Tuesday, January 6, 2015

  God’s Unifying Impulse, January 4 2014
Jeremiah 31:7-14, Psalm 147:12-20, Ephesians 1:3-14, John 1:1-18 at

“God’s Unifying Impulse”
God of justice, you do not forget your people. You long to be in relationship with us, but there are times when we erect barriers that prevent that closeness. Break through that, and open our hearts to you and others. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

Here we are about 10 days into Christmastide—the season from Christmas day to the Day of Epiphany. This time when we celebrate the presence of Christ particularly as the Word of God incarnate, enfleshed in the living body and presence of Jesus as a baby boy, an adolescent boy, and as an adult male human. We are called by the scriptures this morning to notice—not only that Jesus is the very word of God, but that through the presence of the Christ, we are reminded that God wants to be father and mother to us, to be in close familial relationship with us, with each and every human being. And that God wants us to be in relationship together, as one, one with Christ and one with each other. God wants us to be one with all God’s children everywhere and “everywhen” and one with each other in the here and the now.

There are moments we do this better than others—and in this Christmas time, I hope that we do it especially well in the midst of the beautiful stories of hope, peace, love and joy that surround us because of the presence of Christ within each of us and especially within all of us together.

A friend of mine, Sandhya Jha wrote in her 12 days of Christmas values series recently about the hope we find in Christmas. She writes that even though we sometimes joke about the things that trouble us—and get a little sceptical and sarcastic—as Christians, we are all about hope.

Our skepticism and sarcasm may stem from a defense mechanism—we’ve seen the difficulties of the world, shrinking churches, budgets, etc.—and don’t want to raise our hopes to high. But Christianity is truly no place to be cynical. And Christmastide is the time when we can stand and say that we celebrate the birth of a baby we are promised will always be with us—one we can call Emmanuel. We celebrate this baby even though we know that through his actions and call to justice for the hungry, the lame ones, the blind ones, the poor ones, and the imprisoned ones, he met a violent death—murdered brutally by a police state. And yet we always welcome him with hope, because in the face of things unseen, we believe that is not the end of the story.[1]

The truth is that God’s continuing and continuous—eternal and ever-present—as in it happened in Jesus and even before that—impulse is toward relationship with us and for us, human beings, to be in relationship with one another. And, this is important, for those relationships, all of them to be characterized by love: equity, mercy, justice, grace, forgiveness, and community connection. And within that community, there will be intimate relationships between couples and in families—and all of those relationships are or can be reflections of the love and connection God has for us.

In Jeremiah 31, the word of the Lord, came in a time of exile. The people of God—Israel or Jacob or Ephraim (all are used in this particular passage)—are scattered, calling themselves a remnant because that’s what they’ve become. Historically speaking, when the people of northern kingdom of the divided kingdom of what had been David’s and Solomon’s one kingdom of Israel, were taken away from Israel, they never were returned there as a body of people. I’m sure that people whose ancestry hailed from there trickled in and out, I’m sure that a few communities were restarted quietly, but Israel as an entity was gone. The word that came to Jeremiah, though is one of hope for who does come stumbling back.

The homecoming described by Jeremiah is a humble thing for Israel, because a triumphant reappearance of a whole Israel never happened. Instead, as the text describes, there was a slow emergence of a few: pregnant women and those who would soon give birth. These aren’t victorious armies, but are slow, patient pedestrians who stop to rest frequently, who need one another and anyone who can help.

And along the way, the shepherd becomes father, as God calls Ephraim/Jacob/Israel God’s firstborn, redeeming him or ransoming him from “hands too strong for him.” The hope of this new birth of Israel is not the strong land of warriors under a King David, like they’d been in a previous age. This people contains a quiet hope for home: grain, wine, oil, flocks and herd, and watered gardens. The picture of life is one where the young dance and people of all ages laugh, where mourning can become joy, where comfort exists and where there is bounty so that all will have enough and more.

This hope is for home and belonging—for relationship with God and with one another so that all needs are fulfilled. The hope is for a simple and joyful life—nothing ostentatious, but a life that is sustainable.

God said, “My people shall be satisfied with my bounty.”

God’s child . . . God’s Word . . . God’s Son . . . comes bringing hope, love, peace, joy and God’s very own self to us and we can be satisfied with the abundance of creation that God has already provided. God’s word comes to us so that we can know and understand how to live within creation and live in relationship with God and one another. God’s word—sometimes law, sometimes example, always relationship—reveals creation in all its diversity: snow like wool, frost like ashes, hail like crumbs and the cold. Then the warm winds blow and the waters flow. The wheat grows and fills us. All of it a source of God’s blessing—even when our broken tendency is toward disbelief and pessimism, even when we regularly insist on looking only at our neighbor or our neighbor church’s comparable wealth or high attendance.

