The Passover of the Jews was at hand, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple he found those who were selling oxen and sheep and pigeons, and the money-changers sitting there. And making a whip of cords, he drove them all out of the temple, with the sheep and oxen. And he poured out the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables. And he told those who sold the pigeons, “Take these things away; do not make my Father’s house a house of trade.” (John 2:13-16, ESV)

Periodically, at the inner-city congregation which I pastor, we notice a familiar visitor in our midst. I’ll call him Marvin.

Marvin is, basically, a nice guy. Smart. Polite. Personable. That is, as long as he takes the meds he’s supposed to be taking, and avoids cocaine and booze.

Trouble is, this man never seems to stay on his meds. Always, it seems, alcohol and street drugs displace them—and then, in very short order, Marvin’s schizophrenia takes over his life. And the nice-guy Marvin disappears. In church, he becomes disruptive, loud, combative and threatening. He scares people. Trying to reason with this Marvin is pointless.

It always ends the same way: with me ejecting him from our building, telling him I will call the police if he shows up again. And, typically, Marvin keeps his distance for months or years afterward.

Over the past 16 years or so, this drama has played out no fewer than four times … and counting. Marvin always returns, of course—and when he does, I give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he has straightened out. Perhaps he’s finally gotten it together, I think … until it turns out … he hasn’t. And then, once more, I cast him out of the temple.

On the wall in my office hangs a large framed picture, which has occupied that space above my desk for some years now. It is a photograph, actually, of a magnificent specimen of Canis lupus, whose transfixing gaze yet gives me pause. And it has a caption, printed large: “THE GOOD SHEPHERD KNOWS THE WOLF.”

I keep it there because it reminds me that one of the most difficult roles of a pastor is also one of the most essential: the role of shepherd. Although we are used to seeing that biblical image rendered in comforting pastels—usually portraying Jesus carrying a lamb in his arms or draped over his kindly shoulders—we should remember that a shepherd’s care for his flock needs to be as robust as it is gentle.

David, for example, was a shepherd in his youth. To King Saul, he described his job in this way: “Your servant used to keep sheep for his father. And when there came a lion, or a bear, and took a lamb from the flock, I went after him and struck him and delivered it out of his mouth. And if he arose against me, I caught him by his beard and struck him and killed him.” (1 Samuel 17:34-35).

Yeah. I don’t think I’d ever go so far as to kill poor Marvin … I’d much rather talk to him, always hopeful that someday, somehow, he will accept the wise counsel and practical help being offered to him from many sources … But I won’t risk having him kill one of my sheep, either.

However—like I said—this business of “knowing the wolf” and dealing with him … this is one of the most difficult pastoral roles. Perhaps it’s the most difficult. Because, of course, pastors are supposed to be welcoming. Friendly. Compassionate. We aren’t supposed to turf anyone out of God’s house, are we?

Certainly, we don’t want to. Always hoping for the return of a prodigal son or daughter, our inclination is to keep the sheepfold gate flung wide open. After all, everybody is always welcome in church … right?

Actually, I would submit that the biblical answer to that question is, “No.”

In the well-known story of Jesus “cleansing the Temple”—reported in all four canonical gospels¹—we find the Good Shepherd violently removing quite a number of small businessmen from the Temple precincts. And although John’s account frames the Lord’s anger as a reaction against commerce (“do not make my Father’s house a house of trade”), the synoptics quote Jesus as saying the livestock dealers and money-changers comprised “a den of robbers.”

In other words—as James Wetzstein has pointed out in his astute comic strip²—Jesus was condemning not honest trade, but unethical practice. The church bake sale is no concern of his; but he will not countenance swindlers out to extort and abuse the faithful. As John describes the scene, the Lord was angry enough to flog the crooked merchants!

“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild; dirty dealers drive you wild.” (Are you listening, Bell Canada?)

The hard truth is: NOT everybody is welcome in church! If that sounds unnecessarily cruel, ask yourself: would you want to be part of a family which failed to protect its members? I know I wouldn’t.

Those with malicious intent—who want to bilk our senior citizens, or abuse our children, or embezzle funds from the treasury—all of these should be most pointedly not welcome in anybody’s church. Neither should anyone who—by dint of their refusal to acknowledge their own demons—poses a threat to others.

A harsh principle? I guess so. Fun to enforce? Absolutely not. Something which will trouble the shepherd’s conscience, even though he realizes it must be done? You betcha. For even the predators are God’s own creatures—as are the unfortunate Marvins of this world.

So what’s a perplexed pastor to do, when the wolf raises its head? Pray for wisdom, I suppose. Especially in those situations where neither compassion nor wisdom comes easy.

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¹ Matthew 21:12-17; Mark 11:15-19; Luke 19:45-48; John 2:13-25.

² http://www.agnusday.org/comics/662/john-02-13-22-2015

 

… Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves.  And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus.

Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. 

As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.  (Mark 9:2-9*)

Quite a bizarre story, isn’t it? Although it doesn’t start out that way. Jesus and his three closest followers—Peter, James, and John—climb up a high mountain. Nothing out of the ordinary about that, really. Jesus often retired to remote locations in order to draw close to his Father in prayer, and it was not unusual for him to take his friends with him, on occasion. But on this occasion … suddenly he is … transfigured. Transformed. Exalted. Changed. His clothing assumes an unearthly luminescence. Then they are joined by Elijah and Moses—two figures from Israel’s distant past, both of them dead for hundreds of years by this time.

