Jesus in the Dark (Reflections on Epiphany 3, Year A 2026)

 

Candlelight Vigil in honor of ICE shooting victim 1/7/26

The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. (Matthew 4:16a)

What do you think it means to “sit in darkness?” Darkness is used metaphorically for all kinds of social or emotional stuff. There’s the darkness of oppression and marginalization. There’s the darkness of ignorance (that’s a big one!). There’s also clinical depression, addiction, abuse, or just the plain loss of hope.

When Isaiah referred to the land of Zebulan and Naphtali as a place of darkness[i], he wasn’t kidding. Zebulan and Naphtali (named after two sons of Jacob, by the way) were regions in the northeast of Israel that were the first to be conquered by the Assyrians back around 700 BCE. The Assyrians weren’t known for their kindness and sunny dispositions. They were actually pretty brutal to the folks whose butts they kicked and land they’d taken over. They did unpleasant things like cutting the arms off their captives, displaying the severed heads of opposing soldiers, and impaling people on stakes[ii]. Nevertheless, Isaiah prophesied the people who were the first to lose their land and their freedom, who had their culture desecrated and lived under terror, would be the first to know God’s liberating love.

Fast forward to Jesus’ day when there were no more Assyrians, but the Roman Empire was calling the shots in the real estate formerly known as Zebulan and Naphtali. Rome controlled the territory under a puppet governor, King Herod Antipas. Herod, it seems was a rather touchy fellow who, like so many despotic autocrats, really got his boxers in a wedgie whenever anyone expressed any criticism of him. John the Baptist called him out for blatant immorality, so Herod—doing what all good despots like to do—silenced John by having him arrested.

In our gospel lesson for Epiphany 3, Year A (Matthew 4:12-23) Jesus has a pretty drastic (if you ask me) reaction to the news of John’s arrest. He “withdrew” to Galilee. Normally, if you withdraw, you’re moving backwards. It’s a retreat. Withdrawing is running away from something or pulling back from something you said or wanted to do which you came to realize isn’t a good thing at all. But when Jesus withdraws in this story, he’s going back to his old stomping grounds. He’s going back to Galilee, which is the area controlled by the dude who has just arrested John.[iii] He’s not running from the darkness. He’s going to light the place up. It’s as if he’s saying, “You may have silenced my boy John, but now you’ll hear from me.”

The first word from God in the Bible is “Let there be light.” When things get really dark, God is always there to strike some kind of match. I’m seeing an awful lot of light shining out of Minneapolis these days. When our government sends an army of mostly ill-trained nincompoops to a large city for the purpose of indiscriminately rounding up the immigrant population, some people are just not willing to sit and let the darkness descend. Some folks may be intimidated by an act of injustice, but some will push back against it.

I’ve also seen an amazing light shining from some members of my congregation when they’ve stared into the face of a terminal illness. I’ve seen them face the coming enemy with courage, humor, and the joy in the Lord which has been a comfort to those who have attended them in their last days. It seemed as if their light was glowing brighter.

The light of God is inspiration and hope. Maybe that’s what Peter and Andrew, James and John saw in Jesus. Maybe they were tired of just existing in the status quo. They experienced a man who had faith and hope and love for others, who wasn’t running away from the darkness but was running toward it to chase it away. He was going right to the place the prophet said he’d go. Maybe they wanted to be part of this light, so they dropped their nets and went fishing for people—people who would believe.

This is what we are all called to be—bearers of the light. Perhaps you’re not up to protesting unfair policies or facing a mortal illness. You may not be battling potential bankruptcy or the imminent death or illness of a loved one. But there may be someone in your life who looks to you and needs to know how you’ve navigated the dark streets of your life. They need the light you have to offer.

In our baptismal liturgy we light a candle and repeat the exhortation Jesus gives to all who are washed into the family: “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”[iv] Let’s let faith be our light.

Keep shining. Thanks for coming. 

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[i] Our First lesson for Epiphany 3, Year A Isaiah 9:1-4

[ii] If you’re into grisly Assyrian atrocities, you can check out Erika Belibtreu’s article her: https://faculty.uml.edu/ethan_spanier/Teaching/documents/CP6.0AssyrianTorture.pdf

[iii] The word translated as “withdrew” in Greek is echoresen. It means to leave or go away.

[iv] Matthew 5:16b.

