TEXTS: Isaiah 49:1-7 and John 1:29-42

[The Lord] says, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6)

When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.” (John 1:38-39a)

Did you notice that both of the Scriptures for today share a common theme? It’s the theme of “calling.” It’s the idea of being “called.”

The reading from Isaiah begins with words about being called—about being set apart by God. And that fits right in with the gospel lesson, where Jesus calls his first disciples. John the Baptist points to Jesus and says, “Look, here is the Lamb of God.”

On hearing this, two of John’s disciples decide to check out this Jesus guy—and they wind up abandoning John and going off with Jesus, instead.

But that seems to be the very thing John intended. Anyway, this call—the call of these first two disciples—is noteworthy.  Here is a glimpse of what it’s usually like to be called by God.

Yes. “Called by God.” When we hear that phrase, we usually think about accountable ministers, don’t we? You know. Pastors. Priests. Diaconal ministers. Evangelists. Missionaries. We tend to conceive of someone being “called” in terms like those Isaiah used.

The Lord called me before I was born,


   while I was in my mother’s womb he named me.

He made my mouth like a sharp sword,


   in the shadow of his hand he hid me;

he made me a polished arrow,


   in his quiver he hid me away.

And he said to me, “You are my servant,


   Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” (Isaiah 49:1b-3)

In other words, we think of a “called” person as being told by God to do some specific thing—and usually a rather significant thing! When we speak about someone being “called,” we generally mean some kind of special service—usually full-time and professional, and almost always within the institutional church.

And that’s a comfortable way of looking at things, because it shields us from any personal challenge when we hear the Bible talk about Christ calling people to follow him. We can listen to the gospel story and neatly separate what happened to them from what’s going on with us.

“After all, they were called! But we’re just ordinary folks.” So we’re safe from all that “call” business. It’s about somebody else.

However, this whole way of looking at—and looking for—a call from God as a summons to a specific job or task really sort of misses the point. Certainly, there is such a thing as a special call to a specific ministry or type of service. But that’s not usually what the Bible means when it talks about being called. That is not what’s going on in our gospel passage—and it is not what is usually going on with us, when God calls us.

Being ordained, or commissioned, or designated, or recognized—or being a missionary, or a monk, or something like that—is quite secondary to the real, central, call we each have from God. Those two followers of John the Baptist whom Jesus invited to “come and see” were called exactly as we are called. They were called to be disciples, just as we are called to be disciples. They were called to be disciples in their place and in their time—and for the sake of their generation.

Consider what this means. It means that Jesus’ call to Andrew and the other disciple is like the call of Christ to each of us—and to all of us.

In his first encounter with them, Jesus did not call them to carry out a particular task or to fill a particular role. Instead, he invited them into relationship. He did not say, “Do this.” He said, “Come and see.” Only later did he give specific content and direction to where that might lead.

There’s a big difference between a call to a task and an offer of relationship.

To respond to a call for relationship—for intimacy—is a very different thing from contracting to do a piece of work. It’s like the difference between falling in love and landing a job. Setting out to do a job requires some clarity about what is involved. Not only that, but terms of employment are negotiable. A job has its limits, and you usually know what the finished product is going to look like.

To be called into relationship, however … to be called in love … that is something else entirely. That is an invitation to enter into a mystery. It’s a summons to move out—blindly—into uncharted waters.

When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he is calling us first of all unto himself. Following Jesus means knowing him intimately and sharing his life. That’s the important thing. Everything else is left behind; everything else becomes secondary.

Now, if we look at Jesus’ call from the perspective of what’s left behind … Well, that is a call to repentance. But if we see that same call from the perspective of what comes next, then it’s a call to seek Jesus above all else. It’s an invitation to get to know him better, and to make our relationship with him the central focus of our lives.

When we are called—and we are called, each and every one of us—Jesus simply asks us to abide with him for a season: not going anywhere, not doing anything. It’s a call to find out where Jesus lives, and to spend some time living there. To be sure, eventually this will lead us somewhere. But we won’t know where, right away—and maybe not for a very long while.

This is why a sense of call can be as frightening and frustrating as it is inspiring and exciting. We might know something very important is going on—something that involves us. And that creates a sense of urgency. Immediately, we begin looking around for an assignment. We want some great thing to do! After all, if something is important, it has to produce … right?

But … instead of that … especially at the beginning, all we are asked to do is get to know Jesus a little bit better. It’s a call to listen, and it’s a call to wait. It’s a time to imitate the psalmist, a time to “listen to what the Lord God is saying” (Psalm 85:8). We need that first. We need that most.

That’s what those first disciples did. They stayed close to Jesus for a while. They learned what they could and came to know him better. Then—admittedly, long before they thought they were ready—then Jesus gave them things to do. For some, these tasks were dramatic. For others, the tasks were quite mundane.

Listen: the call of Christ will always, in one form or another, find expression in ministry. It is ministry in which we all must participate—but the call comes first. There can be no real, abiding, and sustaining ministry apart from a relationship with Jesus. To put it another way, there can be no Christian discipleship without Christ.

Each one of us is called to be a disciple. If we try to ignore that call, it will haunt us. That call will track us down. It will disrupt our sleep. It will whisper in our ears at the worst possible times. It will grow stronger, and weaker, and stronger again. It may seem to go away … but it always comes back. Because, finally, it is our Lord who calls us to himself. He calls us into life. He calls us into struggle and sacrifice. He calls us into joy—and into real and lasting peace.

It’s a call Jesus makes to each and every one of us. So, please … don’t let it go to voicemail. Pick up the phone!

Baptism of the Lord

TEXT: Matthew 3:13-17

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him. —Matthew 3:13

Before Jesus officially began his public ministry, he had to take a couple of very important steps. The first was to be baptized.

Sometimes that troubles people. Why should Jesus have to be baptized?

The idea certainly bothered John the Baptist.

Matthew tells us that when Jesus came to be baptized, “John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’” (Matthew 3:14).

We can understand John’s consternation. The Gospel of Luke tells us that John preached “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Luke 3:3).

Since Jesus was without sin—and therefore had nothing of which to repent—what purpose would his baptism serve? Why should someone who never sinned undergo a baptism for the forgiveness of sins? John knew of Jesus’ spotless character, and so at first he opposed Jesus’ request.

So why did Jesus ask John to baptize Him? Before suggesting an answer, perhaps it would help to recall something of John’s background and importance.

The Gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus and John were cousins. By his early thirties, John had emerged as a major national figure.

It’s worth noting that Josephus, the renowned Jewish historian, wrote more about John than he did about Jesus. Why? Because since the death of the prophet Malachi—a period of some 400 years—Israel had not heard from a genuine prophet of God … until John.

John shook a nation with his bold words and unusual actions, drawing huge crowds eager to hear him preach his uncompromising message of repentance and faith in the Messiah.

John came at a strategic time in human history, when the old covenant was about to roll into a new one, and when all the law and sacrifices were to be fulfilled in the life and ministry of one man—a man like no other who had ever walked the earth.

That man was Jesus of Nazareth. Yet at this point, John’s fame was much greater.

John, however, clearly knew his role. He was to pave the way and point people to Jesus, and he humbly accepted his role.

His motto in life was, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). He was content to speak as a herald of the coming King.

When John clearly understood Jesus to be the Messiah, he directed even his own disciples to start following him. Once he did that, he was ready to fade into obscurity. His role was to point people to Jesus and then step aside.

For all these reasons, Jesus proclaimed John to be the greatest prophet who ever lived. “I tell you,” Jesus said, “among those born of women no one is greater than John” (Luke 7:28).

