Sermon: A Strange Day in Zechariah's House

Luke 1:39-55

A Strange Day in Zechariah’s House

James Sledge                                                                                       December 23, 2012

It was a strange day in the house of Zechariah as two women, both pregnant, greet one another.  They are relatives of some sort.  I’d always heard that they were cousins.  The old King James translation says as much, but in fact, Luke doesn’t specify how they are related, only that they are.

They are a study in contrasts.  One is six months pregnant; the other hasn’t even begun to show.  One is old, too old to have children, so old that her pregnancy can only be described as a miracle.  The other is young, so young that she is not yet married in a culture where girls were often married by 14. 

As the door opens, the very pregnant, very old woman greets her very young, barely pregnant, barely out of childhood, niece or cousin or whatever she is. It must have been quite an encounter. They’ve not seen one another in a long time. Mary had just learned of Elizabeth’s pregnancy from the angel Gabriel.  Elizabeth has no way of knowing that Mary is pregnant, yet she knows.  Imagine the greeting, the screaming, the joy, the tears. 

Imagine poor Zechariah.  Two pregnant women in the house and he can’t even talk, struck mute by the angel Gabriel for not believing that he and Elizabeth would have a son so late in life.  I wonder if Zechariah headed out to the local tavern to escape the screaming and yelling and singing of these two pregnant women.

I also wonder why Mary went to see Elizabeth.  Is she seeking reassurance, going to confirm what Gabriel told her about Elizabeth and so confirm what Gabriel said about her own pregnancy?  Is Elizabeth is the one person who can understand, who she can talk with about these strange goings on?  Is Mary just scared, wondering why she ever said “Yes” to Gabriel, wondering what she will do when she starts to show?  Is she wondering how to tell Joseph?  Did she come to sort all of this out, or perhaps to borrow some maternity clothes.

As I said, it was a strange day in Zechariah’s house.  All these things going on.  All these unanswered questions, not to mention the more run of the mill questions about morning sickness and mood swings and midwives.  So much to discuss and talk about, yet we hear none of that.

Mary walks in, and Elizabeth’s baby jumps in her womb.  I still remember putting my hand on my wife’s abdomen and feeling a kick.  It’s an amazing thing, to feel that life moving.  You might even call it miraculous, but it’s a fairly routine miracle.  It happens all the time.  I’ve heard people try to interpret these fits of activity.  Some say that a loud noise can trigger it.  Some try to predict a child’s gender based on how vigorous the activity is.  Some claim that spicy food can send their child into all sorts of flip and flops. 

Elizabeth has a different take on her baby’s movement.  It’s a rather novel interpretation , but Luke tells us that she is filled with the Holy Spirit, so I suppose it is to be trusted.  Elizabeth fairly screams out to Mary, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”   And she calls Mary “the mother of my Lord,” all because her baby jumped or kicked.  As I said, it was a strange day in Zechariah’s house.

Curses and Blessings

Finally the Daily Lectionary starts to talk about Christmas, or at least giving us the preliminaries.  Zechariah the priest and his wife Elizabeth are getting on in years, but they have no children.  This can be extremely difficult for couples in our day, but in Elizabeth's time, a woman's worth was measured by children. She was, in ancient biblical parlance, cursed.

But as so often happens when God acts to bless or save, the story moves through those one would least expect. The messenger who prepares the way for a Messiah will come from this cursed one, this one who has endured disgrace because of her childlessness.  Strange that the Bible sometimes speaks of barrenness as a curse where God has closed a woman's womb, but then those "cursed" wombs become instruments of blessing.

Even though God routinely works this way, Zechariah (and we?) has trouble believing it, leading to his being rendered mute.  It seems a fit of pique by Gabriel.  People in the Bible routinely ask for a sign when they have a divine epiphany.  Moses asks for several.  Perhaps we shouldn't consider it entirely as punishment.  It would be a daily reminder to Zechariah of God's blessing on him and Elizabeth. Even before his wife began to show, he would not be able to forget or question God's promise. Sometimes I wish God would give me such an unavoidable and unambiguous sign as this.

