Lenten Journey

Here we are at the beginning of our Lenten journey, as we travel with Jesus that long and lonely road to Jerusalem. As we make this annual pilgrimage, we are right there with Jesus’ disciples, who have been told by their master that he will “undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day of the week be raised” (Lk 9:22).

Like the disciples, many of us focus on, and feel that we must share, our Lord’s pain and suffering, at least symbolically through such things as giving up something of pleasure or taking on extra burdens; through avoiding all forms of temptation and repenting of our numerous sins. It is as if in such actions we are attempting to take on the ponderous, burdensome weight that the human Jesus undoubtedly carries as he travels that road to Jerusalem.

Yes, some of our Gospel readings for the season of Lent do have such themes as temptation (1st Sunday in Lent, Lk 4:1-13) and repentance (3rd Sunday in Lent, Lk 13:1-9). But on alternating Sundays, we also have readings that tell the other side of the Lenten story, that contain imagery of God desiring to gather his children together “as a hen gathers her brood under her wings” (2nd Sunday in Lent, Lk 13:31-35), and of the Prodigal Son (4th Sunday in Lent, Lk 15:1-3,11b-32). These stories convey messages of God’s unconditional love, of His endless compassion and mercy.

When this combination of Gospel lessons are woven together, we see a tapestry emerge that is much greater than the sum of its parts. We have an image of what Lent is really about. We see that we have an obligation to be obedient to God’s law, and for repentance when we fall short. But we also are the recipients of God’s boundless love and grace. And in this tapestry of the Lenten season, we also have an icon of the essence of what it means to be a Christian and to live a life faithful to our callings as disciples of Jesus Christ. For in reality, the Lenten journey is the Christian journey.

As we travel the road to Jerusalem with Jesus, all we can do is walk by his side. While the ponderous and burdensome weight he carries is ours, it is not ours to carry. It is his to carry. And all he asks, during this Lenten journey, as well as throughout our life journey, is that we be faithful companions along the way and share his love and compassion with others. He will take care of the rest. And that will be demonstrated in its fullness as, in about six weeks, we reach Jerusalem, as we helplessly watch the painful events that will happen there, and most certainly as we stand at the mouth of Jesus’ tomb on Easter morning, peek inside, and finding it empty, realize that his promise has been fulfilled, that the burden has indeed been lifted, and that we are the recipients of God’s unbounded grace and infinite love.

Blessed travels!

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Anamnesis

First Sunday in Lent – Year C (RCL)
Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13
Sunday, February 21, 2010 – Trinity, Redlands


While on my first pilgrimage to England to study Benedictine Spirituality, one of the places that our group went was Stanbrook Abbey, a Roman Catholic Benedictine convent in Worcestershire. Shortly after our arrival, we met with Dame Joanna, the abbess. As we sat around the cozy parlor, we were like children sitting at the feet of a parent or a teacher. We all listened intently as Dame Joanna told us the history of Stanbrook Abbey. She told us about the nine women who founded their original convent in 1623 in Flanders. After over a century and a half, the nuns were forcibly removed from their home during the French Revolution and imprisoned under very harsh conditions for 18 months. During their imprisonment, four of the sisters died. Upon release of the remaining nuns, despite being penniless, they made their way to England. In 1838, the nuns eventually settled in Stanbrook and began building a new abbey. And on it went, as Dame Joanna continued with the history of the Abbey up to the present.

The story she told was absolutely fascinating – worthy of a made-for-TV miniseries. But what struck me most was not the story itself, but rather the way that she told it. Throughout, from 1623 up to 1994, she told the entire story with great passion, in the first person. WE established our original convent in Flanders in 1623. WE were forcibly removed from our home during the French Revolution. WE were imprisoned for 18 months. WE made our way to England. You get the picture. It was as if Dame Joanna had been there every step of the way, throughout the Abbey’s 371 year history, living it just as her foremothers did. These were not just some historical facts she was conveying. She was not just telling the story of the Abbey. She was telling her story. For in some mystical way, they are one and the same. The two cannot be separated.

While we don’t really have an English term to describe what happened in that parlor, in Dame Joanna’s telling of her story, there is a Greek term for it – anamnesis. Generally translated as “memorial, recalling, or remembrance,” the term is actually untranslatable into English, because it is not so much the mental recollection of a past event, but rather “an objective action in and by which the event is realized as present.” In some mystical way, the remembering of the event makes it present and real in the here and now.

That’s what’s happening in one way or another in all of our scripture readings for today. In the passage from Deuteronomy, the Israelites have just completed their 40-year trek through the desert. They are on the edge of Canaan, poised to enter the much awaited Promised Land. Before they enter their new home, Moses is giving them final instructions. In the portion that we heard this morning, Moses is issuing a creedal statement about who these people are, an affirmation of the covenant between them and YHWH. After describing some of the requisite liturgical acts, Moses says “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor.” In what follows, he is tracing the story of the people back to Jacob and how he and his sons went down into Egypt. He is recalling how the people prospered, but eventually became slaves to the Egyptians. He is recalling God’s deliverance of the people from the hands of the Egyptians, the Exodus, and the 40 years of wandering and testing in the wilderness that they had just come through. He is recalling how God has given them this new land as their home in which they are to be fruitful and become a blessing to the nations. This is not just ancient history. This is their story. This is who they are. This story gives meaning to their very existence. In fact, to this day, the Jewish people continue to recall, to remember the Passover and the subsequent Exodus which defines not only their religion, but who they are as a people and as individuals – an act of anamnesis. In the retelling, they are there. They have experienced it.

Similarly, Paul’s words in the Epistle to the Romans provide what may be one of the earliest creedal statements of the Christian faith. Paul takes us right to the foundation of what it means to be a Christian. “If you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” What more is needed? This simple sentence says it all. Paul does not feel a need to do much elaboration on this statement, yet the recipients of his epistle, the church in Rome, and all followers of Christ in the first century would have, through anamnesis, experienced in these words the entire story of Jesus and his ministry. In them, they would have heard his parables, witnessed his miracles, helplessly watched as he was beaten and crucified, marveled at seeing the empty tomb, and rejoiced at his post-resurrection appearances.

And even the account of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness as presented in Luke entails anamnesis as Jesus does not simply engage in a war of wills and of words with the devil, but rather with each presented temptation, recalls a portion of Israel’s story, his story, and responds with scriptural references directly tied to that story. In the first temptation, Jesus has not eaten in 40 days and is undoubtedly hungry. This 40 days in the desert without food is reminiscent of the 40 years in the desert, where the Israelites had no food. God provided manna for the people to eat, and to serve as a reminder that “one does not live by bread alone.” And it is this response, out of that ancient story that nourished him, with which Jesus replies to the devil. In the second temptation, the devil tries to get Jesus to abandon God and worship him. This is reminiscent of the continual struggle throughout the time in the wilderness and even upon entering the Promised Land in which the Israelites were tempted to worship other gods – either idols of their own making or the gods of the inhabitants of Canaan. As Moses told the people back then, Jesus now responds to the devil, “worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” And in the third temptation, the devil sets up a challenge to try to get Jesus to test God’s faithfulness. This is an allusion to the desperation of the Israelites, when they were in the wilderness, thirsty for water, and because of their lack of faith, put God to the test at Massah. In so doing, the Israelites question the general trustworthiness of God as the people wander in the wilderness, lost, hungry, and thirsty. Here again, in response to the devil, Jesus quotes Moses’ response to the Israelites, “do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

In all of these temptations, Jesus is reminded of the story that is not just the story of his ancestors, but which is also his own. Through anamnesis, through remembering the story and making it present in his own life, Jesus was able to find the guidance and the strength needed to resist the devil’s temptations and to provide time-tested and irrefutable responses.

In biblical times, telling of the story of the people, of one’s forefathers and foremothers was an integral part of life. Theirs was an oral culture, relying on remembrance of the stories so that they might be preserved for future generations. That was how the stories of the Old Testament were passed on for generations before they were committed to writing. And in that seemingly simple yet necessary act of telling and retelling the stories, something transformative happened. The story became not only the history of the people, it became the story of the individual. The story became part of who they were, informing how they lived their lives and how they themselves would contribute to the on-going story. This was an act of anamnesis.

