Cool Old People and Opposition (Reflections on Christmas 1, Year B)

"Simeon's Song of Praise" Aert de Gelder (ca. 1710)

“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples…” (Luke 2:29-31)

I really love the gospel appointed for Christmas 1, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary (Luke 2:22-40). Granted, I don’t often give myself the opportunity to preach on it. In years past I’ve kind of figured that good American Lutherans, wiped out by the bacchanal of the Yule, always want to sleep in on the Sunday after Christmas and nurse their sugar-cookie hangovers. Church attendance goes into the dumper on this Sunday. Subsequently, I’ve often taken this Sunday off and not taken the time to prepare a message on the beautiful passage the lectionary gives us. That’s too bad, because the imagery in this lesson is really exquisitely lovely. At least I think so.

Liturgical purists will recognize verses 29-32 as the Nunc Dimittis, a canticle that’s part of evening worship settings such as Compline or Evensong. For a Lutheran like myself it’s more familiar as the canticle sung right after the reception of the Holy Eucharist. In our gospel, Simeon, a pious and devout Jew who believed he wouldn’t die until he’d seen the Messiah, cradles the baby Jesus in his arms and tells God he’s now ready to hang it up. It’s actually a joyful and thankful admission, so it’s appropriate that we sing it right after we’ve encountered Jesus in the Lord’s Supper. You can find musical arrangements of this prayer in Evangelical Lutheran Worship’s first two settings of the mass (ELW pg. 113 and pg. 134 in case you want to look it up). Personally, I wish we’d include it in all settings.

I mean, how cool is this image? Here’s an old dude at the end of his life hugging a little baby boy at the very beginning of his. The old geezer is thanking God that his tradition is going to live on after him. He’s taking joy in the life and vitality he no longer has but knows this child will enjoy. As a cleric who has officiated hundreds of funerals, I can’t even count the number of times family members of the deceased have expressed gratitude that their elderly relative lived long enough to see a grandchild or great-grandchild born. It’s an affirmation of life itself.

This gospel lesson also celebrates the wisdom of the elderly. I’ve had Simeons and Annas in my congregation, and there’s something to be said for vintage Christians who have lived lives of prayer, learned mercy and forgiveness, and have figured out that you don’t need to take all the crap so seriously. Simeon and Anna know who Jesus is, and because they know, they are full of optimism for that which is to come.

(By the way, an interesting little—but certainly not unimportant—detail in this story is found at verse 24. Mary and Joseph, expected to either give their firstborn son to God per the statues in Exodus 13 or redeem him at a price, come to the Temple to do the latter. I find it significant that the sacrificial price for the Redeemer of the World is only two lousy pigeons. Since there was no Republican tax plan in New Testament times, I’m assuming that the low price was offered to those of limited means, and that rich folks were expected to make grander sacrifices—like a cow or a sheep—as their means permitted. By including this detail, Luke reminds us that our Savior came from the peasant class. Jesus loves the poor because he was poor himself!)

This gospel lesson is both celebration and foreboding at the birth of this child. Any parent gets this. Having been in my current parish for almost two full decades, I’ve had the privilege and delight of watching a whole bunch of whacky kids grow into adulthood. At Christmastime, they all come back to go to church with their parents and grandparents. The first baby I baptized from this congregation now speaks with a bass voice and towers a good head taller than his pastor. I love seeing them, love hearing about what they’re up to, and love the fact that they still show up for worship—if only once or twice a year.

BUT: Like every parent, my joy is also coupled with worry. When two lads I’ve known since they were rug rats put on the uniform of the United States military, I’m filled with both pride and dread. When the adorable little girls set off for college, I start thinking about the unsavory tales I’ve heard about campus parties and sexual assault. Over the years I’ve been so very well-pleased by the accomplishments of my “church kids,” but I’ve been saddened by their misadventures, too.

Simeon tells Mary that Jesus will be destined for the “falling and rising of many in Israel” (verse 34), but a sword will also pierce Mary’s heart. With the child’s greatness will come opposition and sorrow. It cannot be otherwise.

