Jesus Saves (Reflections on the Holy Name of Jesus, 2023)

 

Greek letters iota, eta, sigma form a  classic abbreviation  for Jesus' name

I remember when I was a kid seeing graffiti some “Jesus Freak” had scrawled on a wall near my school:

Jesus Saves. 

Beneath this pronouncement some other clever wag had written: 

S & H Green Stamps.[i] 

January 1^st, New Year’s Day, isn’t just a day off to watch parades and football or recover from the effects of excessive merrymaking the night before. The Church celebrates this day as the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus. It commemorates the eighth day after Jesus was born, the day his parents would’ve observed Jewish tradition and had him circumcised—marking his flesh to proclaim him a child of Abraham and heir to God’s promise. This granted him identity. 

This is similar to the Christian tradition of giving a child a name at baptism. This also explains the seven day gap between the time the church celebrates Jesus’ birth and when the “Year of Our Lord” begins. If you consider the high infant mortality rate in the ancient world, you’d want to wait a week to make sure your little one was strong enough to survive before introducing him or her to the community. I guess it wasn’t enough just to be born. Back then things didn’t get started until your kid was officially received. 

On this eighth day, Jesus becomes a member of the family of Abraham, and gets named according to the instruction Joseph received from the angel in Matthew 1:21. “Jesus” is our English version of “Yehoshua,” a Hebrew name which we sometimes translate as “Joshua.” It’s a contraction of the phrase “Yahweh is Salvation” or “Yahweh Saves.” 

As we kick off this New Year, it might not be a bad idea to meditate just a bit on what that phrase means. I mean, what does “Jesus saves” mean for you? You personally. Ever think about it?

I was thinking I'd give a short excursus on how Christian theologians have historically understood our doctrine of salvation, but when I started to write it, I realized I was actually boring myself. No telling how dry and dull you might've found it. So, instead, I’m just going to ask if Jesus saves, what exactly is he saving us from? 

You see, I worry at times that we as the American church are getting just a little too complacent with our salvation doctrine. I’d bet if you asked the average pew-sitter what “Jesus saves” means he or she would tell you that it means Jesus died on the cross, made blood atonement for my sins, and as long as I confess this I’m set free from fretting about any torment in the afterlife. I have my fire insurance. 

Okay. That sounds like the right doctrine to me. But somehow it no longer sounds like enough. If we really embrace this wild preacher from the ancient world, we’ll see a guy who heals people because they need healing. He feeds people who need feeding. He includes people who need to be included. He shakes up people who need to be shaken up. He confronts a system which needs to be confronted and he gives his life doing it. If Jesus saves us from anything, he saves us from complacency. 

We should ask ourselves at times if our churches were founded as places of healing, helping, and advocating or merely as cultural clubs. Is the church a gathering place for the already “saved” or a mission for the needy? Do we go to church because it’s the “right thing to do” or because the words of the gospel excite and inspire us to reach out to others? 

If the words and actions of Jesus catch fire in our imaginations, we might also say that Jesus has saved us from despair. You don’t start out to save or rescue anyone or anything if you don’t first believe they can be saved. Jesus died, but he also rose. He taught us that on the other side of disaster is a new beginning. 

Perhaps the problem with the contemporary church is its mono-dimensional view of the word “salvation.” Maybe we can take some inspirations from those shepherds who made haste to see the baby in the manger. I think they might’ve missed God’s point just a bit, probably believing that this little tyke was meant to save their country from foreign occupation. Still, you’ve got to hand it to them. They went away glorifying and praising God. Even though it would be years before this child could do anything, they knew what he’d do would be spectacular. Even as an infant, he saved them from feeling hopeless. 

We have a pretty good guess about what we’ve been saved from, but do we know what we are saved for?

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[i] It is a sad commentary on the state of American Lutheranism and its ability to reach a contemporary audience that everyone to whom I shall preach this sermon is probably old enough to get this joke! If you’re not, just google it.

