The Glory of the Lord (Reflections on the Feast of the Transfiguration 2026)

 While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” (Matthew 17:5)

Glory. The dictionary tells us it can mean “high renown or honor won by notable achievement” or “magnificence or great beauty.” What does the glory of the Lord mean to you? Have you ever beheld anything of such great magnificence that it had you standing still as rock with your mouth hanging open?

I can recall vividly being a teenager standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon and thinking how water and ice were carving that ditch inch by inch for millions and millions of years long before anything like the upright monkeys we are ever appeared on this planet. A few years later I stood in the desert at Joshua Tree National Monument in California. As far as the eye could see there really wasn’t much of anything to look at, but the absence of any kind of man-made sound—the total silence of the place—was crushing and a little frightening. I imagine it must’ve been like the silence Elijah experienced on Mount Horeb which made him hide his face in his cloak[i].

Have you ever felt awe like that? I sometimes get the same feeling on a cloudless pre-dawn morning when I roll my recycle cart out to the curb. I look up at the stars and consider they’re so very far away and it has taken their light uncountable eons to reach the earth. The stars themselves might’ve burned out a million years ago, but the light would still be making its way across the emptiness of space to be perceived by my tiny brain. I also consider that, for all the stars I can see, there are so many billions out there which can only be observed from the middle of the ocean or from some rare points on earth’s surface not polluted by the artificial light we make down here. Did Moses feel that sense of God’s magnificence when he stood atop Mt. Sinai?[ii] Just thinking of the vastness of all God has made and the enormity of time itself makes me shudder with the knowledge of my own miniscule insignificance.

It’s no wonder the disciples who experienced the glory of God on the mountaintop with Jesus fell to the ground in fear. What are any of us compared to the wonder and mystery and might of God? But these lads who experienced something of which they were forbidden to speak—even assuming they could describe it—were given two other important instructions: Listen to Jesus, and don’t be afraid.

I don’t doubt the disciples had been feeling a little insecure given Jesus’ earlier prediction that he would go to Jerusalem and undergo persecution from the leaders of the people and then be put to death.[iii] I think Jesus needed to remind his most faithful friends and followers that whatever was about to occur—whatever pain and anguish the rulers of this sinful world were about to inflict—was nothing but a blink in God’s eye. The glory of the Lord is everlasting and so far beyond our imagining. It’s also far, far beyond the trouble of the present time. I wonder if Peter, James, and John, cowering in that locked room when the resurrected Christ appeared before them, said to themselves, “Of course Jesus is risen! Didn’t he reveal to us the glory of the Father on that mountaintop? What were we afraid of? Why did we doubt? Silly of us, wasn’t it?”

The Feast of the Transfiguration comes on the cusp of the holy season of Lent, a time of repentance and renewal when we in the Church remember our Lord’s Passion and our sinful nature which grieves the heart of God. It seems we don’t require much of a reminder as the nightly news keeps slapping us in the face with tales of violence, injustice, and corruption. It’s therefore important that we take this festival day to return to the mountaintop, to remind ourselves of the magnificence of the God we worship, and remember the God whose glory leaves us shaking in stupefied awe is also the God who loves us. Let the powers of this world, of sin, and of death do their worst. As the Psalmist says, “God whose throne is in heaven is laughing; the Lord holds them in derision.”[iv]

Listen to Jesus and don’t be afraid.

Thanks again for your time, my friend. Please leave me a comment and come visit me again.

 

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[i] 1 Kings 19:11-13

[ii] Exodus 24: 15-18

[iii] Matthew 16:21-23.

[iv] Psalm 2:4

Light and Salt (Reflections on Epiphany 5, Year A 2026)

 

“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.” (Matthew 5:14)

Once upon a long time ago in the ancient Mediterranean world, religion was something you did because everyone else was doing it. It worked to hold the tribe or the city state together. You had your own god or set of gods, you made a regular sacrifice at the local holy place, and you hoped your god would send you rain for your crops or fecundity for your livestock or—at the very least—wouldn’t decide to wipe out your whole community with a war or a flood or a plague.