The Bible tells us the three disciples are scared out of their wits—and who can blame them? James and John, apparently, are dumbstruck. But Peter—being Peter—starts to babble. He proposes building three little houses there, so Jesus, Elijah, and Moses can open a mountaintop retreat centre … or something … I can hear him, can’t you?

“We could call it ‘The Three Amigos Ashram’ … maybe put in a Starbuck’s…”

Then … as if heaven itself is offended by that suggestion (‘cuz it shoulda been a Timmy’s) …

As if heaven is offended, a cloud overshadows them, and the voice of God booms from above, saying: “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”

And then—suddenly—everything is back to normal. No voice. No cloud. No Elijah or Moses. No glowing robe. No nothing. No wonder—in verse 10 of this chapter—Mark tells us that the three disciples “kept the matter to themselves.”

I guess so! This is not the sort of thing you bring up at the office around the water cooler, or casually mention over coffee after church. Sure, talk about the weather. Talk about the price of gasoline. Or the latest Donald Trump story.

But who’s going to talk about something like this?

“They kept the matter to themselves.”

And you know, if it hadn’t been for the fact that there were three of them—three witnesses to this incredible occurrence—I wonder whether we would ever have heard the Transfiguration story. I mean, if there had been only one witness … Well, I think that person could be forgiven if, the next morning, he woke up thinking the whole thing was just a weird dream.

Certainly, many have noted the dream-like quality of this passage. It does sound like a dream, doesn’t it? You know how dreams are—the details not always making much sense. Jesus’ clothes turning dazzlingly white—as brilliant as a model’s smile in a toothpaste commercial. Then these two Old Testament figures show up unannounced. And how did the disciples know it was them, anyway? Do you think they had name tags, like at a conference? “Hello! My name is Moses!”

Moses and Elijah. How did Peter, James and John recognize them?

Let’s face it: this Transfiguration story is more than a little odd. If it wasn’t a dream—or a group hallucination—what are we supposed to make of it?

Well, we are given some clues within the story itself. There are two parts to this account: first, what happens on the mountain (strange as it is); and, second, the discussion about it as they come down from the mountain.

Did you notice? In verse nine, Mark tells us what Jesus has to say about it all: “As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.”

So … what?

I think Jesus’ admonition is significant. I think it’s telling. Let me explain why.

To me, it’s like watching a movie on DVD—where you can choose those “special features.” You know what I mean? Like watching it in French, or out-takes and deleted scenes … that kind of thing. Only in this case, it’s like Mark has provided the “director’s commentary.” We see the story unfold, but we also get interpretive clues.

That’s what we have here in Mark’s Gospel; it’s the director’s commentary on the plot of Mark. On Transfiguration Sunday—the last Sunday before Lent begins—we are given a glimpse of the big picture. You see, in Mark’s Gospel there are three major confessions of Jesus’ identity as the Son of God: the first one is at his baptism, when the heavenly voice announces: “You are my Son, the Beloved” (Mark 1:11). It’s a scene of glory. The last one is on the cross, when—after Jesus’ death—a Roman centurion declares: “Truly this man was God’s Son!” (Mark 15:39)

A scene of glory, and a scene of agony. In between those two is this one, which we hear today: “This is my Son; listen to him!” … “Tell no one what you’ve seen, until after I have risen from the dead.”

Here, Christ’s glory is tied to his suffering. Peter wants to build three shrines on the mountaintop. But the only shrine will be a cross atop a hill.

None of us really want to go through Lent to get to Easter. Right? That’s why we scarf down pancakes on Shrove Tuesday … but skip the Lenten fast. We want the delight, but not the deprivation. Can’t we omit the ashes and sackcloth? Can’t we be done with winter, and have spring … right now? Can’t we just sing the “Hallelujah Chorus” and ignore the “Sacred Head, Now Wounded”?

The disciples felt the same way. “Can’t we just overthrow the Romans—right now—and crown Jesus as our king?”

Those of you folks actually read your Bibles will surely know that, in the gospels, the disciples don’t always come off looking so good. That’s especially true with Mark’s gospel, which often portrays the disciples as being kind of slow on the uptake.

In Mark, anytime you read that the disciples are afraid, you can probably substitute the word “confused.” It’s almost like the Greek term for “terrified” is “duh.” Peter didn’t know what to say, writes Mark, “for they were terrified.”

Truth to tell, the Lenten journey can be terrifying. It begins with ashes (even if only figuratively) and leads to death upon a cross. That’s the plain truth.

But it’s not the whole truth. If my “DVD theory” holds water; if the Transfiguration is the “director’s commentary”—if this is a glimpse of “the real story”… take note of Jesus’ words of admonition. He comes down from the mountain and warns them not to say anything about what just happened—until after he is raised from the dead.

