Fifth Sunday After the Epiphany
TEXTS: Isaiah 40:21-31 and Mark 1:29-39

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. (Mark 1:35)

In today’s passage from Mark, we catch up with Jesus on the Sabbath day. And we find him busy. Doing many things. He has already attended worship at the synagogue. There, during worship, he cast an unclean spirit out of a man and restored him to health.

Now—on the same Sabbath day—he goes with his disciples to Peter and Andrew’s home, where he brings healing to Peter’s mother-in-law, who was gravely ill with a fever.

Later that day—in the evening—a huge crowd gathers in the front yard, bringing with them many who were sick or afflicted; and Jesus heals them, too.

So much for the Sabbath being a day of rest! It’s been a full day—very full! Very busy.

Early the next morning, Jesus leaves the house and goes to a “deserted” place—a quiet place, a secluded place—and there he prays.

He must have remained there for quite a long time, because Simon Peter and his friends go searching for him. And when they find him, they say that everyone back in Capernaum is looking for him—people with needs, people who want healing, his touch, his word, his hope.

Guess what? There’s more work to do!

That sounds just like church life, doesn’t it?

Anyway … faced with this news … Jesus decides it’s time to … leave! And our passage concludes with him telling his disciples, “Let us go on to the neighbouring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” (v. 38)

From there, Jesus travels throughout Galilee, preaching and healing and driving out demons, spreading by word and deed the good news of God’s Kingdom. And always—as we find if we read the Gospel accounts—always, we find Jesus drawing aside from the crowds in order to pray. Always we find Jesus leaving his disciples and going to a quiet place by himself for a talk with God—for a time of developing and maintaining his relationship with his Father.

He thought that was important.

How about us?

Do we take time to develop our relationship with God? Do we remember why we are here in the first place? Or the simplicity of God’s call to us? Or the glory of God’s promises to us? Do we recall how God has helped us in the past?

Do we remember where we may obtain fuel for our tanks, food for our journey, tools for our labours, recovery for our souls, hope for our hearts, and direction for our days?

Do we turn aside from the hustle and bustle of each day, and allow God to fill us? To restore us? To guide us, so that we can accomplish what God wants us to accomplish? So that we can be what God wants us to be? What God has made us to be?

The Word of God in today’s reading from the prophet Isaiah is a message of reassurance for God’s people. It is a call to us—a call to remember who God is, and how God has helped us in the past. It is a call to us to come to God so that everything can be put into perspective. It asks us to wait upon God—to listen to God, as well as to speak to God. It is a call for us to pay attention, so that God can raise us up, and restore us to health, and unfold his plan for us.

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens. Who created all these?
Remember that God brings out the starry host one by one, and calls them each by name. Remember that, because of God’s power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.

Not one of them is missing!

God knows each star by name. He knows each one of us by name!
Isaiah urges us to remember who God is:

Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak, O Israel,
“My way is hidden from the LORD,
and my right is disregarded by my God”?
Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable. (Isaiah 40:27-28)

Remember who God is—and what he wants to do for us.

He gives power to the faint,
and strengthens the powerless.
Even youths will faint and be weary,
and the young will fall exhausted;
but those who wait for the LORD
shall renew their strength,
they shall mount up with wings like eagles,
they shall run and not be weary,
they shall walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40:29-31)

Why did Jesus go the synagogue on each Sabbath Day?
Why did he worship at the temple with God’s people?
Why did he keep the Law of Moses?
Why did he continually turn aside, and find a quiet place to pray?
Why did he withdraw from his disciples and from the crowds to go up on the mountainsides, or into garden groves, to wait upon God?

I believe he did these things because they helped him to stay on track. He did this because it was the secret to his power. He did this, I think, because without doing it, he could not have accomplished much of anything.

So it is with you and me. God has a purpose for each one of us—and when the time is right, he will reveal it. God will raise us up and give us power.

When we dare to believe that … When we hope in that … When we feed ourselves with God’s Word … When we allow God to speak to us … Then God moves in us to do for us what we cannot do on our own.

When we spend time with God—intentionally deepening our relationship with him—God moves in us to give us strength and peace—peace that lasts. Peace that endures even through the most turbulent times.

Over the years, I’ve been privileged to know a few people who were filled with that kind of peace, and that kind of quiet strength. Peace that endured to give quiet strength, even in the face of a terminal diagnosis. Even in the face of death.

Yes. Even in the face of death. But also peace and strength … even in the face of job loss and lasting unemployment.

Peace and strength … even in the midst of shattered dreams and ruined plans.

Peace and strength … even when a business partner cheats you … or a friend fails you … or a spouse betrays you. Or even when you are the one who must admit a mistake and make amends.

Jesus is alive and well. He still reaches out his hand to heal and to lift up. He still enters our cities, our homes, and our hearts. He still shows up in our lives—in your life and in mine—to cast out our demons and proclaim his message of hope … for that is what he came out to do.

Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?
The Eternal, the Everlasting God,
The Creator of the whole world, never gets tired or weary.
His wisdom is beyond understanding.
God strengthens the weary
and gives vitality to those worn down
by age and care.
Young people will get tired;
strapping young men will stumble and fall.
But those who trust in the Eternal One
will regain their strength.
They will soar on wings as eagles.
They will run—never winded, never weary.
They will walk—never tired, never faint.
(Isaiah 40:28-31*)

They will. And so can we. We “can do all things through him who strengthens [us].” (Philippians 4:13)

Thanks be to God. Amen.
___________________________________________
*The Voice Bible Copyright © 2012 Thomas Nelson, Inc. The Voice™ translation © 2012 Ecclesia Bible Society All rights reserved.

Except where noted, Scripture quotations herein are from The New Revised Standard Version (Anglicized Edition), copyright 1989, 1995 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

The Fourth Sunday After Epiphany

TEXT: 1 Corinthians 8:1-13

Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge; but anyone who loves God is known by him. (1 Cor. 8:1b-3)

There’s a story I heard once about missionaries in the South Pacific who set up a croquet game in their front yard. Several of their indigenous neighbors became interested and wanted to join in the fun. The missionaries explained the game and started them out, each with a mallet and a ball.

As the game progressed, opportunity came for one of the players to take advantage of another by knocking that person’s ball out of the court. A missionary explained the procedure, but his advice only puzzled the native. “Why would I want to knock his ball out of the court?” he asked.

“So you will be the one to win!” the missionary said. The short-statured man, clad only in a loin cloth, shook his head in bewilderment. His “civilized” neighbor was suggesting something absurdly uncivil. Competition is generally ruled out in a hunting-gathering society, where people survive not by competing with one another, but by working together. The game continued, but nobody followed the missionaries’ advice. When a player successfully got through all the wickets, the game was not over for him. He went back and gave aid and advice to his fellows. As the final player moved toward the last wicket, the whole thing was still very much a team effort. And finally, when the last wicket was played, all the players shouted happily: “We won! We won!”

I think the apostle Paul would have appreciated that story. In today’s epistle lesson, he writes to the Church at Corinth—and, as you may remember, Paul had his work cut out for him with this group. They believed that Jesus was God incarnate, and that he had lived and died that they might be saved; but beyond this, there was a lot of groundwork that needed to be laid before the people of Corinth would understand what it meant to live as a Christian community.

Elsewhere in his First Letter to the Corinthians, Paul addresses a number of concerns—everything from what to do about a man who is having sexual relations with his stepmother to how best to arrange one’s hair when prophesying in church. In today’s passage, Paul is offering guidance about what they ought to do with food that had been sacrificed to idols.