This is still the case for some of what we consider “primitive cultures.” Sadly, we in the 21st century western world are losing the art of storytelling. It may not be completely lost, but it is greatly diminished, particularly with each passing generation. There are many reasons for this – our reliance on written documentation to convey history and story; the fact that we no longer live in tribes or extended family groupings, so that our young do not have ready access to the stories, to the wisdom of our elders; just to name a couple. But what is far sadder is the fact that in losing the ability to repeatedly hear the stories, to retell the stories, they do not become a part of who we are. When we hear them, they are nice bits of history, but we are disconnected from them. The stories are not ours. We do not have the ability to make them our own, to make them part of who we are.

One place where that does not have to be the case, where that shouldn’t be the case, is in the Church. Our religion is based on a story that stretches back for millennia, a story that defines who we are. And as a result, ours is a religion based on anamnesis, on the power of the stories to be made present in the here and now so that they become our own stories, shaping and informing who we are. This is particularly evident at this table every time we make Eucharist. In every Eucharistic prayer, we recall the works of salvation history, we recall the events of the Last Supper. And every Eucharistic prayer has a section that is actually called the anamnesis – the words that say “We celebrate the memorial of our redemption, O Father, in this sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. Recalling his death, resurrection, and ascension, we offer you these gifts.” The intent is not that the Eucharist is just some bit of ritual. It is making real, in the here and now, in this place, the central story of our faith – Christ’s death, resurrection, and ascension – so that in that moment, we are living it as our own story.

While we know the stories, many of us have forgotten that they are our story. We have forgotten how to make them our own. As such, we need to learn the stories in a different way. As we begin the Lenten season, I can think of no better time to really focus on living into the stories of our faith. For Lent really is about hearing the story and making it our own. In the ancient church, Lent was the time when the catechumens would study and learn, hearing from the elders of the church the stories of our faith. And in the hearing of the stories, the catechumens would be transformed, through the power of anamnesis, so that the story of our forefathers and foremothers became present to them and thereby became their own story.

As we travel through Lent and indeed the entire liturgical year, we hear the stories. We hear our story. In them, WE went down into Egypt. After a time of prosperity, WE became slaves to the Egyptians. And then, through the grace of God, WE were liberated. WE wandered in the wilderness for 40 long years before reaching the Promised Land, OUR new home.

WE were there with the shepherds witnessing the birth of an infant king in a manger in Bethlehem. WE were baptized by John in the River Jordan. WE followed Jesus for three years, listening to his teachings, struggling with his parables, witnessing his miracles of healing. WE were with him at his last meal in the Upper Room. And then WE watched as he was arrested, taken away, subjected to a mock trial, helpless to do anything. WE were there at the foot of the cross with Mary and John, as our Master was crucified. But then, on the third day, WE went to the tomb with Mary and the other women and found it empty. And WE rejoiced at his being raised from the dead and even more so when he appeared to US, to see him, to touch him, to put our hands in his wounds.

This Lenten season, why not try something a little different? Why not try a little anamnesis? Read the stories of our faith. Put yourself in them. Make them present to you in the here and now. See how they are not just some ancient stories, but how they are your story. See how they are a part of you, shaping and informing who you are as a beloved child of God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Big Bang Call Narratives

Fifth Sunday After Epiphany – Year C (RCL)
Isaiah 6:1-6; Psalm 138; 1 Corinthians 15:1-11; Luke 5:1-11
Sunday, February 7, 2010 – Trinity, Redlands


Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I; send me!” (Isaiah 6:8)

Last week, we had the story of God’s call of Jeremiah. Today, we go back in time about a hundred years and witness God’s call of Isaiah. Isaiah’s call is a very different one than Jeremiah’s. As you will recall, Jeremiah was reluctant to accept. God had to push him a little. Isaiah, on the other hand, seems to want to accept, but sees a bit of a problem. He confesses that he is sinful and not worthy of serving as God’s representative – “I am a man of unclean lips.” God takes care of that little problem. Using a seraph to touch Isaiah’s unclean lips with a burning coal, God forgives Isaiah’s sins and removes all guilt. In his exuberance in the wake of God’s gracious gift, Isaiah jumps in when God seeks a volunteer, even though he does not quite know what God is asking – “Here am I; send me!”

Every time I hear this reading, I can’t help but think, “Are you crazy? You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.” And then I am reminded of a time when I reacted just as Isaiah did, sort of.

In 1994, I went to England for a two-week program on Benedictine Spirituality. While the whole trip was formational in many ways, one of the most significant moments came about a week into the program. We took an overnight trip to Ampleforth Abbey, a Roman Catholic Benedictine monastery north of York. The first evening at Ampleforth, we sang evening prayer with the monks. After evening prayer, I felt moved to just stay in the chapel and pray. The chapel was cold and dimly lit, and as I sat there in the darkness praying, I suddenly experienced a sense of light and warmth, what I perceived to be the overwhelming presence of God surrounding me, holding me, loving me. All I could do was cry. I didn’t want to leave that place. I felt completely at ease, as if I had found home. That night, I did not sleep much. My spirit was restless. My mind was awhirl. The next morning, I took a walk through the foggy Yorkshire countryside with Norvene, one of our program leaders. I told her about my experience the night before and how I felt like I might be called to stay there at Ampleforth. Norvene offered to talk to the Abbot to get his permission for me to stay on for awhile. The idea was very tempting. At first, I was there with Isaiah: “Here am I; send me!” But then I was barraged with all sorts of questions. Was I ready to become Catholic so I could stay here? How will my parents react when I call and tell them I’m not coming home? What about my house and all my belongings back in California? What about my career? After thinking and praying about it, I ultimately declined Norvene’s offer, and decided that I needed to continue on with the study tour. Despite a very close all, I just wasn’t ready to say “Here am I; send me!”

While I did not answer God’s call at that time, it was a pivotal moment in my discernment process – the moment at which I realized in a serious way that God was calling me, and the moment at which I knew I had to really begin the work of discernment. Of course, it took another five years of discernment and some pretty heated arguments with God before I finally accepted the call to Holy Orders.

It’s easy to get swept up when presented with a big, dramatic call scenario. When that happens, we naturally want to join with Isaiah and say, “Here am I; send me!” All of the call stories in today’s scripture lessons are essentially that way – relying on the miraculous, the dramatic, to prompt acceptance of the invitation being issued. In our Gospel lesson from Luke, we hear the call of Peter. After a very unproductive day at fishing, when all Peter wants to do is go home and get some shut-eye, Jesus asks him to go out into the lake and try again. Peter reluctantly complies. Jesus then produces a miracle in which they catch more fish than the nets could hold. Jesus uses a show of abundance to demonstrate to Peter what the Kingdom of God is like, to show him that he is needed to help spread the Gospel message. As a result of this miracle, Peter accepts Jesus’ call, leaves everything, and follows his new master. “Here am I; send me!”

While our Epistle lesson from 1 Corinthian doesn’t specifically deal with Paul’s conversion and call, he certainly alludes to it. You may remember from Acts how the Risen Lord came to Paul as he was traveling to Damascus, and through much drama, including flashes of light, booming voices, three days of blindness, and recovery of sight, Paul gives up his strict adherence to Judaism and his self-righteous persecution of Christians to join the very group he had been persecuting. Because of this, he goes on to become, despite his claims of being the least of the apostles, the most influential apostle in the spread of Christianity to the Gentiles. “Here am I; send me!”

These are some pretty dramatic stories. But the reality is, most often God calls us not so much with explosive scenes of visions and miraculous signs, but rather in more subtle ways, with gentle nudges and soft whispers. These require more work on our part. These require that we be attentive. These require that we struggle through with trying to figure out what is going on. Is God really calling me, or is it something else –fantasy, delusion, wishful thinking? Wouldn’t it be easier if all calls were big bangs? After all, our universe started with the Big Bang – the moment in which God created all that is. And all of our scripture lessons show us that God is capable of operating in our lives with a big bang – breaking through into our everyday lives in unexpected ways.

Regardless of the form God’s call takes, these three call narratives, when taken together, say a lot about how God operates in our lives, about the way God reveals himself to us when we least expect it.

