Sharing the Tent (Reflections on Christmas 2, Year C 2022)

 

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John 1:14) 

On Christmas 2 the Revised Common Lectionary treats us to that rather prolix and confusing passage which forms the prologue to John’s gospel (John 1:1-18). “In the beginning was the Word…” You kind of have to read down to figure out that “Word” is used synonymously with Jesus. If you want to get really eggheaded about it, the Greek is “Logos.” (Logos for you fans of the original language!). It means more than just a part of speech. It represents the whole essence or idea behind something. Note that the word for the study of some subject in English ends with “logy” as in zoology or biology, or geology. “Word” is more than just a noun, verb, adjective or any combination of letters which stand for an idea. It is the very idea itself. 

In Genesis, God’s Word creates all that is. “Then God said, ‘Let there be light;’ and there was light.”[i] God’s word speaks everything into existence. What I like about John’s prologue, besides its very poetic phrasing, is it allows us to see how Christian thought about the nature of Jesus had evolved during the first century of our faith. Paul, writing in the 40’s of the Common Era, told us that Jesus “was declared to be Son of God with power according to the spirit of holiness by resurrection from the dead.”[ii] Later, when Mark gets around to writing his gospel, he has Jesus declared Son of God at his baptism.[iii] Both Mathew and Luke, when they tell their Christmas stories, take this idea of Jesus’ divine relationship a bit further and tell us that God had made Jesus his own at the time of his conception. But our man John takes this idea and runs it back even further. Jesus is the divine Word—he’s the essence of God, and he was with God from before the start of time. “In the beginning…” 

Two things about this: First, we’re reminded when John says “the Word was God,” he reminds us that the mystery that is God’s person is both singular and plural. After all, if God is love, then there has to be an object of that love. You can’t just love in a vacuum. The second important aspect of this doctrine is the knowledge that the Word would become flesh and dwell among us. From the very beginning of time, God intended to have a personal relationship with God’s creation—us. 

If the COVID pandemic has taught us nothing else, it’s taught us how important personal interaction is. We certainly can communicate now with anyone on earth (or on the International Space Station..!) in real time via our technology. But, it’s just not the same as being able to see someone in the flesh. At Christmas and other holidays, we long for that physical presence. The shut-downs and social distance of the last two years have reminded us how much we need to see and touch each other. 

If the Word did not become flesh, we would still be awed by the glory and majesty of God, but we wouldn’t be able to relate to God because we wouldn’t feel God related to us. When the Word came to be with us, to grow up with us, feel fear and persecution and rejection, know fatigue and pain, and finally face death, we could finally get a sense of how much God loves us. We can know God, because we know God knows us through Jesus Christ. 

Some people may say they experience God in nature or in quiet meditation. Perhaps they do. For my money, however, if all we see of God is creation, than all we are experiencing is God’s inscrutability, and that can be pretty scary. The universe is a big place, and we’re pretty small in comparison. Even our own planet, beautiful as it is, is full of earthquakes and floods and tornados and lots of unpredictable stuff. No. If we want to experience the totality of God, we have to see God in the flesh dwelling among us. 

The Greek word John uses for “lived” or “dwelt” among us is “iskenosen” (iskenosen) which is literally translated as “tabernacled.” The tabernacle, if you’ll recall from Exodus, was a big tent. Basically, Jesus came to share our tent. Any Boy Scout knows how close you get to someone when you share the same tent. It creates a really special relationship when, for survival’s sake, you share limited shelter which you know will not be permanent. 

That’s kind of how we are with Jesus. He came to join us in our temporary tent. We saw him weep in compassion, feel pity and have mercy, grant forgiveness, and accept those who were deemed unacceptable. In these very human acts, we got a glimpse of God’s holiness. Indeed, when we see Jesus’ humanity, his sacrificial suffering and love, we are really seeing his divinity. 

John’s gospel always glues the human Jesus to the divinity of God. John always reminds us to look at the person if we want to know anything about the unknowable God. The cool thing is we can see God in each other whenever we see the things of Jesus active in each other. In order to learn to love God, we have to start by loving each other.[iv] 

It’s pretty great to be sharing this tent with Jesus. May God bless you all and have a very blessed New Year!