Why was this a problem? Well, first-century Corinth was a cosmopolitan place. Religions abounded there, and a traditional rite of most religious systems involved the sacrifice of animals to the various gods and goddesses. However, food sacrificed to idols was still food that could be eaten. Typically, only a portion of the meat was actually burned upon the altar; the rest of it was given to the temple officials. The food offered to the gods was the food the priests lived on; but that food could also be sold in the general market to raise money to support the temple itself. And anyone could purchase this meat.

Apparently, there were people in the Corinthian Church who believed that food sacrificed to an idol was defiled and should not be touched. But Paul argues that idols cannot possibly defile food, because idols represent gods that do not exist. In Paul’s mind, there is only one God—and that is the Lord. Therefore this food that is being sacrificed to idols is really food being sacrificed to nothing. Paul’s opinion is that this food can be eaten just like any other food. Nothing magical has taken place, no change has occurred, it is still just food.

However, Paul then goes on to say something else. He stresses that just because he is enlightened enough to understand this does not mean that everyone else is; and if a brother or sister were to see him eat such food—and still in some way believe in the power or reality of these other gods—then that person’s conscience might become defiled. They would become confused. They would feel conflict that could be damaging to their faith. And Paul feels that it is simply not worth the risk. He says:

‘Food will not bring us close to God.’  We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do. But take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling-block to the weak. (1 Cor. 8:8-9)

In other words: just because you know the truth, that does not grant you licence to act however you please. Paul stresses to his friends in Corinth that they need to be very careful. His criterion for judging personal behaviour is its effect upon others. Determining how we should act in a given situation is not just a matter of knowing what is right or true or customary; we must always take into account how our actions will affect the life and growth of other people.

In the story about the missionaries and their croquet game, we see something of this in action. The missionaries knew the correct rules of croquet, but they were wise enough to not impose those rules on their indigenous neighbors. They told them once, but then stepped back and observed their new friends act in accordance with their own understanding.

Thankfully, the missionaries did not take the mallets away and insist that they play the game properly or not at all. To do that would have been offensive; it would have subverted the cultural values of the people—and even though the missionaries may have had a right knowledge of the rules of croquet, the question would have hung in the air: “right at what cost?”

Our knowledge of food will not bring us any closer to God than will our knowledge of the rules of croquet—but how we use our knowledge in such situations will. Now, it is hard to think of really good modern examples that directly correspond to this dilemma, because we are talking about an action or behaviour that some people consider absolutely taboo—but which others regard as completely benign. However, the basic principle is this: we need to respect each other, and take others into account before we act, even if we already know we are right.

One example we could use would be the practice of drinking alcohol. There is nothing inherently evil about alcohol, but for some people it can become a real problem—and it places their health at risk. That’s why certain denominations have traditionally banned alcohol from church gatherings.

The same principle is at work when we celebrate Communion using gluten-free bread. In recent years, many congregations have instituted this practice out of respect for those who cannot digest the gluten in a wheat loaf. Now, we may not love the taste and texture of gluten-free bread (although some recipes produce better results than others), but … In this way, the church seeks to be inclusive, accommodating the needs of one another.

I like Paul’s phrase in the first verse of chapter eight: “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.”

Knowledge is good, and important, and something to strive for. However, knowledge without compassion is dangerous. I’m sure we all know brilliant people who completely ignore the feelings of those around them. Knowledge can most certainly get you into trouble if you do not temper it with concern for the welfare of others.

It takes a brilliant mind to construct a nuclear weapon; it takes a loving mind to refrain from using it. It takes equally-skilled scientists to create biological weapons that can destroy human lives or vaccines that can save them. It takes equally-skilled politicians to draft foreign policy that will lead to peace as will lead to war. But in each of these cases, the question that ought to be asked is this: is the knowledge being used to puff up the individual, or to build up all the people? Is knowledge being used for purely selfish reasons, or is it being used with respect for the needs of others?

If we bring it down to a more personal level, we realize that we as individuals know a great deal. In fact, every one of us is loaded with information. The question is: will we let our knowledge determine how we use our love, or will we let our love determine how we use our knowledge?

Our lives here in 21st-century Canada may seem worlds away from first-century Corinth, but here and now—just like in Corinth way back then—we find ourselves living and working with people who have ideas and values that are very different from our own. Our culture has become remarkably diverse—and there will always be people we disagree with, people we have trouble understanding, people who conduct themselves in ways that seem downright strange to us. But just because we don’t think the same way about things as others do, that does not mean we cannot find ways to conduct ourselves in a respectful manner.

Paul’s message to the Church in Corinth was simply this: let love and respect guide your actions and interactions.  Ultimately, strong communities are built upon the foundation of love in the context of diversity—not upon the pursuit of complete uniformity of belief.

We don’t live in a world where we all agree, and that’s a good thing. But it also provides us with a challenge to let love inform our knowledge before we act, to let respect for our neighbour be a factor in our decision-making, and to exercise some humility by letting others act in accordance with their conscience—even if we don’t quite understand where they are coming from. Rather than puff ourselves up with that feeling of once again being right, let us build one another up in love. As Paul tells us, that is the way of Christ—and it surely is the gospel we preach.

Third Sunday After Epiphany

TEXT: Mark 1:14-20

As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” (Mark 1:16-17)

 

That is the call Jesus issues: to come and follow him … but … to where?

To God-knows-where. To the strangest of locations. To fish for … people! People with unfamiliar faces. People who may turn out to be difficult, or even hostile—people who may not, at first, want to hear about a God who loves them.

I want to tell you a story now—one that I found years ago on a website called “52 Best.” But before I do that, I need to check on an assumption. I need to ask you a question. Do you all know who Helen Keller was?

Helen Keller (1880-1968) was an American author, political activist, and lecturer. She was also the first deaf-blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. If you’ve ever seen the film, The Miracle Worker, you know something about her.

O.K. Now, on to the story from the website, “52 Best.”

The renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Frank Mayfield was once taking a tour of the Tewksbury Institute, a hospital in Massachusetts. On his way out, he accidentally ran right into an elderly floor maid. To cover his awkwardness, Dr. Mayfield started asking questions.

“How long have you worked here?” he asked.

“I’ve worked here almost since the place opened,” the maid replied.

“What can you tell me about the history of this place?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can tell you anything, but I could show you something.”

She led him down to the basement in the oldest section of the building. She pointed to what looked like a small prison cell and said, “That’s the cage where they used to keep Annie.”

“Who is Annie?” asked the doctor.

“Annie was a young girl who was left here because nobody could do anything with her. She’d bite and scream and throw her food at people. The doctors and nurses couldn’t even examine her. I was only a few years younger than her and I used to think, ‘I sure would hate to be locked up in a cage like that.’

“I wanted to help her, but I didn’t have any idea what I could do. So one night after work I just baked her some brownies. The next day I brought them in here to her by her cage and I said, ‘Annie, I baked these brownies just for you. I’ll put them here and you can come and get them if you want.’

“Then I got out of there just as fast as I could because I was afraid she might throw them at me. But she didn’t. She actually took the brownies and ate them.” 

 

When Jesus calls his disciples, he calls people who are notably very different from one another. And I don’t think this is an accident.

To me, it seems that Jesus was very deliberate about whom he chose to be part of his inner circle. Last week’s RCL gospel (John 1:43-51), told us about the calling of Philip and Nathanael. Today we hear Jesus summon two pairs of fishermen: Simon Peter and his brother Andrew, and then John and his brother James.

Elsewhere, Jesus calls Matthew, a tax-collector. And at a certain point in his ministry, Jesus calls five others: Thomas; another James; another Simon; Jude the brother of James; and Judas Iscariot, who would betray him.

Now, if you have some background in the Roman Catholic or Anglican traditions, you probably know that each of these (except, of course, Judas) has his own feast day—each of them, not just all of them together. Why? Because—aside from the stark distinction between Judas Iscariot and the others—the remaining eleven are still profoundly different from one another in important ways. 