As we embrace the baby Jesus, we’ll find in his gentleness and humility our own sense of identity and, for want of a better word, pride. But we will also find opposition, and we will hurt along with him.

I dearly hope that this sense of hurt does not stem from cultural indignation. Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if we say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” here in America. I don’t care if we don’t have “In God We Trust” on our currency or the Ten Commandments on our courthouse walls. I care when the ones Christ came to save are violated. When God’s children become refugees, or heroin addicts, or are incarcerated, or are dying from war-related famine—that’s when the sword should pierce the heart of the Christian. And, I guarantee you, any attempt to address these situations will certainly bring opposition from someone.

At such moments of opposition it might be a good idea to remember dear old Simeon. He believed the promises of God, and we will, too. So we hold onto the baby Jesus, give thanks, and move forward into a new year.

We Need a Little Christmas

“…I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people…” (Luke 2:10)

“For we need a little Christmas

Right this very minute

Candles in the window

Carols at the spinet

Yes, we need a little Christmas now!”

Do you recognize these lyrics? I’ll bet you heard Andy Williams singing them on your local all-Chrismtas-muisc-‘til-you’re-ready-to-barff radio station. Do you know where this song comes from? It’s actually from the Broadway musical Mame. There’s this scene in the play when the characters are having a really rough time, so they decide to celebrate Christmas early in order to lift their spirits. It’s a great scene.

Whenever I hear this song played on the radio, I think of the production of Mame I saw around Christmas time in 1994 at Philadelphia’s legendary Walnut Street Theatre (the oldest continually producing professional theatre in the United States, I’ll have you know!). I went with this guy named Melvin Rumpf. Mel was a professional dancer who’d danced on Broadway. He was African American and, I’m quite certain, gay. I met him when I was a seminarian. He was my “project” for my pastoral care class. The professor assigned me, the former actor to, to visit with Mel, the former dancer. We hit it off pretty well, too.

Mel was living at a now-defunct ELCA facility called Betak, a nursing home for those suffering from HIV/AIDS. His AIDS was full-blown, and it was obvious to me that he was dying. Not actively dying, mind you, but he was most certainly terminal. He had the emaciated frame and the distant stare of one who would not be long for this planet.

Somehow, this stricken hoofer had come into possession of two tickets to the Walnut Street, but he had no one to take him. I borrowed a car from one of my classmates, and the two of us set off on that cold December night for an evening of live theatre—very possibly the last one Mel would ever enjoy. I remember that evening, not for the stage performance (which was excellent), but for Mel’s company. We had a great time together, made all the more precious by the knowledge that his time was short and that this was a brief moment of defiant joy in the face of a horrible illness.

So now, whenever I hear “We Need a Little Christmas” on the radio, I remember that night with Mel and I give thanks that I had the chance to share it with him.

But this year, I think of another verse of that song:

“For I’ve grown a little leaner

Grown a little colder

Grown a little sadder

Grown a little older

And I need a little angel

Sitting on my shoulder

Need a little Christmas now.”

I don’t know about you, but, for me, this has been a pretty rough year. My congregation has experienced death in the family with the loss of two long-time and much beloved members. I’ve buried numerous victims of the heroine epidemic, too. There have been devastating hurricanes in Texas, Florida, and Puerto Rico. As I write this the wildfires are still burning in California. An arrogant little man is threatening the world with missiles from Korea, and Nazis and Klansmen have marched openly in Virginia. A madman shot over 500 people from a hotel in Las Vegas, and another demented soul opened fire and killed dozens in a church in Texas.

Sometimes I just feel helpless at the thought of it all. That’s when I need to turn to the Christmas story—and not a sanitized, Christmas card version, but the true, human story behind our celebration.

You see, Mary and Joseph were helpless, too. They were peasants at the mercy of a powerful and oppressive regime which ordered them to travel seventy miles over open country while Mary was eight months pregnant. They were homeless when she gave birth—forced to nestle the Savior of the World in a filthy trough for animals. The men who came to ogle that baby were also homeless—“abiding in the field” (literally, living in tents)—and could offer no shelter to our Holy Family.