Zechariah is an interesting case.  He is a priest, an important person in important circles.  But his wife is "cursed." And as this new chapter in salvation history unfolds, the angel Gabriel will go through even more unexpected channels - a not yet married teenager from a backwater town. 

In a few days, we will celebrate another Christmas in our decorated sanctuaries with all the musical fanfare we can muster.  Television will broadcast Mass and services from huge cathedrals with magnificent choirs and ornate finery.  And we'll hear these old stories of a God who goes through back channels and brings blessing and hope in unexpected ways, through unexpected people, even those who are "cursed." And we'll rejoice as we remember the birth of one who became cursed for our sakes.

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Frightened of Atheists

I confess that when I read the Daily Lectionary passages (I'm subscribed so that they are emailed to me each day.), I almost never make it to the Evening Psalm.  I read the morning psalms and other passages on most days, but stop at the gospel. I almost never make it back in the evening and didn't mean to do any differently today, but as I finished the gospel, my eyes caught the beginning of Psalm 53. "Fools say in their heart, 'There is no God.'"

I've heard a lot of Christians who seem terrified of atheists. I've never understood this, but some of them seem to think there is no bigger threat to faith than atheists. It's as though the fact of some not believing is contagious.  I'm a little suspicious that the mere fact of atheists opens a window they would rather not acknowledge, poses a question that they are afraid to consider for themselves.

There certainly are many things that work against a meaningful and deep Christian faith, but I'm not sure atheists are a significant one. I could perhaps understand feeling sorry for an atheist, hoping he might come to realize what he's missing out on, but even the more obnoxious and militant sort, those who try to convert others to their view and belittle people of faith, pose little threat to faith that has any substance.

I've heard Psalm 53 quoted as proof that God is as repulsed by atheists as some Christians are, but the psalm doesn't seem to speak of atheists at all. The fools of this psalm say there is no God "in their hearts." Nothing here about public professions of non-faith.  The psalm's ire is directed at those whose actions betray an inner disposition that doesn't acknowledges God. It does not address the sort of atheists some Christians seem to fear so much. Rather it addresses the sort who belong to churches and perhaps even attend them with some regularity but whose lives produce little evidence of being shaped by God's priorities.

The prophets and Jesus, not to mention a few psalms, regularly chastise religious folks, and almost never for failing to do worship correctly or for believing the wrong doctrines. They save their ire for those who faithfully maintain worship and religious observance but do not live in ways that demonstrate God's concern for the lost and least, the vulnerable and oppressed, the outsider and the lowly.

Most of us have likely known some atheists or agnostics whose lives seemed to reveal hearts that are canted toward God, or at least toward the desires of God.  I wonder what the psalmist would say about such folks. If they are not fools, are they in some ways wise?

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Beginning to Dream Again

The wolf shall live with the lamb,
     the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
     and a little child shall lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze,
     their young shall lie down together;
     and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
     and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den.
They will not hurt or destroy
     on all my holy mountain;
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD
                                                                    as the waters cover the sea.     Isaiah 11:6-9


They will not hurt or destroy...  What a wonderful vision. What a wonderful dream. But is that all it is, a vision, a dream?

A world without violence certainly seems like a dream. Most of us don't dare imagine such a thing. We'd be happy with less violence, with only occasional hurting or destroying on a small scale. Not hurting or destroying at all, even in just one city? That seems impossible.

I wonder if only prophets can see such things.  I don't restrict prophets to the Bible. I'm certain Martin Luther King, Jr. was a prophet.  He dreamed things that many could never imagine happening.  It hasn't happened all the way to what he dreamed, but even non prophets like most of us can see it partially now.  I suppose that's a bit like the first Christians beginning to glimpse what Isaiah had dreamed.  In Jesus they saw enough to join with Isaiah saying, "Yeah, I see it now, too."