And that’s the point. Each disciple follows Jesus for reasons known best—perhaps known only—to himself. We can presume that they all share a desire and hope for salvation … but who can say what salvation meant to a fisherman beside the Sea of Galilee? Or to a tax-collector caught between the Roman army and his own people? Or, for that matter, to a young woman with a poor reputation who is welcome at no one’s table? Who can say that the meaning of salvation for each of them is completely the same for all of them?

Ultimately, each one—in their own way—becomes a witness to the Good News of Jesus Christ, and takes his Gospel outward to others in farther parts of their world.

First-generation writings from the early Church describe the various apostles spreading out from Jerusalem to carry the Gospel into parts of Asia Minor, Greece, Italy, Syria, and Mediterranean Africa.

More legendary accounts describe Thomas reaching India, even China; James the brother of John reaching Spain; the other Simon—not Peter—going as far as Britain.

Regardless of how far they really traveled, the fact is that they—along with others whom Jesus called—did manage to carry the Good News to many more places than any single one of them would have been able to reach alone.

And—perhaps less obvious—each one had his or her own unique audience. Each one, I imagine, was able to relate to individuals and groups to whom, perhaps, the other disciples could not—because of barriers of race, or language, or experience. Each one, I suspect, was sent to minister where they could best succeed … even, perhaps, where others would fail.

Anyway, back to our story from that website …

At Tewksbury Hospital, Dr. Mayfield is entranced with the story of Annie. The floor maid continues:

“After she accepted the brownies I’d given her, Annie was just a little bit nicer to me whenever I was around. And sometimes I’d talk to her. Once, I even got her laughing. One of the nurses noticed this and she told the doctor. They asked me if I’d help them with Annie and I said I would if I could.

“So that’s how it came about that every time they wanted to see Annie or examine her, I went into the cage first and explained and calmed her down and held her hand. That’s how they discovered that Annie was almost blind. After they’d been working with her for about a year—and it was tough with Annie—the Perkins Institute for the Blind accepted her. They were able to help her and she went on to study and became a teacher herself.” 

 

Jesus cannot hope that Galilean fishermen will communicate in the language of the ear or of the heart with people far outside their own experience, or far beyond their borders or their times. But he knows that they will reach some. And of those, some will reach others. And of those, they will reach still others.        

But I digress. The maid at the hospital has more to tell Dr. Mayfield.

“Once,” she said, “Annie came back to the hospital to visit, and see what she could do to help out. At first, the Director didn’t say anything.

“And then he thought about a letter he’d just received. A man had written to him about his daughter. She was absolutely unruly, almost like an animal. She was blind and deaf, as well as ‘deranged.’  He was at his wit’s end, but he didn’t want to put her in an asylum. So he wrote here to ask if we knew of anyone who would come to his house and work with his daughter.”

The old woman looked up at Dr. Mayfield. “And that is how Annie Sullivan became the lifelong companion of Helen Keller.”

“When Helen Keller became famous,” the old woman continued—now almost whispering, “someone asked her who had the greatest influence on her life and she said, ‘Annie Sullivan.’”

“But do you know?” said the old woman, “Annie disagreed. Annie said, ‘Helen, the woman who had the greatest influence on both our lives was a floor maid at the Tewksbury Hospital.”

 

Discipleship is a funny thing.

The Gospel spreads not just in spite of the boundaries of differences, but because of them.

The Word of God is proclaimed not just in spite of the limitations of individuals, but because of them.

The voices of those whom Jesus first called ring out through the generations, with rising volume and increasing harmony—calling others, who call others, who call others.

That’s how it works, until, finally, more voices are speaking, more lives are being touched, and more and more people are hearing—in terms that they can understand—the call begun by Christ himself: to come and follow him.

That is the call we have received. And that, my friends, is the message we are called to pass on. Wherever we may reside, we live in the mission field. At home, at work, at school—even as we live and move in cyberspace—we can touch lives with the peace of Christ, with the love of God, with the transforming power of the Holy Spirit.

Each one of us is capable of doing that, for someone, every day. So, let’s stay alert to the opportunities we are given. Amen.

 

The Second Sunday After Epiphany

TEXTS: 1 Samuel 3:1-20 and John 1:43-51

Now the Lord came and stood there, calling as before, “Samuel! Samuel!”  And Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” (1 Samuel 3:10)

Philip found Nathanael and said to him, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.” (John 1:45)

In the United States, this coming Monday—the third Monday in January—is an important day. Know what it is?

With all of the rage and furor dominating the news this past week; all of the shock and outrage over the violent mob which stormed the Capitol building on Epiphany Day; all of the attendant introspection about national identity; and all of the controversy surrounding the impeachment of a soon-to-be-former president …

With all of that going on, I’m not sure how many of our American friends remember what Monday is about, either.

Monday, January 18, 2021 is Martin Luther King Day. On that day each year, the United States of America pauses to remember Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Or at least, it’s supposed to.

Martin Luther King, Junior. We all know that name. People all over the world know that name. Dr. King was a remarkable human being—a courageous Christian. And the fact that I do not have to explain to you who he was … Well, that shows he is not only an American hero, but an international one.

The address King delivered in Washington in 1963 marks one of the pivotal events of 20th century history.

“I have a dream,” he said.

It was a dream of a nation freed of crippling racism; a dream of freedom; a dream of everyone joining hands and singing: “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty we are free at last.”

When we look at the lectionary readings for this Sunday, we are reminded that God has a dream, too.

The message God gave to the boy Samuel could be delivered to us in our time, I think. God has a dream for his people. But his people have become … complacent … apathetic … remote. Our traditional Christian spirituality is becoming tired. It is growing old, just as Eli had grown old.

Think that’s not an accurate assessment of how things are?

Well, take a moment and try to remember what it was like just about a year ago, before the pandemic shut our churches down, and forced us to sit in our living rooms on a Sunday morning, watching a computer screen or listening to church services on the radio.

Remember what it was like? Unless you’re a member of one of those fabulous megachurches with multi-million-dollar budgets and over a thousand folks in attendance … you probably remember …

You probably remember how sparse your congregation was.

In my mainline denomination, we have plenty of huge, impressive sanctuaries, built decades ago, some of them designed to hold megachurch-sized crowds. But a year ago …

A year ago, we were blessed to have 100 people show up on a Sunday morning. And more likely, we were expecting 30.

Do you remember how sad that looked? To see all those empty rows? To look out at a 600+ capacity sanctuary with 30 people huddled together (or, worse still, scattered across the vast, barren domain)?

Yet, once upon a time, long, long, ago … we needed all that seating! Once upon a time, almost all of those rows would be full.

The lamp of the Lord has not yet gone out—but it’s going out!

God has a dream. God still has a dream. And without much effort, we can catch a glimpse of it in today’s story about the young boy to whom God called in the night: “Samuel! Samuel!” 

Ah, look at him. He’s running off to the old priest: “Here I am,” he says.

“No,” replies Eli. “I did not call you. Go back to sleep.” 

And he does it again: “Here I am, Father Eli!”

And again: “Here I am. You called me.”

Unaccustomed to hearing God’s voice, Samuel needs the old priest Eli to help him recognize it. And perhaps old Eli needs this young boy to show him that God can still speak!

Eli’s sons have disgraced him. They have abused their positions of power. They have abused the people in their care. Eli’s sons have become corrupt. They have disgraced Eli’s name and his priestly office. Eli feels a terrible sense of personal failure—yet there is still within him sufficient grace to recognize the voice of God; still enough left for him to know what to tell young Samuel:

“Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”’

And something of the residue of Eli’s greatness comes out when he insists that Samuel tell him what God has said.

That must have been very difficult for Eli, because the message is essentially a word of judgement against himself and his household. Yet, upon hearing it, he responds without resentment. Eli sounds no note of self-pity or self-justification. He simply accepts what is to be: “He is the Lord; let him do what seems good to him.”