None greater? How can that be? We know of no miracles that John performed. Unlike Moses, he never turned the Nile into blood. Unlike Elijah, he never called fire down from heaven. He never stopped the rain or raised a single person from the dead. He left behind no written record, like Isaiah did, and Jeremiah did.

So why would Jesus call him the greatest of prophets? Only one reason: his nearness and connection to Jesus. As God’s appointed herald of the Messiah, John had no equal among the prophets.

How many of us think of greatness in terms like these? Too many of us wonder how God can enrich our lives, make us feel better about ourselves, or help us achieve success in business. We ask what God can do for us to make us greater and better.

John had a very different attitude. He constantly asked himself, “What can I do to prepare people for the coming of the Messiah? How can I direct them to him? How can I decrease and he increase?”

John’s godly character and unique mission help explain why Jesus came to his cousin to be baptized.

For a long time, John had been preparing the people to receive the coming Messiah; at the baptism of Jesus, he would publicly identify him as God’s Anointed One.

Jesus also was baptized because he had come into the world to identify with the human race. So it was that he who was without sin submitted to a baptism designed for sinners. “Let it be so now,” he told John, “for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness” (Matthew 3:15).

When the day finally came for Jesus to make his very public stand, John welcomed him into the waters of the Jordan River.

As Jesus prayed, “the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” (Luke 3:21-22).

In this way, John found true greatness before God and with all humanity—and his life stands as an example to us.

May we adopt John’s philosophy of life as well! May Christ increase, and may we decrease. If we really lived like that, who knows how it would affect others for their good?

May the Word of God burn in our hearts as we, too, prepare the way for the Lord.

The Epiphany

TEXT: Matthew 2:1-12

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

When you hear this piece of the Christmas story, what do you think of? A Sunday School pageant? You know: three youngsters in costume—wearing makeshift crowns—proceeding down the centre aisle to take their places next to the shepherds and the angels and the baby Jesus and his parents.

Is that what you think of?

Or do you wonder about the real “wise men”—the “Magi” of history and poetry?

Let’s re-examine our understanding of the Christmas manger scene. In actual fact, the shepherds and animals were there—but the wise men probably were not.

If you look carefully at chapter two of Matthew, you’ll notice it says the wise men visited Jesus in a “house”—not in a cave or a stable, which is where a manger would have been. It sounds like they’ve arrived some time after Jesus’ birth—but before Mary and Joseph had thought about returning home to Nazareth. This is later on.

Here’s something else. Even though we love to sing, “We three kings of Orient are”—with or without an exploding cigar—these men probably were not literally kings (although to the local Bethlehem peasants they might as well have been). They are more accurately described as “wise men” or Magi. That is, they were scholars or sages—learned men who sought to understand wisdom and unravel mysteries. Think of them as astronomers, or scientists, or mathematicians.

The sky was their business. They studied the stars and planets, making careful observations of heavenly bodies and their movements. And so—when one particular star started doing odd things—they were intrigued. Here was something their science could not explain.

By the way, our science can’t explain it, either! Nobody knows what the Star of Bethlehem truly was. Some early Christians thought it was an angel, or the Holy Spirit, or even Christ himself in celestial form. More recent theories include a comet or a supernova.

Then there’s this idea that there were three of them. The Bible does not actually say that. Matthew tells us the wise men brought three kinds of gifts (gold, frankincense, and myrrh), but he says nothing about the quantity of these gifts, or about the number of men who came bearing them. Some paintings in Christian catacombs depict two Magi, others have four. One ancient text, called The Revelation of the Magi, lists 12 men—and gives their names—while other Christian writings imagine an entire army of Magi!

So there’s no real agreement on the number of “wise men” who made the journey to visit the Christ Child. Neither do we have a clear idea of their nationality. The most popular theory is that they were from Persia—but some traditions hold that they came from Babylon or Arabia or even China. We don’t really know. And therefore, we also don’t know for sure how far they had to travel, or for how long they were on the road. Many early Christians thought it took them two years, based on Herod’s asking the Magi when the star appeared, coupled with his subsequent command to kill all male infants under the age of two (if you recall that terrible part of the story).

But—however many of them made the trip, or how long it took them—it must have been an arduous journey, fraught with peril. Especially since they were transporting gold and other valuables, they could have been targeted by robbers. Not to mention being in danger from wild animals, inclement weather, sickness, accident—and possibly even starvation, if they lost their way in a desolate region.

I find myself wondering about these travellers. Why would they undertake such a journey?

I suppose it might have been scientific curiosity. As I said, the Magi were among the most learned people of that day. But still, to make a journey of perhaps two years’ duration under those conditions … that’s remarkable. They would be risking their fortunes and their reputations, as well as their lives. And for what? In the end, these men who had travelled so far and so long to see royalty found themselves kneeling before a tiny child born to impoverished parents in an out-of-the-way place.

What stirred in their hearts to compel them to risk so much? What led them to travel so far? What deep yearning for something other than what they had known?

As I ponder those questions, I find myself thinking about … all of us. I find myself wondering about other journeys taken … and about what it is that makes such journeys possible. Or necessary. Or preferable to simply living the life that is set right before us.

What sign in the sky—what communication from God—would make me go that deep, that far, to discover its meaning?

And then it strikes me that those travellers to Bethlehem were simply living out their lives to their natural conclusions. After all, their life’s work was studying the heavens. And so—when they saw a star which appeared to hold such significance—all they could do, if they were to be faithful to their calling … Well, all they could do was follow it.

So—having studied the stars and having felt the prodding of one particular star to make this incredible journey—when they came to the place to which the star led them, they were met there by … God!

Now, that couldn’t have been at all what they expected. At least, they wouldn’t have expected to meet God in the form and circumstances presented to them there. And it may well have been true that things were never quite the same again for them. Yet, in that baby—or, in that toddler, as he may have been when they saw him—they met the Holy One, face-to-face.

All they were doing was what they believed they were made to do. And yet, at the same time, this was probably much more than they bargained for. I mean, packing up to travel to far-flung places was probably not in the job description of a first-century astronomer. No. They were accustomed to life in the academy—to sitting in a quiet, familiar place, making observations and taking notes and sharing their insights with others.

This journey they set out on, though … and all they experienced through it … it must have changed them, stretched them, transformed them. Their epiphany was not only about God being revealed to them; it was about discovering their own true purpose. They might have said it was about fulfilling their destinies. Following a star, they encountered the Maker of stars.

Perhaps this is so for all of us. As we use and develop the gifts that God has planted within us … as we become all we were made to be, with eyes and hearts open … perhaps we will encounter God there, as well.

When we follow a star—especially one which leads us out of our most comfortable zones—we, also, may end up in an unexpected and surprising place. And we just might discover that there—perhaps even within the surprise itself—there is where God resides.

And so …

• for those who teach, and those who preach;
• for those who visit, and those who build;
• for those who nurture children, and those who clean;
• for those who invent and those who heal and those who cook and those who … well, you fill in the blank …

For all of us and for each of us—like those Magi so long ago—our first calling is simply to be who we were made to be, keeping our eyes and ears and hearts open to the Spirit’s beckoning.

When we are called to step out in faith, let’s take our giftedness with us. Let’s carry with us our gifts from God—taking them to their natural conclusions.

Because you know, God will call us. In fact, God will continue to call us, for as long as we continue breathing the air he has made. That’s guaranteed. That’s what discipleship is all about. And when we answer that call, and when we follow God’s leading, it is also a sure thing that we will encounter God. Perhaps in surprising ways and unexpected places, we, too, shall meet the Holy One, face-to-face.

So, then, in this new year—and always—let us keep faith as a quest for a guiding star. Let’s keep moving forward, as the Spirit of God leads us.

Our journey is not finished yet. Thanks be to God.