Eventually, however, you came to realize that the gods really didn’t give a crap about you. Yeah, you made your sacrifice. Maybe they liked it. maybe they didn’t, but they were up on Mt. Olympus or wherever else gods hung out and didn’t have much time to interact with you. If you wanted insight into ethical behavior or the meaning of life or anything like that you might go to a philosopher, but your religion wasn’t going to help you out much. If the gods were in a bad mood, you were screwed and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. “As flies to wanton boys,” Shakespeare said, “are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.[i]”

Then along came the Jews, and they only worshiped one God. This God has some pretty strong opinions about what folks should or shouldn’t be up to. This God wasn’t as interested in ritual sacrifice as he was in how people treated each other. This God got in your face and reminded you that there are rules by which a society can work. Break these rules and things fall apart. So, some people started getting really serious about the rules but lost sight of why they were given.

Then along came a teacher named Jesus of Nazareth. He reminded us that the rules were there so we could learn to love one another. The Anglican bishop and religious scholar N.T. Wright summarized this very nicely:

"Jesus doesn't give an explanation for the pain and sorrow of the world. He comes where the pain is most acute and takes it upon himself. Jesus doesn't explain why there is suffering, illness, and death in the world. He brings healing and hope. He doesn't allow the problem of evil to be the subject of a seminar. He allows evil to do its worst to him. He exhausts it, drains its power, and emerges with new life." ~ N. T. Wright[ii]

Jesus got folks excited about his message. So excited, in fact, that within a generation of his crucifixion and resurrection people on three continents were worshipping him as their Lord and Savior. Why? Because it was clear to people that the Christians loved one another. They cared for the community. They shared what they had, and they believed in taking care of the poor and the stranger and those on the margins.

Can you imagine what it must have felt like for the average peasant to be told “You are the light of the world? You are the salt of the earth?” Not “you could be,” or “you should be,” but you are like light—a source of energy and joy and life. You are like salt—someone who brings flavor and preserves and enriches and is of great value. But your light and your value are not for you to horde and revel in. They’re for you to share with a hurting creation.

A city on a hill can’t be hidden. It can stand out as an example of how life and relationships ought to be. You want folks to look to the city and say, “Gosh. Those people have it going on. They’re so loving, so generous, and they always look really happy!” But because the city stands out, it can also be judged. If the city is one giant, rat-crawling slum—that will get noticed too. People will say. “Those guys have everything and they waste it. They’re small-minded and self-absorbed and hung up on their own stuff. Wouldn’t want to be like them.”

We all know that Christianity in America is changing. I hope we’re getting away from the idea that salvation is about going to Heaven when we die. Rather, it’s time we focus on bringing the Kingdom of Heaven to life here on earth. The old 19^th century reformers wanted to reach out to the dark places of society, to the down and out, and bring the hopeless and the destitute salvation. They opened missions and offered soup and a sermon. I’d suggest that today the soup is the sermon. We who have the gift of Jesus—we who are the light and the salt—are called to be in the places of greatest need. We don’t go armed with doctrine but with generosity and enough love to meet the needs of others.

If we let our light shine through our good works people will see it and they’ll get the idea.

 

[i] The blinded Earl of Gloucester says this in King Lear act 4 sc. 1 in case you’re interested.

[ii] Unfortunately, I don’t know the exact source of this quote. I found it here: https://www.azquotes.com/author/15971-N_T_Wright Sometimes you just have to trust the internet.