God has a dream. God has a dream for us. And God has a dream for us especially when we find ourselves in Samuel’s place—or in Eli’s. God has a dream for us when the Word of God seems rare; when visions are not widespread; when the lamp of the Lord is beginning to flicker and sputter.

But how does God communicate his dream to us? What should we do? How may we hear God’s voice? How may we know what we are hearing?

Many around us, of course, think there is no God to speak. And I suppose that is because … perhaps … the only thing of God they have experienced is his seeming absence.

The gift of faith is that we have a different experience. The gift of faith is that … we know better. Or at least, we should. Our God is a living God. He is real. And he has a dream to tell us about.

Now, maybe some of you haven’t heard from God in a while. Maybe you’re no longer accustomed to a daily discipline of prayer and meditation, which would attune your ears to the divine voice.

Perhaps you need to find a place to go and lie down—to wait, and to listen—as Samuel did. Perhaps you need a mentor to help you recognize when God is speaking to you—even if that mentor has a spirituality unlike your own; even a spirituality from a different—and waning—era.

God has a dream to impart to us—and the discernment of the dream requires more than just our willingness to serve God. Of course, we have to say: “Here I am, Lord—speak!”  But we also need guides—mentors—like Eli was for Samuel. Or like Philip was for Nathanael.

After Jesus called Philip to follow him, Philip sought out his friend Nathanael, saying: “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.”

And Nathanael responds: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Just like Nathanael, we can find many reasons to be dismissive—especially of things that don’t fit our preconceived notions. For Nathanael, when it comes to the place of discovering God’s activity, Nazareth simply does not fit the theological profile. Jerusalem, yes! But Nazareth? You’ve got to be kidding! 

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

“Come and see.” Philip’s invitation is still one of the best invitations that we Christians can give to our friends: God has a dream; come and see.

And when he comes, Nathanael is amazed that Jesus recognizes him.

“How come you know who I am?” he asks.

Jesus answers him: “‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.”

“You’re amazed that I know you? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

God has a dream. The dream begins when we hear God’s call.

We enter into that dream with our initial “Yes!” to God. That “yes” marks a new beginning—the start of a new relationship. Only long afterwards do we realize the true significance of that “yes”—the real power of that relationship; the depth of the love that will grow; the intensity of the loyalty that will develop; how absolute the commitment will become.

Many of you know that dream which God has for you, because you have responded with that initial “yes.” Maybe you made your response a long time ago, and you know what it has led to. Maybe you made it not so long ago, and you are still discovering what it’s all about.

Or maybe you haven’t made it yet. You’re not sure. You have not yet come to the point of being able to say, “Here I am, Lord—speak.”

But still, God has a dream. God has a dream for you.

God calls us in many ways. God speaks to us in many forms. Almost all of them are gentle, almost all of them are subtle—and almost all of them can be mistaken for something else! That is, until we heed those calls; then we discover the power of God is in them and behind them.

God has a plan for you. God seeks to guide you. And that call is personal. God seeks you out—as Jesus sought out Philip; as Philip sought out Nathanael. God is calling you by name—just as he called Samuel by name.

God calls in our dreams. He calls in the voices of those people who are trying to help us find our way. He calls through our spouses and our work-mates. God calls when we are trying to decide what to do next. He calls when we gaze upon the heavens. He calls when we pause to read the Scriptures, or to meditate, or to pray.

May God give us ears to hear his voice, and hearts courageous to respond. And may each one of us say: “Here I am. Speak, Lord; your servant is listening.” Amen.

Baptism of the Lord

TEXTS: Genesis 1:1-5 and Mark 1:4-11

In the beginning, God created … and Jesus came … and was baptized by John in the Jordan … and God said, “let there be light … You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

When did you begin? Where did your story begin? Did you begin the day you were pressed upon by waves of strong contractions, and ejected from the warm darkness of the womb into the cold light of this world?

Did you begin as a twinkle in your father’s eye? Or at the moment of conception, when your own unique mix of DNA was formulated?

Or did you begin long before any of that? Are you part of a great and noble race—the fruit of a distinguished family tree? Perhaps the part of you that is most you came from another place entirely—from an ancestor who braved a long ocean voyage to begin a new life in a new land.

Or—if we are talking about the part of you that is most you—perhaps you are younger than your body. Perhaps you began at a moment of great awakening in your own mind, or on the day you met your soul mate and you began living for somebody else. Or on the day you broke free from a poisonous relationship. Some of you, I suspect, would say your life began the day you found sobriety.

Beginnings—whatever form they take—are important because they explain us. As someone has said, they explain us to ourselves. They tell us who we are, and—very often—they show us where we are going in this life … and even, sometimes, where we are meant to go.

The Bible is full of stories about beginnings—including the beginning of beginnings:

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. (Genesis 1:1-2)

What a scene! God approaches an empty darkness. And he speaks light and life into the amorphous waste. The Spirit of God hovers over the face of the waters—and from this face-to-face encounter, an orderly world begins. From discord, God brings harmony—and beauty.

Of course, this Creation story was never intended as a scientific account. But—whether or not you take chapter one of Genesis literally—I think we can all agree that this tale of beginnings is one that we human beings need to hear.

We need to hear this story because it reminds us that our God is a God who can create beauty and goodness out of darkness and confusion.

We need to hear this story because—when the world feels like chaos; when we find ourselves trapped in the formless void of loss or grief or despair; when we are desperate for a new beginning—we have this story. We have a creating God who reshapes the chaos into order—even into beauty.

You know, one of the mistakes that most of us make when we read Scripture is that we think the Bible has only one beginning. But (as I said before) it’s a book that has dozens—maybe hundreds—of beginnings; and many of them relate to this theme: God creates order out of chaos. 

And, in fact, that’s a good way to think about the significance of John the Baptist—that fiery prophet who appeared in the wilderness demanding that people step up and take responsibility for their lives and for their society. John proclaimed his baptism of repentance in a world where the powerful oppressed the weak—a world of state-sanctioned violence, dominated by exploitation and greed.

John showed up in the midst of this scarred and disfigured world, standing in the waters of the Jordan River, challenging people to recognize the darkness within themselves—and to see the chaos around them. He called them to make a change—to bring their lives up to code.

And then Jesus waded in next to him. Consider that. Picture that. Focus your mind’s eye on that scene—that moment, there in the rippling waters of the Jordan—when Jesus stood and gazed upon the face of the deep … and saw there his own reflection.

This was creation happening all over again. The Spirit hovered above that river as John plunged Jesus beneath its surface. And as he rose from the water, a heavenly voice broke the silence: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” 

And once again, there was light in the darkness. As it was in the beginning, God spoke order out of chaos. This time it was by proclaiming good news to the poor and release to every captive. God was in the world speaking peace to the world’s strongest army, feeding the hungry as others hoarded their excess, restoring dignity to all in a world that afforded dignity to very few. God came into the world to forgive our sins and free our spirits.

Again, the Bible contains many, many stories about new beginnings. But they echo the same theme: when the earth was a formless void, God brought order to the chaos and made a good creation.

When injustice reigned everywhere, God sent Jesus to reorder our lives—and our society—from the inside out. When the earth was dark and its Saviour had been laid in a tomb, on the third day he rose again from the dead to show—once, and for all time—that there is no brokenness that God’s love cannot repair; there is no chaos that cannot be transformed into a thing of beauty.

Once more, I ask you: when did you begin? Where did your story begin? When did the Spirit of God hover over the chaos of your life? When did Jesus call you by your name, saying: “Come, and follow me”? 