 

 

 

First Sunday After Christmas

TEXT:  John 1:1-18

Christmastime is an occasion for people to get together. Family. Friends. People you haven’t seen since last Christmas … or for many years. And of course, when people gather together it’s a time for remembering and reminiscing.

But have you ever noticed that when you start telling stories about when you were growing up—or what happened years ago—the same events sound quite different as various people tell the same story?

Depending on who is describing the case, the next-door neighbour was either a saint or a psychopath. Moving from one town to another was either a disaster, or a wonderful escape.

Apparently, some 86 years ago, my mother—who was about four at the time—took a trip out of the second floor window of her home, then staggered into the kitchen to announce to my grandmother that she could “fly like a bird.” According to my mother, her sister—my aunt—threw her out the window! But according to my aunt, my mom jumped out the window on her own because “even then she was crazy.” This was an often-aired disagreement between them, often told at Christmas family gatherings. I never did figure out which was the true account … but I could easily believe either version.

Same event. Different storytellers. Different points of view.

Consider the opening verses of John’s gospel: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God … and the Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:1, 14a).

This is the Christmas story, the third time the Bible tells it. Luke’s version includes the familiar story of the manger and the shepherds and the angels. In his gospel, Matthew records Joseph’s dream, the visit of the wise men, and the escape into Egypt. However, John’s point of view is rather different. In his account, there are no shepherds or angel choirs. Neither do we hear about dreams nor Magi nor a jealous king. There is no overcrowded inn, and no manger for the baby to sleep in.

Why? Because John has a different perspective—so different, in fact, that most people see no connection between John’s account and the more familiar birth-stories in Matthew and Luke.

But, you see, each gospel writer has his own unique perspective—as well as his own special priorities.

For example, Luke—as well as being a physician—was something of an historian. He was very concerned with getting the dates and times right, and with locating everything geographically. He was also clearly very interested in those who were regarded as outsiders. That’s why Luke is eager to include the shepherds in his account of Jesus’ birth.

Shepherds were social outcasts, and Luke is happy to memorialize them. But the “kings of Orient” are left out entirely. Not only that, but Luke tells the story from the perspective of Mary—a radical move, since at that time women were even lower on the social ladder than shepherds.

Matthew, however, is more traditional. He may even have been trained as a scribe. Matthew wanted to make it clear that Jesus fulfilled all of the Old Testament prophecies about the Messiah. So, shepherds did not interest him as much as the (possibly) royal wise men from the East.

In Matthew’s account, the Christ Child—Christ the King—is surrounded by his peers. And Matthew paid a lot of attention to the flight to Egypt because he saw a parallel between the Exodus and Jesus’ own return to Israel from Egypt. Also—more conservative than Luke—Matthew tells the story from a man’s point of view. He describes Joseph’s dream, but never mentions Mary’s conversation with Gabriel.

And then … there’s John. John probably knew about the stories in Matthew and Luke, and perhaps he felt no need to repeat them. However, the main thing to remember about John is that he’s neither an historian nor a Jewish royalist. John is a theologian and a mystic. So he writes about the meaning of Jesus’ birth. He writes from his theology, and he writes from his experience. But he is telling the same story as the others. All three are talking about the same birth.

Mind you, John does begin the story much earlier. He reminds us that Christmas really begins where Genesis begins: “in the beginning,” with God, in creation. John starts off by talking about the Word of God—God’s active, creating, revealing Word. This Word was with God, and this Word was God.

In one short sentence, John tells the Christmas story: “The Word became flesh, and lived among us.” The One who was with God in creation—the One who is God, revealing himself to humanity—this One took on our flesh and blood, becoming as completely human as you and me. This was not God in human disguise; not a really good person whom God rewarded and made special; not a super-angel God created early and saved up for Bethlehem.

No. This was a genuine, human person. And at the same time, he was the incarnate Word—God’s very own self. Soaring language, John uses. Exquisite poetry … to describe the very down-to-earth occurrence of a human birth. However, it is still the Christmas story, the same story Matthew and Luke tell: the story of the birth of Jesus.

For all of their differences in perspective, Matthew, Luke and John do share one thing in common. There is one image, one symbol—and only one—that they all use.

They all talk about light: the light of the star; the light that shone around the shepherds; the true light that enlightens every person. When Christ appears, witnesses talk about light. They have to. There’s no better image to describe what’s going on.

“The light shines in the darkness,” John proclaims. Somehow we understand this, and we realize that this truth cannot be expressed in any better way.

Perhaps we understand this because we all know about darkness. We know what it’s like to live in and with darkness. Most of us remember being afraid of the dark as children. Or recall the experience of wandering through a completely darkened room, feeling for the light switch.

We know what it’s like when we don’t know where things are, or what we’ve just tripped over, or whether we’re even going where we want to go. We understand how easy it is to go around in circles in the dark, and to get turned around and disoriented.

Yes, we know about darkness. But we also know (don’t we?) what it’s like to live just this same way in broad daylight—to be confused and frightened and lost, even while the sun is shining.

What John, Luke, and Matthew all say about Christmas is this: in Jesus, a new light begins to shine. And if we allow ourselves to be drawn to this light—whether it shines from a stable, or burns in the sky, or surrounds us when we pray … If we embrace this light, then—gradually or suddenly, quietly or accompanied by an angel choir—this light grows brighter. It increases in brilliance until, finally, we can see everything as it truly is.

By that light we can begin to see who we are—and who we were created to be. Because, in Jesus, we see not only the fullness of God—but also the potential fullness of ourselves.

In the person of Jesus, what it means to be human finally becomes clear. In him we see that our lives become whole only as we surrender in love and service. In him, we see that eternal life—really being alive—means risking everything for the love of God and for the Kingdom of God. In the brilliant light of Christ, we see that hope need never be abandoned. As Jesus illuminates our way, we discover ourselves capable of more than we ever imagined.

Also—by that light that has come into the world—we begin, for the first time, to paint a picture of God. “No one has ever seen God,” John reminds us (John 1:18). But God is made known to us in Jesus. This means that everything we ever imagined about God—everything we thought we had figured out, everything that we were sure we knew about God—all of this is put to the test in Jesus.

Who God is—in relationship to us—is fully and finally revealed in Jesus. In him. In he, himself. Not in one saying or one parable, or one miracle, but in all of him—in his life, his ministry, his teaching, his death and his resurrection.

In all of these things together, we have, at last, the light we need in order to see holiness. In Jesus of Nazareth, true humanity—and true divinity—are made clear.

The light of Christ—the Word made flesh—this is what comes among us at Christmas. What we celebrate as believers is the coming of this light into our world. On that first Christmas, the light shone brightly. To this very day, it continues to shine. Through that light, we have become children of God. And in that light, we shall take our places.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out. This is the Christmas story. This is our story. Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Advent 4

… an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife …“

TEXTS:  Isaiah 7:10-16 and Matthew 1:18-25

Advent is a season of expectation. So far, our Advent gospel lessons have focused on Jesus and John the Baptist. Jesus, telling us the Son of Man will come when we least expect it. John telling us the expected Messiah has come. And then, John, in prison, disappointed because his own expectations of Jesus have not been fulfilled.

Today, finally, we hear something like a Christmas story! But it’s kind of low-key. There’s no thundering angelic choir. No guiding star. There’s just one man … and a dream. Today, we hear about Joseph.

Yes. Ordinary, quiet, faithful Joseph. Shortly before we gather to celebrate the birth of Christ, the mystery of God coming to us as a child, we hear about this man, who … Well, this man who very quickly disappears from the gospel narrative.

He is mentioned in the second chapter of Matthew and the first two chapters of Luke … And then he just sort of fades away.