Jesus was certainly a dreamer and a prophet.  He read a passage from Isaiah, "(The Lord) has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." And when he'd finished reading he said, "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

All the oppressed weren't freed, and the year of God's jubilee didn't really take hold in full, but Jesus could apparently see it, the way that only prophets can.  And those who drew near him began to glimpse it, too.

But somewhere along the line, Christianity lost sight of its dreams. Maybe it was when it became "Christianity," and institutional religion rather than simply followers of the dreamer, Jesus. Regardless, we traded in Jesus' dream of a new day, what he called the kingdom of God, for a ticket to heaven if we believed the right things. We relocated Jesus' dream to another place even though Jesus clearly was able to dream it and see it right here on earth.

The Apostle Paul says in 1 Corinthians that no one can say Jesus is Lord without the Holy Spirit. (I assume he talking about actually meaning it and not just saying the words.)  And he insists that all members of the body of Christ are given gifts of the Spirit, including some who are given the gift of prophecy.  I think we would do well to discover who they are in our churches, and see if they can't help us begin dreaming again.

Even within church congregations, we often seem unable to imagine anything but the possible, the things we can manage on our own, the things that seem reasonably doable. No visions and dreams, just doable action plans, the same sort of things devised in company offices and corporate boardrooms.

We say "It's only a dream" to dismiss something, to write off an idea as impossible. But prophets, including the prophet Jesus, dream dreams.  And they call us to catch their dreams, their visions.

God, we need some dreams.  Help us to dream again.

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What To Do?

I'm still not sure about what I preached yesterday.  I don't mean I thought it was a bad sermon (at least no worse than the norm). Rather, I'm not sure if it was the correct response to the horrific events of Friday.  Should I have spoken more directly to the events? I really don't know.

I had already written a sermon on John the Baptist, and perhaps I didn't want to "waste" it.  But I did think it fit is some ways. It talked about the "What then should we do?" question asked by those who came out to John in the wilderness, those John called snakes. Maybe I wasn't specific enough, but I think that question is an appropriate one in light of the Sandy Hook shootings.

John says, "Bear fruit worthy of repentance." And some of the specific actions he recommends begin to equalize society. Those with two give to those with none. It has a rather socialist feel to it, as does a great deal of Luke/Acts.  And this is the repentance, the change John calls for to get ready for the one is who coming.

Today's gospel lection describes Jesus' arrest. It ends with Jesus saying to the authorities, "But this is your hour, and the power of darkness!" Darkness still seems to be exercising a great deal of power.  So what does it mean to stand for the light at such a time?

Perhaps yesterday's sermon only hinted at it, but I do think the question, "What then should we do?" is about how to stand for the light. It is about bearing witness to the light, to a new day, a redeemed society, a different world. And contrary to many religious voices, this new thing does not involve a going back. It is not a nostalgia for bygone days.  It is a hope for days that have  never been, at least not fully.

"Putting God back in the schools," whatever that actually means, does not get ready for the light in any significant way. That is so much religious window dressing, the very sort of thing that prompted John to say, "Do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our ancestor.'" John wants to see something much more substantial, much more concrete.

Exactly what needs to happen with regard to better gun regulations or better access to mental health care will require serious discussion and debate, but there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that an essential move toward the light is less concern about me and my rights and more concern about the needs of the other, including the safety of young children. 

In the Apostle Paul's famous words on love (not romantic love by the way), he says love is at the top of the list, above faith and hope. And love "does not insist on its own way." At some fundamental level, rights are about protecting people and not running roughshod over them. But at the level they often operate in our society, they are about "I want it my way, and I don't care what impact that has on anyone else."

I don't have well formed answers for how events like those of last Friday could happen or why God didn't intervene in some way. That we are about to celebrate the birth of a Messiah born into a hostile world, nearly killed himself as a child, and finally executed by the state with assistance from his own religion, surely says something about God's way of entering into our world.  But yesterday, I wanted to hear from, John who yells at people, "Do something!"