Someone has said of the Lenten season that it begins with ashes and finishes with dust—the dust of a body sealed in a grave. Except it doesn’t, really. Because Lent finishes—Lent is ended by—an empty tomb. After the nightmare of Good Friday and Black Sabbath comes the ecstatic vision of Easter morning. As Christians, we dare to dream that this is true—that Jesus has in fact been raised. Along with God, we dare to dream of a world where love wins—where peace lasts, and war doesn’t; where disease is overcome by healing; where no child ever goes hungry, or is exploited by an abuser.

We dare to dream that the private pain we carry with us will one day be subdued. We dare to imagine a different way of being in the world. We dare to believe that our loved ones who have died in Christ will also be raised in Christ.

The dream ends something like this:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

“See, the home of God is among mortals.

He will dwell with them as their God;

they will be his peoples,

and God himself will be with them;

he will wipe every tear from their eyes.

Death will be no more;

mourning and crying and pain will be no more,

for the first things have passed away.”

And the one who was seated on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Then he said to me, “It is done!  I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children. (Revelation 21:1-7*)

Now, tell me, who—other than God—could dream a dream like that? Imagine it. No more death. No more pain. A world transformed—transfigured—as Christ the King ascends his throne. This is our Christian hope. I pray that you know it is the truth … even if, for now, it seems like … only … a dream.

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* 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.

 

On October 31, 1517 (500 years ago, this past Reformation Day), Augustinian monk Martin Luther—outraged by Pope Leo X’s new round of indulgences to help build St. Peter’s Basilica—nailed a sheet of paper with his 95 Theses on the University of Wittenberg’s chapel door. That is, essentially, the story that has come down to us. What is certain is that—aided by the recent invention of the printing press—Luther’s 95 Theses (actually a document entitled “Disputation on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences”) were quickly disseminated throughout Europe.

Basically, indulgences were meant to be “good works” that could be performed in lieu of penance for sins—or even to shave some time off a stay in Purgatory. Often, these “good works” involved monetary payments. Inevitably, this practice soon devolved into a corrupt system whereby sins could be paid for (sometimes, apparently, in advance) via financial transaction.

At any rate, Pope Leo X offered indulgences for those who gave alms to support his building project in Rome. To Germany, he dispatched a salesman by the name of Johann Tetzel, whose aggressive marketing practices provoked Martin Luther to compose his 95 Theses—which were all about condemning what he saw as the sale and purchase of salvation. The first two of the theses contained Luther’s central idea: that faith alone would lead to salvation—not deeds, and certainly not bribery! The other 93 theses, a number of them directly criticizing the practice of indulgences, supported these first two. In Thesis 28 Luther objected to a saying attributed to Tetzel: “As soon as a coin in the coffer rings, a soul from purgatory springs” (or whatever that sounded like in 16th-century German).

Luther’s dissertation not only denounced such transactions as worldly but also denied the Pope’s right to grant pardons on God’s behalf in the first place: the only thing indulgences guaranteed, Luther said, was an increase in profit and greed, because the pardon of the Church was in God’s power alone.

Well, I’m sure you know how the rest of the story played out. Leo excommunicated the rebellious monk, huge numbers of German clergy and laity sided with Luther, and the Protestant Reformation was soon gathering steam.

Truth to tell, Martin Luther’s conscience had for some time already been troubled by abuses and rampant immorality in the Catholic Church of his day. As well, Luther’s intensive study of Scripture had raised in his mind serious doubts about the legitimacy of much of the church’s teaching. The peddling of indulgences was, more or less, the “final straw” for Luther.

Ironically—by offering absolution for a price—Pope Leo pulled the pin on the grenade that would quickly explode and shatter his own corrupt preeminence. Soon papal authority was being attacked from many sides, and the western church began to splinter, as men and women of integrity found their voices.

Leap ahead some five centuries to a book entitled With or Without God* and its author, the Rev. Gretta Vosper.

Vosper is an ordered minister in the United Church of Canada—the same denomination in which I serve. She is also, quite possibly, this country’s best-known atheist.

A graduate of Mount Allison University, Vosper received her Master of Divinity degree from Queen’s Theological College in 1990 and was ordained in 1992.

Vosper has been a minister with West Hill United Church in Toronto since 1997, and for much of that time has been quite open about her non-belief. As she says on her website: “In 2001, I made it clear that I did not believe in a supernatural, interventionist, divine being. At first, I identified as a non-theist as I do in my first book published in 2008. Then, in my second book, I felt the need to further distinguish myself from those who used the term non-theist but retained a belief in the supernatural aspects of god; there, I identified as a theological non-realist. In 2013, I embraced the term atheist which means, literally, no belief in a theistic, supernatural being.” [http://www.grettavosper.ca/about/]

No one can accuse Gretta Vosper of dishonesty. Or reticence. She has broadcast her viewpoint widely, even going so far as to challenge the faith of all the rest of her colleagues, implying that those of us who studied at United Church colleges must certainly concur with her assertion that the God of Israel is but a fiction.

While that isn’t completely true, I have to admit that—when that statement of hers was first reported—I wasn’t surprised by it. Then—to my great dismay and disappointment—I read a defence of her position by one of our denomination’s notable thinkers, who asked whether Vosper’s critics had “forgotten their theological education.”