What Have You Come to See? (Reflections on Epiphany 2, Year A 2026)

 

…and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” (John 1:36)

You have to give John the Baptist kudos. For all his wild rhetoric—and John could get pretty wild—he really was a very humble dude. John understood his job was to bear witness to someone else. He was the advance man for a guy he might not even have known who would be, in his own words, ranking before him. We know from the gospels that John had a following and even some disciples, but in the gospel reading for Epiphany 2, Year A (John 1:29-42) he’s actually willing to tell his followers, “See that guy Jesus over there? You should go and follow him now.” I’m always impressed that John was willing to step out of the spotlight when Jesus came along.

I wonder what John’s disciples were looking for. What attracted them to John? Perhaps he was just a voice of hope in a world that seemed to be a giant dumpster fire. The country these guys lived in was run by greedy, arrogant plutocrats in a city which was over two thousand miles away by land. They ruled through vicious, corrupt thugs like Herod and Pilate. Guys like Barabbas and other Zealots were starting riots and plotting insurrection. The ruling religious authorities were totally compromised. What did John have to offer? Only the promise that God would do a new thing for anyone who was willing to receive it.

And then John recognizes Jesus. He feels the Holy Spirit of God alighting on this man, and he knows this is the one. This is the Lamb of God. So, he tells his posse to follow Jesus.

I’ll bet Andrew and the other disciple (whoever he was) must’ve been pretty thrown off when John pointed them in that direction. Nevertheless, they trusted John. They accept that Jesus is a teacher. They go to him and ask him where he hangs out. That’s kind of an important question because it means they may have to relocate. In typical Jesus fashion, he doesn’t tell them. Throughout the Fourth Gospel Jesus will turn questions back on the questioner. He’s not one for simple answers. He makes people work for insight. “Come and see,” he says to them. And they go. And he invites them to stay with him (It was about dinner time, after all.).

What’s happening here? There’s faithful obedience to John’s direction. There’s a faithful willingness to trust in Jesus. There’s Jesus’ invitation and hospitality to two guys he’s never met before, a welcome embrace to the strangers. And there’s something which happens to the two disciples when they encounter Jesus which convinces them that he’s the one they’ve been waiting for. Andrew is so moved by this encounter that he’s got to go find his brother Simon and drag him to meet Jesus.

Can you imagine what that fellowship with Jesus must’ve been like? How do you experience Jesus? Think about that for a moment.

In this gospel reading, John calls Jesus the Lamb of God. Whenever I’ve heard of someone being called a “lamb,” I always think that person has a sweet disposition and is kind and generous and loving. It’s significant that Jesus is God’s lamb and not God’s lion. Sheep are not, by nature, predators. They are communal, they are docile, and they serve humans very well. In Genesis 22 it’s a ram caught in a thicket which is sacrificed by Abraham in place of Isaac. In Exodus it’s the blood of the lamb on the doorposts of the homes of the Hebrews which saves them from the Angel of Death and allows them to be free from Pharoah’s bondage. Isaiah speaks of the nation as a servant which

…was oppressed, and he was afflicted,

    yet he did not open his mouth;

like a lamb that is led to the slaughter

    and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,

    so he did not open his mouth.[i]

 

The lamb is not mighty, but gentle. It does not come to rule but to serve. And yet in that gentleness and sacrifice is a powerful presence which doesn’t need coercion or bombast. In its very weakness is a strength which is irresistible. What would it be like to be in the company of such goodness, righteousness, love and acceptance?

When I was younger, I would direct most of my prayers to Our Father God. Yet the older I get I find I have a greater need to be in the company of Jesus the Lamb of God. I feel a bit like those disciples of John the Baptist must’ve felt—like the whole world is a dumpster fire. I need Jesus to show me how to be strong but compassionate, how to be calm in the midst of chaos, how to be understanding and forgiving and generous and loving, and how to navigate through this freak show of a world in love and not in fear or anger.

What is it about Jesus? He says to us all “Come and see.” What are you seeing? What do you need to see?

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[i] Isaiah 53:7

Our Adopted Family (Reflections on the Baptism of Our Lord 2026)

 

And the voice from the heavens said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” (Matthew 3:17)

Nine-year-old Michael is doing pretty okay these days. He’s been in the foster care of Mickie and Joe, a young couple in my congregation, for a couple of years now. Mickie just gave birth to her first baby, and Michael (who may likely be adopted by this couple in the near future) seems Fruit Loops-sugar-spiking delighted about being a big brother—even though he has no biological connection to his newborn sibling.

