Tag: advent

A sermon given on the second Sunday of Advent – Readings here

The story of Isaiah takes place over 2,500 years ago. But, because Isaiah’s ministry takes place within a complicated and violent political drama, it still resonates with us today.

Rabbi Abraham Heschel says that:

“the years in which Isaiah began his prophetic activity were the beginning of a most critical period for both Israel and Judah.”i

The threat of military invasions from multiple nations loomed at every border. Vigilante groups took up arms, overstepping the political hierarchy, and stirring up resentment and rage in the population. The Northern Kingdom of Israel had already been suppressed. And now, parts of Judah had been taken over by Edomites and Philistines, who had taken advantage of the chaos to bolster their own political influence.

And then things got even worse. Jerusalem was under siege.

As King Ahaz tried to figure out a way to save his people, and his land, from increasing devastation, Isaiah asked for a meeting.

In chapter 7, Isaiah gives the king a prophetic message:

“Take heed, be quiet, do not fear, and do not let your heart be faint, because of these two smoldering stumps of firebrands…It will not come to pass…If you do not stand firm in your faith, you will not stand at all.”ii

Isaiah tells King Ahaz that the invading armies will leave, and the influence of these antagonistic nations will decrease in time, but Ahaz has to be patient, and wait. He has to believe that God won’t abandon his people.

It’s simply not enough for Ahaz.

He allies with the powerful Assyrians, asking them to send troops and supplies to Judah to help them win the war. He chooses military might over God.

Heschel responds:

“No other ruler would have acted differently. The state was in peril, so he appealed to a great power for military aid. Isaiah offered words; Assyria had an army…

The future of the country was in peril. The king would have had to justify to his people a refusal to ask for help.

So Ahaz decided that it was more expedient to be “son and servant” to the king of Assyria than son and servant to the invisible God. He took refuge in a lie.”iii

The lie was that military power, and not God, could save his people.

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The consequences were devastating.

While Ahaz did achieve temporary peace in Judah, it was at a cost to his own personal faith and, eventually, to the survival of his kingdom. Caught up in the thrill of his political alliance with Assyria, he continuously failed to listen to Isaiah’s warnings of destruction.

By the time Ahaz’ son, Hezekiah, took the throne, Assyria was demanding more and more tribute in exchange for their protection. And in the following years, Hezekiah broke ties with Assyria. He allied with Egypt and Babylon, in an attempt to reduce Assyria’s influence.

This was the fatal flaw.

In the coming years, the Kingdom of Judah lost every last bit of its freedom. God’s people were in exile.

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This history matters, because it is the context from which today’s Isaiah reading comes to us.

In fact, most of Christianity’s messianic prophecies take place, not in a context of peace, but of utter destruction.

Burned out buildings, streets filled with rubble, air filled with the cries of dying children, and weeping parents. Hostages taken; futures taken. Rage and despair everywhere you turn.

This image of war hits close to home. We can see with the eyes of Isaiah, because we have been inundated with these scenes for two months in Israel and Palestine, nine months in Sudan, and two years in Ukraine.

In fact, the violence is happening all over, every day, and has always been happening, since the beginning of human history.

We continue to live in a world where rulers, civilians, and people of faith are being asked to make impossible decisions, sometimes for our own survival.

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But, even while recognizing that there is a real threat, Isaiah asks us: will we choose God or political power?

When we justify the death of civilians, we are not choosing God. When we choose to ignore the suffering of God’s beloved children, we are not choosing God. When we convince ourselves that might makes right, we are not choosing God.

In times of war, we are justified in being afraid.

But Isaiah insists that being afraid can’t justify “taking matters into our own hands.” Because that kind of fear denies the power of God.

Our streets are full of the blood, and the cries of people who bear the image of God. And we are, all of us, complicit. Because we have forsaken our own prophesies. We have forgotten that only God can bring lasting peace, in a kingdom where Christ’s eternal light erases every shadow.

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Advent is a time of reckoning with the reality that we are caught between the Kingdoms of this world and the Kingdom of God.

The prophets call us back to this reckoning, even as they sing songs of future peace.

In the beautiful passage we read today, Isaiah reminds us that God yearns to make all things beautiful. He tells us there’s a voice that calls us to clean up the rubble, and make the path straight, so that we can walk, as refugees, to the paradise God has for us.

This voice is personified, in the Gospels, by John the Baptist. He declares that God is speaking “peace to his people,” but we can’t hear it over the bombs. He dares to call people to get ready, repent, and turn away from the kingdoms of this world, so we will notice when Jesus shows up.