Sigh. When “College Sunday” rolls around—and congregations are urged to throw money at our United Church schools—such comments ought to give us pause. Why should we support institutions that churn out atheist clergy?

But I digress. The reason I’ve mentioned Gretta Vosper and Leo X in the same post is because I think they have something important in common.

What do I mean?

Well, it seems to me that—just like Luther’s nemesis Leo—Gretta has provoked a response she probably did not foresee or intend.

In the few years since Gretta became too high-profile in Canadian society for the church to ignore any longer, I have noticed a profound change in the attitude of a great many of my colleagues in ministry. And I’m not just talking about those of us who have always self-identified as “evangelical.”

No. Even some of those whom I have regarded as the most extremely liberal are now taking pains to distance themselves from the Atheist of West Hill. Or at least, to openly identify themselves as believers.

That Christian clergy should espouse faith in God … might seem to many like a no-brainer. As if that might be the bare minimum requirement for a church leader. But, take my word for it, in the United Church of Canada, this is amazing news! And I suspect it might be amazing news in some other areas of the North American mainline churches, as well.

However, I can speak with confidence only of what I see happening within my own denomination. And I have to say, I think Gretta Vosper has done us an immense favour.

Gretta, bless her, has not only rocked our theological boat, she has come close to capsizing it! No one at any level of United Church leadership can pretend they haven’t heard her opinions. I mean, she once even wrote an open letter to then-Moderator Gary Paterson in which she called him to task for suggesting that there is a real God who will answer prayer. [http://www.grettavosper.ca/letter-gary-paterson-regarding-paris/]

Turns out, Gary Paterson makes no apology for believing in a God who is not only very real, but also alive and active in the lives of people. And he isn’t the only one. It’s as if Gretta Vosper—just by being her flamboyantly heathen self—has caused every one of her ordered fellows to ask: “What do I believe, anyway?”

It looks like a goodly number of them have discovered that they do believe … something. Now, God (and God-language) is back in vogue! Suddenly, “evangelical” is once again an acceptable descriptor within the United Church of Canada—and being one … doesn’t feel quite so lonely!

Probably, there’s more behind these changes than one loud infidel from Toronto. But I have to give credit where credit is due. Gretta Vosper has provided—at least, for many—the “final straw” that has brought forth a resurgent articulation of faith. I hope that trend continues … and I think there’s every reason to believe it will.

As for Vosper herself … Well, despite a finding in September 2016 by the church’s Toronto Conference Review Committee that her atheism makes her “not suitable to continue in ordained ministry,” her congregation has remained staunchly supportive, and—as far as I know—Gretta remains in place, her credentials as a minister still intact.

And you know … maybe that’s as it should be. Perhaps—to use a western-Canadian metaphor—we need her around to be “a burr under our saddle.” Or to put it another way: perhaps the 21st-century liberal church needs Gretta Vosper every bit as much as Martin Luther needed Pope Leo!

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* Vosper, Gretta. With Or Without God: Why the Way We Live is More Important Than What We Believe. Canada: HarperCollins. 2008. ISBN 1-55468-400-5.

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” —Matthew 6:19-21

I cannot claim authorship of what follows … and I don’t remember when or where I first heard this tale. And yes, it’s one of those stories where Saint Peter stands at heaven’s gate like a glorified Wal-Mart greeter … but …

Well, some stories are too good to not pass on. Here goes:

Once upon a time, there was a man who considered himself devoted to God and to his church. Not only was he a fine, upstanding citizen—and a leader in his city’s business community—but he was also a member of his church’s Council—in fact, he was chairperson twice. He was an usher and a Scripture reader and a faithful attender. He even had enough courage to teach Sunday School once. He was loved and respected by all who knew him, and the Lord had blessed him with material wealth.

At the end of a long lifetime, the man died. And he found himself standing at the pearly gates, face-to-face with Saint Peter, who greeted him warmly and said he’d been expecting him. Then Peter said, “Welcome to your new home in heaven. Follow me, and I’ll show you where you’ll be living.”

So the man followed Peter into the New Jerusalem, and onto a wide, brightly lit street paved with gold. The man was excited as he looked around at the unbelievably large and beautiful mansions which lined the street.

“Wow!” the man thought. “I’m going to love living here.”

But Peter led him beyond that street, and they came to a slightly less well-appointed—but still beautiful—thoroughfare. To be sure, it wasn’t quite as wide, and it was paved only with silver, not with gold. And the houses which lined this street were not as impressive as the first ones, but still were very nice.

“Well, I’ll be happy living here, too,” the man thought.

But Peter led the man past these houses, as well. And as they kept walking, they moved through progressively deteriorating neighbourhoods, with ever-uglier houses and narrower streets.

Finally, in a run-down district of heaven, Peter stopped at a narrow, dark, dirty old alleyway. There, he pointed to a battered cardboard box next to a smelly old dumpster, swarming with flies. And he said, “Here’s your new home. How do you like it?

Well, the man was dumbfounded, and more than a little angry. In fact, he was indignant.

“Saint Peter!” he exclaimed, “I don’t understand this. How come other people in heaven get to live in fabulous mansions, but all I get is this crummy cardboard box.”