Sometimes it’s not about the family you’re born into. It’s about the family you choose. In New Testament times, the Romans considered an adopted son to be more precious than the fruit of one’s own loins. Why? Because you’re stuck with the kid you’ve fathered whether you love this child or not. The child you adopt, however, is a child you’ve chosen even though you didn’t have to.

In the gospel lesson for the Baptism of Our Lord (Matthew 3:13-17) we’re witnessing an adoption. God is claiming Jesus as his own. God is saying, “I picked you to fulfill all the cool stuff my prophet Isaiah talked about back in the day. (Iasiah 42:1-9)”

So, what does this adoption mean to you? This festival Sunday which begins the Sundays in Epiphany, the Sundays when we read and teach about how Jesus is revealed, is a good opportunity, I think, for us to think about the meaning of our own baptism. There’s this wonderful little exchange in the gospel story where John—who is pretty darn sure Jesus is the Messiah—humbly suggests that Jesus should baptize him. But Jesus insists the righteous thing to do would be for John to give him a good dunk in the Jordan.

I guess there’s two ways we can look at the term righteousness. One way is doing what’s right. If you’re a Christian, you get your baby baptized, right? It’s what we do. The washing with water symbolizes the washing away of sin, cleaning up our mistakes, and reminding us that God is always busy granting us forgiveness for being the selfish and often careless people that we are. But there’s also a deeper righteousness at work here, which goes a long way toward explaining why Jesus gets baptized.

Baptism is an act of adoption. When Jesus gets down into our dirty bathwater, he’s becoming part of this whole, crazy, messed-up human family. When we get baptized, we’re getting adopted too. We’re being asked to accept our connection and responsibility to the traveling circus that is the human race.

In the second lesson appointed for this festival (Acts 10:34-43), St. Peter tells a household of Gentiles that because they fear God and practice righteousness, they are also part of the clan. But notice, being part of the family has its responsibilities. There’s nothing sadder than relatives who won’t speak to one another. Sometimes being a family takes work. I recently got a Christmas card from my first cousin, Kathy. I haven’t seen Kathy in over half a century, and I don’t think I could pick her out of a police line-up if I had to. But she made the decision to be family and reach out to me. It’s only right that I reach back.

If we accept that baptism not only promises God’s forgiveness but ritually unites us as a family, then we have a certain family obligation. A former clergy colleague of mine used to say that having a baby baptized and then walking away from the Church was like registering your child for kindergarten and then not sending him to class. Baptism promises us forgiveness and the embrace of God, but it also calls us into relationship with one another. The first part is easy; the second part can be a little tough. It’s easy to say to someone, “God loves you.” The hard part is saying to them, “I love you.”

Baptism calls us into relationship with both God and with one another. Embracing both aspects is what turns a ritual into a sacrament.

I hope this finds you well and enjoying this New Year. God bless. Come back and see me next week.

 

The Word Became Flesh (Reflections on Christmas 2, Year A 2026)

 

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us…” (John 1:14a)

I keep telling Brooke she’s the youngest person I’ve ever met. Once upon a quarter century or so ago, I was extending the congregation’s ministry by serving as volunteer chaplain at the local hospital. Sue, one of my parishioners, was in labor and delivery giving birth to her third child. When the nurse gave me permission, I paid a visit to the new mom and dad and greeted the new little girl. Sue was sitting up in bed, apparently no worse for the ordeal she’d just been through. Her husband Mike was seated in a comfy chair holding his infant daughter. He held the tiny bundle in one hand, tucked snuggly against his chest like a running back would hold a football.

I had never seen a newborn quite so new. Little Brooke hadn’t been a citizen of planet earth for half an hour when I peered over her daddy’s shoulder and saw her enormous blue eyes pop open and then just as quickly close again into a peaceful, innocent sleep.

There’s something about a baby that inspires our awe, don’t you think? We must be very quiet around an infant. We instinctively calm ourselves and a spirit of gentleness overtakes us. We must not wake this sleeping child. We must be still. And yet, this very still, swaddled, miniature person has a powerful influence over us. Should a baby spy us and begin to smile or giggle, we’ll smile and giggle back. We’ll experience an innocent, selfless joy.