On America's Immigration Policy (Reflections on Epiphany 4, Year C 2026)

“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.” (Matthew 5:11-12)

Like a lot of folks in America, I spent a good part of last weekend trying to dig out from the massive snowstorm which covered half of this continent. Having been trapped indoors and suffering a bad case of cabin fever, I braved the fifteen-degree weather and attempted to liberate my car from nine inches of snow which fell on South Jersey. I got the driveway cleared and would’ve started on the sidewalk had it not been for the timely arrival of seven brawny and hearty gentlemen whose primary language was other than English. These fellows, equipped as they were with snow shovels, were part of the landscape crew hired by my homeowners’ association for the purpose of shoveling snow from the homes of the residents in our 55 and over community. I thanked them with a hearty, “Muchas gracias!” and received a friendly “De nada!” in response.

I appreciate the work this crew does for my community, given that, had they not arrived, my 66-year-old body would’ve had to do more shoveling and would be sorer than it already is. Of course, at age 66 I think I still could’ve handled the job, but I’m not so sure the 83-year-old lady who lives next door would be up for it.

The immigrant community touches life here in America in so many ways. I honor these foreign-born gentlemen who shovel my snow in the winter and cut my lawn in the spring and summer. They are hard workers. I also have tremendous appreciation for the community of Haitian immigrants who comprise the Seventh Day Adventist congregation which shares Faith Lutheran’s worship space. They are lovely, friendly people, and without their generous donation my congregation would not be able to pay our utility bills.

I am, however, deeply concerned about the U.S. government’s current policy on immigration. What is happening in our country at this moment is wrong. We are witnessing the violation of due process guaranteed in the U.S. Constitution. We have seen lawful residents and even U.S. citizens punished unfairly and illegally. In many cases the lawful naturalization procedures have been abused. Jobsites, schools, and communities have been disrupted, and now two citizen protestors have been wantonly and needlessly killed by federal officers.

I wrestle with the message of today’s gospel lesson.[i] “Blessed are those who mourn” may ring a very discordant note in the ears of the families of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. I doubt those family members feel very blessed when they hear all kinds of evil uttered falsely by our government officials about those they love.

I know, too, that many of us come to church to escape the noise and trauma of the world, and have no wish to hear unpleasant or controversial events recounted from the pulpit. But our government’s behavior violates the teaching of our Church[ii] and the teaching of Scripture. My ordination vows say I am to speak to the world of God’s love. I’m quite sure God’s love does not include demonizing immigrants. Rather, it recognizes most people came to this land because they couldn’t stay where they were. God’s love means we are to love our neighbor as ourselves, offer welcome to the stranger, and pray for the wellbeing of all. Indiscriminately rounding up the foreign-born with the purpose of expelling them flies in the face of Christ’s words, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.[iii]” This welcome must be part of the baptismal call of all Christians. Our own baptismal liturgy tells us we are to inspire our children so they will “proclaim Christ through word and deed, care for others and the world God made, and work for justice and peace.”[iv]

Our gospel lesson challenges us. We are challenged in the midst of things we never wanted to see, which cause feelings of outrage or despair, to see God by remaining pure in heart. This means we acknowledge the truth, but do not give way to either bitterness or exhausted indifference. And we are challenged to believe what the scripture tells us. The grieving will be comforted. The lowly and meek will inherit a place of welcome and freedom in the land, and the hungry will be satisfied. As Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded us, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.[v]” We will not grow weary, for we hold fast to the promises of Christ.

God bless you, my friend. Keep praying. Pray for Minneapolis, for our immigrant communities, and for our leaders that they may have the moral courage to do what is right and acceptable in the eyes of God.

 

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[i] Matthew 5: 1-12.

[ii] You can read the ELCA’s statement on Immigration by clicking here: ImmigrationSM.pdf

[iii] Matthew 25: 35.

[iv] Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Augsburg Fortress Publishers 2006) page 228.

[v] Dr. King was paraphrasing a quote from the Unitarian minister the Rev. Theodore Parker, an abolitionist who wrote in 1853, “I do not pretend to understand the moral universe. The arc is a long one. My eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve or complete the figure by experience of sight. I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends toward justice.”

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.