 

A New Legend of the Mari Lwyd (Reflections on the Nativity of Our Lord, 2022)

 

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors.” (Luke 2:14) 

I guess every family has a Christmas tradition or two, and lots of these traditions may go back to the Old Country. My late dad was—as I am—very proud of the Griffiths family’s Welsh heritage. Every Advent, usually beginning with the day after Thanksgiving, the Old Man would put his Christmas music on the stereo and take over the kitchen to make Welsh cakes. If you’ve never eaten a Welsh cake, it’s kind of hard for me to describe them. They’re somewhere between a pancake and a scone. People in Wales eat them all year round, but my dad only made them at Christmas. He’d make them by the gross, give them away to neighbors and folks at church, and usually consume a large number of them himself. It was our family tradition, and, to me, whenever I eat a Welsh cake, it tastes like Christmas. 

The Welsh have another tradition which is celebrated during the twelve days of Christmas. It’s the procession of the Mari Lwyd. Of all European Christmas traditions, I have to confess that this is one of the silliest. It involves putting the skull of a horse on a long stick (like a broom stick). The skull is then decorated with ribbons for a mane and colorful buttons or stones for eyes. The one who carries the Mari Lwyd is wrapped in a white sheet, and the whole thing takes on a weird—and rather grotesque—ghostly appearance. Revelers dress in fancy dress and process from house to house with the Mari Lwyd rather like the wassail tradition in next-door England. They knock on neighbor’s doors and request to be let in. The request is supposed to be made in verse or song. The neighbor always responds in the negative, traditionally with a rejoinder similar to, “Bugger off, you drunk fools, and take that bloody thing with you! You’re scaring the kiddies!” At which reply the revelers challenge the householder to a rhyming or musical contest, which the host always loses and must then invite the Mari Lwyd and its attendant buffoons into his or her house for food and drink. Hey. It’s Christmas, right? 

This festive tradition is so bizarrely whimsical that only my ancestral people would’ve thought it up. The Mari Lwyd is first mentioned around 1800, but nobody seems to know how the tradition began and can’t even take a vague stab at why it did. Personally, I think two 18^th century Welshman got drunk one night and one said, “Hey, Owen! Why don’t we put a horse skull on a pole and annoy our neighbors with it?” His boyo replied, “Brilliant, Ivor! Let’s do it!” That makes about as much sense as any other explanation, don’t you think? All I can say is every silly thing any of us has ever done must’ve seemed like a good idea at the time. 

There’s a folk legend that says the Mari Lwyd (which translates as Grey Mare) was in foal in the stable in Bethlehem and was forced out of her comfortable straw-filled stall to make room for Mary and Joseph. She then had to wander around looking for a safe, welcome place to have her baby. The story is said to represent the forcing out of ancient pagan or Druid beliefs by Christianity. 

I’m skeptical about such an explanation. Luckily, this is a folk ritual. As such, it can be modified, embellished, amended, and altered in any way a talented bard might wish to tell it. I therefore offer my own version of the Legend of the Mari Lwyd. 

Once upon a time in the little town of Bethlehem Mari, a beautiful grey mare belonging to an innkeeper, was resting in the warm straw of her stall in a stable just outside the inn. She was carrying her third foal and was expectantly waiting to give birth. She looked forward to licking the wet off her baby and watching him—or maybe her—take those first tentative steps on spindly legs. It was night now and very quiet. All day the stable had been annoyingly alive with the comings and goings and noisy talking of the two-legged ones. So many travelers were coming to the inn, each looking to stable their donkey, horse, or ox. Some brought animals with which they would pay their taxes, and these sheep and goats were also crowded into the stable, bleating and braying and making no end of fuss which Mari, being an expectant mother, was not in any mood to hear. 

But now it was night. A peaceful silence fell over the stable. A slice of moonshine shown in through the open door, and Mari could see it was a calm, cool evening. From where she lay, she could even make out a few stars shining through the opening. This would be a splendid night for her newest little one to be born. But I must wait, she thought. I don’t feel the little one is coming just yet. Perhaps I shall go to sleep. 

But just as she was closing her eyes, she heard again the loud voices of the two-legged ones and saw the unnatural gleam of a lamplight heading into the stable. What now? Mari thought. Two two-legs were coming into the stable. They looked cold and tired. The male held the lantern and was shining it every which way as if searching for something. The other animals were soon awake and took to making all manner of disagreeable noises. The female seemed frightened. 