The wonderful thing about babies is they don’t know anything. They have no racial prejudice. They have no grievance against anyone. They have never wronged anyone, and they have no memory of the mistakes we’ve made. They are little packages of hope, aren’t they? This baby could become someone who brings the world terrific joy or peace or healing[i]. Maybe this child will solve a mystery, cure a disease, or in some way make us all better people. A newborn baby is one more chance for us to get it right.

We are reminded in the gospel lesson for the Second Sunday of Christmas (John 1:1-18) that God’s Word became flesh and lived among us. It seems poignant and fitting that the Almighty Wisdom which in the beginning created the heavens and the earth and all that is seen and unseen came to us in the guise of a helpless newborn baby. In this child we see hope for our future. We see purity. We see forgiveness because all our past blunders and wrongs are completely unknown and unimportant in the eyes of a newborn. Shame and regret are replaced with gentleness and care and concern and longing for righteousness. That’s what God must desire for all of us. So God’s Word became flesh.

I imagine that for some Christmas must be over now. The radio has stopped playing Christmas tunes and it’s time to put the tree out on the curb and take down the lights. The exhausting blizzard of Yuletide activities is over for another year. But, for us in the Church, there are still a few more days to celebrate the Word becoming flesh, to contemplate the arrival of the Christ child, to hold the Baby Jesus in our arms and imagine the newness of the life he brings.

It is significant, I think, that John’s gospel not only takes us forward, but takes us backward. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” In the beginning. In a time before there was time, God had decided to love and save the world. God had decided to create and bless and inspire you.

Happy New Year, my friend. May the peace of God which passes our understanding keep your heart and your mind in Christ Jesus.

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[i] BTW, Brooke is now a grownup and works in a medical lab. She just might change the world. I don’t put it past her.

Home for Christmas

 

It’s all about belonging.

There’s something about Christmas which makes us yearn for togetherness. We really have this idyllic picture of family gathered around the tree opening gifts or gathered at the family table, eating turkey, laughing, getting caught up on time missed. It's strange, though, that the perfect family Christmas celebrations we idealize may not always be the ones we remember. The time we can’t make it home—or when a loved one wasn’t there with us—might be the times which we’ll recall as being the most profound. Wasn’t that first Christmas all about a family far from home?

Although it was over forty years ago now, I have indelible memories of my first Christmas away from home and family. It was 1982, the year I left sunny southern California to attend grad school at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. To say I was an impoverished student would be embarrassingly accurate. I had a job teaching undergraduates in my department, a gig which paid just enough, after the UW deducted a third of each semester’s tuition, to cover my rent on a 10 X 20-foot studio apartment. I shared the bathroom with the girl next door and the rest of the flat with an army of cockroaches the landlord never seemed to vanquish in spite of many efforts. After rent, taxes, and tuition, I had fifty bucks left over to see me through the month. Two trips per week to the University Plasma Center (or, as I called it, “The Lugosi Lounge”) to sell my blood plasma at $10 a trip provided just enough cash to buy books and supplies and keep body and soul on speaking terms.

Of course, you might be thinking I could always ask my folks for a bailout if ever my bank account dipped below the horizon. Unfortunately, at that time my dad was out of work, so my parents were just as strapped for cash as I was. They’d promised me an electric typewriter as a Christmas gift, and it was either the typewriter or a trip home. I needed the typewriter, so it looked like I would be spending Christmas with the cockroaches.

Enter my buddy, Rich, my theatre colleague, drinking buddy, and partner in crime (sometimes literally, but that’s another story). I’ve often described him as the Jake to my Elwood and the Ollie to my Stan. We were two natural idiots who could each get into enough trouble on his own, but somehow God or fate or the University of Wisconsin Department of Theatre and Drama managed to throw us together. For reasons Rich chose not to explain—and were none of my gosh-darn business anyway—he was also spending Christmas by himself that year. After I learned there would be no trip home for me, Rich suggested we have Christmas dinner together.

 “Christmas Day or Christmas Eve?” he asked.

“Christmas Day,” I told him. “I’ll be in church on Christmas Eve at the late mass at Luther Memorial. I should probably be sober when I go.”

In the weeks leading up to Christmas Rich and I made plans for our holiday repast. We knew two of us couldn’t handle an entire turkey (although neither of us are particularly picky eaters!) and chicken didn’t seem piquant enough to match the felicitous nature of this holy day. We decided the perfect fowl (in the absence of a goose) would be a duck. I had never eaten duck before, and as far as I can recall, have never had it since. What wine goes best with duck, you ask? Who knows? We washed down our Christmas dinner with a six pack of Heilemann’s Olde Style Beer.