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[i] Genesis 1:3

[ii] Romans 1:4a

[iii] Mark 1:11

[iv] 1 John 4:20

Growing Holy (Reflections on Christmas One, Year C 2021)

 

 “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” (Luke 2:49) 

I took a road trip during Christmas break my last year in seminary, and, being a good Lutheran lad, I naturally researched ELCA congregations where I could worship while on my journey. Christmas One in 1997 found me in Chattanooga, TN in a little bungalow church. The pastor and his wife had gone on a much-needed vacation so lay people were leading the service (The liturgy was sung with guitar music as there was no organ). A USMC major was delivering the sermon on the same text we have for this Sunday (Luke 2:41-52). He centered his homily on verse 52: “And Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor.” 

“You know,” the major said, “I was raised in the Methodist church, and I don’t think we Lutherans talk enough about the doctrine of sanctification.” Smug little seminary student that I was, I began to think to myself, “Of course we don’t talk about it, Major, because it’s not a Lutheran doctrine!” 

The doctrine of sanctification is usually described as our growth in holiness. The major, pointing to verse 52, noted that Jesus apparently grew in holiness just as we pious Christians are all expected to do over time. Martin Luther would take issue with this as he focused on the doctrine of justification. This doctrine asserts that when Jesus died for us we got just about as holy as we’re ever going to get this side of the Pearly Gates. It’s not that Lutherans don’t try to be better people every day, but we can’t get any closer to God than we already are through our baptism. It’s not us who make the relationship—it’s God. Nothing we do, say, or think can make God love us more than God already does. Our good works don’t do God any favors. They are for our own benefit and reflect our gratitude for what God has so generously done. 

But I enjoyed the major’s sermon all the same I mean—let’s face it—as I grow in years, I really hope to be growing in wisdom and in human—if not divine—favor. 

I really like this story in Luke’s gospel. It’s just about the only one we have between Jesus’ birth and baptism. I would’ve  like to have been there to see this kid sitting in on a colloquy between a bunch of smart, old Jewish guys who love to argue and dissect the scriptures (as smart, old Jewish guys are wont to do.). Think: this kid’s idea of fun is listening to these scholars debate theological and philosophical ideas—and they really enjoy having the kid around! He actually gets what they’re talking about! Of course, being the only begotten Son of God, we’d figure Jesus had a pretty firm grasp on some of these ideas. Nevertheless, he was still only a twelve-year-old boy. 

I’ve taught Confirmation classes for decades, and it’s really rare to find a kid who has a natural understanding and affection for things of the spirit. Most twelve-year-olds would rather shovel dog poop than sit through a class on religion. Every once in long, long time, however, you get a kid who asks intelligent questions and seems to have a heart for the gospel. I would remind parents that Jesus was only sitting in with these erudite old dudes because his parents regularly brought him from Nazareth to Jerusalem to observe the Passover. If all we do is ship our kids off to Sunday School and never demonstrate how important our own faith is, we can’t expect them to grow in faith. 

(A tiny feature of this story which always makes me smile is Mary’s reference to Joseph as “your father” in verse 48. If Joseph was the guy who cared for Jesus, put food on his table, taught him how to handle tools, and demonstrated what being a righteous adult male ought to be, then old Joe was Jesus’ father. No offence to our Heavenly Father, but I like that Luke bestows that respectful title on the man who voluntarily took responsibility for raising this child. Just saying.) 

I would be remiss in discussing this passage if I didn’t point out that Jesus went missing for three days. I’ll bet Luke was using this as a foreshadowing of Jesus’ death and resurrection. IN those days folks would travel for safety’s sake in caravans. If you were Mary and Joseph, you might just want to park your little Poindexter twelve-year-old with some relatives or with the other kids so you could have a little adult time with each other. You can’t blame Mary and Joseph for not knowing exactly where Jesus was for a day. 

But, if you really want to identify with this couple in our lesson (aside from the fact that we’d all be terrified if our kid went missing!), consider that the main action they do is searching for Jesus. I guess this brings us back to the Methodist Marine major’s point. We may not grow any holier over time, but we should always be looking for Jesus for our own sake. The best place to find him is in his Father’s house. We can’t be spiritual without spiritual disciplines, and regular worship is one of the most important of those disciplines. Here in God’s house we hear the Word, we experience the sacraments, and we fortify ourselves with the company of our brothers and sisters. It is here, also, that we get involved in the Father’s business of loving those who feel least loved. He’s taught us that in serving others, we serve him. 

Where else would he be?