The lives of those shepherds, frankly, sucked. Their lives were hard and brutal on the morning of the day when Jesus was born, and they would be hard and brutal on the day after. The only difference might be a new sense of defiant joy, and the knowledge that things would not always be as they currently seemed to be. It would take time for that baby to grow up and live into God’s promise, but someday—some glorious day—God’s love and favor would be revealed.

These days we seem to be so hung up on certainty that we have forgotten the joy of hope. Christmas and faith are all about believing that there really is light in the darkness. That’s why we need this story. We need a little Christmas. It’s not just a cute anesthetic for our worries and sense of powerlessness. It’s a defiant act of joy. If we can’t appreciate the darkness in it, we’ll never learn to embrace the light. A poor, unimportant, un-wed teen mom conceived and bore a child in cave used to stable livestock, and we call him Jesus—the name means “savior.”

When we embrace this child—his love, hos compassion, his sense of sacrifice, and his sense of thankful joy for what the Father has already given us—the world will change.

Be joyful and triumphant, my friends, and have yourselves a very merry Christmas. 

"Hail, Mary" (Reflections on Advent 4, Year B)

“Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” (Luke 1:28)

Lutherans, as a general rule, don’t pray the rosary, but on Advent 4 (Year B) we get the origins of that lovely prayer which is so dear to our Roman brothers and sisters. The Latin translation of the angel Gabriel’s words in Luke 1:28 is “Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord is with thee.” (“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…” come later in the chapter at verse 42 when Mary meets her cousin Elizabeth). Martin Luther, although he adored Mary, hated the Latin translation of the salutation in verse 28. He would’ve been much more pleased had the angel said, “God bless you, dear Mary!” He maintained that no good German would ever say “You are full of grace.” He translated it as “thou gracious one,” feeling this was a sweeter and more complimentary way of saying hello.

However we interpret the angel’s greeting, we may have to admit to ourselves that the doctrine of the Virgin Birth is a pretty tough one to believe. When I was in seminary we debated whether belief in the Virgin Birth was truly necessary for salvation. But Luther comes to our rescue once again when he quotes the writings of St. Bernard of Clairvaux who pointed out that this story actually contains three miracles. First, it’s a miracle that the virgin should become a mother (which Luther considered was no big deal for the God who had created the universe from nothing). Second, it’s a miracle that Almighty God would be willing to take on and share our human experience and become one with us. Third, it’s a miracle that this young lady—a child of her time, culture, and circumstances—would actually be willing to say “yes” to being the bearer of God to the world.

Luther thought that the last one was the greatest miracle of all.

Just think of our girl here. She must’ve been very young. She was engaged to be married, and if she were found to be pregnant, at the very least, her boyfriend would have the right to dump her. If he married her anyway, her child would always be the subject of snide speculation—he’d be what was called a mamzer. That’s an individual whose parentage was in doubt and could not be considered to be authentically Jewish. At the very worst, she could be accused of adultery and stoned to death as a whore.

And yet she said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”

Verse 29 tells us she was “perplexed” by the angel’s words. The Greek word for this is dietracqh (I’d pronounce this dee-trak-thay) which literally translates “troubled.” From the context, it might be better to translate it “scared spitless!” I mean, wouldn’t you be? Pregnancy alone is a scary thing. So many things can go wrong, and I can’t imagine any first-time mom who doesn’t face childbearing with a certain amount of fright. And if pregnancy is frightening, parenthood is freaking terrifying!

And yet she said, “Let it be with me according to your word.”

She was not an important person. She was from a hick town. Her most important relative was small town priest. Being female, she wasn’t even considered a full member of society, just an appendage to her father or her husband. But God sent a messenger to her, because God’s eye is always on the little folks who, in their simplicity, patience, and faith, have found favor with God.

For me, the great joy in this Advent story is how God loves to show up in unexpected places—like, maybe, your house. And as he hears you pray “Thy will be done,” he invites you to be carriers of his Word.

Thanks, Mary. May we always be inspired by your faith.