First off, God does not command. God invites. And if at first we refuse, God tries different ways of getting the message across, so that we might reconsider. God invites and Isaiah does not feel worthy due to perceived sinfulness. But God wipes out that problem and invites again. And Isaiah accepts. Jesus invites Peter, who could have said no and continued his life fishing for fish instead of the harder task of fishing for people. But Jesus, through the imagery of the overabundance of fish, showed Peter what the Kingdom of God could be like, if only he would help. And Peter accepts. The Risen Lord invites Paul, who could have said no and continued on the far easier path of maintaining the status quo instead of working to create something new. But God showed Paul his love and mercy, and how he could be a part of taking that message to the world. And Paul accepts. These were all tough nuts to crack, but God patiently continued to invite. But I can tell you one thing from personal experience. Even though God does not command, but invites, he can be very persistent.

A second and related characteristic is that, while God is all powerful and could do all this Kingdom work by himself, he made us to be co-creators with him in this world. He wants us to have input, to be a part of the process of building his Kingdom. And frankly, when you’re dealing with human beings, there are just some times when a human touch makes more sense. In that, God still needs our help. God needed Isaiah as a mouthpiece to the people of Judah, to be someone who could speak to them on their terms. God needed Peter and Paul to carry the message of Jesus Christ to the entire world following his death and resurrection, to share their personal experiences of the Risen Christ. Such tasks are better carried out, can only be carried out, through human agency.

Third, despite our objections, God finds ways to remove our perceived and sometimes self-imposed impediments. Isaiah felt himself to be a sinner. God removed his sin. Impediment gone. Similarly, Peter felt he was a sinful and lowly fisherman. Reading between the lines, Jesus said “that doesn’t matter. We can use you anyway. What better example of who is welcomed than a sinful and lowly fisherman?” Paul felt he was the least of the apostles, unworthy to follow Christ because of his persecution of the church. Despite his past, God showed him that he was loved, through the care of Ananias. No matter who we are, no matter what we may have done, God loves us unconditionally, and wants us to be a part of his work, to be part of his Kingdom.

And fourth, God calls us wherever we are. The time and place in which we receive God’s call is not limited to holy places like churches and monasteries. They can happen anytime, anywhere. For Isaiah, it was during worship in the Temple. For Peter, it was while he was doing his secular job. And for Paul, it was while he was traveling, between assignments, as it were. God looks at where we are in our lives, and meets us there. God makes ordinary places extraordinary. God makes secular places holy.

All of these come together when God breaks into our lives. And ultimately, it’s not about how miraculous or spectacular God presents himself to us. Even though not all calls are filled with visions, like Isaiah’s call, or miracles of abundance, like Peter’s call, or lights and temporary blindness like Paul’s call, they are all still big bangs – for in that moment when we accept God’s call, something new and beautiful is created – the union of Creator and created working in partnership for a common purpose. And in such moments, God is revealing his infinite love for us, his boundless grace. God is showing us that no matter who we are, no matter what we may think our faults are, we are all of value to God, and he wants to use us, if we just give him a chance. If we just give ourselves a chance and boldly say, “Here am I; send me!”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Call: It's Not Just For Prophets Anymore

Fourth Sunday After Epiphany – Year C (RCL)
Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13; Luke 4:21-30
Sunday, January 31, 2010 – Trinity, Redlands


“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you” (Jer. 1:5)

In these words from our Old Testament lesson, we hear God’s calling of Jeremiah to be a prophet at a most critical time in Israel’s history. The Northern Kingdom of Israel has already been decimated by the Assyrians. And now the Southern Kingdom of Judah is facing similar troubles. Someone is needed to for the difficult work of delivering God’s warnings to Judah in the run-up to the Babylonian Exile. And God chooses Jeremiah.

But Jeremiah is reluctant to accept God’s call. “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But this is not about age. Jeremiah resists because he doesn’t think he is up to the task, that he does not have what it will take to do what God is asking. But God sees what Jeremiah does not see. God sees that Jeremiah has the requisite gifts and talents to carry this off. First and foremost, Jeremiah is from a priestly family. He has grown up steeped in the story of Israel and the centrality of its relationship with God. This will allow him to convey God’s message to the people in ways they will hopefully understand – relating it to the unique position that Israel holds as God’s Chosen People. Jeremiah does not see this, but God does. Hence God’s response: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you.”

Because of God’s insistence, because of God’s assurance that He will provide Jeremiah with what is needed for the task at hand, Jeremiah acquiesces. And with the help of God, he goes on to become one of the greatest prophets in Israel’s history. He is able to prophesy of the paradoxical power of God – the power that plucks up but also plants, the power that destroys but also builds up, the power of death but also life, the power of judgment but also of salvation. But even so, Jeremiah did not have an easy time of it. He first prophesies in his home town of Anathoth, provoking the anger of his fellow villagers and his family. He then moves on to other areas, in hopes that someone might hear God’s words and heed their warning. His prophecies are of judgment, yet containing seeds of hope. Indeed his prophecies turn to portents of hope as the Exile eventually nears its end – hope of a return of Judah to its homeland, hope of reconciliation with their God. While Jeremiah’s initial prophecies are not heeded by the people, his latter prophecies help them get through the remainder of the Exile, keeping the hope alive.

While Jeremiah’s story is extraordinary in many ways, in other ways, his story, particularly the story of his call, is also our story. We are tempted to think of call, of vocation, as something reserved for the great figures in the history of our faith – Abraham, Moses, Jeremiah, and Isaiah; Mary, John the Baptist, Peter, and Paul. Or at most, we might expand the concept to include “professionals” in matters of religion – people who make their living doing churchy stuff – people like monks and nuns, bishops and priests, people like me, like Father David. But that’s not the case. We don’t have exclusive rights. We don’t have a corner on that market. You see, we all have a calling. It may not be to Holy Orders. It may not be as a prophet. But we all have some sort of calling, something that God is inviting us to do for the service and fulfillment of His Kingdom. And the key to that, I believe, is in God’s words to Jeremiah: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you.”

These words from the Book of Jeremiah have always spoken to me, although I have not always known why. But about ten years ago, I was required to do something that helped me figure out how God’s words to Jeremiah apply to me. When you begin the process toward Holy Orders, you are required to write a “spiritual autobiography,” that, at least in part, traces your sense of call. I used, as the opening for my spiritual autobiography, God’s words to Jeremiah. As I reflected on these words and reflected on my life to that point, I came to realize that, while what God was calling me to do may or may not have begun in the womb, it was at the very least evident (in hindsight) from early in my life. It felt as if this was what I had been consecrated to ultimately do. I can’t help but believe that the same is true for every person in this room. There is a calling – something special that God wants of you; something only you can do. Maybe you’re already doing it. Maybe you have no clue what it is – yet. Maybe you’re struggling with discernment, trying to get a clearer picture of what that calling might be, what form it might take.

As Hermann Hesse writes, “There are many types and kinds of vocations, but the core of the experience is always the same; the soul is awakened, transformed, or exalted so that instead of dreams and presentiments from within, a summons comes from without; a portion of reality presents itself and makes a claim” (Beckmann, 94-95). The response to that call from without, to that portion of reality making its claim, requires that we spend time examining how that call might take shape. It requires reflection – reflection on who we are, reflection on our roles in the world, reflection on the inherent gifts that we can give back to the world. For our call ties in with where we are right now, with what we are already doing. Our life to this point, our life from the womb to the present, has been preparing us, leading us, to what God is ultimately calling us to do. God prepares us to live out the vocation He calls us to, the calling for which we were born, through each step we take, through every role that we take on. Even if it doesn’t seem like what you are doing in your life right now is a calling from God, I would say, “think again.” Reflect on your life as it is and see just how you are living God’s call. As one commentator noted, “It is the invitation to every Christian to witness to the gospel by investing with radical grace whatever worldly roles God opens to us.” Whatever role. No matter how grand, no matter how small. After all, “as Martin Luther so famously said about parenthood, when understood as Christian vocation, even changing dirty diapers is done for the glory of God!” (Davis, 292).

And of course, as we reflect, as we pray, as we discern how God’s call is prompting us to move into new areas, to engage in new activities, we may have a sense of uneasiness. Jeremiah shows us that fear, anxiety, self-doubts, resistance, even resentments, are natural and understandable reactions when God issues a call to engage in His work. But as is also shown through Jeremiah, both the calling and the capacity to fulfill that calling come directly from God. God uses who we are. God uses what we already have – our gifts and talents. And when necessary, God provides what additional resources we may need. So while it may be scary or uncomfortable, we can rest assured that when God calls us, we do not go it alone. He will be with us to guide and aid us as we fulfill that calling.