I had just enough spending cash left over from my last trip to the Plasma Center to buy Rich a small gift. He was working at the time at the local PBS station which had a great library of vintage films. I got him a paperback encyclopedia of film history which, not being able to afford wrapping paper, I wrapped in the December page of a desk blotter calendar bequeathed to me by the last occupant of my desk at the UW. Rich looked a little embarrassed when I presented this gift. “Sorry, Griff,” he said. “I didn’t get anything for you.” I told him that was okay. He was cooking the duck and buying the beer, so I figured we were square.

The week of Christmas Rich asked me, “Were you serious about going to midnight mass on Christmas Eve?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I always go. It wouldn’t be Christmas without going to church. It’s a religious holiday after all.”

Rich looked slightly pensive for a moment and then said, “You mind if I go with you?”

Rich had been raised Catholic and went to Catholic school. I don’t know how much of this early education had taken, but I was pretty certain my raucous companion hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years. Nevertheless, on Christmas Eve the two of us, smartly clad beneath our winter coats in suits and neckties as befitted the sacredness of the occasion, walked down a cold and foggy University Avenue to the massive gothic cathedral-style house of worship that is Luther Memorial Church. Luther Memorial is one of my favorite churches on the planet. I still recall the gorgeous stained-glass windows and the massive altar piece with the image of Christ with arms spread in welcome.

Rich appeared a bit nervous upon crossing the threshold. “I hope this place doesn’t get struck by lightning for letting me in,” he said. The church was dimly lit, and candles glowed on tall stands at the end of every other pew. The 11PM worshipers had gathered early, and a carol sing-along was already well underway in the crowded nave. We found our way to a place near the rear. I began to join in the singing with mighty yuletide zeal and a complete lack of awareness of the appropriate key in which the other congregants were singing—an embarrassing fact of which Rich reminds me to this day.

I don’t remember anything about the service or the pastor’s message, but I remember how beautiful the old church looked in the twinkling candlelight, the smell of the freshly cut evergreens on the windowsills, the white lights on the twin Christmas trees. I remember how right it felt to be there.

When the service was over at midnight, Rich and I walked back through the fog. My friend was uncharacteristically silent, and he led me to believe something very private and profound was going on inside. “It’s strange,” he said at last, “how it all comes back. All the words of the songs, all the prayers, all the creeds. It all comes back.” We walked on in silence.

Looking back, I like to think I really wasn’t away from family that Christmas. My companion in bacchanalia was also my brother in Christ.

That new little family in the stable in Bethlehem wasn’t alone either. They may have been far from familiar loved ones and their home in Nazareth, but God provided an army of relatives to join them and rejoice in the birth of that little boy. The shepherds were just as delighted to see that infant as if he had been their own child or grandson or nephew. I like to imagine some shepherdess, some woman who had given birth many times before, might’ve taken motherly care of young Mary and held and rocked little Jesus while Mary rested. Maybe someone offered that family a little loaf of bread or a skin of drinking water. Maybe the gathering in that cave—a cave meant as a pen for animals—was really a family homecoming.

Look around you on Christmas Eve. There may be people you’ve known for years or people you’ve never seen before, but they have all come to worship that little baby laid to sleep in an animal’s feeding trough. That little baby is Emmanuel—God with us. All of us. We are a family united by our need for His grace and love, saved by his sacrifice for us, and wherever and whenever we come together in our love of Him, we are home. We belong.

Merry Christmas, my friend. May the peace of God which passes our understanding keep your heart and your mind in Christ Jesus.

 

A Scary Responsibility (Reflections on Advent 4, Year A 2025)

"St. Joseph with the Infant Jesus" Reni. (It. 17th Cent.)

 “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. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” (Matthew 1:20b-21)

God is being good to Faith Lutheran of Northeast Philadelphia this Advent season. I got a text last night from Sue, one of the moms who were formerly in charge of our Sunday school in the days before COVID. She sent me a picture of Joseph, her newborn fourth grandchild. Just two weeks ago Jen, another former Sunday school mom, announced the birth of her fourth grandchild. These births strike me as being a very special blessing, coming as they do in a season when we prepare to celebrate the birth of that special little baby who came to save us all. They’re also a cause of joy because, sadly, our Sunday school kids vanished during the COVID pandemic and never came back. If you’re a Lutheran in the United States, you know the average age of our congregants is somewhere between sixty and deceased. When young mommies with little babies and toddlers start showing up, we Lutherans light up like an inflatable Santa on the lawn of a Philly rowhome.