But that seems to be his lot. In Christmas pageants, Mary has the starring role. While we’ve all probably heard plenty of stories about little girls who felt slighted because they did not get to play Mary in the Christmas pageant, we rarely hear about little boys who were upset because they did not get to play Joseph.

No. If you are a little boy, you want to be one of the three kings—or, if not a king, at least a shepherd.  That way, you can wear a bathrobe in church—with your dad’s necktie wrapped around your head!

When you think of Christmas pageants, the images that come to mind are of Mary and the baby Jesus, of the three kings bearing gifts, of shepherds and angels … maybe even oxen and sheep.

Poor Joseph! He almost seems like an afterthought.

If Mary was the first to hear the good news of Jesus’ birth, Joseph must have been the second. But for Joseph, the revelation that Mary was pregnant was—at first—anything but good news. In fact, it must have been quite a shock, because he knew the child could not possibly be his. As the gospel tells us, “Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, [but] before they came together, she was found to be with child …”

In those days, there were two steps leading to marriage. The first was betrothal. This was a legally binding arrangement that lasted for one year before the couple actually married and started living together. If anything happened during the betrothal to dissolve the relationship, it was legally the same as getting a divorce.

Mary and Joseph were in this first stage—legally bound to one another, awaiting the day of their marriage. So when Joseph found out that Mary was pregnant, it was not good news. It was very bad news.

Joseph must have felt hurt—and betrayed. He must have been humiliated, disappointed … and angry! At least, that’s what you would expect. The woman to whom he was engaged was pregnant—and not by him. What more was there to say?

However, Matthew tells us that Joseph was a righteous man. That meant he loved God. It meant he tried to follow God’s law. In all things, a righteous man would try to follow the commands of God. So, when Joseph got the news about Mary, he turned to God’s law for guidance.

According to the law, he had two options. His first option was to bring charges against Mary in public, accusing her of the sin of adultery. According to the law, the penalty for adultery was … death.

His second option was to divorce Mary privately. In the presence of two witnesses, Joseph could draw up a paper of divorce and present it to her. In that case, there would be no public charges against her—and no penalty.

Mary would eventually be exposed to public disgrace, as people found out that she was pregnant and unwed, but at least she would be spared capital punishment.

Because Joseph was a righteous man, he had to choose one of these options. As much as he might have loved Mary, he could not disregard the law. Still—as Joseph certainly would have known—God’s righteousness is always tempered with mercy. So, he resolved to dismiss Mary quietly.

However, at this point in the story, something extraordinary happens. This simple, righteous man has a dream. And in this dream an angel of the Lord says: “Joseph, Son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

Wow! That was some dream. I’ve never dreamed about an angelic visitor, have you?

I’m not sure what I would do if I had a dream like that. But we know what Joseph did. When he awoke from his dream, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded. Period. No questions asked.

Does that seem remarkable? It is! And it points out something about Joseph’s character. Here was a man who had spent his entire life trying to do what God had commanded. Out of a lifetime of devotion to God—and to the law of God—Joseph recognized a message from the Lord when he heard it. He needed no further explanation.

Young Mary, when told she was about to give birth to the Messiah, quite naturally asked, “How can this be?” Joseph, though … well, he was older. A lifetime of devotion to God—and to God’s law—had had an effect upon Joseph. He was tuned in to God’s channel.

Joseph would surely have known the passage from Isaiah: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel—which means ‘God with us.’”

And so, when Joseph awoke, he did exactly what the angel of the Lord had told him to do. He took Mary as his wife, and they named their child Jesus.

Here is the wonder of this story. Through the faithfulness of an ordinary man, God was able to something extraordinary. The good news that God is sending his Son to be born of a virgin, to be the Saviour and Redeemer of the world … this amazing news is worked out in the faith and obedience of a humble man like Joseph.

The angel proclaims the miraculous news that God is coming among us as a little baby, and—unlike Mary, who responds with joyful exuberance, saying, “My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour”—Joseph says … well … nothing! Apparently, Joseph was not a big talker. He was a carpenter. He was a practical man.

Yes. A down-to-earth, practical man. And also—though he didn’t make a big deal about it—he was a faithful man. He listened for God’s word, and he tried to obey it.

And when God spoke to Joseph in a dream, Joseph got up and did all that the Lord commanded. He took Mary as his wife. He got her to Bethlehem. He named the child Jesus. Through Joseph and his no-nonsense, faithful response, God was working out his plan for the salvation of the whole world.

This is amazing, isn’t it? When God came among us, he chose to take on the flesh and blood of an ordinary human baby, born to very ordinary people. Born not in a mansion or a palace—but in a barn, for goodness sake! Who would have expected that?

And yet … that seems to be the way our God works. Unexpectedly. Through a stuttering fugitive who led his people out of slavery. Through a shepherd boy whose own father did not believe he was kingly material. Through rough, unsophisticated fishermen. Through a hated tax collector, and a tentmaker from Tarsus, and the son of a Nazarene carpenter. And—finally—through ordinary, unremarkable people like you and me.

Throughout Advent, we are called to prepare the way of the Lord by preparing our own very human hearts. We are called to be vigilant, because we do not know the day or the hour when our Lord may return. We are called to bear fruit in keeping with repentance, doing good to others and loving our neighbours as ourselves. We are called, even in our moments of doubt and fear, to look for evidence of the risen Christ at work in the world—and then to bear witness to what we have seen, and what we have heard. We are called to practice—daily—a discipline of regular contact with God, through prayer and the study of his Word.

If we answer that call, we will grow into the kind of faith that Joseph had—faith that is not only strong, but also discerning, and courageous, and wise.

May it be so for us—whether we hear from an angel, or not.

TEXT: Matthew 11:2-11

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” (Matthew 11:2-3)

“Are you the one? Or should we look for somebody else?” That’s what John the Baptist sent his disciples to ask Jesus.

I am reminded of a story about a woman who was searching for the perfect anniversary card for her husband.

On the rack in the drugstore, she saw a card that she thought might do. On the outside it read, “Sweetheart, you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Then she turned to the inside, where it said: “You’re not what I prayed for, exactly … but apparently you are the answer.”

In Jesus’ day, the Jewish people had been praying for a Messiah—a deliverer, a Saviour—who would conquer their enemies and establish a kingdom of righteousness.

This Messiah would be a mighty warrior and king, and through his power the Jews would reign supreme in the region—in a land of peace and prosperity.

With force of arms, he would drive the occupying Roman armies out of Israel, and the nation would be once again great, as it was in the days of King David. That’s the kind of Messiah the people had been praying for.

Then along comes Jesus, a poor carpenter with questionable friends. He claims to be the long-awaited Messiah—but he wants to set up a very different kind of kingdom. And so we can forgive even Jesus’ strongest supporters for asking, “You’re the answer to our prayers? Really?”

For his whole life, John the Baptist had been praying for—and preparing for—the advent of the Messiah.

In anticipation of the arrival of this great figure, John had been harshly criticizing the ruling religious establishment; and to the ordinary people, he had issued a stern call to repentance.

John’s idea of the Messiah was of a warrior-king, someone who—like John—would preach hellfire and brimstone. John had even said the coming Messiah would baptize his hearers with the “Holy Spirit and with fire.”

But in today’s gospel, John is languishing in prison. King Herod had put John there because he wanted to shut him up. Herod Antipas, you may remember, was the puppet-king whom the Romans had put in place.

More than that, Herod had stolen his own brother’s wife, Herodias—and John had publicly condemned the king as an adulterer. Herod saw John as a threat—and Herodias hated him!

So, John surely must have known his days were numbered—unless the Messiah could pull off a revolution … and quickly! But it didn’t sound like Jesus was putting together an army.