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Jesus is on his way, and when he gets here, the distance between Heaven and earth comes crashing down into a single plane. When God shows up, everything is different. Everything is made new. Thank God, the prophets are getting us ready!

And thank God for Advent, the season that’s meant to shake us up.

This season reminds us: there is no peace if we keep choosing violence. There is no garden if we keep choosing grenades.

It’s time to say no to the kingdoms of this world, and choose the Kingdom of God instead.

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Our prophetic texts tell us that God is ready for us to return.

Jesus Christ, the incarnate God, will scoop us up in his arms and give us a hug. He will stroke our hair and tell us he understands – deep in his bones – what it feels like to fear, what it feels like to be displaced, what it feels like to yearn for peace.

But our prophetic texts also ask us a very important question. And now is the time to answer it:

Are we ready to repent?

Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

Readings may be found here

Through the written word and the spoken word, may we know your living Word, Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.

I’m about to hit the six-month mark of my ministry here at Grace. These first months have been full of unexpected experiences.

• I’ve danced to Cuban music in the parish hall. 
• I’ve tried, and failed, to capture stray cats. 
• I’ve repeatedly asked God to bless noses, ears, and tummies with the day school kids. 
• And I’ve participated in a Brubeck Jazz Mass, of all things.

But if someone were to ask me which experience has shaped me the most so far, I could easily sum it up in one word: funerals.

Since July 1st, I have participated in seven funerals. And that’s not even counting the many I have missed.

This number says a lot about the scale of the grief that our community is holding right now. We have lost so many people this year.

And that loss is tangible: Each beloved person who has died leaves an empty seat. Things feel different without their singing and their laughter ringing through the building. 

I imagine that many of us are living in the tension between wanting to “get back to normal” and knowing that we can never really go back to how things were before. Because grief changes us.

—

And I am far more sensitive to this now, because I have become a student of funerals.

Here are some things I have observed about funerals…

First, funerals create a space for authenticity. Unlike most other public events, at a funeral, no one expects you to act like you’re doing fine. There’s no point pretending.

Second, the liturgy does a lot of the legwork so that we can simply be. It anticipates that each of us responds to loss in highly personal ways. But it also creates sacred space for us to be together in our grief. The funeral service carries us through the tides of sadness, memory, and joy – we are allowed to feel it all, together.

And the biggest lesson of all, funerals are a reminder that simply being there makes a difference. 

In fact, in my particular role, I’m learning that the only way to do a funeral is to be with the people at a funeral.

By being with, I mean to focus on what it means, not just to be present, but to have presence: Pay attention. Ask people what they need. Listen to stories. Speak with reverence. Protect sacred spaces. Acknowledge the value of feeling it all.

Above all, open your heart as wide as possible.

As I reflected on today’s scriptures, I realized that my time at funerals has helped me to feel, in my gut, that it really does make a difference that Jesus is called “Immanuel,” God with us.

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Isaiah prophecies that a child will be born to save the people of Judah. He will be called Immanuel. The prophecy claims that this holy child will witness the defeat of the violent and exploitative rulers of the day.

Of course, as we know from our Matthew passage, this prophecy is directly linked to the Christian belief that Jesus is the Messiah, the savior of the world. When a messenger of God appears to Joseph, Matthew’s narrator argues that Jesus’ birth was the fulfillment of the prophet’s words:

“Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,

and they shall name him Emmanuel…”

—

Now, I should mention that Jewish interpretations of the Isaiah prophecy vary significantly from Christian ones, as might be expected. 

Biblical scholars suggest that Isaiah was speaking of events that would happen within the lifetime of his listeners. This was an uncertain period when ancient Judah was threatened by Syria and the Northern Kingdom of Israel.

So, we see that the Gospel writers use Hebrew prophecy in unexpected, and even contested ways. I mention this only because I don’t want to suggest that everything in the Christmas story is straightforward. 

But if we believe, as I do, that the Gospel writers were speaking to the real experience of early Christian witnesses, then it’s important for us to figure out why these prophecies and stories about Jesus were so important that they needed to be written down.

Jesus’ story is linked to ancient prophecy because there is something happening here that speaks powerfully of who God is…

“Immanuel.” 

For early Christ followers and for us today, everything hinges on the promise that we worship a God whose central quality is “being with us.”

I mean, this is what Christmas is about: the incarnation! God came to earth in human form because it mattered for God to show up. It mattered for the Creator of the universe to be in solidarity with our full humanity: with our laughter and our weeping, our joy and our pain. 

And it matters that he can feel that bodily ache of loss and grief, in just the same way we do. Because God became flesh in the person of Jesus, he identifies with the full spectrum of our experiences, and remains with us when everything feels too hard to bear.

