Sermons and thoughts on faith on Scripture from my time at Old Presbyterian Meeting House and Falls Church Presbyterian Church, plus sermons and postings from "Pastor James," my blog while pastor at Boulevard Presbyterian in Columbus, OH.
The world is slowly returning to “normal” following Christmas. There may yet be a few after-Christmas shopping excursions, but it feels less and less like Christmas to many. Never mind that for the Church, the season of Christmas runs to January 6. Christmas is over.
At least it is for those who look for Christmas to inject a bit of momentary magic into their lives and then fade away. Don’t get me wrong, I love a little Christmas magic as much as the next person, but this seasonal lift is only vaguely connected to Christian faith. The sparse treatment of Christmas in the Bible reminds us that it is but the beginning of a story, the start of a new chapter in the story of God’s love for humanity.
But of course God’s love in nothing new. It is on display in today’s reading from Isaiah. The people of Israel look at their desperate situation and conclude that God has forsaken them. But God responds, “Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.”
From its opening, the Bible continually tells us that God will not give up on humanity, that despite human foolishness and waywardness, God reaches out to us, God moves towards us. The newness that Christmas reveals is the demonstration of just how far God will go in this work of reconciliation and healing. Not only will God become fully immersed in the pain and suffering of humanity in Jesus, but God invites us into the work of healing and reconciling.
Christmas begins a story that calls us to trust the promise of Isaiah, that God cannot forget us. And when we can fully trust ourselves to that love, we can become more and more like Jesus, able to live out God’s love for the world, even when it is costly for us. And this new beginning of Christmas is never “over.” It is still making all things new. It is still calling us to become new creations in Christ. And it is still working to move the world toward the coming rule of God.
After all our preparations for Christmas, the gospel reading from Matthew 2:13-23 drags us away from Christmas joy to Jesus in danger and babies killed by Herod. Not what we might want to hear so close to Christmas day, but perhaps a voice calling us to embrace the season of Christmas and join in the new Exodus story that begins here.
On a day when we had a single, less formal worship service, this sermon was "off the cuff," and so there is no accompanying text to post.
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing... Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water.
On Christmas Eve, the Daily Lectionary doesn't say much about Christmas. The gospel does report the birth of John the Baptist, but nothing about a baby Jesus. But the words of Isaiah speak the hope of this night. The barren desert shall break forth in vegetation. The blind shall see and the lame leap and run. Death will turn to life, brokenness will be healed, and none will miss out on the fullness of life.
Tonight, as we remember a Savior's birth, we say that promise has arrived, and we celebrate. Oh, we know that there is still much brokenness. We know there are many who are denied anything close to full life. But if, as Jesus himself insists, the Kingdom of God has drawn near with the Messiah's birth, then history is already being bent toward the end of brokenness and woundedness and death.
As Christians, we do not for a moment deny the darkness of the world, the darkness into which comes the light. We know that this light shines in the darkness, in the pain and brokenness of our world. But we also know that the darkness cannot overcome the light. We know that death cannot overcome the hope born tonight. In Jesus, we see God at work in our world, moving history toward God's end.
And so, even though we see the darkness, we see even more clearly the hope. And so, no darkness can diminish the joy and celebration we experience, as we sing praises for the light, for Hope born this night.
In one more day, church pews will swell as people gather to celebrate the birth of a Savior. It is easy to understand why the promise and hope of Jesus' birth draws lots of folks. The notion of God with us, God for us, is incredibly compelling. And the nativity story from Luke's gospel is so well known - even if you never have been to a church, you've at least heard in from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" - that many people don't feel like it's Christmas without hearing those words once more.
But as wonderful as those Christmas Eve services are, they are not without some difficulties for people of deep faith. As an interesting piece in the New York Times, "A Tough Season for Believers," pointed out, Christmas Eve can be a troublesome reminder of how the Christmas story has become just another piece of seasonal entertainment for many Americans, along with going to the Nutcracker and watching "Miracle on 34th Street."