Mari sensed something about the female—she was also in foal, and it seemed her birthing time would be very soon. It occurred to her that the male was searching for a place where his female might lie down and give birth. But there was no room. Every stall was filled. 

Mari thought to herself, I’m certainly not going to give up my nice straw bed. This is MY stall and MY manger. But as she looked again at the frightened female, her heart began to soften. Poor two-leg, she thought. She’s so small and so weak. I’m much stronger than she is. When MY foal is born, he’ll be standing and walking and nuzzling me for milk that very hour. Her baby will be hairless and helpless. It will be cold, and she will need to wrap it in bands of cloth to keep it warm and keep its legs straight. It won’t be able to walk or even stand and will need all her attention. 

So Mari made a decision. With great effort—for she had grown very large with this new foal—she hoisted herself up on her four hooves. She snorted and shook her grey head as she did so, which seemed to frighten the female two-leg even more. But Mari moved ever so slowly toward her, lowered her head, and nuzzled the female’s cheek as if to say, “I understand. Mother-to-mother.” Then Mari slowly made her way out of the stable and found a cool patch of grass by the side of the inn. She chewed a few blades before lying down. Later that night she heard the cries of the new little two-leg. She felt happy she’d been able to offer the baby a welcome. 

We are all called to offer this baby a welcome—this baby who would grow up to remind us, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me…just as you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.” 

Perhaps at this time of the year when we think of Christ coming to us in such a helpless form, we are moved to inconvenience ourselves just a little more, and to remember that it is the place of the strong to protect and care for the weak. Christians have done so for centuries, and we do so still. It’s cold in Poland tonight, but the Polish people have decided to go without the Russian coal they’ve used to heat their homes in order that doing so might shorten the war and end the suffering of their Ukrainian neighbors. 

On this night of all nights, we're asked to make room in our hearts and welcome this child—and all the children who are weak, cold, lonely, hungry, or afraid. And we can rejoice remembering that, as we welcome him, he also welcomes us. His home is always open to us, and we will always share something to eat and drink at his table. 

O, Holy Child of Bethlehem,

Descend to us, we pray;

Cast out our sin and enter in,

Be born in us today.

We hear the Christmas angels their great glad tidings tell.

O come to us, abide with us,

Our Lord, Emanuel.

 

Merry Christmas

Nadolig Llawen.

 

 

Holy Families (Reflections on Advent 4, Year A 2022)

 

“Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.” (Matthew 1:20b) 

I have a funeral director friend who says there are lots of different ways to be a family. You don’t necessarily have to be swimming in the same gene pool, do you? In the gospel lesson for Advent 4, Year A (Matthew 1:18-25) God again shows off the divine penchant for the unconventional. I always liked this story because it highlights Joseph, a really good guy, who bucks the convention and becomes Jesus’ step-dad. 

As a step-dad myself, I’ve had a pretty easy time of it. The woman I call my daughter was already a grown woman by the time I started dating her mom, so I’ve been more “step” than “dad.” But this isn’t always the case, and taking on a ready-made family takes a lot of courage for lots of guys. No wonder the angel tells Joseph, “Do not be afraid.” 

In the world of the text, of course, when your girlfriend turns up pregnant and not by you, you’ve got a real problem. By law she could be stoned to death.[i] Joseph isn’t a vindictive fellow, so he just plans to break the engagement, making him both law-abiding and merciful. But God is about to take this awkward situation and turn it into the vehicle for the salvation of the world. 

The whole first chapter of Matthew’s gospel—this whole whacky family history—is a testament to God’s ability to take unlikely people and unlikely situations and use them to produce something wonderful. We can’t expect God to operate by our rules. Luther always liked to point out that Jesus’ pedigree wasn’t composed of all sticky-sweet perfect people. Besides the Virgin Mary, Matthew only lists four other women as leaves on Jesus' family tree—and they’re some pretty loose chicks. Their stories are the kind of Bible tales we don’t teach the kids in Sunday school. 