In fact, from the reports John was hearing, Jesus was doing exactly the opposite. Far from preaching hellfire and brimstone, this Messiah was performing acts of mercy, and telling people, “Turn the other cheek … Love your enemies … Do good to those who are persecuting you.”

John was confused. Jesus simply did not look like the Messiah he had been expecting.

At this time of year, as Christmas approaches, we also have expectations about how things should be—don’t we? We have idyllic visions of the yuletide season: of families coming together; of happy people singing Christmas carols; of full churches; of love and happiness everywhere. But it rarely works out that way.

And, when the often-grim reality of life collides with our idealistic visions … Well, it’s disappointing. It leaves us with a sense of emptiness and—very likely—with a great many questions.

Some of these questions may be very troubling. We are told that the child born in Bethlehem came as the Prince of Peace. He was born to usher in the Kingdom of God, but the world is still not peaceful, or just, or happy. If the Kingdom really is here, then why can’t we see it?

Has the coming of Christ into the world really changed anything? Before Jesus, there was famine, sickness, violence, and injustice. After Jesus, there is still famine, sickness, violence, and injustice.

Perhaps the human race is a bit more civilized and more sophisticated now than it was 2,000 years ago, but our basic nature appears to have remained untouched.

We are still selfish, prideful, and hostile toward those who are different. If Jesus brought in a new era … where is it?

These same hard questions came into the mind of John the Baptist. John, you remember, was supposed to be the forerunner of this new era. He was, after all, the first person to declare the arrival of the Kingdom. John said it even before Jesus did!

John said other things, too. Things like: “Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (Matt. 3:10).

The wheat and the chaff will be separated, John said, and the chaff “will burn with unquenchable fire.”

John envisioned a mighty and powerful Messiah who would come to sweep away wickedness and destroy everything that was evil.

He thought Jesus would set the world straight, so that justice and righteousness would become the status quo. The oppressed would be liberated, and the hungry would be fed. Those who resisted—those who refused to believe, those who continued to sin—they would be swept away and cast into the fire.

That’s what John expected. That’s what John proclaimed. That’s what drew crowds to hear his message and be baptized.

Then Jesus arrived on the scene. John stepped aside and said, “O.K., Jesus—go for it! Bring in the Kingdom! Wipe out the old age, and bring in the new!” And …

Nothing happened. Jesus did not throw anyone into unquenchable fire. He did not wipe out the sinners. No. Instead, he visited them in their homes and ate dinner with them!

Instead of finding himself living in a new era, John found himself in a prison cell, alone with his questions and doubts. Sitting in the forlorn squalor of Herod’s dungeon, John knew that his time was running out. He did not want to die still wondering about the Messiah, so he sent word to Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

What a sad question. It is a question that cries out for an answer.

“Are you who I thought you were? Are you the Messiah, or should I wait for someone else?”

John’s question might just be our question, too. It’s a question that is compounded by two millennia of dungeons, injustice, suffering, disease, abuse, exploitation, and death. Is this really the new world of Jesus Christ? Like John did so long ago, we wonder about these things. And who can blame us?

Still, perhaps John’s questioning—and ours—is due (at least in part) to a lack of patience. Ours is an era of fast food, instant coffee, microwave dinners, and the internet. We know what we want; we want it now, and we usually get it now. God’s timetable seems much slower than ours.

But, look—as Jesus himself might say: you cannot plant a seed one day and harvest a crop the next! Maybe that’s the message we need to hear.

Oh, I know … even saintly patience has its limits. In the face of agonizing questions and frustrated longing, to simply say, “Be patient” …

Well, that sounds all too glib, doesn’t it?

“Are you the one, or should we look for somebody else?”

In response to John’s despairing question, Jesus offers a re-examination of current events.

Remember what he told John’s disciples? He said: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” (Matt. 11:4-5)

Jesus invites John—and he challenges all of us—to consider the positive happenings in the world. Our natural tendency is to ask, “Why is there so much suffering in the world?”

But Jesus wants us to ask another question: “Why is there so much good in the world?”

How do we account for prosperity and liberty? How do we account for compassion and concern? When it comes to our personal experience of life, how do we account for our own good health and—when they occur—for amazing recoveries from illness? How do we explain unexpected good fortune? How do we account for the love and support of family and friends? Or for the compassion of complete strangers?

Here’s what I think. It seems to me that the good and just and joyful aspects of life are bits and pieces of the Kingdom of God—a kingdom that comes, not by force, but by the birth of a child in a barn located in the back lot of a cheap hotel.

The Kingdom of God was present then, in that common—yet extraordinary—birth. Today, the Kingdom of God is present within each of us. And every time we reach out to others with love, the Kingdom grows a little bit larger. Each time we stand up for justice, the Kingdom’s arrival is that much closer.

In this Advent season, let’s not forget that the Christ-child is indeed waiting to be born—born within our hearts. And yes, he is the One!

Even so, come, Lord Jesus, come! Come to our hearts. Come to our homes. Come to our nation, and to our world.

In God’s good time, may it be so. Amen.

Advent 2

TEXTS: Isaiah 11:1-10 and Matthew 3:1-12

In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” (Matthew 3:1-2)

I’m curious: How many of you have ever heard of a man called Edwin L. Drake? Even here in Alberta—where our economy runs on oil—very few people have ever heard of Edwin Drake. And that’s puzzling, because Edwin Drake is the man who founded the modern petroleum industry. Drake pioneered a new method for extracting oil from the ground by drilling for it, using piping to prevent borehole collapse—thereby allowing the drill to penetrate further and further into the ground.

Previous methods for collecting oil had been limited to harvesting it from places where it naturally percolated to the surface. People knew it could be used to make useful products like kerosene, but it wasn’t available in sufficient quantities to be commercially useful.

On August 27, 1859, all that changed. A well that Edwin Drake drilled near Titusville, Pennsylvania struck oil, thereby demonstrating that a dependable supply of petroleum could be obtained through drilling—and the rest, as they say, is history. But it might never have happened, because the drillers whom Drake first approached with his idea scoffed at him.

“Drill for oil?” they said. “You mean drill into the ground to try and find oil? You’re crazy.”

When John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness crying out, “Prepare the way of the Lord. He’s coming right after me,” a lot of people thought he was crazy—a screwball who lived in the desert, scavenging for food and pretending to be Elijah the prophet. John was announcing a new vision—a vision of One coming after him to establish God’s Kingdom of justice and righteousness and peace—but to many, he sounded like a madman.

When Isaiah came announcing the vision he received from the Lord, I imagine he got a similar reaction. “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together” (Isaiah 11:6a). The cat will curl up with the budgie, and the cougar will graze with the caribou. The small child shall take a rattlesnake for show and tell, and the politician shall speak the truth!

How can you ever believe such things? They’re not reality. They go against basic nature. They’ve never happened before. They defy comprehension. Isaiah was a nut!

Or was he?

It’s a very strange thing, reality. It is not nearly as fixed as we like to think it is. Our beliefs about the limits of reality get tangled up with our expectations—with what we have experienced. Yet, what is seen in one place or time as being outside the realm of possibility is taken for granted as reality in another place or time.

Once, people who thought heavier-than-air craft could fly were called “unrealistic.” People who thought that the earth was round were locked away because they had clearly lost touch with the “real” world. But if Nelson Mandela can become president of South Africa, who’s to say the lion cannot lay down with the lamb?

Beware of those who want to define reality for you. Beware of those who tell you what is or is not realistic.

Beware and be aware. If someone else is trying to define the limits of reality for you, ask what it is they have invested in the present reality. Why would they be threatened if you believed that something was possible that is not yet in place?

Why do the forest industries tell us that investing in timber plantations instead of old growth forests is unrealistic? Why do the arms manufacturers tell us it’s ridiculous to speak of loving your enemies? There’s money to be made. There’s power to be kept. There are vested interests to be protected.