“Well, sir,” Peter replied, “we did the best we could with the money you sent us.”

The offering will now be received.

TEXT:  Matthew 2:1-12

Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem, saying, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.”

(MATTHEW 2:1-2)

When you hear this part of the Christmas story, what do you think of? For many of us, what comes to mind is a Sunday School pageant: three kids in cardboard crowns proceeding down the centre aisle. Or perhaps you envision a manger scene, where royal-looking figurines take their places next to the shepherds and the angels and the baby Jesus and his parents.

Is that what you think of? Do you ever wonder about the real “wise men”—the “Magi” of history and poetry?

In actual fact, while the shepherds and angels were certainly there on the day of Jesus’ birth, 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 departed from Bethlehem.

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 locals in Bethlehem, they must have looked the part). 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 have said that it was an angel, or the Holy Spirit, or even Christ himself in celestial form. More recent theories include a comet or a supernova. Or even a flying saucer.

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 lists 12, others imagine many more. 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 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).

Two years. That’s some road trip!

But—however many they were, 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 bandits and thieves. 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 travelers. Why would they undertake such a hazardous expedition?

It might have been scientific curiosity. Like I said, the Magi were among the most learned people of their 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 poor 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 beyond what they had known?

As I ponder those questions, I find myself thinking about … well … 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 the status quo.

What sign in the sky—what communication from God—would compel me to go to such lengths to discover its meaning?

And then it strikes me that those travelers 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 …

All they could do was follow it.

So—having observed the night sky, and having been drawn by one particular star—when they came to the place to which it 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. Yet, in that baby—or, in that toddler, as he may very well have been by the time they saw him—they met the Holy One, face-to-face.

All they were doing was what they believed they were called 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 hardly in the job description of a first-century astronomer. No. They would have been 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.

This can be so for all of us, I believe. When we follow a star—especially one which leads us out of our most comfortable zones—we, also, may encounter the Divine in an unlikely place. 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 find epiphany, as well.

May it be so for us, in this new year.

And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. (Luke 2:7)

Christmas Day is now upon us, and our thoughts turn once again to that far-away, long-ago barn, and the newborn baby laid in a feed trough.

We know the story so very well. Even if, in a flight of fancy, we place three wise men and a little drummer boy in the stable along with the shepherds and the parents and the Christ Child …

Well, we know the essence of the story, don’t we? We know what it’s really about. It’s called “Incarnation,” and it is a story about God taking on human flesh to become the Saviour of the world. “Very God of very God,” to quote the Nicene Creed.

Or to put it another way, Christ was fully and completely God—“co-eternal and co-equal” with the Father and the Holy Spirit, as Athanasius purportedly said. Emmanuel—“God with us.”

But of course, there’s more—as every instructed Christian should know. Christ was fully and completely human, as well.*

Fully and completely God … and fully and completely human. In the person of Jesus of Nazareth, divinity and humanity are reconciled. Reconciled like balance sheets. Our debits, God’s credits … balanced out, reconciled, made equal.

Comforting words—at Christmastime, or any time. Comforting, that is, unless and until you try to understand them. For how can the infinite be reconciled with the finite? How can immortality become mortal? How can human weakness subsume divine Power?

As a bright teenager pointed out to me years ago, frailty and limitation are authentic substances of our human condition. When you say, “I’m only human,” you’re attempting to excuse an error. Or plead ignorance in the face of some unanticipated consequence.

Humanity is defined by its limits. There are things which we do not know, cannot foresee, and struggle to comprehend. There is much over which we are powerless. Like … say … when you’re in a boat out on the lake, and a storm takes you by surprise …

Who can command the wind and the waves?

So we repeat this stuff—about Christ being completely divine and also, somehow, completely human—and perhaps we secretly hope that nobody will ask us to explain what that means.

Truth to tell, through the centuries, Christians—including some heavyweight theologians—have ruminated on this issue … But they’ve never come up with a satisfying explanation.

Humanity and divinity seem like opposites. How could a helpless newborn contain the undiminished glory of Abraham’s God? And yet that is precisely the assertion of Scripture:

Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:5-11, ESV)

Taking the form of a servant. Being born in the likeness of humanity, Christ emptied himself. He humbled himself.

God cannot die … and yet Jesus died. For that matter, God has no beginning … and yet, every year—on an arbitrarily-assigned date in December or January—we Christians mark Jesus’ birthday.

Like that same bright teenager said to me, “I guess it’s another one of those paradoxes.”

Indeed. Paradoxes. The testimony of faith abounds with these. A virgin conceives and bears a son. Her elderly aunt, a woman long past her childbearing years, also becomes pregnant—and presents her aged husband with his firstborn.

Paradoxes. And ironies. A synagogue official watches as his dead 12-year-old daughter is raised back to life by an itinerant rabbi who has been denounced by the religious elite. The one who comes in the name of the Lord is rejected and shunned by most of the Lord’s people. Though convinced of Jesus’ innocence, a provincial governor sentences him to death. The preacher of peace and non-violence is beaten and broken and nailed to a cross. A lifeless body sealed up in a tomb somehow breaks out, and appears—repeatedly—to Jesus’ bewildered friends.

None of these things should happen—and yet, they do. Some of them are impossible—and yet, they come to pass.