Take a look at Tamar[ii]. She’s something else. She married one of the sons of Jacob’s son, Judah, but her husband died before they had any kids. This was a pretty big issue in the ancient world as it left Tamar with no husband and no son to care for her in her old age. Under the levirate law of the day, she married her husband’s brother, but that guy bit the dust in an untimely manner too. She then asked Judah if she could marry his third son, but Judah figured this chick must be the kiss of death, so he denied her request. So what does poor Tamar do? When she learns her father-in-law is going off on a business trip, she sneaks off to the same place and disguises herself as a harlot (I like that word “harlot,” don’t you? It seems so less vulgar than some of its synonyms.). Judah, feeling frisky while on the road, figures he’ll hook up with a little female companionship and, not recognizing his daughter-in-law, sleeps with Tamar. She conceives, and her son is one of the direct ancestors of King David and Jesus—and the Bible takes her side. 

Matthew also mentions Rahab.[iii] She doesn’t disguise herself as a harlot. She is a harlot. That’s her job. But she worships the God of the Hebrews and hides Joshua’s spies inside the walls of Jericho, thereby assisting in Joshua’s capture of the city and the return of God’s people to the land God promised to their ancestor Abraham. Matthew also highlights Ruth, who could be considered a foreign gold-digger, and, of course, Bathsheba, who cheats on her husband with King David but becomes the mother of Solomon, and part of the family of Jesus. The Bible is full of unconventional relationships, but God always makes it work. 

There have been so many times over the years when couples who are virtually married except for the legal paperwork have asked me to baptize their babies because Catholic priests[iv] won’t baptize a baby born out of wedlock. I’m thinking, “Give me a break! Really, Father? You’re going to deny grace to a baby because you don’t like the way the parents did things?” 

Let’s face it—young people today do things differently. I’ve married several ready-made families, couples who chose to have children and purchase a home before splurging on the cost of a wedding. Some years ago one of my former Confirmands—whom I love like a son or at least a favorite nephew—asked me to baptize his son about a year before he asked me to marry him to the boy’s mom. That’s not the order in which I’d prefer to administer the Church’s rites, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his little boy with all his soul, or that he isn’t raising his son with integrity, affection, and faith. I know he is. 

Unmarried moms and dads might’ve made our parents uncomfortable. Same gender couples would’ve horrified them, and inter-racial couples would’ve put them into a coma. But our kids’ standards aren’t our standards, nor should they be. And maybe our standards aren’t always God’s standards. There are lots of different ways to be a family, and maybe a good take-away form today’s lesson is Joseph’s willingness to see beyond the convention and believe that God can use any situation to God’s purpose and glory. 

There are lots of ways to be a family. It’s a blessing to remember that in Christ we’re all family, all of us children of the same Holy Spirit.

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[i] See Deuteronomy 22:23-24

[ii] See Matt. 1:3. Her story is in Genesis 38.

[iii] Matt. 1:5. Her story is in Joshua 2ff.

[iv] I swear the ultra-conservative Philadelphia Archdiocese is the Archdiocese that Time Forgot. They’d push the altars back up against the walls and go back to the Latin mass if they thought they could get away with it.

Gaudete in Domino Semper! (Reflections on Advent 3, Year A 2022)

 

“Jesus answered them, ‘Go and tell John what you hear and see.’” (Matthew 11:4) 

Many years ago I attended a Lutheran/Roman Catholic dialogue when the subject was “Ministry to the Dying.” As I talked with the priests I realized that our respective denominations don’t really have any differences in the way we approach this. Maybe my Catholic brothers lean a little more heavily on the sacramental aspects of this ministry, but, basically, we’re all just trying to provide some kind of comfort to the dying and their loved ones. We’ve all been trained in the Kubler-Ross five stages: shock, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, but the reality is most folks who are dying are in some kind of a coma and don’t even know they’re about to check out. Most of our ministry is to the bereaved. 