Light It Up! (Reflections on Advent 3, Year B)

“He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him.” (John 1:7)

Don’t you just love Christmas lights? I do. I’ve started putting my lights up the week of Thanksgiving, and I can’t wait to see my whole street and neighborhood illuminated. Christmas lights just make me feel happy—especially the way some of my neighbors decorate. In this part of the world a house isn’t properly decked-out for Christmas unless you can see it from the International Space Station. By Advent 2 the street where Faith Lutheran sits looks like the Las Vegas Strip. I love it!

Lights, of course, have been part of our celebration for a very long time. It’s generally believed that the date on which we celebrate our Lord’s birth was chosen sometime in the 2^nd Century. Since Jesus didn’t have a birth certificate, we don’t really know when he was born; however, our Christian ancestors decided to take the pagan Roman festival of Sol Invictus (the “unconquered sun”), celebrated on December 25^th to commemorate the winter solstice, and re-purpose it as Jesus’ birthday. The pagans would light lots of bonfires and such in the hope of encouraging the sun to come back, bring longer and warmer days, and grow the crops. Apparently there was much whooping-it-up and festiveness at this time, and the early Christians figured this was as good a time as any to rejoice in the birth of the Savior.

It makes sense to me. Now of days, when there’s so much darkness around us, we really need to look to the light. It’s time to brighten things up. The gospel lesson assigned for Advent 3 Year B in the RCL (John 1:6-8, 19-28) throws a different “light” on our friend John the Baptist. Last week John was calling us to repentance. This week, he’s pointing to Jesus as the light of the world.

You have to give John the B credit: for all of his flamboyant weirdness, he’s a remarkably humble guy. He’s always pointing past himself—discounting his own importance—in order to shine the light on Jesus. This Sunday, I would hope we would see a joyful light. The third Sunday in Advent is traditionally known as Guadete Sunday, or “Rejoice Sunday.” We get a little break from watching for Christ and, like John, we are called to point to Christ as we see him already active in the world (and we get to light that nifty rose-colored candle, too!).

So..? Where have you seen the light of Christ this week?

Today I had a conversation with a woman in the parish who has just lost her thirty-eight-year-old son to sudden heart failure. In the darkness of her grief she told me of how her son’s co-workers had taken a collection and presented the young man’s widow and orphaned children with over twenty-one hundred dollars in gift cards. Such a sign of love and respect is a little candle in the darkness, and an echo of the sacrificial love which Jesus came to share.

I heard on the local TV news last night the story of an anonymous donor who paid literally thousands of dollars to a Walmart store in Northeast Philly to cancel the balances on all lay-away merchandise, thereby reducing the debts owed by an untold number of Christmas shoppers—people he or she has never met and will never meet.

I look at the work done by my own congregation, and I see our light shining in the darkness. We offer support groups for the addicted, food for the hungry, clothes for the poor, shelter for the homeless, Christmas gifts to orphans, and funds for the victims of natural disasters. We may only be shining in a small, dim way, but we are still shining. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it

I look, also (as my go-to gal for sermon help, Dr. Karoline Lewis, has pointed out in her “Dear Working Preacher” column on www.workingpreacher.org) to the light of truth that is now shining in our country on the darkness of sexual misconduct, assault, and harassment. Wicked behavior has been hidden in the shadows for a very long time, but now we can rejoice that a light is being switched on and we can hope for a more respectful and honorable society to emerge as a result.

 The light of Christ, as Matthew 25 always teaches us, is seen in the guy with the cardboard sign asking for spare change at the freeway onramp, the guy ringing the Salvation Army bell in front of the drugstore, or the kid who comes to your door selling Christmas candy to support his underfunded school program. The light shines whenever we have the opportunity to think beyond ourselves to the world’s needs. And we should rejoice to have the opportunity.

But before we get too happy about our own generosity, I remind myself again that John the Baptist’s job in the Fourth Gospel is always to point away from himself to the true light that is Jesus. No administration, program, charity, foundation, or individual act of mercy will enlighten this planet if we’re not first willing to be illuminated by the grace found in Jesus Christ. If we want a way to see in the dark, let’s first look to the one who showed us mercy, forgiveness, sacrifice, and the noble suffering of faithfulness. Then, as he said,

“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16)

Rejoice!