But some of the trivialization of Christmas may be our own doing. We celebrate the birth of a Savior, but we often have defined salvation so narrowly that it's no wonder it doesn't carry much freight with the culture. For many of us, salvation means little more than getting our tickets validated for heaven. But this spiritualizing of salvation doesn't fit well with the biblical witness or with Jesus' own words. Jesus speaks of a kingdom where God's will is done on earth, a rule that he insists has "drawn near." Matthew's story of Jesus' birth takes pains to connect Jesus' story to that of Moses, to portray Jesus as a new Moses who rescues us.
And today's psalm gives a good picture of what God's rescue and salvation looks like. I love you, O LORD, my strength. The LORD is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer, my God, my rock in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised, so I shall be saved from my enemies. The cords of death encompassed me; the torrents of perdition assailed me; the cords of Sheol entangled me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called upon the LORD; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Then the earth reeled and rocked; the foundations also of the mountains trembled and quaked, because he was angry.
The Christmas story is about a God who takes decisive action to save, to bring the world back to its senses, to restore and set right. It is not simply a moment of warmth to cheer us at this time of year. It is the promise that God is active in human history, that God will bend human history to God's desire.
We modern people have become used to relegating God to a narrow, spiritual sphere that does not hold sway over large portions of our lives. But Christmas insists that God comes surprisingly into the day to day. It insists that God's salvation will stop at nothing short of a redeemed and restored world for all.
In yesterday's gospel, Mary appears as a model disciple who willingly answers God's call. But today Mary is a prophet, singing ahead of time (to borrow the title of a Barbara Brown Taylor sermon). Mary is barely even pregnant, but she sings that God "has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts... has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly... has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty." Not that God will do these things but God has done these things.
As Barbara Brown Taylor notes in her sermon, prophets are forever getting their verb tenses wrong. Biblical prophets generally do not predict the future in the mode of psychics or crystal ball gazers. Rather they have a clearer sense of what God is up to, a better feel for the ways the world operates at odds with God's plans, and so a better sense of where that all leads. And since Mary has already experienced God acting through the baby growing in her womb, she speaks of where this will end up as though it has already happened.
As much as many of us love Christmas, I'm not so sure we like where Mary sees things headed. We're fine with the lowly and the hungry being helped out, but not so sure about the powerful and the rich being brought down. We're not as sure about this reign of God that Mary experiences as already present in some way.
I know that I do not like to think that the abundance I enjoy is in any way a factor in others being kept down, in others being poor, powerless, and hungry. I don't like to contemplate the possibility that I need to be brought down a few notches for the things to be set right. And so I'd prefer to celebrate the joy of Christmas without seeing where it leads. I'd rather not sing ahead of time with Mary. I'd rather sing "Glory to God in the highest" along with the angels, visit the manger with the shepherds, say I'm glad that God is at work in the world, and leave it at that. Jesus is simply a lot less trouble if all he ever does is get born and the rise from the dead at Easter.
I've said this before but think it bears repeating. I think the Church lost its bearings when way back in the days of Constantine, it made an alliance with the powerful and the rich that required relocating the reign of God Mary sees to some heavenly bliss after we die. But Mary doesn't say, "In heaven things will be different." She does not speak of us going to a better place. She speaks of God transforming this place by radically reordering things. She says it is happening even now, but apparently God's Spirit must already be at work in us if we are to see it.
If the Catholic Church has venerated Mary, we Protestants have largely ignored her, which is most unfortunate. Not that I want to add "Ave Maria" to our choir's repertoire, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't acknowledge her shining example of discipleship as depicted in Luke's gospel reading today.
Most Christians know the story. The angel Gabriel comes to the young Mary, telling her that she will conceive and give birth to a son named Jesus. The problem with this plan is obvious to Mary, who explains to Gabriel that she is a virgin. But of course this is no problem with God involved. As witnessed by the old and barren Elizabeth who is now pregnant, "nothing will be impossible with God."
Now I assume that Mary enters into this a bit like all parents. No prospective parent fully realizes what will be required of her once the baby comes, once the terrible twos arrive, once the child becomes a teenager, and so on. But I have to think that Mary knows this will not be easy. Saying "Yes" to God will leave her pregnant before she's married, and, as she will learn shortly after Jesus is born, "a sword will pierce (her) own soul too." But still Mary says, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word."
