God of Goodbyes (Matthew 4:12-23)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 22, 2017, Epiphany III)

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A Faith Full of Farewells

For many religious folks, faith is another word for the familiar. Faith means the same seat in church, the same friendly faces every week, the same routine of worship.

But when I read the Bible, I get the sneaking suspicion that we have domesticated faith. Because in the Bible, faith is not the assurance of the familiar. Quite the opposite. In the Bible, faith always seems to be waving farewell to the familiar. Faith is always saying goodbye to what is safe and secure.

Abraham, the legendary ancestor of three world religions, begins his journey of faith when he hears God’s call. And God’s call is simple: “Leave your country and your family and your home” (cf. Gen 12:1). So Abraham waves farewell to all that he knows and strikes out into the wilderness, traveling to God knows where.

Like father, like son. Abraham’s children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren also live a life full of farewells. The Bible calls them all sojourners, which means that they are always strangers in a strange land, always leaving one place and journeying to another. When Pharaoh asks Jacob how many are the years of his “life,” Jacob responds by saying, “The years of my wandering are one hundred thirty” (Gen 47:8-9).[1] For Jacob, life is defined by wandering, by leaving one place after another.

Before the story in today’s scripture, Jesus himself has said plenty of farewells. First he must say farewell to his manger in Bethlehem: for he and his parents must flee to Egypt when King Herod discovers about Jesus and flies into a rage. Later they say farewell to Egypt and return to a different town in Israel. And then just before today’s scripture, Jesus hears the call of God and is led into the wilderness, after which he will journey for the rest of his life as one who has no home—as one who has “nowhere to lay his head” (Matt 8:20).

If Jesus’ life has anything to say about it, faith is full of farewells.

Farewell to Safety and Security

That is certainly the case for Peter and Andrew, James and John, in today’s scripture.

When Jesus calls Peter and Andrew, they leave behind their nets, which is to say, they say farewell to their livelihood. In first century Galilee, the fishing industry had a wide market. Fishing may not have been the most glamorous of lifestyles, but it was solid and certain. It would have put bread—and fish—on the table. For Peter and Andrew to leave behind their nets, is no less than to leave behind their life.

James and John leave behind their father. Scripture commonly calls James and John “the sons of Zebedee,” which suggests to me that their family heritage is important—and perhaps even that they are particularly close to their father. Indeed, when Jesus calls James and John, they are with whom else but their dad.

If I’m being honest, it’s this part of the story that upsets me the most. I know that James and John are going to leave, as Peter and Andrew just did. I know that they are going to make a big sacrifice; Peter and Andrew left behind the security of work, James and John are going to leave behind the safety of family. But there’s not one mention, not even a hint, of a tearful goodbye or a long hug. James and John simply leave the boat—and their father in it. (A goodbye like this would be an unspeakable sin in my mother’s book.)

If It Were I

And so I have to wonder: did it really happen like this? Do Peter and Andrew, James and John, say farewell to safety and security so easily, so abruptly, without a look over the shoulder, without a hint of regret or worry? Perhaps so.

But I like to think that maybe our storyteller, Matthew, is just getting ahead of himself. Maybe he wants to get to the good stuff, the adventure of Jesus’ life, and so he rushes through this opening scene breathlessly, failing to mention some of the details. Maybe before Peter and Andrew leave, they first give their nets to some of their fishing buddies and let them know that they’ll be taking an indefinite leave of absence. Maybe James and John really do give their father a gruff hug before leaving him alone in the boat.

I wonder: how would it have looked if it had been us in the fishing boat? If it were I there, I know things would have looked a bit different. In fact, I imagine it would have looked a lot more like the beginning of another adventure, a story with which many of us may be familiar….

The Hobbit Who Left His Hobbit Hole

Bilbo Baggins was standing just outside his door, enjoying the morning, when a man in a long, grey cloak approached. After exchanging pleasantries—for everyone knows that there is little a hobbit enjoys more than small talk—the grey man said what Jesus said: Follow me. Except—he said it a bit differently.

“I am looking,” he said, “for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

Unlike Peter or Andrew, James or John, Bilbo did not immediately say farewell to his life. No self-respecting hobbit would up and leave for an adventure. Instead, he responded: “Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea—any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good bye!”

Now if their conversation had ended there, there would be no epic tale. No The Hobbit. No The Lord of the Rings. But things do not end there. The next day, the grey wizard Gandalf returns, and with him an entire troupe of dwarves, ready to set out on an adventure. As the dwarves whisper tales and sing songs of danger and triumph and glory, something strange happens inside Bilbo. For a glimmer of a moment, the prospect of new life captivates him. As the storyteller puts it: “Something…woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves.”