What Would John Tell Us? (Reflections on Advent 2, Year B)

“…the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” (Mark 1:3)

Man, you just gotta love John the Baptist! He’s as funky a dude as you’re likely to meet with his organic diet, rustic clothing, and penchant for out-of-the-way locals. He’s definitely an outsider, but that’s okay because at least it gets our attention.

And we need a little waking up, don’t we? John comes to us preaching a need for repentance, for changing our minds, because we might be so far in the weeds ourselves these days that we don’t even know we need saving. We’re not ready to encounter Jesus, because we don’t know what we need from him. In the Advent 1 gospel lesson Jesus told us to keep awake because the world is definitely changing. In Advent 2 (Mark 1:1-8) we’re being told by John that we need to look inside and do some changing ourselves.

And he’s right. The changing world has certainly changed who we are. Last week, one of my faithful, long-time parishioners, Harvey, handed me an article from The Philadelphia Inquirer by Dwight DeWerth-Palmeyer which warned us about things we don’t hear talked about. DeWerth-Pallmeyer is afraid that our reliance on cellular devices is warping our brains. Americans, he maintains, are reading less and growing more depressed. We spend more time staring at display screens than we do in conversation with each other. We have shorter attention spans, we’ve grown increasingly more individualistic, and vastly more myopic in terms of our views on the world. We don’t want discussion or reasoned debate anymore. We want someone to tell us what we’ve already decided we agree with, and we want to verbally bash those who disagree.

DeWerth-Pallmeyer, shouting a warning that John the Baptist might’ve envied, expostulates that church attendance is down, and so are a host of other forms of social engagement such as the Rotary Club or the Lions Club. Once we were a nation of joiners, but now we’re a nation of “I-don’t-wanna-join-so-leave-me-alone.”

In a letter to ELCA congregations, Steve Oeschlager (ELCA Stewardship Program Coordinator) notes that the suicide rate in the US is at a 30-year high, and more Americans die of drug overdoses than die from gun violence or auto accidents. And yet, we are willing to spend over $10 billion a year on books, programs, and techniques for “self-help.” This figure, Oeschlager tells us, is more than six times the amount collected annually in offerings by all ELCA congregations combined! Yet are we a healthier people for all that?

What would John the Baptist cry out to us today?

Maybe he’d just want to warn us about what a messed-up bunch of self-medicating, lonely, hungry souls we’ve become. Maybe he’d want us to recognize that we’re all hurting, and that we’ve run the bus off the road into the ditch and we don’t really know what to do about it. Maybe he’d just want us to “come clean” about what we’re feeling at this time of year when the culture tells us to be “merry and bright” while we’re feeling exhausted and scared and mournful.

If we listen to John, we might well be ready to receive Jesus. We’ll be ready to admit that we can’t do this on our own, and we need the Spirit of God to inspire us and to comfort us and to give us hope. Then we’ll be ready receive the one who is more powerful than we can imagine. Then we can begin to look for signs of him in our neighbor and in ourselves. Then we can pray, “Come, Lord Jesus. Teach us to love, to forgive, and to believe. And come soon.”

May this time of Advent be a blessing to you, and may you receive Christ in your heart. 

Watching the Signs (Reflections on Advent 1, Year B)

“And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.” (Mark 13:37)

Truth be told, I really don’t like the lectionary gospel for Advent 1. When I was first called as pastor of Faith Lutheran in Philadelphia on Christ the King Sunday of 1998, I was told I’d have the next Sunday (Advent 1) off as the substitute pastor had already arranged pulpit supply for that date. Hey! Fine with me. I just don’t like preaching all of this apocalyptic stuff. It makes me thank of the 1970’s when everybody was reading Hal Lindsay’s monumental load of steaming crap, The Late, Great Planet Earth, and waiting for the Rapture. For years I’d invite guest preachers to come and preach Advent 1 so I wouldn’t have to do it.