We may never be able to fully answer the "Why?" questions, but we can surely set about making such events less likely.  We can surely create a world where it would be much more difficult to shoot scores of people, and we can surely create a world where it is easier to get effective mental health treatments for those who need them. Just as we could create a world with less poverty and hunger if we truly wanted to.  And that sounds to me just like what John the Baptist says we need to be doing if we are to "get ready."  We cannot bring the kingdom, that hoped for new realm of God, but we can point toward it. We can aim in its direction.

There is still darkness, and its time is not fully run out. But it did its best against Jesus and failed. And so we who follow him must surely be about the work, the doing, of that which reveals light.

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Sermon video: Of Snakes and Imperatives

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Sermon: Of Snakes and Imperatives

Luke 3:7-18

Of Snakes and Imperatives

James Sledge                                                                               December 16, 2012

I’ve never been very big on poetry and never much cared for the practice of pastors quoting poems in their sermons, something I heard a bit of growing up. But I am drawn to song lyrics, my version of poetry I suppose. And a song from my favorite group, The Mountain Goats, immediately came to mind when I first read today’s gospel.

I’m not about to attempt singing it, so I realize that, for all practical purposes, I am going to subject you to the sort of poetry reading I never much cared for growing  up.  Sorry about that.  An even bigger concern; I’m not at all sure what the song means.  It has a connection to our gospel reading, but I’m not really clear about its message.  That might argue against using it, but I’m also somewhat puzzled by our gospel reading today.  So I’ll go ahead and recite some puzzling song lyrics.

Sun just clearing the tree line when my day begins.
Slippery ice on the bridges, Northeastern wind coming in.
You will bruise my head, I will strike your heel.
Drive past woods of northern pine, try not to let go of the wheel.

Dream at night, girl with the cobra tattoo
on her arm, its head flaring out like a parachute.

Prisms in the dewdrops in the underbrush.
skate case sailors' purses floating down in the black needle rush.
Higher than the stars I will set my throne.
God does not need Abraham, God can raise children from stones.

Dream at night, girl with the cobra tattoo
And try to hear the garbled transmissions come through.[1]

Along with haunting music you didn’t hear, there’s a lot going on in these verses. A tattoo of a snake, a viper.  A line borrowed from the Garden of Eden story.  A line from Isaiah’s taunt of those who foolishly imagine themselves equals to God, right next to an echo of John the baptizer’s warning to “children of Abraham.”  Not to mention the line about garbled transmissions, which could sometimes describe my prayer life. 

I’m not at all sure what to make of it. Is it about someone drawn to the devil, to evil? Is this someone who finds himself fated to enmity with another, even with God. Is it a lament over patterns in which he is trapped? I don’t know, but nevertheless I feel myself drawn to it.

At times I feel much the same about Luke’s picture of John the Baptist.  Last week Luke told us that John was proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  And today we hear that crowds came out, drawn to that message.  Now if I were holding a tent revival in the wilderness and huge crowds showed up, I’d think that a good thing. But John calls them snakes; not some of them, but all of them; a brood of vipers, children of serpents.

Beginning to Live

Today's meditation from Fr. Richard Rohr contains this quote from C. K. Chesterton. "When a person has found something that he (she) prefers to life itself, he (she) for the first time has begun to live." This is little more than a paraphrase of Jesus insisting that we find our life only when we are willing to lose it for the kingdom.

In the soul searching that is going on following yesterday's tragic shooting in Connecticut, perhaps we would do well to think about what it is that gives us life, life in any real sense.  What are those things that matter to us more than life itself?

The unbelievable horrors of yesterday have spurred many to say we must talk seriously about guns in our culture. Why is it that you are so much more likely to be killed by a gun in American than in any other developed nation? But inevitably this conversation raises the issue of "rights," the right to bear arms, the freedom to do as we choose.