It may be naïve to think that our hope can change the world, but I can guarantee that pessimism and lack of passion for the presence of Christ will never change the world. That kind of cynicism never has and never will.

God’s impulse continuously pursues us for the sake of connection—for us to know God and for God’s connection to unite us to one another in community, in the purpose of justice, love, hope, and growing faith.

When we know that’s what God’s intentions are for—for the sake of love, for the sake of relationship what can we do but live it and praise the Lord in that tiny child and in the wonders of God’s presence in all of our lives.

To the glory of God. Amen.

Monday, December 29, 2014

Christmas Eve Sermon 2014
Isaiah 9:2-7
“Light”
In a season of dimness, when the nights are long and the sunshine is rare, we come to you in hope of brighter days. When shadows lengthen in our hearts and souls, we come for the warmth and sunshine of your spirit filling our lives, as it filled the life of Mary, as it rose in the life of the nation of Israel, as it filled the life of Jesus, spilling out into his world and into our own. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

Often by the time that Christmas Eve rolls around, we have gotten a little tired of the endless cheer, bright lights, and glittering tinsel of the season, if we haven’t come to a place where those have little to do with our preparation for the coming Christ in any way. Most of us enjoy a little glitz and sparkle, but somewhere in the middle of it, I get a little overwhelmed and realize that beyond the sparkle, there’s not much substance to offer. In spite of the appearance of gold, the shining foil is just that.

It is then when I begin to seek out the meaning of God’s incarnation in my life yet again. I might ask questions.
God, where are you this year? Are you looking to be welcomed?
Jesus, how can we serve you now and into the next year?
Where can I find your light when my own feels dim—and all the sparkle in the world isn’t going to change that?
How can we discern between the joy of your presence and the giddy, momentary, and materialistic wants and desires that fill our moments?

Hearing ancient words of faith and hope can bring us to a place where we can gently and hopefully seek out the genuine sources of light in our lives. Light that illuminates and warms and doesn't just glare blindingly, hiding from us the beauty that is still in the darkness and mystery—the things just beyond what we can know. The light we seek doesn't remove darkness, we seek the light that defines and clarifies the mysteries of our lives. I won’t say it’s always comforting or comfortable—the light of Christ will illuminate the words, thoughts, and actions we’d rather hide—instead I’d say that the light of Christ moves us toward wholeness, revealing the hidden that needs to be seen and nurtured into health or changed from the evil to the good.

Sometimes we are afraid to lose darkness, afraid to let go and embrace the light God has placed within us—in Christ and through the very life that we contain. “We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”[1]

It is in this time of year that we realize the partnership between the darkness and the light. The definition that each gives the others. The bright shining hope that carries us forward is a partner with the quiet, dark, hope that most of us need in times of rest. In this time of year, when the earth is darker here in the northern hemisphere, we are reminded to seek out the light—the light of Christ, born into a work dark like our own. We are reminded to see the depths of this night and experience the joy, deeper than cheer, let us experience the light of Christ, brighter than the brightest gem.

CHRISTMAS hath darkness
Brighter than the blazing noon,
Christmas hath a chillness
Warmer than the heat of June,
Christmas hath a beauty
Lovelier than the world can show:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
Brought for us so low.

Earth, strike up your music,
Birds that sing and bells that ring;
Heaven hath answering music
For all Angels soon to sing:
Earth, put on your whitest
Bridal robe of spotless snow:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
Brought for us so low.[2]

To the glory of God, born as we all were: naked and cold and full of light. Amen.




[1] from A Return to Love, by Marianne Williamson.
[2] Christmas Eve by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Monday, December 22, 2014

Sermon December 21 2014
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16
Luke 1:46b-55
Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38
“Great Reversals”
Life-giving God, fill us with your grace. May we, who hear the announcement of Jesus’ coming, give birth to your good news. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

The season of Advent reminds us every year that we are all waiting for something. We anticipate some event, sometimes with fear and anxiety, sometimes with happiness and barely contained excitement and sometimes a mixture of both. We may be waiting on a person to enter our lives or know that a time of departure is nearing—and we may not desire either one. We may be waiting for good news, bad news, or any news at all. We may be waiting for the other shoe to drop—for the world to end—for our lives to begin . . . for someone, something, somewhere . . .

The season of Advent reminds us that even as we prepare what we are awaiting has come. We are waiting for the light of the world—even as the sky in our part of the world gets darker and darker. Tonight, on the longest night of the year, we celebrate the light, grace, peace—and love that is already in our lives. We know that Jesus is born—so long ago—and still we wait, every year, preparing for Christ to come into our lives, preparing for Christ to gather us all into Christ’s life, forever and eternally.

The season of Advent and this fourth Sunday of Advent, again, reminds us that though what we are awaiting, the birth of Jesus into the world, the salvation of Christ in the world, the presence and grace of God in the world are already here. We still are waiting for the fulfillment of God’s kindom in the world that surrounds us—and in our own lives. Jesus is here; God is here and God is still building something—a kindom, a family, a realm, and we are part of that act of building. Or at least we can be a part of it, if we choose to say yes.