Unfortunately, it looks like I’m up to bat this year, so I better come up with something reasonably meaningful to say about Mark 13:24-37. The best I can do, I think, is to try and put it in some kind of historical and Biblical context. If you go back to the top of the chapter, you’ll see that Jesus and his buddies are in Jerusalem. He’s just predicted the destruction of the Temple, and goes on to explain that some other really nasty stuff is definitely in the forecast. The political and cultural fecal matter is about to go SPLAT! against the rotary air conditioning system (metaphorically speaking), and it’s not going to be a day at Disneyland for anybody. But not to worry: God is near, and the Word of God will not pass away. The righteous will be vindicated in the end.

Smart Bible history guys suggest that Mark (whoever he really was. A first and second century bishop named Papias of Hierapolis claims that Mark was a disciple of Simon Peter’s in Rome.) was writing around the years 64 to 70 of the Common Era when official Roman persecution of Christians was in its heyday and the Roman Empire was busy putting down a Jewish revolt with all the ruthless brutality we’ve come to know and love. This revolt resulted in the Temple of Jerusalem being destroyed, thereby crushing the Jewish sense of identity. This defeat, as you can imagine, really sucked. In fact, for some, it was the end of the world.

But here’s the thing: stuff is always ending, because stuff is always changing. Mark ends this chapter by gluing together two parables. In the first, Jesus tells his followers to look at the fig tree. If you see it’s starting to bud, you know the seasons are changing and it will be summer soon. It doesn’t take a crystal ball to figure out that something is coming to an end. The question is: how will you accept the change? You see, your spiritual life isn’t going to be about what happens to or around you. It’s going to be about how you embrace it.

For my own parable, I think of my beloved Borders Book Store. I used to love Borders. I’d browse in there for hours. But there aren’t any Borders Books anymore. I guess the folks who ran the chain never figured on Jeff Bezos and Amazon stealing their business by selling books, movies, and music on line—even developing that nifty little device, the Amazon Kindle, on which we bibliophiles can shop and download our books for a lot less cash. Barnes and Noble, on the other hand, recognized the signs of the changing times, adapted themselves to e-commerce, and have lived to tell the tale.

Do we in the American church see the signs of the changing season? Or are we too much in love with our own cultural preferences—do we fear the pain of loss too much—to accept what God might be doing?

The second parable mark uses is that of the master who goes on a journey and leaves his servants in charge of the house. Will the servants be alert when the master returns, or will they be caught napping? It’s possible that Mark figured the resurrected and ascended Jesus might come back during his lifetime, and he’s admonishing everyone to be in as close to a state of pure grace as they can be when that day comes.

But what if Jesus doesn’t make a return trip during your watch here on earth? I’ll still bet you dollars to doughnuts that something will happen which will shake and rattle your world the same way the destruction of the Temple shook the world of Mark’s time. And that will be the time when you’ll have to keep awake for what God is really doing.

Someone may come into your life. Someone may go out of it. Your health may (and eventually will) change. You may lose a job. You may take a new job. Your home may be damaged or destroyed. You may have to move. You may face bankruptcy. You may hit the lottery. A natural catastrophe or a horrible criminal act may impact you out of nowhere. Where will you see Christ when that happens?

I guess I see this gospel lesson as an admonition to keep awake to the changing times and to keep open to new possibilities—God’s possibilities, which may be at odds with our own desires. Things will change, and they won’t ever be the same. But they might be very good nonetheless.

A blessed Advent to you all.

The Humble King (Reflections on Christ the King, Year A)

 

In my theater days I had the chance to work with a remarkable director named David. David was a senior tutor at Britain’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts (RADA) and frequently visited the United States. Over the years I worked on four classical stage productions with this quixotic, brilliant, and mercurial man. David had a phenomenal grasp of Shakespeare, a wonderfully creative mind, and a prodigious ability to consume alcohol with no visible effects (Drunk or sober, I think he was just naturally crazy!).

