a downer—especially on the Second Sunday of Advent. I mean, we’re supposed to be getting into the holiday spirit, right? Decorating the tree. Listening to Christmas carols. Feeling jolly. But, today—instead of the baby Jesus and heavenly choirs of angels—we get John the Baptist, a shaggy prophet from the Judean wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

Not exactly “Have a Holly, Jolly, Christmas” … is it?

But here’s the strange thing. We still refer to this message as “good news.” It’s in the gospels of the New Testament that we hear about John the Baptist. And the word gospel means “good news.”

How can this be? A hellfire-and-brimstone preacher wagging his finger at us and calling us sinners … Well, that sure doesn’t sound like very good news. Certainly, John’s message is important. But it’s important only as a prelude to good news, right? It tells us how we can prepare for the good news of the Saviour’s birth … right?

We need to go through the hard process of acknowledging and repenting of our sins so that we’ll be ready for the gift of Christ.

It’s necessary—but we still wouldn’t call it “good news,” would we? The doctor who tells us we have to lose weight and start exercising may be proclaiming a truth we need to hear, but when we hear it, we don’t exactly celebrate, do we?

And yet, John’s message is much more than just a necessary, grin-and-bear-it prelude to good news. In and of itself, John’s message is good news.

John the Baptist proclaimed a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. I think there are three ways in which we can hear his message as good news. And all three ways have to do with hearing and responding.

First, if we hear John’s message and it rings true for us—if we have ever said, “This is not the way things are supposed to be”—then, obviously, we already know what God’s peace is meant to look like.

As I said before, sin is a derivative concept. If we know that things are not the way they’re supposed to be, then we must already have a vision of how things ought to be.

This is good news, my friends! We do have a vision of God’s shalom. We do have a sense of God’s peace, and our Christian hope is rooted therein. It has been given to us in our scriptures, and in our religious traditions, and in our reflection upon creation.

We have been given a vision of the world as created and redeemed by our good and generous God. It is a vision of a transformed and restored world—one that is fruitful, abundant, and harmonious. The world of shalom is life-giving, peaceful, and whole; it is filled with a deep and abiding joy.

If we hear and respond to John’s message about sin, then we must already know something about God’s peace. And that is good news; it is good that we know this.

A second way we can see John’s message as good news is this: if we hear and respond to his call to repentance for the forgiveness of sins, then we must believe that there is something we can do about sin.

John’s message is not a hopeless message. He does not say to us, “Things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be—and they never will be! Get used to it.” No. John’s message is liberating and joyful, because it calls us into harmony with the purposes of God. If we already understand God’s vision of shalom, then we see the way in which harmony can be restored.

Yes, the Creation is broken—but the breach can be repaired. John’s proclamation is good news, because it holds out the possibility of salvation. Despite the fact that things are not the way they should be, John’s message is: things can change, and so can we! We can hear God’s call, and we can respond to it. People can stop killing each other. We can decide to feed hungry people. Parents can love their families and raise healthy children. Enemies can become friends.

We can make shalom happen! And that is the best kind of good news. It is joyful, liberating news.

Finally, John’s message about repentance and forgiveness of sins is good news because: if we dare to respond to the call of God’s peace, that means we already trust in the eventual triumph of God’s peace. It means we believe that shalom is not a lost cause.

Referring to John the Baptist, our gospel lesson quotes the prophet Isaiah: “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘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; cf. Isaiah 40:3-5).

What an emphatic message: all flesh shall see the salvation of God! This is good news. In fact, this is the Good News!

It’s true that things are not the way they’re supposed to be.

But we already know God’s vision of shalom. And so, we can turn our hearts and our minds toward God’s purposes.

We can trust that someday all things will be put right, all tears will be wiped away, all swords will be beaten into ploughshares, and all flesh will see the salvation of God. God’s peace will win out in the end.

And we know this because—in the birth of Jesus—these mortal eyes of ours have seen the Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, and he shall be called “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6b).