Have a Defiant Christmas (Christmas Eve 2021)

 

The Shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.” (Luke 2:20) 

I spent a very interesting six years as a middle school Special Ed teacher in the Los Angeles Unified School District. I can’t say it all felt like a day at Disneyland. I taught in some rather depressed neighborhoods—neighborhoods dealing with low incomes, gangs, drugs, and teen pregnancy. I also dealt with some pretty troubled kids, as you might imagine. Fortunately, the LAUSD provided me with a formidable consiglieri in the form of my Special Ed assistant, Mrs. Brady[i]. The redoubtable Mrs. B was a veteran educator, and I will confess she taught me pretty much everything I’d ever learn about teaching teens with learning disabilities.  

I will always remember one girl in my resource program, Suzy Ramirez. In a classroom filled with outrageous, noisy, and frequently disrespectful youngsters—wanna-be gang-bangers and other assorted seventh grade miscreants—Suzy was a quiet and polite flower among the overgrown weeds and discarded beer cans. I suspect her taciturnity had something to do with English not being her first language, but she was genuinely a sweet kid and I enjoyed having her in class that year. 

The following year I was re-assigned to a special day class. Sometime before we broke for Christmas recess I got a call from the office asking if I’d use my prep period to sub for the resource teacher who had taken over my old classroom. Many of the kids in the resource class were my former students, and they were, for the most part, just as crazed as I remembered them being. Suzy sat demurely in the back of the room as she’d always done and gave me a polite smile and wave as I entered classroom. Mrs. Brady greeted me with a silent and foreboding shake of her head. 

“So!” said Mrs. B. as I took my seat in the teacher’s desk. “Have you seen your precious Suzy Ramirez?” 

Before I could reply, Mrs. B. called, “Suzy, come here and say hello to Mr. Griffiths.” 

Suzy stood up and I could see that this lovely, polite, and innocent thirteen-year-old girl was about eight months pregnant. 

Suffice it to say I wasn’t exactly delighted by this development. Life is tough enough for kids in that neighborhood without being a child having a child. I don’t remember what I said to Suzy, but I know I prayed for her and her unborn child. 

Some weeks later I ran into Mrs. B. in the hallway outside the school office. She was standing with Suzy and Suzy’s mom and she was holding Suzy’s baby and smiling. Suzy was also glowing with pride as she asked me if I wanted to hold the baby. This all happened decades ago and I can’t remember if she had a boy or a girl, but I will never forget the smile on Suzy’s face and the love in her eyes. I knew that, young and unprepared as she was, she was going to be a really good mom. It didn’t matter who or what the father was, Suzy was going to try and give this child the best life possible going forward. She would defy the inconvenience of her circumstances. 

There’s something defiant in the spirit of Christmas. It defies our understanding that the Almighty God would condescend to take on our sinful, mortal form. It is astounding and mind-boggling that God would choose a poor peasant girl, no older than Suzy was, to be the bearer of redemption for the whole world. Even more astounding is young Mary’s willingness to defy the conventions of her society and say “yes” to bearing the Savior of the world. It is dumbfounding that her betrothed would similarly defy all the rules and wed a girl who was under suspicion and agree to be a father to a child not his own. It defies our puny expectations that God’s glory should come to us born in a temporary shelter to a homeless family. 

Perhaps the most defiant part of this story, as I think about it now, is the defiant joy of the shepherds. These guys were the poorest and lowest in the society. They rushed to see a baby, a helpless baby who could do nothing to change the lives they lived. Many of them may have known they might be dead before this child was old enough to make any kind of difference in their world. Nevertheless, on that night so long ago they glorified and praised God for the hope and the promise they had been given. They defied their circumstances and embraced the joy of God. 

If you’re hung up on statistics, there are probably more reasons to be scared, frustrated, and sad this Christmas than there are reasons to be merry. BUT: our one reason for joy outweighs all our other concerns. God has come to be with us, and this is the source of our joy. Joy in the Lord is not simple happiness. Simple happiness comes and goes. Joy is the permanent hope that defies what this world throws at us, and it is joy which our Lord came to give us—joy in our hope, joy in compassion, joy in forgiveness, joy in acts of mercy, and joy in our salvation. 

Jesus didn’t have a birth certificate, so we don’t know the exact date when God chose to use an unmarried teen girl to bring divine love into this world. For centuries, however, we’ve chosen to celebrate at the winter solstice, the darkest and coldest time of the year. We’ve chosen to take this frightening, post-harvest, hungry and uncertain season and throw the biggest party ever. We’ve chosen to light all the lights we can and defy the world’s darkness. 