David also possessed a very regal bearing. He would warm-up his actors’ voices by having us repeat soliloquies from Shakespeare’s King Richard II. He’d read a line and we’d repeat after him, trying to match his majestic baritone. David proudly told us that he was something like seventy-sixth in line to the throne of England. My mind boggles at the thought that, should seventy-five royal personages meet an unexpected demise, my Shakespearean friend could be crowned King of England!

I recall that one of my fellow actors once asked David why Britain, in this modern age, still had a Royal Family. He explained that the monarch was the last resort in the justice system. Should a man be convicted of a crime and lose all appeals before the courts, he could still apply to the Queen for pardon. I kind of like that idea: the job of the monarch is to dispense mercy.

Of course, now of days, I look at Britain’s monarchy with a sense of envy. Here’s a country with a class of people whose job it is—regardless of what political party is in power—to represent the nation with pride and dignity (We’re not so lucky in America these days!). The monarch represents all of the people. That’s why, I guess, kings and queens get to refer to themselves in the first person plural, and Brits refer to “Her Majesty’s government,” or “Her Majesty’s army,” or “Her Majesty’s Postal Service.” That which belongs to the monarch actually belongs to the nation the monarch represents. If one serves the monarch, one serves all of the people.

The king in the gospel lesson appointed for Christ the King Sunday in Year A of the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 25: 31-46) actually reverses this representation. Here, if one serves the least of the people, one has also served the monarch. Similarly, if one of the least has gone hungry or homeless or threadbare, the monarch has suffered. This monarch shares personally with the hungry, the poor, the forgotten, the persecuted, the sick, and the imprisoned. This king has a radical sense of identification with the lowliest of his subjects. This is the king who is the last recourse for those who need mercy. But this king is also a judge, and he doesn’t easily forget when his majesty, in the guise of one of his suffering subjects, has been slighted.

Christ the King is the newest festival in the liturgical year. It is less than a century old and was established by the Roman Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, and other liturgical denominations after the gruesome slaughter unleashed by World War I. The world which emerged from the senseless carnage of that conflict had little use for royalty who reigned by divine right. The Church, after seeing how pompous Kings, Emperors, Czars, and Kaisers had screwed up civilization, knew she had to teach the world to look toward the King of Kings. The world needed the humble king who rode a donkey rather than a war horse, who came as a homeless baby born in a stable to an unwed mother and laid in an animal’s food trough, who died as a criminal in shame and disgrace. The world needed to look to the King who was and is the final word of mercy. The world needed the king who lives in and for the broken and the forgotten and the discouraged and the oppressed. 

People are still fascinated, of course, by the grandeur and romance of earthly royalty. David said that some in Britain are so besotted by the Royal Family that they have been known to faint dead away in their presence. Just imagine having that same sense of awe for our King of Kings. Martin Luther once said that if a man should tremble before an earthly prince, how much more should he tremble before Almighty God? Could we honor our King by approaching each individual as if we were in the presence of a royal and exalted personage?

Christ the King is the last Sunday of the liturgical calendar. Perhaps it’s a good time to make a sort of “New Year’s Resolution?” Let’s take this festival as the starting point for a renewed sense of the awe and mystery of God. My little church in Northeast Philadelphia is, I’ll admit, rather casual. Lately, however, we seem to have slipped from the “casual” to the “impious,” and are on a downward trajectory to the “disrespectful.” Let’s decide that we’re going to up our game and show a bit more reverence in the King’s presence. Simple things like coming to worship on time, faithfully honoring service commitments, keeping reverent silence during the Eucharist, and generally showing respect for God’s house (You wouldn’t bring your Dunkin Donuts coffee to an audience with the Queen of England would you? Why would you bring it into church?) are really good ways to revive your sense of the sacred. If you can honor the King in his house, you will learn to honor him in your neighbor.

Let me know what you think. Thanks for stopping by.

Saint of the Month: Sgt. Mary Dague (Reflections on Thanksgiving)

This is a re-posting of an article I wrote in 2014. It's both a Thanksgiving and a Veterans' Day reflection. I am on vacation this week, so I hope you enjoy this "repeat." OG

Thirty-year-old Mary Dague describes herself as happy.