Perhaps the concept of personal rights and liberties is that thing some prefer to life itself. But so many of the voices I hear are concerned primarily with "my rights."  That stance is by no means restricted to the issue of guns. The insistence on "my rights" permeates our society in a way that is corrosive. It often has little interest beyond the self. It is not about building a better world, a truer community, or anything in the least bit resembling the new realm Jesus proclaims.  It is about protecting what's mine. And if Chesterton and Jesus are correct, such as stance is not life giving, but life draining.

Some religious sorts have responded to yesterday's shootings with, "Well this is what happens when you take God out of the school." But besides the problematic logic of such statements, there is something terribly formulaic about them. They reduce God to a cosmic Santa Claus who either rewards us when we are good or leaves us an awful lump of coal when we are not.  (And "good" here is rarely defined as Jesus defined it, loving neighbor and caring for the neediest.)

But it seems to me that a commitment to building a better world, one that is more just, safer, more caring of the needy, more focused on the good of all - a commitment to something that sounds like Jesus' kingdom, even if it is a secular enterprise - is much more life giving than any call to put prayer back in the schools.

For many, perhaps most people, yesterday's horror yanked us out of ourselves; out of our small preoccupations and petty concerns.  Most of us were confronted with something so much more terrible than anything we face. And if there is any chance to bring something resembling life out of such a tragedy, perhaps it would be simply not to turn back inward. Can we find something that is bigger than us to work for and serve, something that can begin to give life?

A Borrowed Prayer

It's difficult to find any meaningful or helpful words in the wake of the terrible shooting in Connecticut. For this moment, perhaps prayers are the best thing.  I found a prayer by Walter Brueggemann that had been edited for today's tragedy and posted by a friend on Facebook.  Here it is

Had we the chance,
we would have rushed to Bethlehem
to see this thing that had come to pass.

We would have paused at that barn and pondered that baby.

We still pause at that barn--
and ponder that all our babies are under threat,
all the vulnerable who stand at risk before predators,
our babies who face the slow erosion of consumerism,

our babies who face the reach of sexual exploitation,
our babies who face the call to war, placed in harm's way,
our babies, elsewhere in the world,
who know of cold steel against soft arms
and distended bellies from lack of food;
our babies everywhere who are caught
in the fearful display of ruthless adult power.

We ponder how peculiar this baby at Bethlehem is,
summoned to save the world,
and yet also, like every child, also at risk.

Our world is so at risk,
and yet we seek
and wait
for this child named "Emmanuel."
Come be with us, you who are called "God with us."

-- W. Brueggeman, shortened and edited, in light of the elementary school shooting

Advent and Christmas Crosses

At a gathering of pastors this afternoon, the question of whether we were singing Christmas carols yet in our congregation came up. Answers varied, but the general consensus seemed to be that carols began to sneak in on the 3rd Sunday in Advent, and generally arrived by the 4th.  But the Daily Lectionary hasn't yet gotten the memo. Today the gospel reading tells of preparation for Jesus' last supper, and the lectionary will not take a decisive turn toward Christmas until the end of next week.

For many people it seems odd to be reading about Jesus' arrest only days prior to Christmas Eve services. But of course, the heart of the Christian story is in Holy Week. Neither John nor Mark feels any need to mention Jesus' birth in their gospels. And the "Christmas story" is only in Luke.  That in no way diminishes the Christmas story, but it reminds us that Christmas is only an opening scene in a story whose plot revolves around the cross.

Many people would rather not have crosses at Christmas, unless they are pretty, decorative ones. I think I've written here before about how I once took the rough cross we used during Lent and leaned it against the empty manger that sat in our sanctuary during Advent. A lot of people were very offended and told me so.  I didn't do it again in the years that followed, but I wondered if perhaps I should have, at least occasionally. 