Things are not the way they are supposed to be. We know this because we already know God’s vision for the world. But—through a process of repentance—we can align ourselves with God’s purposes.

God is calling us to usher in his reign of peace, where things are as they should be. And we can do this in spirit of gratitude, joy and trust.

Why? Because—in the birth of a baby who is the Prince of Peace—we have been given a promise. And the promise is this: God’s shalom will be triumphant!

Thanks be to God.

___________________________

* from Cornelius Plantinga’s book Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be: A Breviary of Sin; quoted at: http://flourishonline.org/2011/05/the-goal-of-creation-care/

First Sunday of Advent (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 21:25-36

[Jesus said:] “It will seem like all hell has broken loose—sun, moon, stars, earth, sea, in an uproar and everyone all over the world in a panic, the wind knocked out of them by the threat of doom, the powers-that-be quaking.

“And then—then!—they’ll see the Son of Man welcomed in grand style—a glorious welcome! When all this starts to happen, up on your feet. Stand tall with your heads high. Help is on the way!”

He told them a story. “Look at a fig tree. Any tree for that matter. When the leaves begin to show, one look tells you that summer is right around the corner. The same here—when you see these things happen, you know God’s kingdom is about here. Don’t brush this off: I’m not just saying this for some future generation, but for this one, too—these things will happen. Sky and earth will wear out; my words won’t wear out.

“But be on your guard. Don’t let the sharp edge of your expectation get dulled by parties and drinking and shopping. Otherwise, that Day is going to take you by complete surprise, spring on you suddenly like a trap, for it’s going to come on everyone, everywhere, at once. So, whatever you do, don’t fall asleep at the wheel. Pray constantly that you will have the strength and wits to make it through everything that’s coming and end up on your feet before the Son of Man.” ¹

Well, that sounds like a wake-up call, doesn’t it? That’s our gospel lesson for today, from Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of Jesus’ words, in The Message version of the Bible.

I like The Message because it’s written from a 21st-century perspective—which is probably why its language is so hard-hitting. And I think Jesus’ words here are meant to hit us hard.

He is actually responding to a question his disciples asked.

You may remember this passage (Luke 21:5-7). Jesus and his friends were in the Jerusalem temple—which was a very impressive piece of architecture, “adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God.” But Jesus tells them, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”

So they ask him, “Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to take place?”

In his reply, Jesus talks about all kinds of terrifying stuff: wars and insurrections, earthquakes, famines, plagues, and persecutions. He says that Jerusalem will be surrounded by armies, and people will have to flee to the mountains, “for these are days of vengeance, as a fulfillment of all that is written” (Luke 21:22).

And he goes on, saying: “Woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing infants in those days! For there will be great distress on the earth and wrath against this people; they will fall by the edge of the sword and be taken away as captives among all nations; and Jerusalem will be trampled on by the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles are fulfilled” (Luke 21:23-24).

Welcome to the first Sunday of Advent! By now, I’m sure you’re wondering what any of this has to do with Advent and Christmas. After all, our thoughts have already turned toward putting up the Christmas tree and decorating our homes. Everywhere we go, there are happy reminders that Christmas is coming. So, what’s with the doom-and-gloom gospel lesson? On this first Sunday in Advent, wouldn’t we rather hear a message about Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus? Why does the lectionary serve us up a passage like this one, today?

Well, perhaps it’s because many of us really do need a wake-up call at this time of year, when it’s so easy to become distracted. And this time of year is full of distractions, isn’t it? Shopping. Traffic jams. Endless parties. We can get so caught up in these things that we completely miss the “peace on earth and good will to all” part.

The first message of Advent is: “Wake up! Don’t miss out on the coming of Jesus.”

The season of Advent is a spiritual wake-up call. Listening to this gospel lesson, you can almost hear the alarm clock ringing.

Not only does Advent try to wake us up, but it also invites us to look around. Advent urges us to look in two directions: back upon the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem; and forward to Jesus’ return in glory. That’s why this season begins with a text about the Second Coming. From the start, Advent looks deep into the future; to the end of history, in fact.