Christmas. It’s a season of paradox—and of great celebration. We confess the paradox even as we affirm our faith. Why? Because, deep in our hearts, we know that miracles do happen. An infant who shouldn’t have survived grows up to become a father himself. The victim of unforgiveable cruelty finds a way to forgive the perpetrators. A once-hopeless addict finds lasting sobriety. We know miracles happen because we encounter them daily.

Love wins—even when it should not, even when we can’t explain why, even when it’s paradoxical—because we who have no righteousness have been made righteous in Christ.

Embrace the mystery. Jesus wants your heart for his cradle, my friend. You’d best make room for him. Each day, the Christ Child is growing in you. On this day, may he be born in you, also.

 

 

 

 

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* “Jesus Christ is true God and true man,” according to The Catechism of the Catholic Church, article 3, paragraph 1, section 3 [464].

 

 

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

As you might guess from that quote, biblical writers tend to conflate “wilderness” with “desert.” Generally, when the Bible speaks of wilderness, it means a desert place—a solitary place, a lonely and desolate and often dangerous place.

The Book of Exodus recounts how Moses led God’s people from a land of slavery to a land of hope and promise.

However, that journey took them 40 years. In order to get from Egypt to the Promised Land, they spent all that time trekking through the wilderness. As the joke goes, Moses needed a road map!

Four decades. More than a generation. Those who were infants at the start would themselves have become grandparents by the time they reached Canaan. And all they would have ever known … was the desert.

These 40 years brought them through some difficult times—with God and with one another and with Moses.

The wilderness was a place of struggle—often life-or-death struggle. It was a theatre of transit—the in-between place through which they had to pass. To reach their final destination, they could not avoid the desert.

In the gospels, we read about Jesus spending time in the wilderness before he begins his ministry. Matthew and Luke tell that story in more detail, but Mark’s Gospel is succinct. Halfway through the first chapter, Mark tells us that the Spirit “drove [Jesus] out into the wilderness. And he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan” (Mark 1:12-13a).

There, in the desert, he was tempted to reject God’s plan for his life and instead choose an easier path to instant success. Of course he resisted, and—some would argue—by so doing, sealed his own fate.

In the scriptures, the wilderness is a risky place to be—a frightening place to be. In the wilderness, you are alone and exposed and vulnerable. We may not live in a desert climate, but during the season of Advent, we do find ourselves on a journey. And it can feel very much like a trek through the desert.

Christmas is but two weeks away. In church and in our culture, this is a season of preparation. We are moving towards a day of joy and great celebration.

At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

But sometimes, on the way, we get sidetracked. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle—in the midst of shopping for presents, preparing our homes, finalizing travel plans, and planning for activities at home and school and work and church …

In the midst of all that, we can easily lose our sense of direction.

And then it feels like we’re just wandering, doesn’t it? Like we’re lost in the wilderness, praying that Christmas will soon … be over.

The holidays are meant to be a happy time; but many people experience them as a season of distress—a time of loneliness, frustration, and hard work.

Plus … for many of us in what are still called “mainline” churches, there’s a whole other layer of anxiety weighing down upon us—and it’s beginning to feel like a layer of earth packed down over a casket. Declining attendance. Dwindling finances. Sagging enthusiasm. Lost relevance. For many of us in the long-established denominations, our reality looks like this: we are running out of money, and running out of energy … and running out of time. Tough decisions and difficult conversations lie just ahead of us. And in fact, some of the difficult conversations have already begun, as hard questions about the future demand brisk responses. Responses which, alas, do not lie close at hand. We know we need to plot a course forward. But sometimes it seems like our compass is broken.

Prophet and Evangelist: Isaiah 40:1-11 and Mark 1:1-8

It is just when God’s people have lost their way that prophets are called to speak. In the lectionary readings for Second of Advent—the Sunday just past—we find two passages of Scripture, each with words meant for those who are struggling through a wilderness, and wondering what to do. In the words of Isaiah—and in the preaching of John the Baptist—we hear tidings of hope for desperate times.

The prophet Isaiah ministered during a time in Israel’s history when the Jews had been forcibly removed from their own land and exiled to Babylon. It was for them a time of deep pain and uncertainty.

Having been torn from their homes and transported to a foreign country ruled by hostile forces, the Hebrew people cried out for deliverance. They longed for the day when they could return home and end this time of displacement, of waiting, of wilderness.

Where was God? Did he care about their plight? It must have seemed to them as if the Lord had forgotten them—that they would never again see the holy land and the holy city. But God had not forgotten his people, nor had he ceased to care about them. And so the Lord spoke to the prophet Isaiah and told him, “Cry out!”

“What shall I cry?”  What, indeed?

Isaiah wants to know what he could possibly say that would make a difference to this defeated and demoralized people. Swiftly comes the response:

“Comfort, comfort my people … Speak tenderly to Jerusalem … In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God … the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together … Behold, the Lord God comes with might, and his arm rules for him … He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.”

In the gospel lesson, Mark starts things off with a bang. Unlike Matthew and Luke—who report in some depth the account of Jesus’ birth—Mark gets right down to business. John the baptizer appears in the wilderness, in the way of Isaiah, proclaiming baptism, repentance, and forgiveness—and announcing that the Messiah is coming, that the Kingdom of God is about to arrive.