And when you think about it, so much of Jesus’ doing on earth was mostly being with people. On hillsides, in boats, and at dinner tables – even on the cross – he pays attention, asks people what they need, listens to even the smallest voices, protects the vulnerable, and models unconditional love.

To the disappointment of many, he didn’t show up in the way anyone expected – people thought he was going to start a bloody revolution that would signal the end of the world. 

But Jesus’ revolution – this being with revolution – was even more significant than a war. Jesus was killed for claiming that the love of an incarnate God could change everything. In his life, death, and resurrection, he opened his heart so wide that the world, with all of its grief and suffering, could be cradled inside!

Christ, Immanuel, flings out his arms and tells us that all human experience is and will be permeated by the presence and love of God. All things will be redeemed. All suffering will have its ultimate end in the comforting arms of God.

As followers of Jesus, Immanuel, our own work is straightforward:

It is being with: opening our hearts to others, and making room for Jesus to enter into the damaged and grieving caverns of our spirit. 

It is being like Joseph, who decided to stay in the uncertainty and vulnerability of being with Mary and his divine stepson, Jesus, trusting that his presence mattered.

—

But, alas! I’m getting ahead of myself. After all, it’s still Advent, and we’re still waiting. 

So I’ll share one last image. 

A few years ago, while on a retreat, I prayed with an icon of a very pregnant Mary. Her rounded stomach contained a surprising scene. Instead of a child, she carried the Milky Way galaxy in her womb. 

This abstract representation of the Christ-child reminded me that Christ has always been here, since the beginning of things. The baby we are waiting for already holds the whole world.

My hope for us today is that, in being with one another, holding Christ in our own hearts and bodies, we can make Immanuel fully known. Amen.

Sermon for the First Sunday of Advent

Lectionary Readings here

O house of Jacob, 
come, let us walk 
in the light of the Lord! 

I must admit that I struggled to write this sermon. 

I kept trying to interpret today’s prophetic and apocalyptic lectionary readings through the lens of the increasingly violent news of the last two weeks. 

But my mind kept spinning in circles… 

I couldn’t manage to make sense of any of it. The days counted down and I still couldn’t find the right words. 

• As I read Isaiah’s prophecy of paradise, I kept thinking about the multiple mass shootings that we have endured over the last couple of weeks. And the bigotry and legacy of violence that make killing our neighbors seem like an option at all.  
• As I read the Psalm, I found myself sighing with the knowledge that, in every generation, we have needed to pray for the peace of Jerusalem. 
• As I read Romans’ morality checklist, I found myself frustrated at Paul for wasting his words on little behavioral issues in the midst of so much worldly chaos. 
• And as I read Jesus’ apocalyptic warning, I wondered, as I often do these days, if maybe we have endured as much as we can.  

Maybe Christ really is coming soon. 

— 

Of course, we know that Christ is coming soon.  

In Advent, that’s what we’re waiting for. Only four more weeks to go!  

Though, I bet when most of us think about Jesus coming this time of year, we are likely picturing a baby in a manger and not a grown man descending from the clouds as our friends and coworkers are mysteriously “taken.” 

But, Advent has always been trippier and time-warpier than the quaint nativity would lead us to believe. 

When Christians use the word Advent, we are simultaneously referring to the arrival of the baby Jesus and the second coming of Christ.  

In other words, his coming and his coming again. 

The mental work of holding the past, present, and future together in our minds reminds us that our faith is disruptive. It takes us out of finite and linear time. 

Just as we think the story has ended, it starts all over again. 

In this season, we are dropped back into a story we are already participating in. 

It is a story that we live as people of faith whenever we declare hope in the face of death and love in the face of hate. 

— 

So, it’s kind of a side effect of Advent that everything feels a bit wobbly. It’s no wonder I struggled to find the words! 

But, as I kept thinking about it, I began to see today’s readings as origin stories… 

Creation and destruction, beginnings and endings. These prophecies, songs, exhortations, and apocalypses ALL tell us something about the ancient people who followed God into the wilderness of their lives. 

They reveal their terror. And their ultimate hope that God would intervene in their displacement and their grief.  

And they reveal a God who promises to intervene, and then actually shows up. 

These stories tell us about the ancestors of our faith, in hopes that we can glean something from their witness and their wisdom. 

In other words, when we tell these stories and listen to them, we are attempting to learn something about who we are and who God is. 

As we hear them, we take on the responsibility of interpreting them and letting them change us. Because our origin stories are not just old wives’ tales or ancient myths. They are calls to action.  

But, I didn’t fully understand all of that until I visited the First Americans Museum in Oklahoma City a couple of weeks ago. 