No disrespect to Dr. Kubler-Ross, but in recent years an alternative to her five-stages therapy has been suggested: the life narrative. That is, if somebody knows there’s not a whole lot of life’s road left ahead of them, you ask them to look backwards down the trail and recognize how important and impacting their life has been. You know. It’s kind of what Clarence the angel does for George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. You ask them to consider how their work benefited society, how they raised their kids, how much fun they gave their grandchildren, and what a good time they had doing all of it. The idea is they can then say, “Hey! I did a pretty good job in my life and, on balance, I don’t have anything to regret.” That is, after all, what we all want to be able to say, isn’t it? 

In our gospel reading for the Third Sunday of Advent in Year A of the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 11:2-11) we find John the Baptist nearing the end of his earthly journey—an end that’s coming uncomfortably early. John’s gone and pissed off King Herod’s missus, and that’s landed him in jail. And, if you’re in the lock-up in the ancient Mediterranean world, the chances of your getting out with all your body parts intact is speculative at best! 

You have to wonder what’s going through John’s mind. I’m sure he knows his hour glass is running out of sand. Can’t you just picture him sitting in that dark dungeon asking himself if it’s all been worth it? “Did I do right?’ he asks. “Is this Jesus dude really the guy we’ve been waiting for?” He’s noticed how Jesus’ message seems different from his own. He’s been telling people to shape up and get their act together, but Jesus is telling them they’re loved by God and included in God’s kingdom. Some of his disciples come to comfort him, and he asks them for some assurance that he’s got the right guy. 

So what does Jesus do? Have you noticed that Jesus very rarely gives a straight answer? He’s always asking us to figure stuff out on our own. Instead of just saying, “Yeah, tell John I’m the hoped-for Messiah,” he tells them to present their prophet the evidence. “Tell John what you hear and see.” That’s probably a much more comforting response. John won’t have only Jesus’ word, he’ll have the deeds of power that are overwhelmingly convincing. And, if he’s got a date with the guy with the ax (which he does), he can go content and at peace. 

I’ll admit this doesn’t sound like something you’d want to start dancing the twist over—a martyr in a dungeon questioning his own ministry while awaiting decapitation. But the focus for this Sunday isn’t on John’s dilemma. It’s on the powerful works of God done through Jesus. That’s why we light the pink (or “rose”) candle on Advent 3. This Sunday is historically known as Gaudete or Rejoice Sunday[i]. If Advent 1 tells us to stay awake and Advent 2 tells us to repent, Advent 3 tells us to rejoice and look at all the blessings God has done for us and all the ways God has used us. We may feel like we’re sitting in a dungeon like John the Baptist, but we’re still God’s people, still heirs to God’s promise, still loved, and still blessed with the Holy Spirit to see God’s goodness at work. 

So what do you hear and see? 

When I look at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia, I can see God at work. I can see the literal tons of produce and non-perishable food items which have been—and continue to be—donated by God’s people to God’s needy people. I can hear one of my former confirmands tell me how she’s organized a food and personal care drive at her school. I can hear senior citizens playing bingo on Wednesday afternoons in our lower fellowship hall and know that we’ve created a place for companionship and fun for our retired neighbors. I can see the shopping cart full of Christmas gifts you saints have donated for needy, traumatized children. I can hear the AA meetings conclude with the words of the Lord’s Prayer and know that God has used this building as a place of healing. I can hear and see all these things and so many others because God’s people are here, and they have heard God’s word. 

We may feel that we are least in the Kingdom of Heaven, but we have cause to rejoice over what God has done, what God is doing, and what God will continue to do in our lives.

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[i] The word is pronounced gow-DET-eh (I’ve mispronounced it for years. If you’re reading this, Fr. Jack, I apologize). It comes from the first line of the Gregorian chant which is used in some Roman Catholic churches as an introit: Gaudete in Domino semper—Rejoice in God always.

Come Back! (Reflections on Advent 2, Year A 2022)

 

"John Preaching" Mattia Preti (17th Cent.)