Beginnings matter. Beginnings tell us who we are—and beginnings tell us whose we are. They tell us where we are going—and even whom we shall meet at the end of our journey. As it was in the beginning, it is now. As it was in the beginning, it ever shall be—in a world without end. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Second Sunday After Christmas

TEXTS: John 1:1-18 and Ephesians 1:3-14

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John 1:14)

The Word, who was with God in the beginning—the Word who is God—this Word became flesh. The Word took human form—with a real, material body—and made himself at home as one of us; flesh and blood, the same as us.

Perhaps this idea is easier to accept at Christmas than at other times of the year, because it is so easy to idealize and romanticize babyhood. We can speak of God becoming a baby and wax lyrical about the innocence of babies, and the purity of babies, and the beautiful trusting bond between a baby and its mother. We can safely think of baby flesh as all chubby and unblemished and cute, and fall into being quite sentimental about the idea of God becoming flesh. And—in our low-infant-mortality society—we may even manage to avoid facing the problem of flesh being so very fragile.

Now, of course, as the parents of babies or toddlers will readily point out, such idealized views of babyhood are just that: idealized views which ignore as much of the truth as they proclaim. Sure, babies are innocent and trusting and cute, but they also spend much of their time ejecting bodily fluids and screaming blue murder. Try telling a sleep-deprived new mother with bloodshot eyes and frazzled nerves that babies are pure and lovely and a source of constant joy and happiness, and see what sort of response you get!

Yet that exhausted mom may be lot closer than most of us are to understanding the shocking news of Christmas: the Word, who was with God in the beginning—the Word who is God—this Word became flesh … infant human flesh, screaming, dribbling, smelly human flesh. God became one of us, dirty diaper and all. God became—truly—one of us. If we begin to take that idea seriously, one of the first things it should warn us against is falling for versions of Christian spirituality which hold the human body in contempt and pretend that the goal of our spiritual journey is to be released from the flesh in order to find some sort of out-of-body spiritual fulfillment.

The God we worship became flesh. God honoured the human body by making himself known to us in a human body. As our gospel reading tells us, no one has seen God in any other way than in the body of Jesus the Son. When God determined to make himself known to us as fully as possible, God came to us in a human body. Christian spirituality then, is about spirit becoming flesh, not about spirit being liberated from the flesh. Everything of consequence in our faith must become incarnate—must “become flesh”—and be lived out in the here and the now, in real-life bodily ways.

But this shocking news of God becoming flesh challenges more than just our attitudes toward humanity. It also challenges our images of God. We often describe God in contrast to ourselves:

• We are finite, God is infinite.
• We are weak, God is all-powerful.
• We are fickle, God is unchanging.
• We know only a little, God knows everything.

And while such statements are certainly true, I don’t think they can possibly be the starting point of a Christian understanding of God. No. We must begin with what we can know of God made flesh in Jesus.

… the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth … No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known. (John 1:14, 18)

Our image of God begins with a human life, lived with the same human limitations that the rest of us face. When we want to talk about the power of God revealed in Christ, we don’t speak of a power that ends all violence and hostility at the flick of a finger, but of a power that is able to keep on loving even while suffering through the worst of that violence and hostility. We don’t speak of a power that magically eliminates hatred and torture, but of one which is able to absorb this world’s evil and transform even the most horrendous suffering into the source of hope and salvation for all who suffer. It is God the only Son—Jesus with all his human limitations—who has made God known to us, and our understanding of God must begin with what we see in Jesus.

You know, the biggest shock to emerge from this Christmas news may be the message that begins to take shape when we hold together these two truths: (1) that God honours human bodies by becoming human flesh; and (2) that what we can know about God is revealed to us in human flesh. Because when we hold together these truths about what we are and what God is, they beg the question of what we may become.

And what is it that we may become? Paul hints at it rather broadly in his Letter to the Ephesians. He speaks of God choosing us to be “holy and blameless before him in love” (1:4). He said we were destined for adoption as God’s own children, and that we have obtained an inheritance in Christ.

When I hear all that, it seems to me that what Paul is trying to tell us is this: in Jesus, God became what we are, so that we might become more of what God is! And perhaps this is the shocking news which from our celebration of Christmas we most need to carry into the new year. God became one with us, so that we might become one with God.

In Jesus, we have not only seen what God is, but also what we can become. We have seen human life lived to the fullest. We have seen the destiny for which we were created: human life lived to the glory of God, full of grace and truth. This is the great reconciliation of which the gospel speaks. This is the gathering up of all things in earth and heaven—all things of spirit and flesh.

John speaks of us becoming children of God, not by processes of conception, gestation and labour, but by being born again in Christ. Through Jesus Christ, the Son of God, we are enabled to become children of God, also. In Ephesians, Paul says we are marked with the seal of the Holy Spirit as a pledge towards our inheritance as God’s own people.

And so here is the gospel—the ultimate good news—lying in a manger. Here is the promise, and here is the challenge. Here is the destiny for which we were created, and the truth that sets us free. God has become a human child so that human beings may become children of God.

This is certainly no promise of a picture-perfect, lovely nativity scene. It is no guarantee of a blissfully happy life. The One who is our promised destiny—and also the leader we follow—was born into poverty, and later died upon a criminal’s cross. But that’s the point! It is into the reality of our life—with all its pain and struggle and anxiety—that God has come. And it is from within the reality of our life—with all its pain and struggle and anxiety—that we can catch sight of our promised destiny.

In the reality of the here and the now, we can begin following in the footsteps of the One who will lead us all the way to the promised land—to the place where our deepest hungers are fulfilled and life is lived, full of grace and truth, to the glory of God forever.

Now, that’s a Christmas story worth believing in! Amen.

TEXT: Luke 2:1-20

Today, certainly, is a good day to sing “Hallelujah!”  Today, we are celebrating the birth of Jesus. In fact, we’ll continue celebrating it for almost another two weeks! That’s the way it works with the birthday of a king; one day just isn’t enough.

Yet, how different that is from the real birthday, two thousand years ago. At the time, only a handful of shepherds paid attention. In fact, Jesus’ birth seemed of so little importance that no one kept a record of it. As a result, we don’t even know the actual date. December 25th is really just an arbitrary choice, because the Church wanted to mark the day somewhere on the calendar.

The details about Christ’s birth are pretty sketchy—and they tell a very simple story. According to Luke’s gospel, Jesus was born in a stable behind a hotel in Bethlehem. His mother wrapped him in “swaddling clothes”—bands of cloth—and laid him in a manger—a feeding trough for animals.

We’ve heard the Christmas story so often that we almost know it by heart. It’s a familiar, simple story. But, of course, our usual celebration of Christmas is anything but simple.

This time of year is chock-full of stuff: family traditions; economic success for merchants; in the northern hemisphere, the winter solstice; the pause between the end of the lunar year and the longer solar year; and our year-end tendency to want to evaluate the old year before embarking on the new one. All these things—along with songs and stories about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman—find their way into our consciousness, our decorations, our gift-buying habits, and our expectations.

Our culture treats Christmas with massively sentimental attention. And during this time of pandemic, when so many of us cannot celebrate in the ways we’re used to … well, we still crave an outlet for that sentimentality, don’t we? Even if it’s a solitary activity, like watching too many bad Christmas movies on TV. Or re-reading Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, with its ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. Whatever our own festivities look like this year, we want them to match these familiar sentimental visions.

Now, I want to tell you: none of this is bad. Traditions are good things; they instruct us, they delight us, and they remind us of our values. But, let’s face it: Christmas trees and Rudolph have nothing to do with the birth of a Saviour. If you really want to look at “Christmas past,” imagine the morning after Jesus was born …

The stable is full of animals. The cow is loudly asking to be milked. The place smells like wet straw and manure. Stunned and exhausted new parents wake up to an entirely different reality from yesterday. There’s a baby in their lives now. They rub their eyes.