May the defiant joy of Christmas fill your hearts with courage, hope and love.

[i] This isn’t her real name. I’ve changed her name and Suzy’s so I can post this on the internet.

Advent 4, Year C 2021

I haven't written a message for Advent 4 this year as a guest preacher will be delivering the message to my congregation this Sunday. If you like, you can re-read a previous post I've written on this text. It appears in the "Featured Post" section of this blog.

We approach the celebration of the Nativity of Our Lord with caution this year. The Philadelphia Department of Public Health warns us about the new omicron variant of the COVID-19 virus and strongly recommends limiting public gatherings. Worship, is, of course, a very public gathering. I am conflicted between the need to provide a sorely-missed Christmas observance for our congregation and the need to keep everyone safe from a highly contagious variant of a potentially very serious disease. 

I urge everyone who plans to attend public worship anywhere this Christmas Eve to obtain a booster shot of COVID vaccine, wear a mask throughout the service, and maintain a safe social distance. If you are feeling the very least unwell, or if you have a condition such as diabetes or anything which places you at higher risk, please stay home from church and enjoy worship on social media. 

May God bless you and keep you safe.

Good News for Us Vipers (Reflections on Advent 3, Year C 2021)

 

“He proclaimed the good news to the people” (Luke 3:18) 

John the Baptist is a pain. Not just to King Herod—whom he excoriates for his immorality—but for any pastor who has to preach on this text on Advent 3 (Luke 3:7-18). I mean, I don’t think I’m going too far out on a limb to say that nobody wants to come to church to hear that they’re an unrepentant snake and they can’t flee from the wrath to come. In fact, the wrath to come isn’t exactly a topic to make you feel all warm and jolly with pre-Christmas cheer. 

No. John is making us uncomfortable on Advent 3 because he’s railing on about societal injustice—a subject even the most seasoned of Lutherans may prefer the pastor avoid. It’s not much of a stretch to sense that John is talking about wealth inequality, inequitable tax policy, and police abuses. Some stuff just never goes out of style, does it? 

But who wants to hear about that in church during Advent when we still haven’t gotten past a devastating pandemic? It’s not that I don’t think God cares about the poor, racial injustice, police brutality, or any other issue that assails us on the nightly news. My problem is finding something in this assigned lesson that speaks to the folks in my pews—folks who are getting older, are suffering loss, have been worn out by COVID, are worried about finances and their health and their grandkids and who just want a little word of hope or joy to get through this holiday season. 

Strangely, this gospel lesson provides it. Hidden within John’s rant about wrath to come are some secret blessings. Think about it. When the people ask John how the heck they can bear fruits worthy of repentance, he tells them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Unless you get bent out of shape thinking John the Baptist is preaching socialism, you might notice that John is telling the folks that God has provided. The clothing and food may not be evenly distributed, but it’s not because God hasn’t been good. God knows what we need, and not only provides the material things, but provides the opportunity for us to learn compassion and form connections. 

John also tells the tax collectors not collect more than they’re supposed to. What John doesn’t tell them is that they’re a bunch of disgusting, treasonous, slimy myrmidons of Israel’s occupying enemy—an opinion held of tax collectors by not a few of the people of the day! John knows everybody has to make a living somehow, and, just as Jesus will later, he shows a surprising amount of forgiveness and forbearance for these guys who find themselves in a disagreeable profession. He simply tells them to do what they have to do, but be sure they’re doing the right thing. 

When the soldiers ask how they can bear the fruits, John tells them to respect the public and be content with their wages. These guys, whether they were Roman troops or temple soldiers, were essentially the police force. As still happens with people with authority, there was often abuse. John doesn’t condemn them any more than he condemns the tax-collectors. He just tells them to be content with their pay. After all, getting paid is better than not getting paid, and the richest person on earth is whoever it is whose content with what he or she has. Where there is gratitude there can’t be greed. 

Best of all, John promises the people that God is still at work, and that the one who is coming will fill them with the Holy Spirit. 

We all have so much to be thankful for. With the availability of vaccines we are able to gather for worship—masked though we should be—once again. Granted, with COVID still not under control and the new omicron variant promising to extend the pandemic, things just aren’t the way they used to be. Nevertheless, we still have our faith, our love for one another, and a million other daily blessings which the pandemic hasn’t stolen away. So, rather than lamenting on what we miss, let’s light that pink “Rejoice” candle on the Advent wreath and give glory to God for what we have. 