Now, if I’m going to be faithful to what the scriptures say about Christ’s return, then the first thing I must tell you is this: nobody knows the day or the hour of his return—nobody! One of the most radical statements in the Bible is found in Matthew and Mark’s account of Jesus’ words in the temple: “… about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father” (Matt. 24:36; Mark 13:32).

Did you catch that? Not even Jesus knew when the end of human history would come. Only the Father knows.

But we want to know, too … don’t we? And so, we try to figure it out. Lots of people focus on Jesus’ words in today’s text: “Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all [these] things have taken place” (Luke 21:32).

Writers like Hal Lindsey and Tim LaHaye and many others have supposed that Jesus was speaking about the generation which saw the reconstitution of the state of Israel in 1948. That’s why—in 1970—Hal Lindsey wrote a book entitled The Late Great Planet Earth. On its pages, Lindsey cobbled together prophetic passages from the Old and New Testaments and came up with a prediction that Christ would return by the year 1988. The book sold over 28 million copies.

Of course, when 1988 came and went and Christ did not return, Lindsey merely adjusted his numbers to buy a few more years (and sell a few more books). Well over a quarter-century later, we’re still waiting.

Likewise, the psychic Jeane Dixon—who apparently correctly predicted the assassination of John F. Kennedy—asserted that an apocalyptic “war of Armageddon” would occur about the year 2020. More recently, the physicist Frank J. Tipler has asserted that the Second Coming of Christ will occur by 2057. Perhaps the clock is still ticking.

Why do we worry about stuff like this? Some people focus on prophecies and predictions because they want to prove that the Bible is true. They think that—if they can show that the Bible in fact predicted something that would happen 2,000 years later—then people will pay attention to it.

But, look: the Bible does not need proofs to make it true. The Bible reveals God to us in Jesus Christ—and that is what makes it true. I also have to tell you this: I believe that the events Jesus predicted did in fact come to pass. In the year 70 A.D., the Roman army invaded Jerusalem, destroyed the temple, and made the earth shake with violence. Jesus warned his disciples that life in this time would be difficult for God’s people—and that certainly was the truth.

Personally, I think we’ve been living in the last days for about 2,000 years. Christ could return at any time, my friends. It could be next week. It could be this afternoon. Or it could take another 2,000 years. No one knows for sure. It seems like a long time to us, but even 4,000 years is hardly a blip on God’s radar.

In any case, I hope none of you are consumed by anxiety over all this. Did you notice that our gospel lesson actually contains words of hope? There are many who want to use the sights and sounds of the apocalypse to scare people—to scare us into faith. However, this is not our Lord’s way. Instead, Jesus tells us: “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (Luke 21:28).

Do you hear that? In the midst of tragedy—in the midst of war and rumours of war; in the midst of oppression and poverty, tsunamis and superstorms and earthquakes, rioting and protest, autocratic political leaders and fulminating dictators—in the midst of our own personal losses, we can raise our heads and look for the Lord because he is near. That is the message of Advent.

In the beginning God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. Where was God? In the darkness.

Moses went up into the darkness that covered Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. Where was God? In the midst of the darkness.

On Easter morning, while it was still dark, Jesus rose from the dead. Where was God? In the darkness before the dawn.

Advent is a season in which we remember that we are people of hope. We sing to Emmanuel because God is with us. When we are lost in any kind of darkness, Advent reminds us that we are not alone. The God of hope is with us. Jesus warns us not to get distracted by the cares of this world. Lift up your eyes. Lift up your hearts. Look heavenward, because—even in the worst of times—our Lord comes to us.

When you get right down to it, that’s really all the scriptures say about the end time: no one knows when it will come, but it does come, and—because God is present in it—it is a time of hope.

We should not pay attention to the doomsayers who would attach a date and time to Jesus’ return. However, we should prepare for his coming—and we should pay a lot of attention to how we prepare for it. We can prepare by living out our faith each day: living it out with a sense of urgency.