— 

The museum, which was curated by 39 of the indigenous tribes now living in Oklahoma, is essentially about origin stories.  

Let me walk you through the exhibit… 

At the beginning of the exhibit, you are greeted by a video that tells the creation stories of three of the tribes who were displaced to Oklahoma in the 1800s.  

The clear voice of a young woman pierces the darkened room. She says:  

“Our stories give meaning to our lives. They teach us how to live and how to act responsibly. They are always with us.” 

These indigenous creation stories are harmonious and hopeful. They talk about a divine creator who cares for humankind and gives them everything they need. 

They find food in the fruitful forests of North America, and companionship in the animals around them.  

The Creator is fundamentally good, and all is well in this earthly paradise.  

— 

But, too quickly, you walk a little further in, and the story changes. 

As you turn the corner in the exhibit, a new video begins playing. This time, the mournful voice of an elderly woman sings in the background. 

This is the story of the Trail of Tears… 

Between 1830 and 1850, as many as 200,000 Native Americans were forcibly removed from their homelands by the U.S. government.  

Since the start of European colonization, 55 million Native Americans had already been killed by disease and violence. At least 3,000 more died while taking the arduous journey from the east coast to the expanding American West. 

After they arrived, they continued to face encroachment and violence from white settlers.  

Firsthand accounts describe grandmothers and children being slaughtered in front of their family members. One indigenous educator, still alive today, recalled that her great-grandmother always slept with moccasins on her feet, in case she needed to run. 

This destruction story shapes contemporary indigenous life just as much as their creation stories do. 

— 

And then you walk a little further in… 

In the third section of the exhibit, activists, educators, and elders share stories of indigenous autonomy, pride, and activism. Like the ancient prophets, this generation of indigenous people “have a fire shut up in their bones…and cannot hold back.”  

They are responsible for their stories. Because they know that who they are today is dependent on telling and retelling their stories with as much clarity and truth as possible, in order to understand who they are and who their Creator is. 

Their creation stories remind them that the Creator is fundamentally good, and that the earth is rightfully a place of peace, abundance, and joy. Displacement and destruction cannot take away that promise. When everything is ending, their stories show them how to begin again. 

They tell their stories, because, in doing so, they shine a light on the past that makes a bright future more possible. 

— 

The First Americans Museum gives Christians a good reason to be ashamed of our origin stories.  

After all, the colonists interpreted the Bible’s stories as an excuse for domination. To them, America is what God owed them as God’s chosen people. They failed to remember that whole part about “beating their swords into plowshares.”  

And there is no doubt that the recent massacre in Colorado was influenced by violently homophobic interpretations of Bible passages. 

For good reason, I think we often get hung up on the way our origin stories have been dangerously misinterpreted. It can be easier to keep them at arm’s length.  

But we can’t move forward as people of faith without knowing who we are and who God is. 

— 

When I think about Biblical origin stories through the First Americans Museum’s lens of responsibility, they show me a path forward: 

• In Isaiah, I hear that God’s aim for all creation is peace, abundance, and joy. 
• In the Psalm, I hear that our call as people of faith is to praise, pray, build unity, and do good. 
• In Romans, I hear that our commitments to Christ create new rhythms for our lives that draw us into the fellowship of God’s church. 
• And in Matthew, I hear that Christ has not deserted us. Though we can’t predict the future or mark our calendars for Christ’s return, we can know that Christ is with us in an eternity that goes in both directions, from past to future. We are never alone. 

— 

We have a responsibility to listen to our stories with faithfulness and humility, and to be honest about the past so that we can travel the path to Christ’s future. 

Advent’s time loop reminds us that we are always in a process of interpreting who we are in light of where we came from.  

And just when we think the story is over, a little light gets into the darkness of our apocalypse, and we can begin again. 

And yes, our stories are often strange and inconceivable. Because in a world burdened with violence and sorrow, it is inconceivable that God could ever show up.  

And yet, our stories remind us that God, in Christ, is present and active.  

They make it a little more possible to believe that our fragile, mortal lives carry meaning and promise.  

They remind us that we are called to build communities without borders or barriers, where love is the highest value. 

Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord! Amen! 

This post was originally published on stylewise-blog.com on November 29, 2020

A Sermon Given on the First Day of Advent

Gospel Reading: Mark 13:24-37. Read here.

“And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”
Amen.

Happy New Year!

Today is the first day of Advent, which marks the beginning of a new year in churches that follow the liturgical calendar. While the rest of the world shops Cyber Monday sales and blasts Christmas music from their car radios, the church enters a time of introspection in anticipation of a miracle. In our tradition, the season is often marked by children’s pageants and quaint Lessons & Carols services. A hushed sense of the sacred permeates all that we do.