There are two things which are true when every baby is born—great joy and great (if unspoken) terror. Babies are cute, right? They’re the continuation of the family line and one more chance to believe in the possibilities of the future. They also require a whole LOT of responsibility, they’re totally vulnerable, and they’re one more chance to really screw up another life if you don’t parent lovingly, conscientiously, selflessly, and with wisdom. Bringing another person into this world should scare the living crap out of anyone who even contemplates providing the genetic material which will form a human life.

The gospel lesson for Advent 4, Year C (Matthew 1:18-25) also combines the elements of joy and fear. The birth of Jesus as the one who will save us from our sin is certainly a cause for rejoicing, but, in the world of this text, it’s also an occasion for awe and fear. Mary isn’t married, and Joseph makes the not illogical assumption that she’s been less than faithful to their engagement. If a young girl was caught fooling around before or outside of marriage she could be stoned to death. You have to give Joseph credit for not wanting to see his girlfriend get punished, even if he thinks she’s cheated on him. I’ll bet Mary was pretty shaken by all this too.

Martin Luther really loved Mary, and he liked to quote St. Bernard of Clairvaux who said there were three miracles present in the Nativity story: God condescended to become human, a virgin gave birth[i], and Mary actually agreed to be that virgin. That was a pretty gutsy step for a thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl to take, don’t you think? I’ll bet Joseph, once he was convinced this baby would be the Son of God and the Savior of the World, was even more frightened than he was when he thought he had to secretly break his engagement. If he marries this chick, he’s now responsible for the fate of the whole world. I’d be scared. Wouldn’t you?

But Joseph has one advantage the rest of us don’t usually get. He is told unambiguously what God wants him to do. So, being a righteous man, he does a noble and loving thing which his society doesn’t require him to do and even encourages him not to do. He marries this pregnant girl. What’s more, he respects her comfort and doesn’t insist on getting it on with her while she’s expecting (I suspect Matthew may have included this detail as evidence the baby was not Joseph’s but the child of the Holy Spirit. I read it as evidence Joseph was a pretty cool guy who really cared about his lady’s comfort and the health of her pregnancy). The most significant thing, however, is that Joseph names the baby. When he calls the little boy Jesus[ii] he has officially adopted him. According to Matthew 1:1-16, this is what fulfills prophecy and makes Jesus a Son of David.

I never mind when people address me as “Father.” A parish pastor and a parent have one thing in common: we each have complete responsibility for something over which we’ll ultimately have no control. I’m looking forward to baptizing these two new little ones God has sent to us, and I feel hope and joy as I see our Sunday school slowly start to revive again. But I acknowledge our whole congregation has responsibility for these children. In our baptismal liturgy we are all called to support and pray for these little ones in their new life in Christ. But, beyond that, we are charged to represent Christ in honesty and integrity. We are called to be living manifestations of the Gospel who through our words and deeds and love will create a safe, welcoming, and meaningful place for these children within the family of God and in God’s Church. And we are charged with protecting the world in which these children will grow and live. Like Joseph, we have a terrifying responsibility. Like Joseph, we will have to rely on the guidance of the Lord. Like Joseph, we are urged not to be afraid.

Don’t be afraid, my friend. With God’s help you’ve got this. Enjoy the season and come see me soon. 

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[i] If you want to get wonky and into the linguistic weeds here, Matthew is quoting in verse 21 from a Greek translation of the Hebrew scriptures which reads literally, “the virgin shall conceive.” The Greek translator uses the word parthemus which is, literally “virgin.” The word found in Hebrew Bibles is almuh, which means a young woman. One could assume she is a virgin, but not necessarily. In fact, the context in Isaiah 7:14 implies that this young woman is a young bride pregnant with her first child. Both Isaiah and Matthew are trying to tell us through these birth announcements that God is active in saving God’s people.

[ii] Jesus was a common name back in the day. It’s from the Hebrew Yashua, which is a contraction for “Yahweh Saves,” or “Yahweh Rescues.” 