That's pretty easy to believe by looking at her picture. She's got luminous eyes, funky magenta hair, and a smile that seems to go all the way around to the back of her head. A Youtube video of a thoroughly enthusiastic Mary doing a tandem skydive (without a helmet, mind you!) might just convince you that this is the coolest chick ever. If I had to pick a word to describe her image, I'd say “joyful.”

I heard Mary's story a few weeks ago on National Public Radio's “Story Corp” series, and I thought to myself, “Okay. That's my Thanksgiving sermon!”

(Thanksgiving, I said. Not “Turkey Day.” Not the day before “Black Friday.” I friggin' hate, loathe, and despise those two terms. It is a revolting commentary on our culture that we so neglect a national holiday set aside to appreciate the goodness of God by nominating gluttony and excessive retail spending over gratitude. But I digress.)

I picked Mary Dague's story as an illustration for this national day devoted to gratitude because she seems to me to embody the very spirit of Thanksgiving.

If you check out her story online, you'll find that Mary was a rather shy, sentimental kid growing up in Montana. She was engaged to be married right out of high school, but her future mother-in-law scared her—unintentionally, I'm sure—with thoughts of an oppressive domesticity. Mary wanted to be something more than just a housewife. She broke her engagement and, determined to do something that mattered, joined the United States Army. In her second enlistment she rose to the rank of sergeant with the frightening Military Occupation Specialty of Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD), the “Bomb Squad” of the Army.

(She also fell in love and married a fellow soldier named Jared)

In November of 2007, while on deployment in Iraq, a small IED detonated in Mary's arms. She lost both of her arms slightly above the elbows, received lacerations to her face, and lost a good portion of her hearing. A newspaper article reports her reaction to one of the corpsmen who transported her to hospital: “Dude, this sucks.”

But if you listen to Mary's voice and hear how grateful she is to be able to share her story with other wounded warriors, if you get a sense of her whacky sense of humor, her compassion, and her new sense of purpose, you will quickly forget her injuries and see only her beautiful spirit. Mary Dague soldiers on with optimism and a collection of oddball graphic T-shirts displaying wry and darkly humorous references to her condition. Aided by her husband, a service dog, some sophisticated prosthetics (there's a great picture of her online feeding herself a strawberry with her new arm), pure Montana ingenuity, and a defiant sense of humor, this veteran is a living, breathing inspiration.

I don't know Mary, so I don't know what her religious beliefs—if any—are. I hope she wouldn't mind my using her story to make a theological point. But in seeing this courageous lady, I am reminded that God does not stop being good because we in our circumstances stop appreciating that goodness. Indeed, the crappiest day we will ever have will still be filled with blessings. There will be sky above us and beauty around us and glorious people to love us and help us through.

Mary Dague's story illustrates the point made in the appointed gospel lesson for the Day of Thanksgiving, the story of the ten lepers in Luke 17:11-19. There is a world of difference between being cured and being healed. Jesus cured all ten of the lepers in the story. That is, he restored all of them to their former conditions of health. But only the one was healed. Healed comes from a word meaning “to be made whole.” Wholeness suggests peace, acceptance, self knowledge, and appreciation. We can't be healed or whole without gratitude. Maybe Sgt. Mary cannot be completely cured (But then, none of us can. Being human is a terminal condition), but she certainly seems to be healed.

I am grateful just for the opportunity to gather with loved ones and recognize how good I have it, acknowledging that none of the blessings I enjoy come from my deserving them in the least. I guess the more I recognize this, the more thankful and the more whole I will become.

I saw a cool sign in front of a church I pass on my way to and from Faith Lutheran which sort of sums it up:

Thanksgiving:

It's not a day. It's a way of life.

Or, as the old hymn put it:

Great is thy faithfulness! Great is thy faithfulness!

Morning by morning new mercies I see;

all I have needed thy hand hath provided;

great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.

And I am thankful to you, dear friend, for reading. A blessed Thanksgiving to you.

PS-Check out Mary Dague story by clicking on StoryCorp.