For this reason, Advent has historically been my favorite season. I love the extreme contrast between my religious practice and the chaos of the world. In this season, I get a clear reminder of the way my faith shapes me differently. The hustle and bustle of the world can be overwhelming this time of year; meanwhile, I am patiently waiting for the Baby Jesus.

I have to admit that this year feels different. After enduring nearly nine months of pandemic, shouldn’t there be a baby already?

We have been holding our breaths for new life. We have been waiting for a vaccine that will free us to hug our loved ones again. We have been enduring the pain of social and political questioning. It feels like time either runs ahead, or slows to a halt. I find myself asking how we got to the end of 2020 so quickly, and then complaining that it will never end! I remarked to a friend over the phone last week that, in a way, the pandemic has left us all displaced. We are wayfaring strangers navigating a new world. Everything feels…different, and I am impatient! I don’t feel like quietly waiting for Jesus to come.

I admit that it has crossed my mind that this is the Apocalypse; I know I’m not alone in this, because a quick internet search reveals dozens of article titles ranging from: “The Four Horsemen of the Viral Apocalypse” to, inexplicably, “The Zombie Apocalypse and Covid-19”.

Epidemiologists predicted that this would be an “Apocalyptic Fall,” and it seems that it has turned out that way. If even the scientists are saying it, maybe something is broken. Maybe it really is the end?

It is within this dizziness and disorientation – and frankly, terror – that we read today’s Gospel reading.

This passage in Mark does not sound like the quaint and quiet Advent I’m used to. I’m not accustomed to singing Advent hymns that go: “in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened.” In fact, this chapter is called “The Little Apocalypse.” Linked to the Book of Revelation, it is full of mysterious declarations and disturbing images. Many centuries of Christians have puzzled over these apocalyptic stories, trying to search it for clues. But we’re often left with more questions than answers.

The more I sit with the text, the less I feel inclined to even look for straightforward answers. I am too disturbed, disoriented, and exhausted to make sense of it.

So what do we do with that?

The word apocalypse means an uncovering or revealing, so the question that really needs answering is: what is it revealing? Thanks in part to the fact that I’ve been taking a class on Revelation this semester, I have a few ideas.

First, apocalypse intentionally disrupts our sense of time. This chapter in Mark includes a half a dozen references to Old Testament prophecies while simultaneously telling us that it’s actually about the future. It removes us from the stable ground of the present. Instead, we are pushed back and forth from the strange and foreboding past to the shocking and uncertain future, like time travelers in a dysfunctional time machine.

Apocalypse also disturbs our self-perception. It makes us take a good hard look at ourselves and those around us, to see everything with new perspective. It also makes us ask if we’re ready for Jesus to come to earth. Like children assessing the play room before their parent comes in, we wonder if we have time to clean up the messes we’ve made.

Finally, apocalypse gives voice to suffering. That’s why some scholars call it the “literature of the dispossessed.” What they mean is that people who write and tell such wild, mysterious, and horrifying stories are trying to find ways to say something true about their grief and struggle. Vietnam veteran, Tim O’Brien, writes about this in his essay entitled, How to Tell a True War Story, saying, “when you go to tell about it, there is always that surreal seemingness, which makes the story seem untrue, but which in fact represents the hard and exact truth as it seemed.”

Like a war story, apocalypse is disorienting and disturbing precisely because it mirrors the turmoil in our world. It compels every reader and listener to enter in to the story of chaos and brokenness.

So, it seems that apocalypse pushes our senses to the edge. In this way, what it reveals or uncovers for us is the truth of the world as it really is. We know this world well, because we live in it. Rather than be terrified by its mysteries, apocalypse is reaching out and telling us, “I see what you’re going through and I understand it.” And we are meant to be left feeling that we aren’t wayfaring strangers. Instead, we are slightly bumbling, regular humans on an admittedly scary journey that Jesus shares with us.

So why read apocalypse during Advent? Perhaps, because the season of Advent disorients us, too. We exist in a spiritual story in which Mary is still pregnant and yet Jesus has died. In which we wait for Jesus to come, and also come again. In which Jesus is alive and speaking, even though he’s not yet born. This time-warp can feel disturbing, but it reveals to us something true.

It reveals to us that even in death, we can hope. Even in wandering, we are held steady on the path. And even in chaos, we can see the light of Jesus entering in. Maybe today’s Gospel reminds us to “Keep awake” because once we knowingly enter this apocalyptic way of thinking, we’re simply too excited to fall asleep. Everything is different, and we are right to be impatient. Jesus is coming, and, if I may be so bold, it’s about darn time.