“Were those really angels making all that noise last night? And what about those shepherds? They found us in this dim little stable because, they said, a crowd of angels showed them the way!”

This newborn boy, asleep on the straw in the manger, is somehow the cause of all this commotion. Sure, every baby is a miracle, but this baby …

Mary and Joseph can’t stop staring at him, touching him, holding him, like any new parents … but they know that God has big plans for this child … and maybe they’re more than a little afraid. This nativity scene—the morning after the dazzling holy night—is about more than simply the end of Mary’s pregnancy and the start of a new family. The infant in the manger is none other than Emmanuel—“God-with-us.”

The people who walked in darkness have, indeed, seen a great light—and we’re not just talking about the shepherds and the star. No. The light emanating from this sleepy domestic scene is the light of God, come to be with us, come to dwell in us, come to transform us.

As faithful people, we are called to respond to this new reality. We are called to learn from Jesus, to emulate him—to ourselves become bringers of God’s light.

One of the best-loved of all Christmas hymns is “Joy to the World.” You likely sang those words on Christmas Eve: “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!”

Did you catch that? Right in verse one, it says: “The Lord is come.” It sounds very much like the Easter proclamation, when we say, “Christ is risen.” Christ is risen, indeed.

“The Lord is come”  Jesus comes to us here and now, not only on that first Christmas so long ago. The universe shifted the moment that Jesus was born. It shifted toward the reality of God’s presence—his loving presence in and with and for his children.

If we believe that message, then—as Christians—we are challenged to do something. We are called to do “the work of Christmas”—to make God’s loving presence real, here and now. Christmas present should look different—and better—than Christmas past.

The other part of the first verse of “Joy to the world” that challenges us is this: “let every heart prepare him room.” How have we done that? How have we made room for the living Christ? It seems to me the only way for us to “prepare him room”—the only way that really matters—is to make room in our hearts for Jesus to challenge us and change us, to develop us and transform us into Christ’s own hands and feet and strength and love.

To “prepare him room” means giving up some of our attachment to having a perfect Christmas that satisfies every tradition and fulfills every wish. To prepare him room means, perhaps, less retail and more giving; less concern about having a loaded dinner table and more concern for feeding the hungry.

This year, I think, making room in our hearts for Jesus has meant much less whoopla and more real celebration of who Jesus is. It’s been about honouring the one who is always being born in our hearts, and who desires always to be with us. And the way we do that is through selfless giving and humble service. In 2020—and, ironically, perhaps we have the coronavirus to thank for this—that has been our “Christmas work.”

But you know, Christmas isn’t over when the Boxing Day sales conclude. Christmas isn’t going to end with Epiphany, or Lent, or Easter. Not really. Christmas is God’s continuing gift of his presence with us. Christmas is our challenge to prepare room in our hearts, and in our lives. So … what about Christmas future?

As we pack up our ornaments for another year—as we fill the garage with boxes labeled “Christmas”—let’s think about how our lives in January and February can continue the work of Christmas.

As we pull the tinsel off the tree and put away the “Frosty the Snowman” videos, let’s try imagine who is lost, who is hungry, who needs peace … in March and April.

After the shepherds are packed away in their box with their sheep, let’s try to remember their surprise and joy. Let’s find a way to offer the song of the angels to someone who needs it … in June.

In his familiar poem, “The Work of Christmas,” Howard Thurman puts it this way:

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flock,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among brothers,

To make music in the heart.*

Merry Christmas, everybody!

_______________________

* Thurman, Howard, The Mood of Christmas, Friends United Press, 1973, p. 106.

Fourth Sunday in Advent

TEXT:  Luke 1:26-38

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favoured one! The Lord is with you.” (Luke 1:26-28)

So begins Luke’s account of what we call the “Annunciation”—of Gabriel’s visit to Mary and the heavenly message he brings to her.

Actually, Luke’s version of this event is the only one we have. While Matthew’s Gospel tells the story from Joseph’s point of view, Luke’s interest in the birth-story is focused upon Mary—and this really quite intimate account of her experiences may well have come from Mary herself.

Can you imagine what it would have been like to be Mary? Most commentators say that Mary was probably about 13 or 14 years old (which was the usual marrying age at the time), and that both Mary and Joseph were of modest economic status. So here was this poor, very young girl who was visited by an angel and told that she would bear a special child, and that she was to name him “Jesus.”

Why was Mary chosen?  This is one of the mysteries of the text. We are not told of any special qualities about her that made her a candidate for this awesome responsibility. We only know—as verse 30 tells us—that she “found favour with God.”

Well, we do know one other thing. We know that she said “yes.” The story of Mary’s concurrence is at one and the same time courageous and serene and beautiful: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (v. 38).

This brief Scripture passage reveals a great deal about the personality of this simple peasant girl from Nazareth—and also provides some hints about the “why” of God’s choice. It’s been suggested that Mary’s key quality is obedience—demonstrated by her willingness to do what God is asking of her. But I think that’s only part of the story.

From Luke’s description of her, we see that she has some other very important qualities—and two in particular. The first one is faith—or, we could say, trust.

There are those who maintain that the idea of “virgin birth” could only have been entertained by an ancient, pre-scientific mind. However, Mary’s response to Gabriel’s announcement shows us that—even in ancient times—people weren’t that gullible: “How can this be,” she asks, “since I am a virgin?”

Even to Mary, the idea doesn’t make any sense! Yet, she accepts Gabriel’s pronouncement: “Nothing will be impossible with God.”

And so she is reconciled even to what she cannot comprehend: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

But, you know, by saying “yes” to God, Mary is taking some pretty huge chances. For one thing, every pregnancy carries some risks. For another, she is at this point still an unmarried woman. What will people think? What will her fiancé think? She has to consider these things—yet, still, she makes her faithful response: “Let it be with me according to your word.”

And her acceptance of this mission goes far beyond a simple “bowing to the will of God.” For Mary, this is not about resignation. This is not about following difficult orders, or doing her duty. No. As we see from her subsequent actions, Mary’s heart is filled with joy! Her faith gives birth to joy. And yes, that is a double entendre.

Our gospel lesson for Advent 4 concludes with verse 38. But, if we read on, we discover that the next thing Mary does is rush to the home of Elizabeth, her aunt. Why? Because good news—happy news—demands telling! And who better to tell than Elizabeth, whose own miraculous pregnancy is now in its sixth month?

Mary’s joy finds expression in a song of praise which begins, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour”(Luke 1:46-47).

That, by the way, is the passage that’s known as “Mary’s Song of Praise.” It’s also called the “Magnificat,” because that’s how it begins in Latin: Magnificat anima mea Dominum.

“My soul magnifies the Lord!”

“Mary’s Song of Praise” is a melody of triumphant jubilation! And this is her second important quality: Mary has an immense capacity for joy.

Faith and joy. Because Mary had them, God was able—through her—to become part of the human family. And this was not because Mary was perfect, or even because she could understand—but because she had faith in the power of God, and trusted in the goodness of God. That’s why she was able to feel more joy than anything else—more joy than fear, or anxiety, or a sense of burden.

You know, we don’t have to make Mary out to be some kind of minor goddess. Or even an exalted human being. I think we can believe she was just like us: a tangle of complexities and ambiguity; sometimes faithful, sometimes fearing—but always very human, even if faith and joy were her overarching characteristics.

And that is exactly the point. God acts through ordinary human beings like you and me. Ordinary, yes. But also possessing extraordinary trust in God. Enough trust to undertake daunting missions beyond our perceived capabilities.

Yeah. Daunting missions. Just like Mary, we are called to bear Christ into the world. That’s mind-boggling, isn’t it?

Through Mary, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” Or, as someone has said, “God became visible and believable.”

So, I guess the question for us is: are we making God visible and believable? How good a job are we doing of bearing Christ into the world? Have faith and joy been our overarching characteristics, this Advent season?