And sense of calling does not just apply to individuals. God also calls groups of people collectively to specific vocations. We are seeing that process at work here at Trinity. Our Strategic Planning process is one of on-going discernment as to what God is calling us to be and do, where God is calling us to go. Just because the Strategic Plan document is done does not mean we can stop. It’s just the beginning of the discernment process. In fact, the first few objectives to be tackled specifically deal with discerning our mission, both within Trinity and in the broader community.

This may be a little uncomfortable for some of us – having to step outside our comfort zones and engage in ministry out in the world. But that’s what God is calling us to do. In fact, that’s what the Gospel requires of us. In today’s Gospel lesson, we see the people of Nazareth getting all riled up and upset at Jesus. Why? Because he was pushing them outside their comfort zones. The Jewish people had always believed that God’s grace and blessings were reserved for them, God’s Chosen – for those inside their borders. But Jesus is telling them that God’s grace extends outside their boundaries. He cites examples of how and where God has worked to the benefit of outsiders: the feeding of the widow of Zaraphath, the healing of the widow’s son, the healing of Naaman the Syrian. The people of Nazareth don’t want to hear this. They don’t want to accept this. They want to keep God’s blessings for themselves.

Now I know the people of Trinity are not like the people of Nazareth. We are willing to share God’s grace, God’s abundance, with those outside our boundaries, outside our walls. We don’t fly into rages when such things are suggested. But we may be a little fearful about the prospect. It may be a little uncomfortable. But we know there are very real needs out there – needs that we can help meet. There is a hunger for God’s word out there, a hunger for tangible experiences of the presence of God and of Jesus Christ – a hunger that we can help fill. We’ve seen that in recent months. We perceived a need to provide a worship experience for those who find Christmas a difficult time. So we gave Blue Christmas a shot. And people from outside our walls came. Not a lot. But they did come, and they were fed, experiencing God as they had not experiences Him before. We perceived a need to join with other churches and do a community Las Posadas. We didn’t think a lot of people would join in. But they did. Hundreds more than any of us expected. As a result of our initiative, 500 people were fed with the experience of God’s love, and with tamales and empanadas. Was it uncomfortable doing these new things? You bet it was! But what we saw was that when we were called to something in particular, God gave us what we needed. He showed us people in our midst who had the talents and gifts needed to pull it off. He moved people from outside Trinity to offer their needed services. God provided what we needed to fulfill the calling. And God provided in abundance.

I have a feeling this is going to be a very fruitful year for Trinity – both as a faith community and for the individuals who comprise this parish. We already see the Holy Spirit moving through the community, stirring things up, prompting individuals and this parish as a whole to explore new ministries. And I see the Spirit moving more and more in the coming weeks and months and years, as we implement our Strategic Plan. We will continue to discern God’s calling, pushing us, but all the while, providing what we need when we need it. God is going to be very busy in this place. And so are we, as we accept his call. And we will rise to the occasion, as individuals and as a community. Because this is what God has formed us to do. This is what our lives have been leading us to. This is what God has consecrated us to do.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.


References
Beckmann, Kim L., et al. New Proclamation: Year C, 2009-2010, Advent through Holy Week. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009.

Davis, James Calvin. “Jeremiah 1:4-10, Theological Perspective.” In Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary – Year C, Volume 1, Advent Through Transfiguration. Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009.

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You Are My Beloved Child, With You I Am Well Pleased

First Sunday After Epiphany: Baptism of Our Lord – Year C (RCL)
Isaiah 43:1-7; Psalm 29; Acts 8:14-17; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
Sunday, January 10, 2010 – Trinity, Redlands

Just a few days ago, we celebrated the Feast of the Epiphany – the manifestation of Jesus Christ to all humanity. But the epiphanies do not stop there. During the entire period between Epiphany and the beginning of Lent, our Gospel lessons continue to present epiphanies regarding Jesus. He has been revealed to us as our Savior, but as this season we call Epiphanytide unfolds, Jesus as Messiah is disclosed to us in a number of different ways, revealing a number of attributes of this Messiah, giving us a more complete picture of what this means. The first of these epiphanies, which we explore today, is the Baptism of Our Lord.

Now, the whole subject of Jesus’ baptism seems to present a theological conundrum. All three Synoptic Gospels tell us that Jesus was baptized in the River Jordan by John the Baptizer. Mark’s Gospel specifically tell us that John’s was a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Well, if Jesus was the Son of God and was without sin, what could he possibly have had to repent? Why did he need to be baptized to have non-existent sins forgiven? The short answer is that he didn’t need to be baptized. But like so much of what Jesus did, he did not need to do it for himself, but rather needed to do it for us. And of all the accounts in the Synoptics of Jesus’ baptism, I think none provides for a better explanation of this than Luke’s portrayal, which we just read.

The irony is that while Luke says less about Jesus’ actual baptism than do Matthew and Mark, Luke actually provides the best answer to our theological conundrum. Matthew and Mark specifically tell us that Jesus came to John to be baptized and provide some detail about the baptism proper. But all Luke says, almost as an aside in the midst of John’s preaching about the coming Messiah, is “when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized . . .” What Luke is really saying is that a whole bunch of people were baptized by John, and, oh yeah, one of them happened to be Jesus. Despite seeming to be an afterthought, this statement speaks volumes.

No, Jesus did not need to be baptized. However, he was born into a system, into a world, that was tainted, fallen, broken, even though he himself was without sin. Though fully divine, he was also fully human. Being born into such a broken world tainted with and by the affects of human sinfulness, he could not have helped but be affected by it – by its presence around him – not and still continue to be human, experiencing life as we ourselves do. So while baptism would not have removed sinfulness from his person and soul, the way it does for the rest of us, Jesus’ baptism would have made a point about the very need for a salvific act to remedy the affects of a sinful world on our lives. Not that his baptism was just for show. If anything, Jesus’ baptism is not so much symbolic as it is an acknowledgement of the affect the world has on all of us, himself included, and the need for reconciliation as a result. It calls attention to the fact that there is a better way, and that that way is provided through the coming of the Messiah, sent by and of God, to provide us with new life.

Rather than just calling attention to a broken system, and pointing to a way that will ultimately redeem and heal such a system, the seemingly passing reference to Jesus being baptized along with “all the people” also conveys a sense of solidarity. The term solidarity carries two related definitions. One is being united around a common goal or against a common enemy, and the other is having a willingness to give psychological and/or material support when another person is in a difficult position or in need of affection.

Jesus’ baptism, in the context of “all the people,” conveys an act of solidarity with a world of sinners. He identified himself with the many broken and weary people who were turning to God for new life. In this act, he was uniting with them in the common goal of seeking reconciliation with God and against the common enemies of sin and evil. And he was, because of his unique situation of being both human and divine, in a position to provide support, spiritually and emotionally, to the myriad of people who feel they are in a difficult position – those struggling with sin and its affects in their lives and upon their spirits and psyches. And providing support to those who are in need of affection – need of the assurance that despite being sinful creatures, they are loved by their God nonetheless. In short, it’s all about belonging. Jesus is saying “you belong to me now.”

The tragic thing is that we in the church sometimes get the whole solidarity thing mixed up. We tend to think that the church is filled with a bunch of nice, respectable people, which it is. But because that becomes the ingrained notion, the prevailing assumption under which we operate, we sometimes come to think that when we feel particularly wracked with guilt over something we have done, when we do what all humans do at one time or another, sin, that we are not worthy of being called Christian. We are not worthy to be in the company of all those nice, respectable folks in the church. When such feelings set in, many people slip away. They don’t come to church until they get things worked out, until they can once again feel they are worthy of being with those nice, respectable people. And only when they think they have gotten their act together, do they return.

That’s not what being a Christian is about. It’s not about always being nice and respectable, about being perfect. That may be the goal, but we are not always going to be that way. But we are still Christians nonetheless. After all, Jesus did not get in line to be baptized with a bunch of respectable church folk. He got in line to be baptized with a bunch of broken sinners. Jesus’ baptism did not set him apart, but rather incorporated him into the larger group of repentant sinners, incorporating us into God’s unfailing grace. We are called to follow his lead. We are called to fall in with a bunch of repentant sinners and to support one another, just as Jesus did by stepping into that river to receive a sacrament he had no need of. But he did it anyway because we needed him to.