That’s why—for decades after they themselves knew better—tobacco companies insisted that cigarettes were harmless. That’s why—for decades after they allowed military personnel at CFB Gagetown to be exposed to Agent Orange, the Canadian Forces insisted—indignantly—that they would never do such a thing.

Hell hath no fury like vested interest masquerading as moral principle.

But you know, this manipulation of our views of reality does not just happen on the world stage. I’m sure we’ve all experienced it personally. We’ve all been told:

• “It can’t be done.”
• “It’s unrealistic to think you can change it.”
• “You’ll always be like this.”
• “That’s the way it’s always been.”
• “Get your head out of the clouds, this is the real world.”
• “This is the only place you’ll ever fit.”
• “This is your lot, and you might as well accept it.”

If somebody’s telling you that stuff, you should ask yourself why. Why do they want to keep you in your place? Maybe it’s nothing more than the fear of seeing someone else achieve what they are afraid to try—but often it’s more sinister than that. Always be wary of anyone who tells you your dreams are impossible.

Sometimes, of course, the things which hold us back are not external. Sometimes the demons are inside us. Often, we resign ourselves to the inevitability of things. We have heard so often that history repeats itself—and that “the more things change the more they stay the same”—that we believe it. We take it for granted that the way things are is the only way they can be. Our experience limits our vision:

• “I’ve never seen a leopard change its spots—therefore, it can’t.”
• “I’ve never seen a lion lay down with a lamb—therefore, it could never happen.”
• “I’ve never known someone I could trust—therefore, there isn’t anyone.”
• “I haven’t been able to change this pattern in my life before—therefore, I never will.”

We end up as our own worst enemies that way. A mixture of fear and short-sightedness keeps us inside the prison of our present circumstances. The voices whisper away within us:

• “Every time you’ve tried to get out of this before, you’ve failed.”
• “Don’t risk being a failure again.”
• “You can dream your dreams, but they’re only dreams.”
• “You always have to go back to reality when you wake up—back to the real world, where nothing ever changes.”

But look … The realm of the possible is always bigger than we think it is. If your relationships have always been disasters, it doesn’t mean that you are incapable of having good relationships. It may mean that you’ve been approaching them in the wrong way. If a mountain climber fails to conquer a certain peak, he tries a different route the next time. Just because it can’t be done this way doesn’t mean that it can’t be done. The fact that conflict persists does not mean that the lion can never lay down with the lamb! No. It means that we have not yet found the way to peace.

John the Baptist was right. There was One coming after him who would change all of our realities. No longer is it true that you are only acceptable to God if you are a descendent of Abraham. God can turn rocks into children of Abraham!

The One who came after John said anything could be possible, if you could believe in it. He called us to take up the vision of Isaiah—to look for the day when there will be justice for the needy and equity for the poor. Jesus lived and died to let us know that we can expect better than just more of the same. He was raised from the dead to show us that even death is not the end of hope. Even death cannot limit the scope of reality. Change and rebirth are not only possible in the here and now, but they are no longer confined to here and now.

Jesus Christ has kicked open the doors of all our prison cells. We are free to believe and strive for and achieve what was once believed impossible. But the prisoner whose dreams and vision have never extended beyond the closed door will tremble at the prospect of venturing beyond it. And that’s a pity, because the Christ who burst open your prison door also promises to travel with you in the unknown territory beyond it.

You may have never seen beyond that door, but there is a beautiful world waiting to welcome you there: a world where the lion will lay dawn with the lamb; a world where snake pits are safe playgrounds for children; a world of justice for the poor, freedom for the oppressed, and comfort for the broken-hearted.

That is the message of Advent—and it is the gospel we preach. Thanks be to God for this good news!

 

First Sunday in Advent

TEXTS: Isaiah 2:1-5 and Matthew 24:36-44

“Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming” (Matthew 24:42).

 

O Come, O come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lowly exile here
until the Son of God appear

During Advent, the words of this ancient hymn ring true in our ears. We know (don’t we?) what it is to mourn in lowly exile. We know what it feels like to wait—to yearn—for Christ to appear.

Because we know war, and rumors of war—and the incessant background noise of  “almost war”—we can pray in earnest:

O Come, Thou King of nations bring
An end to all our suffering
Bid every pain and sorrow cease
And reign now as our Prince of Peace

And because the world we live in is so often characterized by darkness, we know what it means to long for a great light—a dayspring that will cast away the very shadow of death.

Advent is a season of anticipation, as we look for the coming of Christ. Advent gives voice to our yearning. And because we yearn, we can live into the season. Advent itself rings true.

Still, I must admit that I always find the Advent season a tad confusing. I yearn, and I wait, and I hope. “Come, Thou long-expected Jesus!”

But I also remember.

I remember singing these same hymns last year. I remember watching and waiting for—and then celebrating—the arrival of the Christ child … eleven months ago! I remember singing, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!” And I vividly recall the angel’s message: “… unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11).

Here—at the beginning of Advent—I remember Christmas! And these memories of Christmas undermine the sense of anticipation I know I’m supposed to have throughout the Advent season.

Christmas celebrates the coming of Emmanuel—“God with us”—the Word made flesh. If the birth of Christ is God’s answer to our yearning, then … why are we still yearning? How can we yearn for something that has already happened?

Well—as a bright teenager once said to me—“I guess it’s another one of those paradoxes.” Yes. Paradoxes. Christian faith is chock full of them. One God in three persons. An immortal, infinite God who took on human flesh—with all of its limitations—and, ultimately, died the same death that we die.

We do not usually think of Christianity as a “mystery religion”—and yet, Christian faith is in very large measure defined by mystery. And one of the great gifts of the church year—including the season of Advent—is that it pulls us deeper into this mystery.

The questions that get raised through Advent penetrate all the way to the core of our faith. They get at the meaning of incarnation, the substance of hope, and the shape of history. They get at the nature of faith for people who confess that the Messiah has come even as they wait for his arrival. 

To be a Christian is to yearn for One who has already come.

We live between the first and second comings of Christ—between the “now” and the “not yet.” We live—as someone has said—“between memory and hope.”

Our reading from Isaiah touches on these Advent themes.

“In days to come,” the prophet says: “the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it … [and] they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. (Isaiah 2:2, 4b)

It is a vision of fulfillment—of God with us as Teacher of Wisdom and Judge of Righteousness and Prince of Peace. It is a vision of all the nations of the earth streaming toward Zion—a vision in which the weapons of destruction become instruments of agriculture: swords into ploughshares, spears into pruning hooks.

This is Isaiah’s vision of the Kingdom of God. This is the hope of Israel, then and now. It is the hope on which the Church is founded.

But when will this Kingdom be established? Just when are these “days to come”?

Some commentators on Isaiah have argued that, whenever those days are, what matters most is that they are later than the time of the prophet. It’s like we are the kids in the back seat asking, “Are we there yet?” And chapter two of Isaiah answers, “No, not yet.”

Now, these commentators have different ideas about what Isaiah might have meant.

Some of them—noting that the “swords and ploughshares” theme is echoed elsewhere in the Old Testament—suggest that other prophets—before Isaiah—had applied these oracles to their own times, proclaiming that the day of peace was just about to dawn.

But then it didn’t happen. And so, the commentators argue, Isaiah’s purpose was to affirm that the promises were still true—just not true yet. They say that Isaiah wanted to secure the truth of the promise and then push the moment of fulfillment a little further into the future—into those ethereal “days to come.”

Trouble is, this interpretation makes the prophet into a mere forecaster—and not a very good one, at that! It turns Isaiah into a predictor who cannot even guess when his prediction will come true. He’s just the latest in a long line of predictors who waffle about their own predictions!