Like Mary, we are ordinary human beings—and no one expects perfection of us. Certainly, God does not expect us to put on a facade of faith and joy—no one can feel that way all the time.

But we might ask ourselves: when others look at us, what do they see? When they listen to us, what do they hear? Would they guess that we have a faith that breeds joy—that makes a difference in our lives? Do we bear Christ into the world effectively? Can others see something of Jesus in us? Can they catch even a fleeting glimpse?

Make no mistake about it: even though the world has changed greatly since Jesus’ time—and even though our culture continues to grow ever more secular and skeptical—most people still have a positive impression of Jesus—and they imagine his followers are supposed to be like him.

Make no mistake about this, either: whatever people say they believe or doubt, most of them, deep down, long for something like a Messiah or a Saviour—for someone who can redeem their lives, and give meaning and hope to human existence. And if people today are increasingly turning away from the Christian church … well, I think it’s at least partly because they see too little of Christ Jesus in us!

Again, I don’t think anyone expects us to be perfect—but if Jesus is real to us, people should certainly expect to see something of him when they look at us.

Well … do they?

Do they see us living lives of peace and joy? Or do they see us quarreling with one another?

Do they hear words of comfort and encouragement from our lips—or …

Do they hear us bitterly complaining about how much work we have to do? Or how much money we have to spend? Or how much time is being demanded of us?

As others observe us, do they witness the living out of forgiveness in our words and deeds? Or—God forbid—do they see that we are no better than the worst of them when it comes to holding grudges, and backbiting, and seeking revenge?

Each one of us who claims the title of “Christian” is called to bear Christ into the world—to make God visible and believable.

Are we willing to accept the mission? Can we hear the voice of the angel saying to us, “You have found favour with God?”

All I can say is: I hope so!

I hope that each and every one of your lives is marked by some measure of the faith and trust and joy that Mary had.

May it be so for each of us. May Christ be born in all of our hearts this Christmas. Amen.

 

Advent 3

TEXT: John 1:6-8, 19-28

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. (John 1:6-8)

During the years I spent in Kamloops, before I came to Calgary, I got to know a fellow pastor who had spent most of his life in the United States. He told me that, when he was a young man, one of the jobs he had—during election time—was taking care of the “voting machines.” We don’t have those in Canada—at least, not yet. And I’m glad. They sound complicated. And finicky.

Something else he told me also concerned American political life, and I found it quite fascinating. It had to do with the sort of preparations involved when the President of the United States—or even a former President—makes a visit to a local community.

A raft of Secret Service personnel check out every building along the route he will travel and near the place he will be appearing. According to my friend, they sometimes even weld shut the manhole covers in the roadway, so that nobody can pop up out of the sewer with a machine gun!

They go over each building with a fine-tooth comb from roof to basement in their efforts to ensure the President’s safety. They are known as “advance persons.” They work invisibly behind the scenes to make sure that everything is ready for the big event that is going to take place.

In today’s Gospel, we encounter another kind of “advance person.” However, he’s not a member of the Secret Service. He’s not preparing for a visit from a head of state. He’s not checking out parade routes to ensure their safety.

No. This advance person is telling us to get ready for the most important visit in human history. His name is John the Baptist. We were introduced to him last week in Mark’s Gospel, and today we are told that “he came as a witness to testify to the light.”

Now, that statement may not mean as much to us as it did to the people of Judea 2,000 years ago. That’s because we already know the ending to the story—which they didn’t. Our world has already been visited by the Holy One from God. We don’t need an “advance person” to prepare his way, like they did.

Or do we? Perhaps there is something in John’s message that we are taking for granted. That is a problem with the familiar, isn’t it? We can too easily fall into a sense of complacency. As a result, Christmas can become simply a “festival of the familiar” rather than an encounter with the Holy One.

Looking again at today’s gospel passage, I see two words that stand out: “witness” and “light.”

What does it mean to be a “witness” for God? Well, last week we heard John call for repentance and change. Today we hear him calling us to prepare for Christmas by building a straight road in the desert for God to travel on. He’s quoting the prophet Isaiah.

A voice cries out:

“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,


   make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

Every valley shall be lifted up,


   and every mountain and hill be made low;

the uneven ground shall become level,


   and the rough places a plain.” (Isaiah 40:3-4)

So John is quoting the old prophet, but you’d think he’d seen a modern-day city crew working on a repaving project. “Fill up the low spots. Knock the tops off of the high spots. Level it out. Make it straight and smooth.”

What does Isaiah say is the purpose of all this construction? So that “the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together …” (Isaiah 40:5a)

Here is John’s message about Christmas, my friends: God wants every person in the entire world to know his power and his glory. Getting ready for Christmas is not about decorated trees, or office parties, or even family gatherings. Which might give us some measure of comfort, given that the worldwide pandemic has taken much of that away, this year.

No. It’s not about parties or presents or bottled cheer. It is about a mission that God has placed upon every Christian: to open up a path to God for others who stand in need of his love and grace. If we truly hear that—if we really take it seriously—it will have a profound effect on our Christmas preparations and celebrations. John is telling us that we are expected to do something as a result of what God did at Christmas.

Now, we’ve all heard that message before, haven’t we? Maybe we’ve heard it so often that we are, frankly, tired of hearing it: “Do something! Do something!”

But maybe it’s a message we need to keep hearing. After all, it’s easy, isn’t it, to settle into a kind of “armchair faith.” You know what I mean, don’t you? I think we’ve all known people like this. To be sure, they come to church. But they seem to want to be spoon-fed, and after they leave the building, that’s the end of it until the next time they come to see the show.

However, our relationship with God is not supposed to be a “consumer faith” in which everything is neatly packaged for us and all we have to do is pick it off the shelf when we need it. Neither is faith supposed to be a “let George do it” affair in which we allow a dedicated few to burn themselves out doing the tasks which, really, belong to all of us.

This morning, John the Baptizer is telling us that Christmas road building requires the active participation of each and every one of us, all year round. He is saying we need to build these roads everywhere—into our jobs, our schools, our online communities, our neighbourhoods—wherever and however we have influence.

O.K. I said the second word that stands out for me in the gospel passage is “light.”

Some time ago, I read a newspaper article about a solar energy system that can be set up in any home to provide for almost all of its electrical needs. I think that’s amazing. It made me realize how far we have come technologically in providing light to see by.

However, in the same newspapers, I read about mass shootings and messy celebrity divorces and people dying of drug overdoses. As I watch the TV news, I behold police violence and then witness more violence in response. I see people protesting against the wearing of face masks even as thousands around them die from COVID-19. And then I realize that technology cannot generate light for our hearts and souls.

If actions do speak louder than words—and they do—then, at Christmas, God has virtually shouted to the world that he cares! God cares enough to enter the place where we live and bring light into the dark corners of our lives that we cannot seem to brighten on our own.

Christmas light is about an end to isolation and despair. It’s about an end to all the evil and suffering and sadness that even our best efforts cannot seem to fix. Christmas is about hope when times are darkest. Christmas is about the future that God has provided—an eternity wherein death no longer has the final word.

This is the message we need to hear again and again. Somehow the passage of time takes a subtle toll on our spirits. And because it happens little by little, even to the most dedicated people, we usually don’t notice it. Then, one day, it suddenly gets dark—and we wonder what happened.

Today, we have heard from the “advance man.” John reminds us that God has turned on the brightest light in the universe—brighter than any sun or star or electric generator. He also reminds us that we are the advance people of this generation. God is calling us to be witnesses to the light. We are to tell everyone who will listen that the light has already come.

The question is: will we do it? Will we allow God to stir things up within us and within our community, so that we might become more like John—one “sent from God”?