The act of Jesus’ baptism as portrayed in the Gospels also has a lot to tell us about what this sacrament really means from God’s perspective. None of the Synoptic Gospels say a whole lot about the details of Jesus’ baptism, but Luke says even less. For Luke, it is not so much the baptism that is important as God’s declaration of what this act of going into the waters a sinner and coming out a redeemed child of God means. This is manifested in two ways: in sign and in word.

Luke is the only Gospel to make it clear that the dove was seen by all, a certain sign of the anointing of the Holy Spirit. Both Matthew and Mark tell us that only Jesus saw the Spirit descending like a dove. But in Luke, everyone present saw the sign of Holy Spirit descending in the form of a dove. In all the Synoptic Gospels, this receiving of the Holy Spirit is an important aspect of the sacrament of baptism. And we specifically incorporate this aspect into our present-day sacrament. In the consignation, following the act of baptism, the newly baptized is anointed with oil blessed by the bishop, and the priest says “you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.”

According to Luke, this receiving of the Spirit is not a private matter, but is very public, for all to see. This is significant. John the Baptizer describes Jesus as the one who will “baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” Jesus would eventually pass on his Spirit to his disciples to enable and equip them to do the ministry God had called them to do in the world, in the absence of their Master. And in our baptisms, we too are given the gift of the Spirit. This lets us know that we are not on our own, but have the strength of the Holy Spirit to enable us, to aid us, to equip us for the work that God has called us to do in the world. And by being given in a public act, all those witnessing this act know that this newly baptized person is indeed a child of God, and are thereby charged to support this person in his or her ministry as a member of the Body of Christ. For this ministry is most effective when done in community with our fellow Christians.

The other aspect of God’s declaration received at the time of baptism is in word. All the Synoptics tell us that upon emerging from the waters of baptism, God declared “you are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” This affirmation helped sustain Jesus during his 40 days of temptation in the wilderness and on into and throughout his public ministry. So too, in our baptisms, God says, “you are my child, my beloved, with you I am well pleased.” As with Jesus, this is an affirmation that sustains us in the day-to-day trials and temptations we face. It is God’s assurance that He is with us; that the Holy Spirit is ever-present, ready to guide us; and that Christ is our constant companion.

Because we are called by name, because at baptism we are marked with the name of Jesus, we are in return free to call upon Jesus’ name, God’s name, with the assurance and confidence in God’s faithfulness toward us. And we are free to call upon the Body of Christ, the community of fellow baptized. Here again, it is the community of faith, those witnessing the act of baptism, that have a part to play in the support and further development of the newly baptized.

This is why we don’t do private baptisms any more. We now understand, as demonstrated in Luke’s portrayal of Jesus’ baptism, that baptism is a communal affair, because we as the Body of Christ have our ongoing part to play. And today, we will once again share in that communal affair as, in a few minutes, we witness and share in the baptisms of Eleni Christopherson and Marin Cummings. As we baptize these newest members into the Body of Christ, of which we are all a part, they are the ones receiving the sacrament, but we are the ones charged with helping them live into the fullness of what that sacrament means. We are charged through our renewal of our own Baptismal Vows; we are charged though our witness of them going into and rising from the waters of baptism; we are charged through our witness of them receiving the Holy Spirit, to be fellow travelers with them on their faith journeys. And that charge is first and foremost to continually echo the voice of God – to say to them, “Eleni, you are God’s beloved, and with you He is well pleased. Marin, you are God’s beloved, and with you He is well pleased.” Just as God says to all of us, over and over again, “you are my beloved daughter, you are my beloved son, with you I am always well pleased.”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Gift for the Infant King

The Epiphany – Year C (RCL)
Isaiah 60:1-6; Psalm 72:1-7,10-14; Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12
Wednesday, January 6, 2010 – Trinity, Redlands


Today we come to the end of the Christmas season, with our celebration of the Feast of the Epiphany – the commemoration of the manifestation of Jesus Christ to the Magi in Bethlehem. Throughout the last 2,000 years, much effort has been made to attach significance to the Magi – to who they were and what they represent – and to their gifts – to what they represent and even portend. But much of it is probably historically inaccurate.

We don’t know exactly who the Magi were, other than the fact that because of the term used, they were scholars, probably astrologers, from the east, from the area of present-day Iran. We don’t know their names – Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthasar were the names the Venerable Bede attributed to them nearly 800 years after the fact, but he would have had no way of knowing for sure. We don’t know for certain that they were of various races as is often portrayed in Christian art. We don’t even know how many there actually were – we just assume there were three because they brought three gifts. And the gifts they brought – gold, frankincense, and myrrh – may or may not have been chosen to represent such things as royalty and divine authority, and as a foreshadowing of the death of the Son of Man. These gifts may have had different meanings to these people from a far-distant land. Maybe they just brought what they had on hand. The fact is, we just don’t know. The only remotely reliable information we have is what is recorded in 12 verses in the Gospel According to Matthew. All else is pure speculation.

Actually, any modern theologian will tell you that the important thing about Epiphany is not the specifics, but rather the overarching meaning of the Magi. They clearly represent the revelation or manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles – to non-Jews. After all, we are told in the second verse of today’s Gospel lesson that Jesus was “born king of the Jews.” And Luke’s account of his birth clearly has the angels proclaiming that the child born in Bethlehem is the Messiah –indicating the Jewish Messiah foretold by the prophets. The Magi were the first Gentiles to recognize the coming of the Messiah. But the really important thing is that their recognition of Jesus as Messiah exemplifies the comprehensiveness of the kingdom this Messiah would one day proclaim. Their recognition and paying him homage tells us that Jesus is not just King of the Jews, but is the Messiah, the Savior, of all people.

In addition to this revelation extending Christ’s salvation to all humanity, this story of the coming of the Magi contains another all-important element – gifts. We are told that they brought expensive gifts with which to pay homage to this new king, this Messiah. I think the giving of gifts is critical to the overall message. Because implicit in this act is the message of generosity. The Magi seeking the Messiah gave of their generosity, in response to God’s generosity in giving humanity the gift of his Son, the gift of God himself made flesh, the ultimate gift of salvation.

I think the perfect illustration of the importance of gift is from one of my favorite Christmas stories, which is in reality an Epiphany story. It is the story of Aaron, the Little Drummer Boy. You’ve all heard the popular Christmas song – “Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum. A newborn King to see, pa rum pum pum pum,” etc. Perhaps some of you might remember that this song was the basis for a Rankin-Bass Christmas special first aired in 1968. Admittedly, it was a pretty crude stop-action animation production, particularly by contemporary standards, but it is still one of my favorites nonetheless.

The television show provides the supposed back-story for the popular song. Aaron is an orphan, who, because of the murder of his parents by bandits, is an incredibly bitter boy, hating all humanity. His only possession is a drum his parents had given him. And his only friends are three animals – a camel, a donkey, and a lamb. During the course of the story, Aaron has a chance encounter with three kings who are following a star. When an unscrupulous character takes Aaron’s camel, Joshua, and sells it to the three kings, Aaron sets out in search of them to try to get his friend back. Aaron’s only lead is the knowledge that the kings are following a star. So, he too sets out, following that same star. Upon arriving in Bethlehem, tragedy strikes. A Roman chariot runs over Baa-Baa, Aaron’s lamb. Baa-Baa is in critical condition, near death. Aaron figures that surely the three kings, who have great knowledge, will be able to save Baa-Baa. He continues following the star and finds the three kings. One of them tells Aaron that they do not have such power, but there is one who does – the infant king lying in the manger ahead of them.

Aaron reasons that he cannot approach this infant king and present his supplication without a gift worthy of a king. After all, the three kings brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh – gifts of great value. But Aaron has nothing. “I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum. That’s fit to give a king, pa rum pum pum pum.” So Aaron gives the only gift he can think of. He takes his drum and beats out a song for the newborn king. Aaron gives the only gift he had – the gift of himself. And when he’s finished, the baby Jesus smiles for having received such a precious gift. And in the glow of that smile, Aaron receives a gift as well. In the beauty of that infant, in the glow of his smile, Aaron sees that humanity is not something inherently evil, to be despised, but something beautiful, to be cherished. His heart softens and he experiences a sense of love and joy that he has not felt since his parents’ death. By God’s grace, Aaron is healed of what had been burdening him. And Baa-Baa? He too is healed, further adding to Aaron’s joy.