The problem with this approach is not simply that it makes Isaiah and the other prophets look silly. The larger problem is that it reduces this ancient promise—of swords fashioned into ploughshares—to a prediction that never quite comes true. And the danger of this interpretation is that it can prevent us from claiming the gift of “God-with-us” in the here and now. And that’s a tragedy, because this gift of God’s presence is for the “now” … and not only for the future.

When we are willing to say that we have lived in “the last days”—that, indeed, we are living in them now …

When we are willing to say that God kept covenant with Israel, even when Israel was unfaithful …

When we are willing to say that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, even though we ultimately rejected and killed that Word …

When we are willing to say that Christmas has already come—has really come—to this world in which we live right now …

Then our hope begins to take on a different shape.

Then our hope becomes not just for an endlessly-postponed future paradise.

Then it becomes something other than wishful thinking.

When our hope becomes present-tense, it turns into faith—faith in a God whose love for us only deepens when we reject him.

It becomes faith in a teacher of wisdom who offers his greatest lessons even as people walk away from him. It opens our eyes to see a Prince of Peace who reigns even in the midst of war and rumors of war.

In turn, this faith encourages our hope. And it keeps our anticipation keen, just as I think Jesus meant to do when he told us that—even though no one knows “that day and hour”—we must always be prepared, for the Son of Man is coming … coming when we least expect it.

Isaiah teaches us how to understand the “now-and-not-yet” that brings yearning after fulfillment and Advent after Christmas.

Last year’s Christmas was not an illusion. No. The good news is that Emmanuel has come! Emmanuel has really come—into that feed-trough, into that barn in Bethlehem all those centuries ago … just as he came once again last Christmas Eve when we sang about him by candlelight. Just as he will indeed return one day “at an unexpected hour” (Matt. 24:44).

The coming of God-with-us makes it possible for us to yearn for God-with-us. We must discover what we lack in order to know how much we need it. The coming of God-with-us teaches us how to yearn … and it shows us what to yearn for.

It is precisely because the Prince of Peace has come that we can dare to hope for a day when nations will not study war any more.

Because the Word was made flesh, we can yearn for a day when God will teach us his ways.

Because God is with us—even now—we are able to hope, and wait, and watch.

Year after year after year, we’ve sung, “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!”—and we meant it!

That’s why, when we recite our Communion liturgy, we have the audacity to affirm: “Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again.”

I suppose it is a kind of paradox: because Christmas has already come—and come again, and again, and again … Because of that, our Advent waiting can begin … again.

So, welcome, my friends; welcome. Welcome to the beginning of yet another beginning.

Welcome … to the future! Amen.

______________________

And here … just because I can … I want to give a shout-out to one of my favorite renditions of the ancient hymn:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FuFtOFvTsM

 

“The apostle Paul wrote to some Christian friends …”

Those of you who belong to churches which follow the liturgical calendar will know that a new liturgical year begins this coming Sunday, as the Season of Advent begins. In many congregations, on the Sundays in Advent, the usual Call to Worship is replaced by a special liturgy for lighting the candles in the Advent wreath (for more about this custom, see: https://www.crosswalk.com/special-coverage/christmas-and-advent/advent-wreath-candles-understanding-the-meaning-history-tradition.html).

Usually, the Advent wreath consists of a large white candle (the Christ Candle) surrounded by four smaller candles: three coloured royal blue (or sometimes purple), and one pink candle for the third Sunday. The coloured candles are lit one by one, Sunday by Sunday. On the first Sunday in Advent, only one blue candle is lit. On the second Sunday, two blue candles are lit. On the third Sunday, two blue candles and one pink one. On the fourth Sunday, all of the smaller candles are given a flame. And on Christmas Eve, the Christ Candle—which has been left dark throughout the season—is finally lit, to announce the birth of Jesus.

For those of you who are looking for an Advent Candle liturgy, I’m including one in this post. The ceremony for Christmas Eve includes the verses of Sandra Dean’s wonderful carol, “A Candle is Burning”—sung to the tune of “Away in a Manger” (http://morningglorybooks.com/Page15.html). This song is found in Voices United (the hymnary of the United Church of Canada) at number six. It may be in other collections, as well. In any case, the lyrics are available by clicking on the “morningglorybooks” link above.

ADVENT 1 ~ DECEMBER 1, 2019

READER ONE: Long ago, the Apostle Paul wrote to some Christian friends, and he said: “You know what time it is, don’t you? It’s time to wake up! The bright new day is closer now than ever. The night is almost over, and dawn will soon be breaking. So, act like God’s light is shining on you—and remember: you belong to Christ Jesus, our Lord.”

READER TWO: Paul knew that his friends had all kinds of reasons to be hopeful—even when times were dark. That’s true of us, too! Even when the world is scary, we have wonderful, good news: Jesus is coming—and very soon!

READER ONE: Our first Advent candle is the Candle of Hope;

[light one blue candle]

READER TWO: And as we light it, we say:

ALL: Come, Lord Jesus—come quickly!

ADVENT 2 ~ DECEMBER 8, 2019 [one blue candle should already be burning]

READER ONE: Long ago, the Apostle Paul wrote to some Christian friends, and he said: “God is the one who makes us patient and cheerful—so ask God to help you live at peace with each other. Honour God by accepting each other, just as Christ has accepted you. I pray that God will bless you with complete happiness and peace, because of your faith.”

READER TWO: The advice Paul gave to his friends, he could give to us, too—because sometimes we just can’t seem to get along! Nations, families, friends, neighbors—even church people—we quarrel way too much! Even so, we have good news to tell: Jesus is coming—and he’s bringing his peace with him!

READER ONE: Our second Advent candle is the Candle of Peace;

[light one blue candle]

READER TWO: And as we light it, we say:

ALL: Come, Lord Jesus—come quickly!

ADVENT 3 ~ DECEMBER 15, 2019 [two blue candles should already be burning]

READER ONE: Long ago, the Apostle Paul wrote to some Christian friends, and he told them they should always be full of joy. He said: “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” Paul knew that they had all kinds of reasons to be joyful—even when things weren’t going the way they wanted—because God would bless them “according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”

READER TWO: Paul could say the same thing to us: “Rejoice!” When we are sad—or worried about tomorrow—we should remember that Jesus is coming. And when he gets here, his joy will be in us, and our joy will be complete!

READER ONE: Our third Advent candle is the Candle of Joy;

[light the pink candle]

READER TWO: And as we light it, we say:

ALL: Come, Lord Jesus—come quickly!

ADVENT 4 ~ DECEMBER 22, 2019 [two blue candles and one pink candle should already be burning]

READER ONE: Long ago, the Apostle Paul wrote to some Christian friends, and he said: “God appointed me to preach the good news that he promised long ago through the prophets. Jesus chose me to carry his message to people everywhere. And the message to you is—God loves you, and has chosen you to be his very own people.”

READER TWO: God’s message today is the same as it was then: We are God’s own beloved children! And here is good news for us: Jesus—who loves us—gives love we can share. And Jesus—who loves us—is on his way here!

READER ONE: Our fourth Advent candle is the Candle of Love;

[light one blue candle]

READER TWO: And as we light it, we say:

ALL: Come, Lord Jesus—come quickly!

CHRISTMAS EVE ~ DECEMBER 24, 2019 [NO candles should already be burning]

READER ONE: Throughout the Sundays in Advent, we have been lighting candles at the beginning of worship, using this Advent Wreath. The four candles at the base of the wreath represent the themes of Advent—hope, peace, joy, and love.

READER TWO: Now, we’re going to light them again, and finally we will light the tall white candle in the centre of the wreath—the Christ Candle—as a sign that our waiting is over. Christ is born. Christmas is here at last!