Since nothing is impossible for God, things proceed as Gabriel has said. But what if Mary had said, "No" instead? The story doesn't really consider that option, but still it seems that God's impossibility requires Mary's "Yes," just as it will continue to require a "Yes" from those Jesus calls to follow him. I've never fully understood why God works this way, but God's plans, God's future, God's hope for a new day, all seem to require a "Yes" from people. And that "Yes" almost always gets those people mixed up in all sorts of difficulties.
Over the centuries, Christians have sentimentalized the Christmas story, turned it into something all sweet and lovely. But Mary's "Yes" turns her life upside down, and it will include watching her own son die horribly on a cross. She can't possibly know all that when she speaks with Gabriel, but she seems to know her Scripture, and so she knows that whenever you say, "God, I'm your servant; do with me as you see fit," life is about to get messy.
And in the end, maybe this is why it is more palatable for Catholics to venerate Mary and for Protestants to regard her as little more than a teenage baby incubator. Neither requires us to take seriously what it means to say "Yes" to God.
It happens over and over and over in the Bible. God's newness springs from the most surprising places, from places that had been given up for dead. The story goes all the way back to Abraham and Sarah, when God forms a covenant people from an old, childless couple. The story echoes in the birth of Samuel to Hannah, in the return of exiles from Babylon, and in the beginning of Luke's story of Jesus.
Luke, the source for our Christmas nativities, begins his story with Elizabeth and Zechariah who "had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years." It is another unlikely place to begin a story of hope and newness, with an elderly couple who have no children. But once again, this is precisely where God starts.
In ancient times, barrenness was thought to be a curse from God. Some texts speak of "God closing her womb." And so in stories such as this one, God's newness not only comes from what appears dead, but from what is presumed to be cursed.
As we draw near to Christmas, congregations such as mine are planning their biggest extravaganzas of the year. We will go all out to celebrate the birth of a Savior. In one sense the is quite appropriate, but in another sense it mirrors our culture's notion that anything important and worth notice is big and vibrant and filled with activity.
Amidst all the Christmas frenzy, both inside and outside the Church, I wonder where, in a place that seems lifeless and hopeless, God is at work creating something new. I wonder where we should turn our gaze so that we might see where God's newness is being born from what seemed to be dead.
Joseph was a "righteous man," a law-abiding, do-what-is-right, upstanding citizen, play-by-the-rules sort of guy. Yet for God's plans to move forward, he must break the rules and say "Yes" to a dream.
Joseph was a “righteous man.” It says so right there in our gospel reading this morning. Of course I’m not sure that very many of us have a real clear image of what a righteous man looks like. After all, when was the last time you heard anyone called a righteous man or a righteous woman? Not a term that get bandied around in everyday conversation.
So then, who in our world looks like Joseph? Who would our gospel writer, if he were alive today, say is righteous?
I thought about that question for a while when I was working on this sermon, trying to come up with something comparable for our day. Occasionally when a person has died and I’m talking with people about a funeral, someone will say, “He was a good Christian fellow” or “a good Christian woman.” That might be a candidate, except that I have learned over the years that this label gets applied to anyone who ever belonged to a church and isn’t a registered sex offender.
There are other possibilities, though: “a pillar of the community.” We hear of people who have “great integrity and morals.” There are those who always “do the right thing.” There are “good citizens” and there are good sports who always “play by the rules.”
I suppose that Joseph is all this and more. After all, near the end of Matthew’s gospel, when Jesus speaks of those who unwittingly fed him when he was hungry or visited him in prison when they did it to “the least of these,” he calls them “righteous.”
And so Joseph is the sort of fellow who always goes above and beyond, who returns the bag of money that falls from the armored truck, who pays the sales tax on the television he bought online, who always opens his wallet for the needy person who approaches him on the sidewalk, and gives at least 10% of his income to the local church.
Yet this Joseph is all set to undermine God’s plans when we first meet him. He’s not doing it out of meanness or spite, but nonetheless, he is about to make the mother of Jesus a single mom in a world that offered no protections for such mothers or their children, in a world where only prostitutes were expected to find themselves alone with a child.