While Epiphany is about Jesus being revealed to humanity, an equally significant aspect is how he is revealed. As indicated in the Gospel lesson, Jesus is there in the manger, available to us. God provides the star to point the way, to guide us. But we have to take the initiative. It is up to us to set out on the journey in search of that which the star illumines. As such, Epiphany is even more about humanity, about us, making the journey to the manger. It is about us moving toward Jesus and recognizing for ourselves that he is our Messiah.

We journey to the manger by many different roads and out of many different motivations. Some come out of a sense of intrigue. Some come out of a sense of longing. Some come out of a sense of need. Some come out of a sense of hunger. Some come with a sorrow that needs to be cheered. Some come with an illness that needs to be healed. Some come with a burden that needs to be lifted. Some come with an emptiness that needs to be filled. Some come seeking love. Some come seeking joy. Some come seeking peace. Some come seeking hope.

No matter how we come, no matter what we seek, we are assured, by the grace of God, that we will find it in the smile of an infant king. And in addition, we will find something quite unexpected. There, at the manger, we will find total love, total acceptance, total grace. There we will find fullness of life. And the only thing we are asked to do is to give a small token in homage to the infant king. It doesn’t need to be gold, or frankincense, or myrrh. In fact, we are asked to give the only thing that is truly ours to give. We are asked to give ourselves. And while that may not seem like much, to the infant king lying in the manger, that is far more valuable gift than all the gold, frankincense, and myrrh on earth.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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"Alleluia! Christ is Risen!"

Today at the 10:15 service, I committed a liturgical faux pas. At Trinity during Christmastide, they start the services with the presider saying “Alleluia! Christ is Born!” to which the people respond “Come let us adore him! Alleluia!” Because the opening acclamation is so close to the Easter acclamation (“Alleluia! Christ is Risen!”), I was worried that I might mess up. So during the opening hymn, I kept reading and re-reading the opening acclamation so I wouldn’t mess up. But sure enough, I said the Easter acclamation instead, to which the people dutifully responded “The Lord is Risen indeed! Alleluia!” (the proper response to the Easter acclamation - they are so well trained) and then started laughing. I immediately realized what had happened. When the laughter died down, I said “okay, let’s try it again” and managed to get the right acclamation out. The people gave the correct response and then chuckled a little more and we went on with the service.

As I told David after it was all over, "Theologically, it works. After all, you can't have one without the other" (you can't have Easter without Christmas and without Easter, there would be no need for Christmas).

Then during the Peace, one of my favorite little old ladies said to me, “One of the things I love about you is that you are so human.” I told her I thought that was one of the best compliments I have ever received.

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The Word Became Flesh and Lived Among Us Version 2

First Sunday After Christmas – Year C (RCL)
Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Psalm 147:13-21; Galatians 3:23-25, 4:4-7; John 1:1-18
Sunday, December 27, 2009 – Trinity, Redlands

[N.B. This is a slightly modified version of my Christmas Day homily, created for the First Sunday After Christmas.]

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

Wait a minute! This is Christmas! What happened to all the drama and pageantry we heard about just a couple of days ago? What happened to Mary and Joseph? Where’s the child in swaddling clothes? Where’s the manger? Where are the shepherds? And what about the choir of angels singing “Glory to God in the highest?” Just a couple of days into the Twelve Days of Christmas and we’ve already moved on?

After all the build-up of Advent, all the hype that we have endured since Thanksgiving, if not before, is it too much to want more of the well-known and beloved story of Jesus’ birth in a manger in Bethlehem? Does the drama have to end after just one night? Do we have to leave the much-beloved imagery of a young girl giving birth to her child, the Son of God, in low and meager conditions, surrounded by cute and cuddly animals, under the adoring eyes of lowly shepherds and the heavenly host of angels alike? Can’t we go back to Luke’s portrayal? After all, it is so much more heart-warming and touchy-feely than the way John portrays it, with all his talk about the Word this and the Word that. It’s so cold. It’s so . . . so theological.

Sorry, but no. Life goes on. Big events in life can’t last forever – even something as big as the birth of God’s Son. We all know that, no matter how much we don’t want it to, those warm and fuzzy events in life must eventually come to an end. There’s always that let down after a big event. But is John’s portrayal of the coming of the Messiah, with all his cryptic talk like “In the beginning was the Word, and Word was with God, and the Word was God,” and about how “the Word became flesh” really a letdown?

After all the hustle and bustle leading up to Christmas Day, after the pageantry of Christmas Eve, after all the pomp entailed in “Glory to God in the highest” and “Joy to the World,” the remainder of the Christmas season is, in many respects, the time for settling in, for adjusting to the life changing event that happened on Christmas Eve. It is a chance for us to stop and catch our breath, to take a few moments and reflect on what it all means. Maybe we need the more esoteric, less sensory loaded imagery of “the Word became flesh and lived among us” to give us the space we need to take it all in, to catch up, to live into what all this really means. As the narrator noted at the conclusion of the Christmas Eve pageant: “The Father uttered one Word: that Word is His Son – and He utters Him forever in everlasting silence. And the soul, to hear it, must be silent.” Maybe that’s why we have twelve days of Christmas – to give us the time we need to be silent, at least interiorly, to let it all sink in.

After the bucolic imagery surrounding the humble birth of our Lord and King, maybe the time is right for something a little more abstract, more enigmatic, something entailing the language of mystery that is befitting such a profound, if not unfathomable, event. This is the time to reflect, and to realize that life following the events of Christmas Eve will never be the same again – life in the aftermath of the birth of the Messiah will never be the same.

No, the Prologue to John’s Gospel does not meet our expectations for drama, but it provides something even more profound – even more profound than the scene at the manger. The very fact that the Word became flesh proves that God does not conform to our expectations. Before this day, we knew God in more of an indirect, abstract way. We knew God through the revelation of scripture. We knew God through second-hand information, through the words of the prophets. Through such second and even third-hand accounts, we were able to come to believe in and worship God who was unseen, and who seemed, in so many ways, to be out there, out of reach, just beyond our grasp. But now, through the Word-made-flesh, we know God in a different way – we know God in the flesh. God-made-flesh is God manifest in body so that we might have a conception of the unseen Father, so that we might know God as we ourselves are.

But “the Word was made flesh and lived among us” means so much more. The term we translate as “lived” is more properly translated as “pitched his tent.” Or as “tabernacled.” Just as the glory of God tabernacled, lived among, the Israelites as they wandered through the wilderness, guiding them all along the way. John is telling us that in the Christmas event, God was not just born into human form. Rather, God came to be in our midst, to travel with us, to be an on-going companion on our journeys through life, just as he was with the Israelites.

But even for the Israelites, with whom God dwelt, tabernacled, God was still a mysterious houseguest at best. There was so much about God that was unfathomable to them. God may have been in their midst, but was still not truly known. There was still a distinct separation between God and worshiper, between divine and human. The Prologue of John’s Gospel indicates that such separation, such dichotomies are inherent in creation. Creation contains many things and concepts that in our limited human nature, we cannot fully fathom – heaven and earth, Creator and created, human and divine, light and dark, eternity and the time-bound, life and death, death and resurrection, acceptance and rejection, mortal life and eternal life, exclusivity and inclusivity, fallen creation and creation as God meant it to be. Such are the mysteries of the creation of which we are a part. Such are the mysteries of the One who created all things.

The Prologue reveals that all creation, along with all these dichotomies came to be through Jesus Christ, the Word. Yet, it is this same Word, in the Word-made-flesh, in the birth of Jesus, that serves as God’s act of reconciliation breaking into time and space, reconciling the dichotomies present in creation and beyond creation – reconciling those mysteries that separate Creator from the created. As such, in the Word-made-flesh, God is not just come among us. Rather, it is through this act of becoming flesh that God is allowing himself to be known to humanity in ways that He has never been known before. God is no longer an unknown and unknowable deity, but becomes a physical, flesh and blood companion, capable of knowing us and being known by us – God has come to reveal the fullness of himself, dichotomies and all. God becomes an intimate companion who wants to fully know us and who wants to be fully known.