Many are familiar with the term "Christmas and Easter Christians."  These are folks generally not seen at church except for these celebrations. They, understandably, want to participate in the joy of Jesus' Incarnation and his Resurrection, but they would rather skip over the road he walks and the cross that stands at the end of that road. And even a lot of us year round Christians prefer to do the same, even if we do so in a less literal manner. We prefer the "cheap grace" that Bonhoeffer wrote about 75 years ago, "grace without discipleship, grace without the cross."

I don't want to dampen the celebration of Christmas. That Jesus enters into human history demands that we celebrate and give thanks, but we can never detach that celebration from the call of Christ to follow him. To do so is to deny ourselves the newness we are promised in Christ. It is for God to leave us right we are, doing nothing more than patting us on the head and saying, "There, there. It's alright."

But the birth of a Messiah heralds a wonderful and new thing, a whole new realm that is breaking into the world as we know it.  And only in following Jesus do we begin to experience and live in that new realm, that kingdom of God, now.

“In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night… Now the festival of Unleavened Bread, which is called the Passover, was near. The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to put Jesus to death.” These verses from different parts of Luke may jar and even upset us when set side by side. But perhaps that is nothing more than the jarring difference between the realm where we currently live and the realm that we begin to know in following the way of Jesus.

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Sermon video: Searching for Wilderness

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Darkness, Light, and "Merry Christmas"

I learned of a pastoral situation today that reminded me of the world's darkness, the ways in which terrible things that make no sense tear apart people's lives.  Such darkness defies easy explanation and shatters quaint platitudes such as, "God never gives us more than we can handle." (That's nowhere in the Bible, by the way.) Sometimes such darkness feels overwhelming.

Religious people sometimes have more trouble with darkness than agnostics or atheists. If there is no God then it's no one's fault. It's simply a matter of chance or fate or unfortunate chains of events. But we who proclaim a God must wrestle with why God lets things get this way.  And we who follow the Messiah must contend with why the world seems not much changed from the one prior to his arrival.

We religious sorts have devised all sorts of explanations and blame for the darkness. It's the devil's fault or the result of "The Fall."  The world is trapped in sin that propagates darkness. Sometimes such explanations help us make sense of things, but they sometimes provide small comfort when the darkness strikes us. 

Religion sometimes spends so much energy defending or arguing its explanations for darkness and the means of escaping it that it provides little help to those actually struggling with darkness.  That seems to happen in today's gospel where religious authorities are so loyal to their rules and explanations that they have no concern over the darkness that envelopes a woman caught in adultery. And they are frightened and threatened by Jesus, who is remarkably free of their conventions and explanations.

We religious folks often seem to think we can fight the darkness by getting all our explanations and rules and rituals just right. We fight amongst ourselves over doctrines and worship styles and ordination standards with a passion that suggests the kingdom will arrive the moment we get everything clarified. Meanwhile we ignore countless people who are swept up in darkness while we busily tend to our little religious institutions, too busy to offer much light.

I think the ridiculous battles over "Merry Christmas" are a trivial example of this. As foolish as I think this fight is, I can only imagine how it appears to a non-Christian. In the face the darkness of war and poverty and homelessness and disease and meaninglessness and more, some Christians only want to chastise those who utilize the wrong seasonal greeting.  What a ray of light in the midst of the darkness. Jesus must feel honored.

For the last 15 years or so, I have read these verses from John's gospel as a part of worship on Christmas Eve.  "What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it."

Interesting that the darkness is entered into but not eliminated. It is presumed but not really explained, and no blame is assigned. And in the midst of all this, the light shines and persists, a hope that cannot be consumed by the darkness. It does not flail against the darkness or seek to beat it into submission. It simply shines, confident that this is enough.

At those Christmas Eve services, we dim the sanctuary lights as we pass the flame from candle to candle. In a darkened sanctuary, we lift our candles, their small lights punctuating the thick darkness. The candles and their flames are small, but the light is impressive, even more so aswe lift them high. The light shines in the darkness.

Unfortunately, we blow them out before we leave.

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