Go Tell John (Reflections on Advent 3, Year A 2025)

 “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with a skin disease are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” (Matthew 4b-5)

Many years ago, I had the honor of taking part in the Lutheran/Roman Catholic Dialogue. Our topic that year was “Ministry to the Dying.” Both Lutheran and Catholic clergy agreed on one point: we rarely minister to the dying here in America. Nope. Most folks like to believe they’re going to beat whatever illness or disease they’ve got. They know they’re going to die eventually, but just not today or this week. By the time it becomes obvious they’re about to shuffle off this mortal coil and shake hands with the Lord, they’re usually too out of it for any theological discussion.

Every once in a while, however, we get a chance to minister to someone who knows just how many grains are left in their hourglass. Most of the Christians I’ve met who were in that situation were ready to move on and did so with impressive courage and grace. It’s no longer fashionable to walk these short-timers through the Kubler-Ross stages. It seems much kinder and more worthwhile to review the life they’ve already lived and focus on the highlights.

I don’t know about you, but if or when I know I’m about to check out, I’d like to know my life has had some significance. I always think of that scene at the end of Saving Private Ryan where the old vet stands amidst the graves of his fallen comrades and asks his wife if he’s been a good man.

When we meet John the Baptist in the gospel lesson in the RCL for Advent 3, Year A (Matthew 11:2-11) he’s pretty sure he’s reached the last stop on the line. Prison in the ancient world wasn’t a punishment with a prescribed duration. If you were in jail, you were either awaiting trial or execution, and John had a real good guess which one he was waiting for. You have to feel sorry for the guy. He’s been spending the last year or two telling everybody that Jesus is the Messiah. Now, chained or in wooden stocks, sitting in a dark dungeon with no light or air, he’s got nothing to do but think about his life. He’s starting to worry if he got it right.

But John deserves some credit, too. He’s at the end of his life (a little earlier than he’d planned, of course!) and he’s in a state where he’s confined and can’t get around anymore, he can’t see much, and he depends on others to visit him and take care of him—just like many of us may be some day. He might be doubting if Jesus is really the one, but he never doubts that there will be a one. He never stops believing that God is going to send a Messiah or that God’s people will know a day of liberation. As rotten a time as he’s having, his faith is still present.

He’s fortunate in another way. He still has friends who come to the jail to look after him. In Bible times there was no guarantee a prisoner would even get fed let alone a change of clothes or clean water. John has not been abandoned by either God or his disciples. Granted, these guys aren’t going to be able to spring him from the slammer, but at least they show up and let him know he’s still loved, still valued, and still important to the movement. They may not have the answers he needs, but that’s okay. 90% of caring for another is just showing up.

So these loving brothers (and maybe sisters) of John’s posse head off in search of Jesus to ask point blank if he’s the Lamb of God who is going to take away the sins of the world. Jesus—in typical Jesus fashion—doesn’t give them a straight answer. It seems to me the Lord always likes it when we figure stuff out on our own based on the evidence. “Go tell John what you see going down,” he tells them.

They could, of course say, “Well, Jesus, we see a good and decent (if slightly eccentric) preacher being silenced by a corrupt and incompetent ruler because the ruler doesn’t like what the preacher has to say. We see a gigantic empire swallowing up just about everything so it can transfer wealth to its already wealthy plutocrats. We see and hear the Pharisees talk their pious platitudes while the widows and orphans go hungry and the sick and leprous are excluded from society. We see a lot of crappy things, Jesus.”

But, even if they’d said that, Jesus would remind them. “Look a little harder. Do you see the sick being healed? Do you see the poor being recognized and lifted up? Do you see the dead being raised? The people who had become comatose with hopelessness have started to believe God has a plan for them and God’s kingdom is with them. Have you seen that? Go tell John that.”

Jesus goes on to praise John. “John was the real deal. He was a mensch. He told the truth to the powerful and he didn’t back down. But great as he is, the lowest, poorest, least able sinner in the Kingdom of God is just as precious. Even more precious, because God loves and has compassion for the weak.”

Sometimes it looks like the whole world is circling the drain. Sometimes it seems like nothing you do has mattered. But it has. You may not see it, but God has seen it. Tiny works of charity, infinitesimal deeds of mercy, little seeds of righteousness are growing quietly but surely. We need to see the whole picture, keep believing, and rejoice for what the Lord has already done.

Keep the faith, my friend. Come back and see me again