We all realize that the celebration of Christmas has changed over the years. What started out as a season of hope and promise and joy and peace has turned into a time of stress, and crowds, and shopping lists. And when it’s all over, many of us are left with presents to return, looming debt that will take us months to pay off, and an empty feeling of having missed something.

But … what if we prepared differently this year? Not long ago, I heard about a project called the “Advent Conspiracy.” That sounds kind of sinister, but it’s really not. The purpose of the Advent Conspiracy is to bring a deeper meaning to Christmas. On its website,² it lists four guiding principles: “Worship Fully, Spend Less, Give More, Love All.”

In a nutshell, the idea behind the Advent Conspiracy goes like this: What if we bought one less Christmas gift this year? You know: the sweater that will never be worn, the candle that will never be lighted, or the knickknack that will get returned the day after Christmas. And what if we took the money saved by not buying that gift, and gave it to help someone in need?

Since Christmas began with a group of people who worshipped Christ, what if we conspired together to begin this season of preparation by engaging fully in worship? What if we conspired to buy less? What if we conspired to give more? What if we conspired to love each other?

See how this works? It’s simple. It’s not easy—but it is simple. If you have a conflict with a family member or friend, offer forgiveness and seek reconciliation as quickly as possible. Don’t let it simmer inside of you until it poisons your whole outlook on life and makes it uncomfortable to be around that person. Live peacefully with each other.

Imagine what a positive difference that would make in our lives—and in our world. The Advent Conspiracy is designed to help us live well as we anticipate the coming of Christ.

Just like today’s gospel reading, the Advent Conspiracy gives us a wake-up call. As the Apostle Paul wrote: “… you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers; the night is far gone, the day is near. Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armour of light” (Rom. 13:11-12).

That’s good advice for the start of this Advent season. So, let’s do it! Let’s wake up, be alert, and stay on guard. Lift up your eyes to the Lord and stand up to face him, for your redemption is at hand. Thanks be to God.

_________________________

¹ Luke 21:25-36, from The Message Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson.

² http://www.adventconspiracy.org/

Christ the King Sunday

Text: John 18:33-37

 

We give you thanks and praise, O God, for you are the Ruler of the Universe—and you reign with justice and righteousness. You created all things in heaven and on earth, and through your holy prophets in ages past you promised to save us. Out of your deepest mercy, you have come to us in fullness in Jesus the Christ, your anointed One, whom you sent to be our Shepherd and our King.

Help us to always keep your power and your authority and your love and your majesty in our minds and to never forsake the doing of your will. Make us ever more obedient to the Word you place in our hearts and in our minds.

By the power of your Spirit, help us to live out our discipleship with increasing faithfulness; to show our commitment to Christ through our actions every day—through how we spend our time and our money; through how we employ our hands and direct our feet; through how we speak and how we think; through how we work and how we play.

In his time with us, Christ commanded us to love you, and love one another—and even to love our enemies. Therefore, we persevere in prayer for all our sisters and brothers across the whole earth. We pray for those in this world who are set in authority over us, that they might act justly and compassionately in all things.

We pray also for those who have no power; who find themselves at the mercy of forces over which they have no control—economic, political, military, and social forces which bring conflict, poverty, and myriad forms of hardship; climatic and environmental forces which bring drought, famine, and natural disaster; forces which work to destroy the weakest and most helpless amongst us—forces which we are called to oppose, as people to whom you have given dominion over the earth.

We pray for the suffering and the sorrowful; the despairing and the dying; the grieving and the guilty; the lonely and the lost. We pray for those in hospital rooms, and in prison cells—and for those who will sleep rough tonight, braving the elements as winter approaches. We pray for those near to us, and for those dear to us. We pray for those whose names we know, and for those whose names—and needs—are known only to you.

All your children, O God, need a Saviour as well as a Sovereign. Through the actions of your faithful people, give voice to the voiceless, grant liberation to the oppressed, feed the hungry, and give drink to the thirsty. Let us never forget that we are the hands and feet—and eyes and ears—of Christ Jesus our King, in whose name we pray. Amen.