God is good. All the time. 

Advent blessings to you all.

Get Prepared! (Reflections on Advent 2, Year C, 2021)

 

"John the Baptist Preaching" Giambattista Pittoni (18th Cent.)

He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is writt5en in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” (Luke 3:4) 

Prepare. Boy! Is there ever a ton of stuff to prepare when we get close to Christmas time. My first duty at home is to string the outdoor Christmas lights, a chore I like to perform sometime in November before the weather gets too cold and my fingers go numb. My HOA won’t let me turn the lights on before the Friday after Thanksgiving, but by then I’m all prepared. 

I’ll bet lots of folks see December coming up on their calendars and start to make preparations. You have to start thinking of the holiday meals you’re going to make, what stuff you’ll need, who’s coming, etc. You also have to prepare your schedule. What events will you want to attend? If you have kids, you’ll think about the events you’ll be required to attend and plan accordingly. I always start to prepare the liturgies for Christmas Eve—and thanks to the good folks who make vaccines, we can actually have Christmas Eve again—well in advance. I also asked my church council to start planning events and activities which would make this Advent season feel just a little bit more “normal.” 

Christmas gift buying certainly takes preparation. Because of the breakdown COVID has caused in our supply chains, you really have to prepare in advance if you want to get that special something for that special someone. And of course, given the fact that the COVID virus is still with us these twenty months after our first shut-down, we need to prepare ourselves with booster shots and make sure we’ve got our masks handy should we try to make an assault on the shopping mall. 

But how do we prepare our hearts for the coming of Jesus? 

Haven’t you ever felt that all the preparations for celebrating this sacred festival of the Church have left you without the ability to enjoy it? 

It’s always good—as the Boy Scouts like to say—to be prepared. But I wonder what preparations we really ought to be making. God certainly knew that the world would not be ready to meet God’s Son without a bit of preparation, so God anointed John the Baptist as Jesus’ “advance man.” This wonderful, eccentric, tell-it-like-it-is character always pops up in our lessons for Advent 2 (Luke 3:1-6)[i] and Advent 3 (Luke 3:7-18). If times were confusing and people felt uncertain—as we do now—someone had to tell them in advance what God might be up to. After all, if you don’t know what you’re looking for, how will you know when you see it? 

The peasants who came out to the Jordan to listen to John probably thought that the world was going to be the way it was and there was nothing they could do about it. So John told them to work on the thing they could do something about—themselves. John called them to look inward, to examine their hearts, confess their sins, and be ready to be made knew. When I think of John’s message, I always think of steps four through nine in the Alcoholics Anonymous Twelve Step program. It is, essentially, the same thing. Admit you’ve been wrong, confess, and be ready to let God make you anew. Again, if you don’t know that you’re wrong, you can’t be made right. If you’re not open to change, you’re certainly NOT going to be open to Jesus!

This Advent I’ve decided to make some preparations myself. First, I’ve admitted that my addictive personality has led me to become something of a sugar junkie. I’ve always had cookies and other snacks in my office and I sometime binge eat on them when I can’t think of what to write in a sermon or if I get bored doing some administrative task. I started to restrict my sugar intake, and I’m happy to report that I feel a whole lot better. Quite aside from lowering my chances of developing type 2 diabetes, my added energy might make me a nicer person to be around. 

I’ve also decided, since I’m in the mood to remove harmful things from my life, to stop binging on contempt. Too often when I have some extra time I’ll check in on Youtube with political commentators who, basically, reinforce the opinions I already have. This may make me feel smugly superior, but who wants to be around a smugly superior person? All of these op/eds are just empty calories that neither enlighten me nor make me closer to God. Granted my views on public policy haven’t changed, but I’m giving up the need to get worked up about them. 

Thirdly, since I’m not staying up to hear late night TV comics reinforce my opinions, I’m actually determined to get more sleep. It’s amazing how blissful an extra hour or hour and a half of shut-eye can be! Especially as I consider how everything in our culture tells us this is the season to do more—attend more parties, shop more stores, go to more events. If we’re listening to John preach, maybe this should be the season to rest more, relax more, and prepare ourselves by dwelling on the meaning of the coming feast. 

God is telling us, “I love you, my child. I know you. I hear you. That’s why I’ve sent my Son to share everything with you. Open your heart and let me in.” 

A blessed Advent to you all.