READER ONE: So, we have five candles to light—and five verses to sing as we do that!

READER TWO: Words to “A Candle is Burning” are found … Please sing gladly!

HYMN: “A Candle is Burning” (Sandra Dean, 1986)

VERSE 1—Light BLUE candle

VERSE 2—Light BLUE candle

VERSE 3—Light PINK candle

VERSE 4—Light BLUE candle

VERSE 5—Light WHITE Christ Candle

_______________________

SCRIPTURE REFERENCES FOR THE ADVENT WREATH LITURGY:

ADVENT 1—Romans 13:11-14

ADVENT 2—Romans 15:4-13

ADVENT 3—Philippians 4:4, 19; John 15:11

ADVENT 4—Romans 1:1-6

 

Christ the King Sunday

TEXTS: Jeremiah 23:1-6 and Luke 23:33-43

On the last Sunday of the Church Year, the day we call “Christ the King Sunday”—we are called to reflect upon a question. And the question is: “Who’s in charge?”

In this world which is torn apart by war, which is threatened by climate change, where millions go hungry while a few grow more and more obese—this is a fundamental question: “Who’s in charge?”

Who exercises dominion over whom? Who—or what—rules our lives, and how? Who—or what—dominates our culture?

The answer to the last question—who or what dominates our culture—is, I think, quite evident. The forces of evil hold great sway both here in Canada and around the world. Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear—these are the powers which fuel the decision-making process on planet earth: in our corporate systems; in our media—and especially our advertising media; in our economic and governmental systems, where what matters most is not whether you are right, but whose side you are on, or who you voted for; and in the hearts of many individuals—of those who think only of what’s in it for them and theirs.

Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear … The fruit of those powers that rule in our culture—and in every nation of this world—is as obvious as the rioting in Hong Kong today. The fruit of those powers is as clear as the pictures of desperate refugees which appear on television each night—interspersed with advertisements for stuff none of us really needs.

Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear … Their fruit is abundant! They yield a bumper crop of homeless, beaten, battered, abused, drug-dependent persons who live—and die—on the streets of our cities. Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear—what do they look like? They can look like the pursuit of happiness. They can look like the pursuit of success. But in reality they are the exaltation of our families, our country, our politics—to the detriment of our neighbours, near and far. In today’s world, greed, pride, selfishness, and fear are poisoned trees, and they yield a bitter harvest. Their toxic fruit nourishes the hatred, the rage, the desire for vengeance which consumes so many.

Who and what rules our culture? The answer is depressingly obvious. Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear! The fruit they bear is death—and that, too, is depressingly obvious. And it feels even more obvious—and all the more depressing—when we focus upon the troubles that afflict us personally. When we look at all the negative stuff, when we suffer the body blows of trouble within our own families, when we are knocked down by the series of illnesses and deaths within our community—don’t we wonder: “Who’s in charge”?

So many friends and loved ones have been taken from us—one after the other, both young and old. You just get up off the floor from having been hit by one death or illness or tragedy, and another comes and flattens you! It makes you wonder if the sorrow and the suffering will ever end—if things will ever get better.

Even so … on Christ the King Sunday, we assert the gospel message: the message that Christ is in charge. And we assert the gospel message that not only is Christ in charge, but the peace that we need, and the hope that we need, can be found in him—now, today! More than that, we assert the gospel message that the peace our world needs—the peace our culture needs—is coming through him, on the day that God has chosen.

But—as Jesus himself said to the disciples on the night of his betrayal—the peace he gives, he gives not as the world gives (John 14:27). And that is very important to us, as we name Christ not only as the King of the Universe, but as King of our hearts and lives. The prophet Jeremiah told us: “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as King and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In his days Judah will be saved and Israel will live in safety. And this is the name by which he will be called: ‘The LORD is our righteousness.’” (Jeremiah 23:5-6)

The righteous branch of David—the one who will be called, “The LORD is our righteousness”—is, of course, Christ Jesus. Now, for most of us, the word righteousness conjures up an image of someone who is holy and good, of someone who is following the laws of God—and that is indeed part of the meaning of the word righteous. But when the word righteous is applied to God in the Bible, it is almost always used in reference to his saving and healing activity.

God shows us that he is righteous by delivering us from our enemies and by making us whole. God is righteous when God forgives us. God is righteous when he keeps his promise to be our God and to watch over us and protect us. God was being righteous when he came to us in the person of Jesus, who was—and is—a King with a difference.

It’s a difference which I think is illustrated by a story told by Richard Fairchild on his Kir-Shalom website. It is the story of a little boy who wanted to do something good. It goes like this:

Six-year-old Brandon decided one Saturday morning to fix his parents pancakes. He found a big bowl and spoon, pulled a chair to the counter, opened the cupboard and pulled out the heavy flour canister, spilling it on the floor. He scooped some of the flour into the bowl with his hands, mixed in most of a cup of milk and added some sugar and an egg, leaving a floury trail on the floor, which by now had a few tracks left by his kitten.

Brandon was covered with flour and getting frustrated. He wanted this to be something very good for Mom and Dad, but it was getting very bad. He didn’t know what to do next, whether to put it all into the oven or on the stove, (and he didn’t know how the stove worked!).

Suddenly he saw his kitten licking the bowl of mix and reached to push her away, knocking the egg carton to the floor. Frantically he tried to clean up this monumental mess, but he slipped on the eggs and landed on the floor—getting his pajamas white and sticky. Just then he saw Dad standing at the door. Big tears welled up in Brandon’s eyes. All he wanted to do was something good, but he’d made a terrible mess. He was sure a scolding was coming, maybe even a spanking.

But his father just watched him. Walking through the mess, he picked up his crying son, and hugged him—getting his own pyjamas white and sticky in the process of loving him.

That’s how God—our Lord and our King—deals with us. That’s how Jesus—our Lord and our King—deals with us and the mess we have created. Jesus steps into our reality and takes our mess onto himself. He loves us and forgives us, and shows us the way of true love: the way that gives life—and that abundantly; the way of the Kingdom over which he rules; the way of the Kingdom in which he serves.

Jesus provides us with an image of royalty totally different from the world’s image of royalty. His is a total reversal of roles usually assigned to royalty and servitude. He refuses to be master of the world, the mighty monarch, the spiller of blood. Rather, he is a King who serves others. Jesus our Lord, our Righteousness, is one who heals, who forgives, who restores; one who refuses to take up the sword to protect himself, or call ten thousand angels to save him from the cross.

King Jesus is one who, even as he dies, promises that he will remember us when he comes into his Kingdom. King Jesus conquers, not by killing others, but by allowing himself to perish. Jesus is our Lord–Jesus is our King—precisely because he is not like the kings of this world. His faithfulness and his obedience and his love have defeated death and opened the way to eternal life. And citizenship in his Kingdom is offered to all—not just to those who are good enough, or strong enough, or smart enough.

Who and what rules our culture? I think we know who rules right now. But it will not always be so. Jesus told Pilate, “My Kingdom is not from this world” (John 19:36). And that is true. But this world will be his Kingdom one day!

I believe that. I know that. I know in my heart—and I know from the words of Scripture—that the one who rules in our lives is stronger than the one who rules this world. So—for now—let us work for Christ’s Kingdom.

How? By focusing on our Lord, and living by his direction, his values, and his wisdom. When the world strikes you—when the world kicks you—remember to whom you belong! Trust in him. Pick yourself up. Turn the other cheek. Forgive those who need forgiving. Proclaim once again that Jesus is Lord and King and that his way is the way of life. And as you do you that, you will find within yourself the peace that he has promised to give. Thanks be to God for our awesome King! Amen.