That is, in fact, who Christians really are: men and women sent from God as witnesses to testify to the Light, so that all might believe through him. We are called to testify, bear witness to, and proclaim the glory of the Light. We are called to embody the Light—to become the ones who reveal the life of Christ, here and now, in this world—this world that so desperately needs to see him and know him.

May God grant us courage and wisdom to live out our high calling—not just through Advent, but all year long.

 

Second Sunday in Advent

TEXTS: Isaiah 40:1-11 and Mark 1:1-8

See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight” (Mark 1:2-3).

That’s Mark, quoting Isaiah. Like all the gospel-writers, he applies that prophecy to John the son of Zechariah.

Yes. John. The son of Zechariah—and of Elizabeth, the “kinswoman” of Mary, the mother of Jesus (Luke 1:36). Quite a figure, John was. Known to us as “the Baptist”, he seems to have spent most of his life in the Judean desert, wearing clothes made of camel’s hair and subsisting on a diet of locusts and wild honey (“dining at the desert deli,” as someone once said).

But the reason we hear about John has nothing to do with his wardrobe or his cuisine. No. We hear about John because—whether by choice or by destiny—he became the one spoken of long ago by the prophet.

He became the one who was “sent ahead” as a messenger or herald or witness—sent to “prepare the way of the Lord” by calling people to repentance and offering a baptism “for the forgiveness of sins.”

That’s right. A messenger or herald or witness. Today, in popular religious parlance, we would likely prefer that last descriptor. John was a witness. And that’s what Christians are called to do, isn’t it? We’re called to bear witness to the good news about Jesus Christ.

Well, there are several ways of doing that—several ways of “bearing witness.” Maybe some of them still demand an affinity for hair shirts and edible insects … But mostly, “bearing witness” is about standing up—and standing out—for Jesus, whenever it counts. Sometimes, that means doing things very publicly. And that is a difficult proposition, for most of us.

Now, I’m not just talking about the kind of difficulty that presents itself when the Lord challenges you, or asks you to do something that’s going to cost you … although I suppose being a disciple of Jesus always costs us something.

However, even the simple act of “speaking up” is uncomfortable for many of us. Even some of the most faithful people—saints who diligently and joyfully “walk the walk” of discipleship find themselves tongue-tied when it comes to “talking the talk.”

That sort of turns a popular image upside-down, doesn’t it? We generally think it’s far easier to “talk the talk” than to “walk the walk.” But talking isn’t always easy, is it?

Here’s another question: how many of you are comfortable praying in public? How many of you find it really hard to pray in public? Or even to pray out loud in a small group? Even in a setting where everybody knows one other quite well, some people are bashful when it comes to putting in their “two cents’ worth” of prayer.

I heard a story once about a godly woman who wanted to teach her grandson to pray. So, one time—when she had opportunity to tuck the little guy in for the night—she made him kneel with her beside his bed. And then, of course, she asked him to pray with her.

But the little boy said, “You go first, gramma.”

So she did. She prayed for her family, her friends, her neighbours, the world situation, the day gone by, the night ahead, the day ahead. She prayed for the Prime Minister, the Queen, the cashier at the supermarket, the President of the United States, and even the Pope. Her prayers went on and on … and on. Then, when at last she finished, she smiled at her grandson and said, “Your turn.”

And the little boy—his eyes closed, his head bowed, and his hands clasped in great sincerity—said, “That goes for me, too, God! Amen.” 

On the second Sunday of Advent, we are invited once again to prepare our hearts and minds for yet another Christmas—yet another coming of the Christ-Child. Rarely have I met anyone who does not, in some way, want to be in on this—on the expectant, hopeful feeling of this season. All around us, in the coming weeks—and certainly whenever Christians gather to worship and pray—people will be given the opportunity to say, “That goes for me, too, God!”

This is the season of preparing, or—as our Gospel lesson puts it—a time of “making the way straight.”

Preparation is familiar to us, isn’t it? We are a society of “preparers.” We spend years in school, and perhaps in college, and even—a few of us—in graduate school, preparing for our future. Once we’ve decided upon a life-partner, we spend months preparing for the wedding. Then we scrimp and save for our vacations, our dream homes, and our children’s educations.

In today’s Gospel lesson, we meet the ultimate preparer—John the Baptist. Scholars think John’s entire ministry lasted only about three months. But for some 30 years, John’s life had been leading up to this short period—this span of 90 days during which he would blaze a trail for the Messiah.

Scripture tells us that the main thing John did was urge people to “repent.” He modeled that in his own life by saying he was not even worthy to untie the sandals of the One who was coming after him (Mark 1:7). John understood that—for God’s work on earth to continue—the Baptizer had to step aside and allow Christ to begin another kind of preparation; the preparation for heaven’s kingdom.

Throughout the Advent season, John is held up to us as a model. Like him, we are called to “make straight the way” for the return of our Lord. But how can we do that? Certainly there are many things we can do, but I think a couple of them are paramount.

The first thing we must do—if we haven’t already—is to utterly and wholeheartedly offer our lives to God in Christ. John the Baptist said that he must decrease so that Christ might increase. We are to do the same thing. We are consciously to offer ourselves to a deepening relationship with Christ. That’s what true discipleship is about. It means embracing a whole new way of living—turning a complete “about face.” That’s what John meant by “repentance.”

The call to repent is nothing less than a challenge to alter the course of our lives, wherever we see that our actions run contrary to the path of Christ. We are called to “make the way straight” in our own lives first, so that we can draw closer to God. This doesn’t always require a 180-degree turn … but sometimes, it does. Some people are in fact called to radically change the entire direction of their lives. What repentance means for all of us, however, is that we are willing to admit our mistakes, place them in God’s hands, accept the consequences of our actions, and leave behind everything that hampers our relationship with the Lord—including our guilt.

So, repentance—the turning from self to God—this is the first step of making the way straight. It is an internal, personal decision. But you remember I said a couple of things are paramount. And the second thing—the second step—is more external. It involves turning from ourselves to those around us; from self to neighbour.

John assumed the role of making straight the way for others—and we are called to do likewise. Jesus tells us that the greatest of all commandments—the greatest of all laws—is the law of love (Mark 12:31). We are called to sincerely care about others. As disciples, we have an obligation to use our skills and resources to make straight the path to God’s Kingdom—to make it straight, and clear, so others may find it.

“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God” (Isaiah 40:3).

“A straight highway for the Lord.” What does that look like? Well, as you might guess, it will look a bit different as each believer works it out. However, I believe that “straightening the path” almost always involves some action of sacrificial love. Through Advent, you can honour the Christ-child by sharing your gifts—and your blessings—with others.

When you offer gifts to another in Jesus’ name … along with them, you give … Him! These gifts, really, are like all the blessings Jesus wants to offer through us. As they find their way into the hands of people who really need them, they blaze a trail straight from the heart of one person—and straight to the heart of another. And Jesus walks upon that trail. Whatever the distance is, he walks it.

There are lots of ways of building that kind of path. Some of you do it by making sandwiches to feed the hungry at homeless shelters. Or by making sure your local Food Bank shelves don’t go empty. Or by devoting an entire afternoon to calling lonely persons who’ve been isolated because of pandemic restrictions (even if making phone calls isn’t your favorite thing to do).

In these—and in countless other ways—you make straight paths for the Lord.

Today, John the Baptist calls us to build highways for one other—all the while, allowing Christ to increase. Through our repentance, our study of the Scriptures, the prayerful use of our gifts—in all of these ways, we can be faithful to the One whose advent John announced.

In all of these ways—whether or not we have a facility with language—we sing along with the angels who heralded Jesus’ birth. In all of these ways, we join with saints of old and faithful people near and far to announce the good news and proclaim the love we share.

It is our way of saying: “That goes for me, too, God!”  Amen.