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For other meditations upon the Reign of Christ (Year B) see these previous posts:

http://www.garygrottenberg.com/blog/not-usually-think-kings/

http://www.garygrottenberg.com/blog/not-from-here/   

Proper 28, Year B

TEXT: Hebrews 10:11-25

And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another … (Heb. 10:24-25)

Today’s epistle reading—especially the part about provoking one another to good deeds, and meeting together, and encouraging one another—reminds me of something that happened quite a few years ago now.

At the time, my son Samuel was the youth minister at a large church in the “deep south” of Calgary, Alberta (what you might call a “well-heeled” neighbourhood). And I was pastor of a smaller congregation in the city’s north-east.

Sam’s church had a sizeable youth group, comprised mostly of senior high school students, and he was always looking for ways to challenge them, and broaden their horizons, and hone their discipleship skills. So he came up with this idea of an “urban mission project.”

On a Sunday afternoon, he wanted to take a group of teenagers from his affluent part of the city into the downtown core, into the world of poverty—the realm of the homeless, the destitute, and others who must depend upon their wits to survive in a difficult environment. But of course, in order to carry this thing off, he needed some adult chaperones. And this is where I would come in. Would I help? Would I come along? Actually, I’m not sure “chaperone” is the right word to describe what Sam was looking for. The way he put it to me was like this: he said, “I need some big buys who look like they can handle themselves in a fight.”

Well, I have to tell you, I don’t particularly relish the idea of getting in a fight! But I knew what Sam was getting at; just having some heavyweights visible in the group might add an element of security. Even so, I wouldn’t have said “yes” to anybody else … but this was my son who was asking me. So I agreed to go. Then I proceeded to worry about it, because this sort of thing is entirely outside of my comfort zone.

The plan for this mission trip was simple enough. We were going to offer hot coffee and warm clothing to whomever wanted it. Then we were going to grab a fast-food supper and head to an evening service. Yes, it was a simple enough plan. But for me, it was completely foreign territory. I had grave concerns about personal safety—not just for myself, but for this whole group of kids for whom I was going to be partly responsible. What would I do, if there was the threat of violence? More than that, I had serious misgivings about our method. Would we look like just a bunch of condescending do-gooders? Would anyone resent us, or feel like their dignity was being insulted?

As I said, this stuff was outside my comfort zone. And by the time the day rolled around, I’d had about three weeks to work myself up into a frenzy of dread. But, true to my promise, after my own worship service in the morning, I headed south to meet up with the group that was going downtown. There were about 20 of us, including my son and four adult volunteers. Besides the grownups, the ages of our group ran from 12 years of age to about 18.

Before I knew it, we were in the city core. We had with us 100 cups of coffee—in those Tim Horton’s coffee boxes, which hold 10 cups each. We had 100 paper cups and lids. We had hundreds of packets of sugar, cream, and stir sticks; and we had many, many items of warm clothing.

Forming three groups, we set out in different directions, and we agreed to rendezvous later at Olympic Plaza. My group included one other adult—my friend Ernie—as well as Ernie’s 12-year-old daughter Emily, and five teenagers (three guys, two girls). Right away, we began to encounter people who looked like they might need what we had to offer. Also right away, I discovered that the young people were much less apprehensive about all this than I was. In fact, it quickly became apparent that Emily—the youngest—had no fear at all. She was by far the boldest when it came to approaching people. We had to make sure someone kept up with Emily, because she would literally run up to people to offer them coffee!

After about an hour and a half, we wound up at the Calgary Drop-In Centre, where we very quickly got rid of all the coffee we had left, as well as the clothing. Shortly after that, we had supper at a McDonald’s on Stephen Avenue, then walked to Central United Church for the evening service, which was a “Recovery Service”—that is, worship aimed primarily at people struggling with addiction. After that, we returned to Sam’s church, where we gathered in the Youth Room to “unpack” the experience. Now, “unpacking” the experience—at least, the way my son did it—involves prayer, and meditation upon Scripture, and then sharing with others. And as I sat in that circle, I heard some of the most amazing—and deep—reflections and insights from this group of teens.