As such, the Prologue from John serves to move the church beyond the singular birth event portrayed in Luke’s Gospel. As one commentator notes, “this passage speaks to the very heart of the Christmas message by answering the question ‘Who is the child of Bethlehem, and why should we care about his birth?’” (Bauman, 188). This passage moves the theology of the Church from “birth” to “incarnation” – to an ongoing state of God with us – a God who is no longer unseen and out there somewhere, but instead, is now God-made-flesh, who is with us, in the same form as we ourselves are. The point of the Gospel of John is that God became human through Jesus, and that as a result, He is one of us. He is truly known to us and by us. As a result, God is not distant, uninvolved, impersonal, static. Rather, God is ever-present, involved, personal, dynamic.

In the Word-made-flesh, in God-made-human, God is brought to our level, seeing humanity as we are, experiencing humanity as we do, in all its fullness – in the joys and the sorrows, in the good times and the bad. And the flip side is that in Jesus, God reveals His vision of what humanity is supposed to be. He provides the ultimate example of what humanity can be. Jesus reveals the way to true human life – to what we are intended to be. And in the Word-made-flesh, in God-made-human, we see humanity as God sees us. We see how much God loves us and cares for us, to come and be among us, to share with us that which was previously unknowable. God did not have to do this. But God chose to do it out of sheer love. That’s the true miracle of Christmas. That is the unfathomable mystery of Christmas.

This is why we need, in these days immediate following the birth of our Messiah, to hear such abstract and mysterious language as the Word-made-flesh – to let the message sink in. The event of Christmas Eve, despite all the pageantry, all the beauty, was a one-shot deal, a singular event. On the other hand, the mystical language of Word-made-flesh, the revelation of Incarnation, of God come among us, and all that that entails, is an ongoing event – the ongoing gift of our God living among us, sharing our lives with us, sharing himself with us, the ongoing assurance that we are not alone, the ongoing gift of our God who loves us unconditionally.

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth” – God-with-us, the ultimate expression, the ultimate glory, of God’s love, given to each and every one of us, his beloved children.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.


References
Bauman, Stephen. “John 1: (1-9) 10-18, Pastoral Perspective.” In Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary – Year C, Volume 1, Advent Through Transfiguration. Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009.

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The Word Became Flesh and Lived Among Us

Christmas Day – Year C (RCL)
Isaiah 52:7-10; Psalm 98; Hebrews 1:1-4, (5-12); John 1:1-14
Friday, December 25, 2009 – Trinity, Redlands


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

Wait a minute! This is Christmas! What happened to all the drama and pageantry we heard about last night? What happened to Mary and Joseph? Where’s the child in swaddling clothes? Where’s the manger? Where are the shepherds? And what about the choir of angels singing “Glory to God in the highest?”

After all the build-up of Advent, all the hype that we have endured since Thanksgiving, if not before, is it too much to want more of the well-known and beloved story of Jesus’ birth in a manger in Bethlehem? Does the drama have to end after just one night? Do we have to leave the much-beloved imagery of a young girl giving birth to her child, the Son of God, in low and meager conditions, surrounded by cute and cuddly animals, under the adoring eyes of lowly shepherds and the heavenly host of angels alike? Can’t we go back to Luke’s portrayal? After all, it is so much more heart-warming and touchy-feely than the way John portrays it, with all his talk about the Word this and the Word that. It’s so cold. It’s so . . . so theological.

Sorry, but no. Life goes on. Big events in life can’t last forever – even something as big as the birth of God’s Son. We all know that, no matter how much we don’t want it to, those warm and fuzzy events in life must eventually come to an end. There’s always that let down after a big event. But is John’s portrayal of the coming of the Messiah, with all his cryptic talk like “In the beginning was the Word, and Word was with God, and the Word was God,” and about how “the Word became flesh” really a letdown?

After all the hustle and bustle leading up to today, after the pageantry of Christmas Eve, after all the pomp entailed in “Glory to God in the highest” and “Joy to the World,” Christmas Day is, in many respects, the time for settling in, for adjusting to the life changing event that has just happened the night before. It is a chance for us to stop and catch our breath, to take a few moments and reflect on what it all means. Maybe we need the more esoteric, less sensory loaded imagery of “the Word became flesh and lived among us” to give us the space we need to take it all in, to catch up, to live into what all this really means. As the narrator noted at the conclusion of the Christmas Eve pageant last night: “The Father uttered one Word: that Word is His Son – and He utters Him forever in everlasting silence. And the soul, to hear it, must be silent.” Maybe this is the day we need to be silent, at least interiorly, to let it all sink in.

After bucolic imagery surrounding the humble birth of our Lord and King, maybe the time is right for something a little more abstract, more enigmatic, something entailing the language of mystery that is befitting such a profound, if not unfathomable, event. This is the time to reflect, and to realize that life following the events of Christmas Eve will never be the same again – life in the aftermath of the birth of the Messiah will never be the same.

No, the Prologue to John’s Gospel does not meet our expectations for drama, but it provides something even more profound – even more profound than the scene at the manger. The very fact that the Word became flesh proves that God does not conform to our expectations. Before this day, we knew God in more of an indirect, abstract way. We knew God through the revelation of scripture. We knew God through second-hand information, through the words of the prophets. Through such second and even third-hand accounts, we were able to come to believe in and worship God who was unseen, and who seemed, in so many ways, to be out there, out of reach, just beyond our grasp. But now, through the Word-made-flesh, we know God in a different way – we know God in the flesh. God-made-flesh is God manifest in body so that we might have a conception of the unseen Father, so that we might know God as we ourselves are.

The well-beloved story from Luke deals with the birth event of God-made-human. The Prologue from John serves to move the church beyond this singular birth event. It moves the church theology from “birth” to “incarnation” – to an ongoing state of God with us – a God who is no longer unseen and out there somewhere, but instead, is now God-made-flesh, who is with us, in the same form as we ourselves are. The point of the Gospel of John is that God became human through Jesus, and that as a result, He is one of us. As a result, God is not distant, uninvolved, impersonal, static. Rather, God is ever-present, involved, personal, dynamic.

In the Word-made-flesh, in God-made-human, God is brought to our level, seeing humanity as we are, experiencing humanity as we do, in all its fullness – in the joys and the sorrows, in the good times and the bad. And the flip side is that in Jesus, God reveals His vision of what humanity is supposed to be. He provides the ultimate example of what humanity can be. Jesus reveals the way to true human life – to what we are intended to be. And in the Word-made-flesh, in God-made-human, we see humanity as God sees us. We see how much God loves us and cares for us, to come and be among us. God did not have to do this. But God chose to do it out of sheer love. That’s the true miracle of Christmas. That is the unfathomable mystery of Christmas.

This is why we need, on this day following the birth of our Messiah, to hear such abstract and mysterious language as the Word-made-flesh – to let the message sink in. The events of last night, despite all the pageantry, all the beauty, was a one-shot deal, a singular event. On the other hand, the mystical language of Word-made-flesh, the revelation of Incarnation, of God come among us, and all that that entails, is an ongoing event – the ongoing gift of our God living among us and sharing our lives with us, the ongoing assurance that we are not alone, the ongoing gift of our God who loves us unconditionally.

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth” – God-with-us, the ultimate expression, the ultimate glory, of God’s love, given to each and every one of us, his beloved children.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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No Ordinary Visit

Fourth Sunday of Advent – Year C (RCL)
Micah 5:2-5a; Psalm 80:1-7; Hebrews 10:510; Luke 1:39-45(46-55)
Sunday, December 20, 2009 – Trinity, Redlands


In today’s Gospel lesson, we have the story of the Visitation – that beloved, yet somewhat strange, story of Mary, mother-to-be of Our Lord, making an impromptu visit to Elizabeth, mother-to-be of John the Baptizer. The content of their conversation notwithstanding, I say strange because of the overall circumstances involved. Yes, Mary and Elizabeth are relatives, but aside from the fact that they are both pregnant, and the circumstances surrounding both pregnancies are a little strange in and of themselves, they have little in common. Mary is a poor young girl from the outback. Elizabeth is an old woman who is presumably somewhat comfortable (after all, her husband is a priest in the Temple), living in the hill country near Jerusalem, the big city. Yet, upon hearing from the angel Gabriel that Elizabeth is also pregnant, Mary hastily makes the arduous 80-some mile trip, presumably by herself, to go see Elizabeth.