As in Isaiah’s time, once again the people of Israel found themselves in a kind of wilderness. Israel was an occupied country, under the heel of Rome. Although the Jewish people remained in their homeland, they were not free. Their lives were monitored and controlled by the occupying forces. It was a desolate time and place.

You often hear it said that, in times of crisis, people turn back to religion. And that may be partly true. At any rate, many were coming to John, repenting of their sins and being baptized in preparation for the one whom John said was coming—the one who would bring God’s Kingdom with him. The one who would save the nation. The one who would make all things right.

“Wait just a little bit longer,” John said.

Isaiah and John. Seven centuries apart, these two voices cry out to people who are lost in their wildernesses.

What did their words mean?

What did their proclamations mean for those who so desperately needed to hear them?

What do they mean for us?

Consider the Israelites when, led by Moses, they wandered in the desert. Forty years is a long time to live in transition, to ramble aimlessly, with no fixed address. And it certainly does not appear that the Israelites tried to make the best of it. In fact—if you remember the story of the exodus—they spent a lot of time looking backward, recalling that, even in their slavery, they at least had some measure of security in Egypt:

And the whole congregation of the people of Israel grumbled against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness, and the people of Israel said to them, “Would that we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the meat pots and ate bread to the full, for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger” (Exodus 16:2-3).

Remember that? Then they grew thirsty—and probably also sunburnt—and they recalled the lovely blue Nile, with its cool and endlessly refreshing flow. They were kind of like …

Kind of like church people remembering the good old days when services were packed full of worshippers, and there was money to burn! Trouble is, that kind of reminiscing keeps you stuck in the past and unable to imagine a better future. And it always makes the present time look as barren and parched and hopeless as the Sinai desert. It makes here and now feel less like transition … and more like … perdition.

Transition is a sketchy neighbourhood. In transition, I think, you always feel sort of like a squatter—even on your home turf—because you are never quite sure when you will have to pack up and move on.

Forty years is a long time to live in transition—but it is also a great amount of time to live. You can do a lot of living in 40 years. But the Israelites seem only to have done a lot of complaining, and wishing that they were already in the Promised Land.

The Advent season is like that, too. Only in part is Advent about reaching the destination of Christmas. Advent is also about the journey itself—the journey of preparation. Sometimes we forget that the process is as important as the product—that what happens on our way there is as important as what happens when we get there.

We can spend all of Advent wishing that it was already Christmas—or wishing, even, that Christmas was already past. Or … we can make the most out of every day of this Advent season—this precious time of getting ready, of preparing, and anticipating … and living.

The prophets tell us that we do not have to arrive at our destination in order to find meaning, or find peace, or find God.

Where God is, there also is peace, and meaning, and hope and love and joy.

God is in the wilderness.

God is on the journey.

God is in the wandering.

God is with us in the desert.

Isaiah cries out: “Here—here is your God!” That is the comfort, that is the hope, that is the peace God offers us, in the midst of our season of transit. We do not have to wait until Christmas to experience Emmanuel—the “God-with-us” who will arrive in the Christ Child. We do not have to wait until we exchange presents. We do not have to wait until the candlelight Communion on Christmas Eve. Or until somebody wins big on the lottery and puts half of it in the offering plate!

No. God is with us now!

To be sure, we are waiting—waiting for the baby, waiting for the Christ, waiting for deliverance; but while we are waiting, God says to us, “Here I am!”

In the wilderness, let us respond: Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

Isaiah 64:1-9 and Mark 13:24-37

“Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down, that the mountains might quake at your presence—as when fire kindles brushwood and … causes water to boil—to make your name known …” (Isaiah 64:1-2a)

“Be on guard, keep awake. For you do not know when the time will come … And what I say to you I say to all: Stay awake.” (Mark 13:33, 37)

Yeah … Christmas is coming! But for the most part, our Advent readings—as served up by the Revised Common Lectionary—will shake all the ornaments off your tree. And maybe some pine needles, too.

The Old Testament and Gospel Lessons for the First of Advent (Year B) are good examples of that. Isaiah flashes lightning, and Jesus echoes with thunder in Mark.

“… in those days, after that tribulation, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. And then they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory.” (Mark 13:24-26)

Together, these two readings catapult us forward in time; how far forward, we can only guess. As the season begins, we stand precariously at the furthest edge of history.

Each reading is startling—even jarring. Together, they bring us face-to-face with the unsettling contradiction of Advent. Throughout this season, we wait for Jesus’ arrival—both as a baby in Bethlehem and in a fiery cloud descending from the sky. It’s as if the hope of new birth and the terror of judgment share the same crib, fighting over the blankets.

The terror of judgment. Let’s call it what it really is: fear of the future. I think it has a natural association with birth—or with the anticipation of it.

If you’ve experienced a pregnancy—either as a mother or as a father—you probably know what it feels like to wonder about what kind of world this little person is going to be born into—about what kind of life he or she is going to have.

Will he have the opportunity to meet his own grandchildren? Or will he be cut down by illness or accident, way too early?