I have to say that all my anxieties turned out to be completely unfounded. Nobody threatened us. Nobody was offended by what we were doing. Our gesture—small as it was—was received with what I can only describe as exuberant gratitude. It was just coffee, but these folks couldn’t have been happier if we’d given them champagne! Well, OK, maybe that’s stretching it a bit. Some of them probably would have been happier about champagne.

But the point is, they were genuinely grateful for the hot coffee, and for the warm clothing, which many of them desperately needed. This simple gesture drew us all together, and I found myself engaged in conversation with people who, a day earlier, I would have avoided like the plague. It was one of the profoundest—and most touching, and enlightening—experiences that I’ve ever had. Would I do it again? Absolutely! No question.

How does all this relate to our passage from the Letter to the Hebrews? Well, listen again to this part: “… let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another …”

How do you provoke someone to love? How do you provoke someone to perform good deeds? Well, if you’re a youth leader, one way you can provoke teenagers to this kind of goodness is by making it part of the program: by saying, “We’re going to do this. Who’s coming?” And then taking names, and demanding a firm commitment.

Taking names … making firm plans to go as a group … this touches on something else that’s important: “not neglecting to meet together.” By meeting together, and undertaking the task together, you make the whole thing do-able—and much less frightening than if you were to contemplate doing it on your own.

“Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together … but encouraging one another …” There’s not only safety in numbers, but also mutual encouragement. Not everyone has to be like Emily—at the vanguard of things, boldly approaching people. Others can be the ones who pour the coffee, or hand out the sugar, or the clothing. Or—like me—you could be the one who carries the garbage bag (for some reason, that quickly became my job).

And there’s something else that happens when people work together: they bond! By having a common mission, you discover a common Spirit. I saw that happen, too. I had never met most of those kids before. But by the end of the evening, we felt like old friends. I felt completely accepted by them—and not just because I was “Sam’s dad.” I’d gone way beyond that. Now, I was a fellow disciple.

I also noticed—and I think this is interesting—that Emily found the same kind of acceptance. Now, you have to remember that, at age 12, she was by far the youngest member of our company. The next youngest would have been a grade nine boy, and—in the group that Emily and I were part of—the two teenaged girls were much older. So you might have expected them to treat Emily like a little kid. Or maybe even regard her as a nuisance. But that’s not what happened. In fact, quite early in the afternoon, I could see that the three girls were getting along very well. They found they had a lot in common, despite their age differences. And when we were unpacking the experience afterward, it was Emily who astounded us with her deep insights about privilege, and addiction, and the power of simple deeds.

So that’s the story. In it, I hope you’ve heard both a challenge and a promise. The challenge has to do with stepping outside your comfort zone, and encouraging others to do the same thing: provoking one another to love and good deeds. The promise has to do with the reward you’ll receive—with what you’ll learn about yourself and about others when you take the risk of discipleship. The promise is that—with the encouragement of other believers, and by acting in concert with others—you will find yourself rewarded in ways you’ve never even imagined. You’ll discover yourself to be capable of things you never dreamed you could do. And you don’t have to do it by yourself. That’s the wonderful thing about being part of a church community; we can encourage and support one other in our discipleship. And when we do that, miracles happen.

Together, we can do a lot more than any one of us can do alone. As members of the Body of Christ, we are not only called to vocations of service, we are also equipped and enabled to carry them out. And mutual encouragement is an important part of that. So don’t be afraid to stretch your discipleship. And don’t feel like you have to go it alone. Jesus promises us that when we gather together in his name, he will be with us. And when Jesus is with us, there’s nothing we cannot do. Challenges abound in Christian life. But those challenges are also opportunities—opportunities to really and truly live out your faith. Don’t be afraid to take them!