"When You See These Things Taking Place..." (Reflections on Advent 1, Year C, 2021)

 

"Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” (Luke 21:28) 

Yikes! 

Jesus seems to be painting a pretty nasty picture in our gospel lesson for Advent 1, Year C (Luke 21:25-36). What’s particularly nasty about it is that it looks like everything he’s talking about is coming true right now. If we’re not seeing signs in the sun and the moon, we’re certainly seeing some wild stuff here on earth. People may not be fainting with foreboding, but there’s more than enough foreboding to go around. Don’t you feel it? 

You don’t need a crystal ball or an angelic visitation to know that the whole world is at a tipping point. It may not be the end of the world, but it’s sure going to be the end of something—and it’s going to get scarier before it gets better. 

When Luke wrote his gospel (and we believe that was sometime around 85 CE although no one really knows for sure), things were looking rather grim. The Jewish people had launched an all-out war of revolution against their Roman overloads, and got soundly whooped. The great temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, and the whole theology of cultic sacrifice was shot to pieces. If you were a Sadducee, you were out of business. If you were an Essene hiding out in the desert waiting for God to intercede, you were disappointed. If you were a Zealot jihadist, you were killed in battle or crucified. If you were Jewish at all, your whole idea of what it meant to be God’s Chosen was something you might’ve started to question. 

Of course, Jesus knew all of this was going to happen, and he didn’t seem to be too alarmed about it. For just about everyone else, however, it was a time of devastating loss—and loss means pain. Even the anticipation of loss is painful, the fear that things are going to change and not be the way we’re comfortable with having them. 

Isn’t that where we’re at today? We hear on the news about climate change. We’re in a race against time, and, quite honestly, I think time is going to win. That’s going to mean rebuilding and reprioritizing. A changing weather pattern and rising seas will probably mean some of our favorite vacation spots may not exist thirty years from now. It will mean some industries will disappear, and that may lead to a whole new economy. It may mean an influx of climate refugees, and the majority of Americans may not look like me anymore (and that really scares some people!). 

I know that I’m scared of the polarization of American politics, the viciousness of our discourse, and the miasmic fog of nonsense lots of people seem to be believing these days. The January 6 assault on the Capital was something I never dreamt was possible in America. What will the next few years look like if we give in to arrogant nationalism, xenophobia, and the worship of firearms? You don’t need to be a prophet to know that something is up. Times are changing, and they don’t look all that rosy. 

And to top it off, we are also staring down the barrel of a changing church. American Christianity in general—and Lutheranism in particular—is taking something of a beating from a shifting culture, the gig economy, an addiction to cyberspace, and the vanishing Sabbath. . In our own congregation we see an aging membership, declining worship attendance, and serious deficit spending. If these things weren’t enough, we must now deal with the unpredictable consequences of COVID-19. What is to become of us in the next few years? 

One thing must be certain: things will never be the way they were. 

So what does Jesus tell us? He tells us to keep alert, not to hide from change, but to face it head on. He tells us that our redemption is drawing near—even if it may not look much like redemption to us. He reminds us that God is always with us and that his words will not pass away even when it seems like everything else is dissolving before our eyes.       

 When Jerusalem fell and the temple was destroyed, something new emerged. The Pharisees—who weren’t into ritual sacrifice as much as they were into parsing every syllable of the Law of Moses—created what would evolve into rabbinic Judaism. But a new religion was also emerging—that which adhered to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. For some the world was ending, but for others a whole new way of loving God was unfolding. 

No meaningful change can come without pain and loss. The birth of a child can’t be accomplished in any comfortable way, but when the pain is over, the joy is tremendous. In the midst of our fear and foreboding, let’s lift our heads in the faith and hope that God is doing something unknown, unexpected, and wonderful. 

A blessed Advent to you all.

We Need a Monarch (Reflections on Christ the King, 2021)

 

“My kingdom is not of this world.” (John 18:36) 

Old Anglophile that I am, I think I’ll be really sad when Britain’s Queen Elizabeth passes away. I know as a good American I’m not supposed to like monarchs, but I can’t help but feel a certain affection for this old girl. In my lifetime I’ve seen thirteen United States presidents, seven supreme leaders of China, eight leaders of Russia (counting the former Soviet Union), eight secretaries general of the United Nations, and six popes. But there’s only been one queen of England. She’s become something of a universal granny—a wonderfully dignified little old lady who keeps everyone on their best behavior. No matter what kind of slob may be occupying 10 Downing Street, the queen is still the representative of the nation, the embodiment of what a noble, charitable, courteous, and benevolent nation is supposed to be—whether it is or not. She is the one who is entrusted with holding the nation to a higher standard. 

On Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday of our liturgical year, we are reminded that we all have a monarch who holds us to the highest of standards. It’s the standard of “Do unto others” (Mt. 7:12), of “Give to all who beg from you” (Mt. 5:42), “Love your enemies” (Mt.5:43-44), “Forgive seventy times seven” (Lk. 17:4), and “Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for a friend” (Jn. 15:13). When we look to our king—our suffering king on the cross—we’re looking at the human embodiment of love, forgiveness, inclusivity, charity, patience in suffering, and faith in the eternal goodness of the Creator God. He is the king who represents the things we most long for in our hearts, whether we know it or not. 

In the gospel lesson from the RCL (John 18:33-37) Jesus reminds us that he is not of this world because the way of this world is violent and self-serving. It’s Pilate’s world—a world of bureaucracy, expedience, and dog-eat-dog power struggles which have no time for the things of God. The Roman prefect seems impatient with the peasant rabbi. We can almost hear him sigh as he asks, “What have you done?” Is there a non-religious charge he can execute this man for? Pilate isn’t a Jew and can’t waste his time on silly religious matters. If Jesus claims to be a king, then he’s admitted to a charge of sedition and Pilate can nail him to a cross without hesitation. 

But Jesus isn’t about to call himself a revolutionary. His way is not the way of violent rebellion or earthly power. It is, rather, the way that God has intend that we should live together. It is, let us hope, the way we will one day live together in eternity. The pragmatic Pilate, however, has no time for this. He cynically asks Jesus, “What is truth?” Truth for him, or for anyone worshiping the false gods and rulers of this world, is a fluid thing which can change according to how it serves our self-interest. 

I am both amused and frightened by the rhetoric of some in America today about obeying earthly rulers. There are so many who now protest the recent government directive about COVID vaccinations in the workplace, claiming that they are fighting against tyranny and “government overreach” by refusing to obey these mandates. Perhaps they imagine themselves as heirs to those early American patriots who opposed King George III. I find the talk of “tyranny” slightly ludicrous. I would suggest to the anti-vax and maskless crowd that they live for a time in North Korea, Communist China, or Saudi Arabia and then decide if they are living under tyranny here in the U.S. 

There have been many times during the last several years when I’ve wished the U.S. were a monarchy. If only we could be like the U.K with an elected government but a permanent monarch—and if only that monarch were Christ the King. Then there would be no need for mandates because we would all do our best to represent the sovereign. We would unquestionably do what was right and safe out of love for our brothers and sisters. We would care for them, protect them, and love them. There would be no controversy over gun laws because no guns would be needed. No argument about social welfare because we’d all share as Christ would have us share. No pro-life/pro-choice agitation because life would be respected and wise choices would always be made. 

Yes, if only we had a monarch who represented the “us” we only wish we could be. But, his kingdom is not of this world—even though it should be. 

May the peace of God be with you.

No "Ifs," Only Light (Reflections on All Saints, 2021)

 

“When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’” (John 11:32) 

 “If you had been here.” Whenever I read the story of the raising of Lazarus (John 11:32-44), the appointed gospel text for All Saints Sunday, I’m always struck by that phrase. Both sisters use it when they approach Jesus. Jesus had been told that his good friend Lazarus was sick. They asked him to come and heal him, but Jesus didn’t show up and now Lazarus is dead. If I were Lazarus’ sibling, I’d certainly be upset that Jesus dawdled around too long, that help didn’t come on time. If it had, things would be different. 

If. That’s the two-letter mantra of grief, isn’t it? If things had gone differently, we wouldn’t be having this funeral. Somehow we always think we could’ve done more. We could’ve done something to either prevent a tragedy (or someone else could’ve done more), or at least we could’ve found a way to make this parting hurt less. Unfortunately, what’s done is done and can’t be undone. So we have to live with it in spite of our “ifs.” 

You see, “if” never gives us peace. It can make us feel guilty or make us feel angry, but it can’t give us comfort. Only faith can do that. I guess the compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary give us this story of Lazarus being raised as our All Saints gospel because they don’t want us to focus on the “ifs”—on our sense of loss—but, rather, on Christ’s love, compassion, and resurrection. 