What we don’t really know from the Gospel lesson is why Mary went to visit Elizabeth in the first place. Did she go to offer her congratulations to her relative and fellow servant of God? Did she have questions or even doubts about what was happening and maybe needed a little reassurance from someone who was going through a similar situation? Did she have second thoughts about saying “yes” to God and was in need of some sort of confirmation or encouragement that she was doing the right thing? All these are certainly possible under the circumstances.

Maybe upon being visited by Gabriel and learning that Elizabeth was also pregnant, Mary was able to connect the dots and see the bigger picture of what God was doing through these two women. Maybe she felt a need to convey this to Elizabeth, to keep her in the loop. Maybe she felt a need to get Elizabeth’s take on all this, to maybe fill in more pieces of the mysterious and wonderful puzzle that was slowly being revealed.

Or maybe Mary just now begins to ponder what all this means. Given the fear and shock she would have undoubtedly experienced at being suddenly visited by a messenger from God, she probably did not really have a chance to think clearly in the presence of the angel who announced her pregnancy. In the moment she only acted out of pure trust in God, knowing that if God was asking such a far-fetched thing of her, it must be important. Afterward, she has time to think through the rational implications of what she has agreed to. Maybe she needs some time away to process, to sort out what all this means for her and for her unborn child.

Regardless of her reason for making such a trip, in her joy, in her confusion, in her questioning, Mary goes to Elizabeth – to someone whom she knows and loves, to someone who knows and loves her. Regardless of what she is thinking and feeling, Mary knows she cannot deal with it alone. She knows she needs connection with someone whom she knows, loves, and trusts.

So, the visit begins. And with Mary’s arrival at Elizabeth’s house, we have one of the most power-packed encounters in Scripture. As soon as Mary greets Elizabeth, Elizabeth’s child leaps in her womb due to some mystical recognition of Mary, but more importantly, of her unborn child. At the mere sound of Mary’s voice, because of the proximity of the as-yet unborn Lord, this six month old fetus recognizes that it is in the presence of the one who is yet to come, the one whom he himself would one day herald as Messiah.

And this encounter with the one who is to come not only affects Elizabeth’s unborn child, but also affects her. We are told that Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. Undoubtedly, the Holy Spirit was what facilitated or provided the baby’s recognition in the first place, resulting in him leaping with joy. So the Holy Spirit had a double impact on Elizabeth. First, she had the physical response of feeling the baby leaping in her womb, and a spiritual response of recognition of who Mary is and more importantly, who the baby is. In response, she is moved to offer her blessing, both of Mary and of the baby. Even though at this point, she has not had the opportunity to hear the full story of Mary’s encounter with Gabriel, she knows through the Holy Spirit that something wondrous has happened – something wondrous is about to happen. The Holy Spirit has revealed to her what up until now was only known by Mary. She knows and acknowledges that the unborn child in her midst is her Lord. And she is able to recognize what it means for Mary to have said “yes” to God’s request that she become the mother of God’s son. She blesses Mary for the selfless gift of herself in agreeing to bear the savior of the world.

Her blessing is wonderfully poetic, not just in its language, but in what it foreshadows. The prophet Isaiah may have foretold the work of John the Baptizer, but it would be John’s mother who would provide the example. Elizabeth’s blessing is a prophetic utterance, proclaiming the impending birth of her Lord, just as her own unborn son would one day be “the voice of one crying in the wilderness: prepare the way of the Lord” – the one who would prepare the way for the world to receive its Messiah.

Women aren’t given much of a place in the Bible. And we hear even fewer speak. But you have to admit, when women in the Bible are allowed to speak, they get some pretty awesome lines. And there is none more awesome than Mary’s response to Elizabeth’s blessing. After Elizabeth recognizes the ones in her midst – Mary and the unborn Son of God – Mary delivers some of the best-known words in all of Christendom: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.” In the Magnificat, Mary acknowledges Elizabeth’s blessing and takes it to the next level. Elizabeth has acknowledged the wonder that is about to happen, that this young girl will give birth to the Messiah. But just as Elizabeth’s son would one day only be able to point the way to the Messiah, so too Elizabeth can only point the way to the wonder that will ultimately be revealed. As Jesus will one day pick up the story where John must out of necessity leave off, so too does Mary pick up where Elizabeth leaves of by telling of the ultimate meaning behind the miraculous event that is yet to come.

In her response, the Magnificat, Mary highlights the world-changing ramifications of what is to happen with the birth of her child, God’s Son – the fulfillment of God’s mercy, the manifestation of God’s strength and power, the provision of God’s abundance, the expression of God’s grace. While at the time of her speaking, Jesus has yet to be born, while his revelation to humanity as Emmanuel, “God with us” has yet to occur, while the ultimate results of his coming as God incarnate have yet to come to fruition, Mary speaks in the past tense, as if the these things have already happened. God has fulfilled, and is still fulfilling, salvation history through her, through her selfless gift of herself, and through her as-yet unborn son, the one who is to come. What she proclaims transcends time. Past, present, and future merge together. The coming of the Messiah, both in the birth of Jesus and in Christ’s Second Coming, become one, as only can happen in God’s time. As one scholar notes, “Mary proclaims the promised, topsy-turvy future of God as an already-accomplished fact—possible because that future can already be glimpsed in God’s choice of Mary as the bearer of the Messiah” (Campbell, 95).

Mary bears witness to the goodness of God, to His grace and mercy, to God’s covenant faithfulness to His people – to all people. Through her proclamation in the Magnificat, Mary is the first human to proclaim the Gospel of Christ. And she proclaims it not only with words, but with her whole being. With her body, in having agreed to be the God-bearer. And in her very soul. “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my Spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” Or, as Eugene Peterson, author of The Message, a contemporary language paraphrase of the Bible, renders the first line of the Magnificat, “I’m bursting with God-news; I’m dancing with the song of my Savior God.”

Put the two pieces together – Elizabeth’s blessing of Mary and Mary’s song of praise – they, and we, begin to see the fullness of what God is doing. We see the fullness of the meaning of Advent. In Elizabeth’s blessing on Mary and her unborn child, she is heralding the birth of the Messiah. And in her song of praise, Mary is revealing the fullness of what will be accomplished through the life of her unborn son, of God-made-flesh. While she cannot know it at the time, what she proclaims about God cannot be immediately fulfilled. Such tangible displays of God’s grace and mercy as scattering the proud in their conceit, casting down the mighty, lifting up the lowly, filling the hungry, sending the rich away empty, will not happen right away. First, the one who is to come, the one who’s birth is heralded by Elizabeth and then by John, must ultimately die, be resurrected, and ascend to heaven in order for these things to begin to happen – to happen through the Body that would be left behind, the followers of this one who came and is yet to come. And these marvelous acts, these demonstrations of the awaited Kingdom of God, can only be brought to their fullness in the Second Coming.

Theirs is no ordinary visit between relatives. As a result of their visit, Elizabeth and Mary come to see themselves not in terms of their isolated, personal selves, but as a part of something larger – of God’s purposes for them, for their as yet unborn children, for humanity. Together, they see more clearly, more fully. In them, God is at work in deeply personal ways, affecting each woman uniquely and profoundly. But in these two women, God is also at work in a way that will forever change the world.

Their story carries a crucial lesson for us, for we who in this season anticipate both the birth of our Messiah and his Second Coming in glory. In bringing about these awaited events, God has used two marginalized women to proclaim and bring about the greatest news ever given to humanity. Each had their part to play. But together, they were greater than the sum of the parts. So it is with us. We each have our part to play in this, as the Body of Christ. God uses all of us, no matter how great or how small. Each of us has a message to proclaim. Each of us has work to do. But just as with Mary and Elizabeth, when we come together, our message, our work, is greater and more powerful than it would have been had we tried to go it alone.

As we come to the end of this Advent season, anticipating the one who is to come, both to a manger in Bethlehem, and to all the peoples of the world, and finally at a day and hour that we cannot know, let us rejoice in the example of two lowly women of yore, who show us what can happen when people of faith come together in community, and who together give us the hope and assurance of the glory that is to come.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.


References
Campbell, Charles L. “Luke 1:39-45 (46-55), Homiletical Perspective.” In Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary – Year C, Volume 1, Advent Through Transfiguration. Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009.

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