In the text from 2 Samuel, we get a glimpse into the life of David, the king of Israel, after he’s come to a time of respite from the wars that put him onto the throne. He has a home, a house of cedar, he said, and he thinks that God might want a house, too, to live in. God’s word to Nathan, the royal prophet, denies God’s desire for a house built by human hands.  Instead God proclaims that God will build. God will build David a legacy, a throne, a kindom that lasts forever—instead, I think, God makes a claim on the life of David’s legacy, revealing God’s plan, not David’s plan.

David wanted to house God. God wants to build a legacy, create possibilities for revelation. God wants to be God for the people, not simply a place for the people to worship. And God wants it to last—houses don’t last, temples don’t remain, churches don’t live forever—God’s kindom, that’s eternal. God’s love, it’s steadfast and everlasting.

So we enter the story of Jesus in Luke’s gospel this morning knowing that this is God’s intention. For people who want to follow Christ, God’s intentions lead us here, to Jesus, to Mary, to the messenger God sent to give Mary some news.

The world into which the messenger brings news to Mary was a world very different from our own in many ways. As you know, the Romans occupied Galilee where Mary lived in the town of Nazareth. Galilee was a part of the land that had been Israel, but the Israel of King David hadn’t existed for a long time—about 1,000 years. Mary lived in a land occupied at various times by whatever empire ruled at the time. The Romans ruled her world and before that the Greeks, the Persians, Babylon or Chaldea, Aram, and Syria and before that, the two kingdoms that split from David and Solomon’s one kingdom. It had been a long time since God spoke with Nathan, the prophet, and promised a reign that would last forever. And because it had been so long, the promise God had begun to be seen differently. The throne of God, given by God, wasn’t one for kings, this throne was  . . . well, this throne was for Mary’s—not yet born, not yet conceived—son.

Mary’s world was very different than our own, but there are still similarities. The hungry and the sated are still with us, the poor and the rich, the servants and the rulers (one way or another) and God’s people are still waiting. In Mary’s world and in our own, some people have everything and more and some people not enough to live.

Mary heard the messenger’s word to her in a world occupied by empire and characterized by inequality, a world more our own than it would seem. And she heard the message in a world, like our own, that was waiting for answers, waiting for a long time.

In spite of the time that had passed, with no hesitation other than her confusion at her unmarried, uncoupled state, Mary accepts the news of the messenger, Gabriel. She would have a son, the Son of God. She would name him, Jesus, which means Savior. And somehow, he would inherit the throne of David, unoccupied, nonexistent, really, for many, many years.

So what does it mean that her son, the Son of God, the Son of the Most High was to be born? In that day? In that world?

As Luke tells the story, Mary’s reaction, her emotive and rational, theological response to actually understanding what God has done comes after she meets her relative, Elizabeth. When Elizabeth announces her baby’s reaction to meeting Mary, it is only then that Mary sings her song—her glorious Magnificat.

And she sings or tells of God’s action in the person Jesus will become.
She sings of God’s salvation revealed by her son not only in her own life, but in the fullness of all God’s people. Her words well up and name the justice of God.
God is merciful. God is strong and scatters the proud—the arrogant?
God brings power down from thrones and lift up those seen as lowly.
God fills the hungry. God sends away those who have all they need—and more.
God helps Israel, fulfilling God’s steadfast love.
God fulfills all the promises God has ever made—all of them.
Her child, but more than her child, will overturn all the world.

God was arriving, is arriving, always arriving, to reverse the way that we live with one another. God comes to turn us away from pride, from wealth, from gluttony and greed, from the power we have over one another—God comes in Jesus, born to a very young woman, into not a wealthy or powerful family, to save the world.

God comes into our lives this day to do the very same thing. Human beings, it seems, tend to wander into the same sins today as they did then. Then the rich and powerful, symbolized by Rome’s empire, kept people from realizing who God fully intended them to be—and God’s son’s life of healing, hope, humility, peace, grace, joy, and love overturned what a ruling power could be. And though it may look different, we still somehow live as if the world would be perfect if only the right set of people had enough power, like Rome. But with Mary, we sing, declaring that in us now already, God has accomplished a great reversal. Amid the disorder and evil of our day, we now sing the great reversal sung by Mary. We are not afraid. God is yet at work liberating and setting things right. The wrong is judged to be empty, and the right judged to be blessed. Within us, the empire has no hold; it has collapsed even as we contend with it daily.


With Mary’s son, the Son of the Most High, we can say, with Mary, “Let it be with me, according to your word.” Amen.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

We had a casual service of Lessons and Carols--Story books and Carols, really . . .

Stories and Carols December 14, 2014