Will she have a chance to use her gifts—to pursue a fulfilling career? Or will she find herself imprisoned by other people’s expectations and agendas?

Will he continue down our path toward destruction, fighting over water and oil and religion? Or will he be part of a solution to the world’s problems?

Will she have hope for the future? Or will she despair for a world consumed by its own greed and self-interest?

Will they have a retirement plan that doesn’t involve a bottle of whiskey and a handgun?

Like I said, the judgment that surrounds a child’s birth is all about fear of the future. This judgment does not condemn, exactly … but it does ask pointed—and sometimes frightening—questions.

Even so—even in the face of troubling questions and worrisome forecasts—most of us are, somehow, able to remain hopeful (at least somewhat).

We may worry about our children, but we hope for the best for them, don’t we? Isn’t that what birth is about—having hope for the future? Isn’t that what we’re waiting for, really?

At its core, Advent is a season of hope.

By the way, the Advent One gospel lesson is merely the second half of a much longer discourse by Jesus, where he talks about how the world is going to see terrible suffering. You can read it for yourself, if you like, beginning at verse one of chapter 13. But  here’s a synopsis …

While Jesus and his disciples are walking out of the Jerusalem temple, one of them says to him, “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” And Jesus responds by saying that someday it will all be thrown down, with not one stone left upon another.

The disciples, naturally enough, ask when this will happen, and that’s when Jesus launches into his lengthy monologue about the end times. And it sounds pretty awful.

He laments for those who are pregnant because he sees terrible suffering awaiting both mother and child. He sees abject powerlessness for fathers who can neither support their families nor protect them. He sees cities crumbling and people dying. He sees false prophets offering false hope—a delusional escape out of the destruction. He sees the end of the world. And he asks his followers to “be on guard.” Sleep with one eye open.

“In those days … they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory. And then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.” (Mark 13:24a, 27)

This is what Biblical scholars—and students of literature—refer to as “apocalyptic imagery.” The Hebrew Bible contains a great deal of it. It is language that would have been instantly understood by Jesus’ disciples—or, for that matter, by any Jew within earshot.

For example, that phrase about “the Son of Man coming in clouds” … That’s taken directly from the Book of Daniel, where it says:

“I saw in the night visions, and behold, with the clouds of heaven there came one like a son of man, and he came to the Ancient of Days and was presented before him. And to him was given dominion and glory and a kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him; his dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom one that shall not be destroyed.” (Daniel 7:13-14)

This language of visions in the night is a kind of shorthand—or a coded message—signalling the world’s imminent transformation. To us, it sounds bizarre—but not to a first-century Jew.

What may not be so obvious, however—and it wasn’t obvious to Jesus’ contemporaries, either—is that all this apocalyptic language really is not about an angry God bringing judgment upon a sinful world. That isn’t the point. No. The point is that Jesus is coming. Jesus is coming here. And if we rejoice in his first Advent, we certainly should not dread his second Advent.

Look—he hardly needs to bring hellfire with him! There’s already plenty of that here. Wars. Rumors of wars. Earthquakes. Famines. Doomsday weapons. Jihads.

Nothing is said here about condemnation. Jesus comes to bring transformation—healing, justice, peace on earth. And the Son of Man—“one like a human being”—stays here, transforming everything.

Change is coming … soon! The question is: what’s your role? What are you being called to do?

Well, here’s Jesus’ message: You are to keep awake, because a new world is about to arrive. It’s coming here, it’s coming soon, and you’ve got to be ready to be part of it at the first sign. At the first inkling, you need to fling the door wide open and get everything prepared for the big changes that are on the way.

Why? Because you are going to be part of the transformation that’s just around the corner. You are part of God’s plan for the world!

When we hear apocalyptic language—when we think about the “end times”—we may assume it’s all about Jesus rescuing us from a broken planet and lifting us up to safety in the heavenly realm. This is the idea which spawned that “Left Behind” series of books and movies that were popular not that long ago. But if we listen carefully to Mark’s gospel, we hear Jesus saying something else.

Jesus says he is coming down, not that we will be lifted up. Jesus is not saying that he’s going to pull us out of this world. No. He has promised that we will be with him:

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also” (John 14:3).

And where will he be?

Right here. He has left us here—and he’s going to keep us here—to be his agents for change in this world. Jesus doesn’t say that he hates this mortal realm. Far from it. He says that he loves this world so much that he is going to fix it.

Will he bring divine justice? Yes. But remember this: in Christ, justice and mercy are reconciled. God’s wrath was satisfied long ago. We don’t need to be fearful. But we do need to keep watch for Jesus. Our job is to keep alert to what God is doing all around us. And when we do see God—with his sleeves rolled up, working hard—we are expected to join in, and support the cause.

Today, God is recruiting us to work alongside our sisters and brothers in Christ—to become part of his treatment plan for this world’s critical illness.

Jesus asks us to live God’s future today. So keep alert. Stay awake. Watch. Be part of the change that’s coming to this world. But always remember that it is God’s mercy that transforms—and it is God’s justice that brings renewal.

Throughout this season of Advent, let’s all keep our eyes fixed on the horizon … and our hands busy with acts of compassionate service … as now we watch and wait.