Joseph is a good and decent guy, a pillar of the community who always does the right thing, and so he doesn’t want to hurt Mary. But there are rules, and the law is clear. He will try to spare her and “dismiss her quietly.” But of course people will still find out. People will still talk. But what else can Joseph do? Rules are rules.
If you are a regular reader of the letters to the editor, you may have noticed the string of letters in the Columbus Dispatch sparked by Upper Arlington Lutheran pulling out of their denomination over objections to ordaining gays and lesbians. In the usual way such letters go, someone spoke against what UALC did, prompting someone to defend them, which prompted someone to respond to that letter, and so on.
None of the writers seemed to be official spokespersons for the church, so keep that in mind, but I was quite struck by a line in one the letters defending the decision to leave the denomination. The writer argued that they had no choice. They had to follow the rules. In fact, said the letter writer, God is bound by those rules, too. “God cannot trump his truth with his love. He will not.”
I’m always a little surprised at the way some Christians think God’s love is confined within whatever boundaries they imagine for it. Often these boundaries are lifted from the Bible, but the trouble is; there are often other passages in the Bible that show God crossing that very same boundary. Jesus had no trouble routinely crossing religious boundaries that the church authorities of his day said were absolute. Whether it was Sabbath keeping or not touching people who were “unclean,” both straight from the Bible, Jesus would ignore such rules if doing so allowed him to help someone, heal someone, or show God’s love.
And in our gospel verses this morning, Joseph finds himself in a position where embracing God’s plan means ignoring the rules and crossing religious boundaries. Now I suppose we could get technical and say taking Mary as his wife only seems to be against the rules. She isn’t pregnant because she cheated on Joseph; at least that’s what Joseph dreams.
How many of you would make the sort of decision Joseph did on the basis of a dream? “Joseph, don’t worry about Mary already being pregnant. God did it. Go ahead and take her as your wife, and claim the child and raise him as your own.”
If I had such a dream, I can just imagine my thought process the next day. “Well in my dream, the angel said this was all part of God’s plan, so maybe I wouldn’t actually be breaking the Law. But if God really wanted me to adopt this baby, couldn’t God have told me first, let us get married, and then get Mary pregnant?”
I don’t know about you, but I think it highly likely I could talk myself out of doing what the dream said. And if I was as straight an arrow as Joseph? A dream – God’s Law… God’s Law – a dream (weighing the two in my hands as though scales).
Today is the last Sunday in Advent. Finally we get to hear about a pregnant Mary and the baby Jesus. We finally get to see God’s plan take shape. But many of us have been doing Christmas for so long that there isn’t much surprise left in it. For us, Christmas isn’t about rule breaking and crossing religious boundaries. It isn’t about being surprised at the lengths God will go to save and restore, the risks God will take to draw us into the divine embrace.
But from beginning to end, the story of Jesus defies convention, breaks rules, upsets the status quo, and crosses cherished religious boundaries. It is quite remarkable. And perhaps even more remarkable, the whole plan depends on others joining God in this surprising, boundary-crossing enterprise. Mary must say “Yes.” Joseph must disregard the rules and “Yes” to a dream. Fishermen must drop their nets and say, “Yes” to Jesus’ call. And we must say a “Yes” of our own.
As we celebrate another Christmas, as we bask in the warmth of God’s love become flesh in Jesus, we also hear once more the promise of God’s coming new day, a day that brings good news to the poor, justice, and peace. We encounter this strange Messiah who regularly crosses boundaries, upsets religious sensibilities, breaks the rules, and upends the status quo, all to point to God’s new day, God’s coming rule.
And in the wisdom of God, this coming Kingdom requires us to do our part. It requires more than right beliefs, more than following the rules, more than being moral. It requires our “Yes.” It demands a “Yes” that trusts divine dreams and visions, and trusts that God’s love is the most powerful thing in all creation. It demands a “Yes” that would risk anything, even life itself, to be a part of the new thing God is doing.
Joseph was a righteous, law-abiding man, and rules are rules. And yet, When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.