Something I’ve always loved about this story is that Jesus, even though he is crying and “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved, (v.33)” [i] starts his prayer with the words “I thank you, Father.” He sees in tragedy and loss the opportunity to find faith and to praise God.

I do a lot of funerals, and I don’t think many people see a funeral as an opportunity to praise; nevertheless, the grief we feel when we lose someone is just a reflection of the joy that person gave us in life. I hope we would celebrate All Saints as a day of thanksgiving and inspiration. God has put saints in our path to help us on our journey, and we, in turn, are the saints who are called to lighten the paths of others. 

On this All Saints I’d like to celebrate some who have touched my life and the life of our congregation. 

Helen Ferguson was a long-time client of my wife, Marilyn, when Marilyn had her neuro-muscular practice. After Marilyn closed the practice, Helen and her husband Gary remained friends with her. The Fergusons—particularly Helen—were enormously generous people. Even when she was sick with cancer, Helen continued to make donations to Yellow Ribbon, a charity with which Marilyn was involved which collected gifts for our deployed military. Helen always donated her gently-used clothing to Lydia’s Closet and made monetary donations to Faith Lutheran. Gary, a retired Lt. Colonel in the US Air Force, was one of the classiest gentlemen I’ve ever known. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross in Vietnam. Although not a regular church-goer, he was fascinated by Biblical studies and often handed on to me his issues of “Biblical Archeology” magazine. He was also a thoughtful and courteous man who could discuss religion and politics without rancor or hyperbole and respected the opinions of others. We are lighting a single candle for this couple as in life they were so close to one another, and died only a few months apart. 

We will light a candle for Marilyn’s cousin, Tom Lucid. Every family should have a Cousin Tom. A quiet, gentle man, he was the one who always called and asked, “So how are you?” He was part of the glue that kept a family connected over the miles and over the years. Tom remembered as a child being entertained by his uncle Edward. Uncle Ed fought in Korea and was declared Missing in Action. Tom spent the last years of his life trying to track down his uncle’s remains. 

Doris Saudarg was another quiet and gentle soul who would do anything for her family. She took in her Aunt Helen who had been crippled with polio as a child and cared for her throughout her entire life. When her sister, Flo Craw, passed, Doris called her widowed brother-in-law, Fred, every day and cheered him up. Her old Boscov’s co-worker, Cheryl Sermarini, remembers her for her gentle spirit and extreme kindness. She was also the most awesome grandmother—always supporting her grandchildren and cheering them on. 

What can I say about the legend that was Joy McGinley? Talkative? Yes! Eccentric? That doesn’t even begin to describe her. Yet Joy had an undeniable love and compassion for just about everyone. She never forgot a birthday or a special occasion. You could always count on a card from Joy at Christmas or Easter or your birthday. She was the one who called shut-ins and asked about their health. Having no children of her own, she lived to give gifts to her nieces, nephews, and grand nieces and nephews. She looked after he sister, Debbie, and her aging father until they passed. In her later years she took in her troubled niece, Jenny, and kept in touch with her, wrote to her, and prayed for her when Jenny was incarcerated. (We are lighting a candle for Jenny, too.) 

Finally, I cannot say enough about Faye Glass. In troubled times, she held this congregation together. She was the epoxy which connected members of Faith Lutheran with each other. She was strong and stubborn, but had enormous faith in God. I will always admire her sense of optimism and her insistence that all will turn out for the best. She was generous and forgiving and hugely proud of her grandchildren. No one could sit in a hospital bed and smile and laugh like Faye. 

There is a popular story I’m sure generations of pastors have used as a sermon illustration. A little boy stands inside a church nave staring at the stained glass windows depicting various saints and apostles. A Sunday School teacher asks him, “Do you know what a saint is?” The little boy replies, “Sure! The saints are the ones the light shines through.” 

God bless, and thanks for reading!

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[i] The Greek for this is really interesting (at least it is to me!). What the NRSV Bible translates as “greatly disturbed in spirit” the King James translated as “groaned in the spirit.” The Greek word is enebrimhsato, which literally means Jesus made the sound of a horse snorting. This means he snorted with indignation—he was angry at death or at the lack of faith of the mourners. Whatever was the cause of his anger the gospel doesn’t say. We’ll just have to ask him when we see him.