This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, “The voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his path straight.’” (Matthew 3:3) 

It’s hard for me to believe, but I’m currently celebrating my twenty-fifth Advent season as pastor of Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia. (Where the heck does the time go?) One of the things I recall about those first Advents was the great Christmas-Versus-Advent-Hymn Debate. Liturgical wonk that I am, I maintain that it isn’t actually Christmas until it’s Christmas. Advent is a time of preparation, so let’s not jump the liturgical gun by singing Christmas songs when we’re not there yet. But, no! Some of the old-timers in the parish balked at the unfamiliar tunes to be appropriately crooned during the season of blue paraments, and insisted that God would not smite us with a bolt of lightning if we sang a chorus of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” or “The First Noel” before the evening of the 24^th of December. An argument used in opposition to their pastor’s insistence on seasonal purity was, “Pastor, we always used to sing Christmas songs in Advent, and they always made us feel good.” 

Ah. So that’s it. You want to feel good. 

That’s not always easy this time of year, is it? You can turn on the radio and hear Burl Ives telling you to have a holly-jolly Christmas, but you may not feel like getting your jingle on. And you may also feel guilty about not “getting into the spirit of the season” like the culture says you’re supposed to. Everything is expensive this year and we’re still smarting from the effects of COVID. Maybe your kids are grown, or you’ve lost a loved one, or you’re dealing with an illness. Maybe stuff just isn’t like it used to be in the good ol’ days. 

So you come to church, and the first two gospel lesson for this season turn out to be total bummers. On Advent 1 we’re told that we should keep alert because tribulation is unpredictable. Well, that’s cheery, isn’t it?[i] And on Advent 2 we have that whacky prophet, John the Baptist, telling us to repent, and talking about chaff being burned with unquenchable fire. This may not be the stuff you want to hear right now. 

So who is John talking to in our gospel for Advent 2 (Matthew 3:1-12)? He’s got two distinct audiences. He’s ranting at Pharisees and Sadducees whom he likens to poisonous reptiles. These smug, holier-than-thou guys probably came out to the wilderness so they could look down their stuck-up noses at John and declare him to be an outlaw preacher with no credentials. John reams them out for their self-satisfied hypocrisy. 

All these centuries later there are still plenty of reasons to call out the folks in power, and plenty of modern-day prophets willing to do it. Al Gore can warn about climate change. Bernie Sanders can declaim the dangers of income inequality. All the Black Lives Matter folks can instruct us on the sin of systemic racism. And the Christian Church as an institution has a responsibility to speak these truths to power. 

But… 

There’s a second group to whom John preached. They weren’t the rich and the powerful. Some were city folk, but some were just rural peasants. They were just the poor, work-a-day slobs who came out to the wilderness hungering for a word from God in this crazy and painful world. I don’t think John was calling them out. 

He was calling them back. 

John’s cry to repent was a cry to God’s people to get back to the promise God intended for them. John preached from the wilderness, the place where God’s people were formed after they’d been freed from bondage in Egypt. Matthew characterizes him as the one predicted by Isaiah who will cry, “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his path straight.” This is a reminder of God’s people returning to the Promised Land after 70 years of exile in Babylon. Even John’s whimsical apparel and diet harken back to the prophet Elijah, another pretty crazy dude who tried to keep the nation on the straight and narrow during a time of corruption and apostasy a few centuries earlier. 

We’re told that people came to be baptized, confessing their sins. Yet the word the Bible uses for “sins” in the Greek isn’t anomia (anomia) which means “wickedness” or “lawlessness.” Matthew says the people were confessing their hamartias (‘amartias), which might be translated as “imperfection,” or just not feeling whole or right. I think John is trying to call these people back to a place of hope and a place where they recall the promise God made to Abraham to bless them so they might be a blessing to others. John awakens in them a longing to be the people they were meant to be, people who could receive and love and follow Jesus as their Messiah. 

On this Second Sunday of Advent, let’s let John call us back to our purpose. When I first started seminary, I’d hoped to be a city pastor, one who ministered to an underserved community. Perhaps we are now that community, feeling forgotten or overlooked by the culture. If so, I have good news to tell you: God has not forgotten us. God is still ready to call us back to our purpose of regular prayer, regular worship, care for one another, and purposeful generosity to this neighborhood in which we find ourselves. We have done so much good in the past, but we still have more good to do, more possibilities, more ways to be God’s hands. 

God is not finished with us. Knowing that should make us all feel pretty good.

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[i] You know I’m being sarcastic here, right?