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[i] I really like the detail Luke gives in verses 1and 2. All of this historical stuff puts John and Jesus firmly into the human story. This isn’t a “once upon a time” fairy tale. This is an account of events which actually took place in a specific time, place, and under specific circumstances.

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

 

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

Yikes! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A blessed Advent to you all.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May the peace of God be with you.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God bless, and thanks for reading!

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

Reformation Day, 2021

 

“If the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.” (John 8:38)

I like to imagine on this 504^th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation what it must’ve been like to hear Martin Luther preach. I bet the old boy gave a pretty rousing sermon. With a temperament like his I’ll bet no one fell asleep in church. I picture the Castle Church in Wittenberg—the gentry seated in cushioned pews beneath the soaring arches, the poor working stiffs standing in the back, the air smelling of a mixture of incense, perfume, and b.o. (there being no such thing as deodorant in those days). I see the corpulent, middle-aged professor mounting the steps to the pulpit, adjusting his academic gown, wiping a bit of sweat off his forehead and breathing heavily after his climb (Luther liked his beer and bratwurst. In his post-monastic career he really packed on the pounds!). The church, which was rarely completely silent, suddenly falls still to hear what the great man has to say about the appointed text, John 8:31-38 (Our Reformation Day gospel in the Revised Common Lectionary).

I’m not sure what Luther might’ve said, but I know he’d want to address the questions of slavery and freedom. To what were the people enslaved? Sin, of course. (Well, duh! Aren’t we all?) But he might also like to point out some of the social issues his congregants faced. They were slaves to the social class into which they were born—although that was changing for some of them. Many were slaves to the land they worked. Some worked for themselves, but many were tenant farmers for wealthy landlords. They were slaves to the whims of their local princes and to the Catholic Church—a church which frightened them into submission with horrific visions of a punishing fiery Hell or a few gazillion years in Purgatory. Most of them were simply slaves to ignorance and despair. The Medieval life philosophy was pretty simple: you were born, life sucked for a couple of years, then you died. If you were lucky and good enough, you might get to go to Heaven.

But now the folks who herded themselves into the Castle Church like so many sheep into a pen (because God would be peeved if they didn’t go) were hearing something new. Luther had the audacity to tell the peasants they were beautiful in the eyes of God just as they were, and the work they did was just as holy as that done by their priests and bishops. They had a right and a responsibility to stand up for themselves and demand their landlords treat them fairly—they wouldn’t go to Hell if they questioned the social order as they had been told they would. The Church couldn’t ask them to earn or buy their way into God’s heart—the Son had already secured their place for them when he died on the cross. And, yes, they may be ignorant and unlettered, but they didn’t have to stay that way. Their princes could afford to build schools and hire teachers who would teach their children to read so they could see the Word of God for themselves.

Can you imagine how those sixteenth century folks felt hearing good news like that? I’ll bet church seemed like a pretty exciting place for them. They heard the truth, and it set them free.

So how about us? What’s the truth we need to hear all these centuries later? To what are we in bondage? I wonder how often we’ve sat smugly through a Reformation Day service thinking, “Slaves? We’re Lutherans and have never been slaves to anyone! We have correct doctrine!”

(By the way, I’m always amused by the reaction of the folks in the gospel story when Jesus tells them they are in bondage. The descendants of Abraham had been slaves in Egypt for about 400 years. Then they were defeated and enslaved by the Assyrians and the Babylonians and later became the vassals of the Persians, the Greeks, and sundry little piddly countries and were, at the time of the gospel, occupied by the Romans. Somebody else was always calling the shots for these guys. I think, however, they are saying here that they are direct heirs of the promise God made with Abraham and not proselytes—as if their DNA was the source of their salvation!)

But back to our situation. If Dr. Martin were preaching to us, what do you think he’d call us out on? Our reliance on the metrics of bucks in the plate and butts in the pews as a measure of our ministry? Our devotion to practices and traditions which may no longer serve the gospel? Our current American culture of contempt in which we gorge ourselves on one-sided news so we can feel superior to others? Our sense of burn-out which makes us apathetic to social issues? Or just our vague sense of fear?

If we let Luther preach to us on the Reformation Day, I’m sure he would remind us of three crucial gifts we already possess—God’s Word, God’s grace, and our own faith. These three are the rock we rest on. The scriptures teach us of Christ’s love on the cross and of his resurrection. There can’t be an Easter without a Good Friday. Yes, things will change, times will be frightening, and cultures will shift. Luther’s times were, in some ways similar to our own. Countries were polarized (In fact, if you held the wrong position in the wrong place, you could find yourself tied to a pole and set on fire!), enemies threatened, and diseases closed down churches. Luther himself battled depression. Nevertheless, he always considered despair a great and shameful sin[i].

