Real Communion
I remember hearing the door open. Footsteps coming down the hall. I was sitting in my office, about a year into my first pastorate. I knew the sound of those footsteps. Uncertain. Pausing at every door. This was not a church member. This was a solicitor of some sort, snooping around for the office to make their pitch. Finally I heard a knock on the open office door and an inquisitive, “Hello?” I got up and welcomed a young woman wearing a polo shirt and a name tag. She was the new activities director at the assisted living facility across the street, and she was looking for volunteers to help fill the facility’s calendar.
As she was making her pitch, I was mentally scrambling. I had already committed to several other projects and resisted the thought of another ministry venture. But when she finally finished, God’s grace got the better of my resistance, and I heard myself say to her, “Thanks for sharing. I’ll pass along the request, and if we have folks who are interested in helping out, I’ll get back to you.”
Long story short, we did have folks interested in helping out. There was Becky, who loved to sing—and even more loved a captive audience. There was Virginia, a retired missionary to the Congo, who loved to share communion at every opportunity. There was Carol, who was a great pianist but reticent to play in front of large crowds. A small, quiet crowd, however, would be just right. This motley crew would become our memory care ministry. It was simple. We would visit the facility’s memory care unit, sing old, familiar songs, and then share a simple, open communion with anyone who would join us. What had first struck me as an annoyance would become one of my greatest joys in that pastorate.
I remember Richard, a retired Methodist minister who had the most serene face. I don’t know if his calm came from memory loss or something deeper, like years of learning to let go and trust God, but I know that when I am his age, I hope I can be as content with life as he seemed to be. I remember Eva, a woman with Caribbean roots and a vibrant spirit, always smiling, always asking me my name, always asking when we would be coming back. I remember feeling that this was real communion. There was no pretense or posturing in that memory care unit, no striving to keep up with appearances, no ambitions for something bigger or better. There was nothing there but grace. Acceptance. If I looked disheveled, if Becky had gotten the words of a song wrong, if Carol had missed a note on the piano, it wouldn’t have colored the experience one bit. Eva would still ask when we were coming back. Richard would still receive communion with a deep smile that knew more than the mind could ever know.
Matthew,
Giddy with Joy
Today we’re looking at Matthew’s telling of the Christmas story. I think Matthew himself is giddy with joy as he tells the story. To be sure, he is not as dramatic or emotional as Luke. Luke has characters breaking into song left and right, Mary singing praise to God, a host of angels singing in the heavens. Matthew tells the story in a more straightforward manner, but he has a unique quirk that reveals his joy. Again and again and again, he points out the fulfillment of scripture. In the first two chapters, he refers five times to the Jewish scripture and claims that the events of Christmas are their fulfillment. A child born to a young woman who shall be a savior called Emmanuel? A fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy (Matt 1:23; cf. Isa 7:14; 8:8, 10). The Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem? A fulfillment of Micah’s prophecy (Matt 2:5-6; cf. Mic 5:2).
I think of the way that my nephews excitedly point to colorful leaves as a sign that fall has arrived, or snow as a sign that winter has arrived. I think Matthew is doing the same thing with scripture. “Look at all these signs!” he’s saying. “The messiah has arrived!”
A
Mixed Response
Matthew’s joy, however, is not shared by the characters in the story, at least not in any way that we can see. Their response is mixed at best.
Let’s start with Joseph, who plans to divorce Mary quietly after he learns of her pregnancy. When the angel visits him in a dream and informs him about Jesus, he responds obediently and takes Mary as his wife. But Matthew does not give us any glimpse into Joseph’s heart. There is no Magnificat, no song for joy, no excited chatter with his loved ones. Joseph does what he is told, but his feelings remain a mystery. Perhaps this veil over Joseph’s feelings—this lack of information in the story—is itself reflective of Joseph’s heart. Perhaps even he doesn’t know how he feels. Have you ever sat stunned after a big revelation, unable to digest it completely?
If Joseph’s feelings remain veiled, Herod’s do not. When the religious leaders confirm that the magi’s reports correspond with the ancient prophecy of a messiah, Herod is afraid. It is an ironic response. What is meant as a promise of good is heard as a threat. What is meant for joy fills Herod with fear. A messiah is a threat to his power and must be eliminated.
Receiving
God’s Promise
Matthew’s Christmas story teaches me the surprising reality that joy is not always our first response when God comes good on a promise.
Herod’s example shows that God’ promise may actually strike us as a threat. God’s promise invariably means change, and sometimes we’re quite comfortable with the way things are, even with our own misery or despair. At least we know what we’re facing. It’s common to grow attached to possessions, yes, but also to ideas and to feelings. But I know that the more attachments I have, the more difficult it will be for me to receive God’s promise with joy.
Joseph’s example is a more positive one. At least he responds willingly. He is not ruled by his feelings, but by his faith. I wonder if Joseph’s example shows us that joy takes time. It’s not always immediate. The feeling of joy is not the foundation from which we act, but rather what follows from faithful action. Surely Joseph later shares Mary’s wonder and praise, as he looks into baby Jesus’ eyes and whispers to himself the name the angel proclaimed, “Emmanuel. God is with us.”
When the activities director of the assisted living facility made her request for volunteers, my first response was not joy. Jesus promises that he will be with us in the so-called least of our society, the people pushed to the margins, like the sick and the imprisoned. Are not the residents of a memory care unit such people? Pushed to the margins? Locked away and dependent on others? All of which is to say, I was on the cusp of God’s promise, just like Joseph and Herod were. I had Jesus’ word, saying, “Here you will find me.” But just like Joseph and Herod, my first response was not joy. It was a mixture of doubt and resistance. Joy was not my first feeling. It is what I felt only after I let go of my own kingdom and received what God was giving me.
There are other similar promises that Jesus makes, besides meeting us in the so-called least of our society. Another one that convicts and challenges me is when he says, “Sell your possessions, and give alms,” as a part of his promise that it is God’s “good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32-33).
The joy of Advent is not the bright and flashy joy of a present we’ve coveted. It’s not something we can unwrap in an instant. It is a deep and genuine joy that takes time, that follows upon responding faithfully to God’s promise rather than resisting it. God promises to meet us in the needful. God promises to give us the kingdom when we give up our own kingdoms. God promises to be with us at tables of grace and acceptance. I can only speak for myself, but sometimes these promises sound more like a threat. They threaten my plans, which generally are oriented around my wants rather than the needs of others. They threaten my sense of the world, my judgments of others, who’s good, who’s bad, who’s in, who’s out.
The good news is that on the other side of the promise, which may be heard as a threat, is real joy—a bigger world, a better life, and beloved community. What I discovered in the memory care unit was a goodness I never would have found on my own.
Prayer
Whose promise sometimes threatens our way of life—
In this season filled with expectations and plans,
Help us to relinquish our attachments,
Which promise happiness but leave us feeling empty
…
May we receive your promised presence
In the needful
And in giving
And in grace,
And may we know the deep joy
Of your kingdom.
In Christ, who is eternally fulfilling your promise: Amen.
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