The Reformation was an unsettling time of major change—just like today. Unsettling times call for boldness and the knowledge that things which change are never as important as those which endure—God’s Word, God’s grace, and our faith.

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[i] See his explanation to the sixth petition of the Lord’s Prayer (“Lead us not into temptation”) in the Small Catechism.

While There's Hope There's Life (Reflections on Pentecost 22, Year B 2021)

Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly…” (Mark 10:48) 

There’s an old expression, “When ya got nothin’, ya got nothin’ to lose.” 

That’s kind of the way I see our blind protagonist in the gospel appointed for Pentecost 22, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 10:46-52). “Blind Bartimaeus,” as he is often called, is really one of the saddest figures we meet in the gospels. Sure, there’s the man born blind in John 9 and the Gerasene Demoniac and a bunch of other sad, afflicted, and helpless souls Jesus encounters in his earthly journey. BUT: all these other folks at least have a community. Bartimaeus doesn’t seem to have anyone on his side. In fact, he doesn’t even have a real name. The Bible tells us he’s the son of Timaeus, but we knew that anyway since the prefix “bar” means “son of.” This is a guy who has lost his own identity. 

Go figure: When Jesus asks Bartimaeus what he can do for him, the blind man says, “My teacher, let me see again.” Notice he says, “see again.” Bartimaeus wasn’t born blind. He’s lost his sight, and with it he’s lost his job, his ability to contribute, and his place in the community. No wonder nobody remembers his first name. He’s not even begging at a temple or synagogue. He’s out on the road, presumably by himself, somewhere between Jericho and Bethphage, begging from those who pass by. He’s an outcast. 

But this guy has one thing left—hope. We can tell from the way he talks that he’s heard of this Jesus guy, a guy who is very likely the Messiah. A guy who can heal the sick and the lame and make things right and whole again. So, when Bartimaeus hears that Jesus is coming his way, he starts raising a ruckus. He calls Jesus “Son of David.” He’s not just acknowledging Jesus’ genealogy, he’s invoking the name of Israel’s greatest kick-ass king. In this way he’s declaring that Jesus is the heir to Israel’s throne and probably the long-awaited Messiah. This is a pretty daring claim to make, and it doesn’t sit well with everyone who hears. The retinue following Jesus or the folks traveling the same road have so little regard for the blind beggar that they tell him to put a sock in it when he starts calling for Jesus. But this doesn’t stop Bartimaeus. No, sir. He’s going all out in the hope God will bring him back to himself. 

When Jesus calls him over, Bartimaeus jumps up and throws off his cloak—which was probably the only thing of value he had left. When you’re desperate and you have next to nothing, you have to gamble even the little bit you have. Jesus usually touches the people he heals, but in this guy’s case all he has to do is tell him he’s been made well because of his faith. 

I wonder how Bartimaeus reacted to this. I wonder if the world seemed more beautiful to him with his eyesight restored. Was the grass greener than he remembered? Was the sky deeper blue? One thing’s for sure—the world was not the same as it had been before he lost his vision. It never is when we’ve suffered great loss. When we go through a time of utter despair, depression, loneliness or whatever and find we’ve come out on the other side, we can’t be the people we were before. Our survival has to bring about a kind of repentance. Whatever Bartimaeus was before he lost his sight, he was a follow of Jesus once he got it back. 

The story impresses me with a couple of things. First, the old saying “while there’s life there’s hope” is all wrong. The truth is, while there’s hope there’s life. I always ask people who come to me for pastoral care if they can imagine a time when they won’t feel the way they currently feel. If they answer “no” I know I’m in way over my head. That’s because they’re confessing to being hopeless. Whatever our situation, we need to beg Jesus for mercy and a new vision to see ourselves in a new way, to see what God has done and is doing, and to see the road forward. If we can’t, we’ll be dead inside. 

The other thing Bartimaeus teaches us is some real gutsy proclamation. After all, the guy had nothing to lose. When he was told to be quiet, he shouted Jesus’ name even louder. Desperate times call for boldness, and that boldness can lead to empowerment and joy. 

May God’s joy be with you this week. Thank you again for stopping by.