But it’s only for a moment. Before too much longer has passed, the hobbit’s good sense returns, and he demands some assurances, similar to the ones I think we might demand: “First I should like to know a bit more about things,” he says. “‘I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth’—by which he meant: ‘What am I going to get out of it? and am I going to come back alive?”[2]

An Adventure with Risk and Danger…and Life

He takes some convincing, but eventually Bilbo says goodbye to the familiarity and comfort his hobbit-hole. Never does he receive a guarantee of safety or security or survival. Quite the opposite, in fact: this is a journey filled with risk and danger. He is stepping foot into a most incredible adventure, where he will encounter trolls and wolves, elves and giant spiders, and the most fearsome of all, a fire-breathing dragon. And yet it is also an adventure where he will live more abundantly than ever before: trusting in strangers, forgiving quarrelsome companions, hoping against hope in the darkest of situations. By saying goodbye to the safety and security of the familiar, Bilbo—for the first time in his life—comes to life.

I wonder if the same might not be said for the disciples in today’s scripture. When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he doesn’t promise them a safe journey. Quite the opposite: when they say goodbye to the life they know, they will be stepping foot onto a most incredible adventure, filled with risk and danger and ultimately a cross. But it is on this adventure of faith that they will also find abundant life through some of the strangest experiences, like loving their enemies and welcoming strangers and trusting in a leader who leads them into the darkest of valleys and beyond.

Blessed Be the Ones Who Let Their Blessings Go

Life is a curious thing. As Jesus says elsewhere in scripture, if we seek to hold onto life, to preserve it in safety and security, we actually lose our life. But if we say goodbye to the life we know, if we strike out onto the path of faith, which is also a path of risk and danger, there we may actually find life, new life, the life of a holy adventure.

In our culture, “goodbye” is generally a sad word. It means loss. It means the end. But as I reflect on the experience of the disciples, who say goodbye to their work and their family, and also Bilbo Baggins, who says goodbye to his homey hobbit hole, I cannot help but think that “goodbye” might also be a good word, a word of hope, a word of promise.

I don’t think this means we must literally say “goodbye” to our family or our work, but rather that we must say “goodbye” to the life that these and other things bring us, in the faith that there is always more life ahead. Faith means we are in the habit of saying “goodbye” wherever we are, because we’re also in the habit of following God somewhere new. Our God is a God of “goodbyes” because our God is also a God of new life.

And so for us Christ-followers, the word “goodbye” takes the form of a paradox. If we were to put it into the shape of a beatitude, we might say, “Blessed be the ones who lets their blessings go.”

Perhaps the easiest way of remembering the good news and blessing of this word, “goodbye,” is to remember what it actually means. “Goodbye” is a contraction of a longer phrase: “God be with ye.” At the heart of every “goodbye,” then, is God, who goes with us and invites us ever forward onto the road of faith, the holy adventure that goes ever, ever on.

Prayer

God of holy adventure,
Loosen our lips
To say “goodbye,”
Whether we are confronted with loss,
Or we are comfortable and content;
May we like the disciples
Leave behind our life
In order to follow you into new life.
In the name of him who had no place to lay his head, Jesus Christ.
Amen.

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[1] Literally, “the years of my sojourn.”

[2] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (New York: Ballantine, 1997), 4-22. All narration and dialogue taken from the novel are enclosed within quotation marks.

Strange Messengers (Matthew 2:1-12)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 8, 2017, Epiphany Sunday)

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Epiphany: The Little Cousin of Christmas 

The angels proclaimed the good news loud and proud. The glory of God shined bright into the Bethlehem night. The shepherds saw the child and raised a holy ruckus.

But now, two weeks later, the wonder and joy of Christmas is beginning to fade. Families return from their travels, children return to school, life returns to normal. And Christmas—it returns to the attic or the basement, to the boxes and bags from which it sprang not too long ago.

It is always a sad affair, saying goodbye to Christmas.

In the church, part of the way we say goodbye to Christmas, is by celebrating another holiday: Epiphany. Epiphany is like the little cousin of Christmas. Christmas is all fireworks and flashing light, miracle and glory. Epiphany is the quiet child in the shadows, likely to be overlooked. Unlike Christmas, it doesn’t have angels or a heavenly chorus. There is no divine shine or holy hubbub to catch your attention. All that Epiphany really has, is a strange entourage of characters: authorities who are fearful of losing their power; a group of strangers from the East, talking about something mysterious and wonderful; and a silent star.

Epiphany: Where We Live Most of Our Lives? 

But I feel a special closeness to Epiphany, the neglected cousin of Christmas. Because I think Epiphany is where we live most of our lives.

Many people imagine faith to look a lot like Christmas. For them, faith is the spectacular: angels in the sky with glory, a chorus of heaven breaking the silence of night, the miraculous erupting amid the ordinary. And so they expect to experience these things in their own life. They expect to live in the time of Christmas.

But if I’m being honest about my experience of faith, I don’t live in the time of Christmas. I’ve never heard angels singing in the sky. I’ve never had a dream where I’ve heard an unmediated word of God. I’ve never had a moment when I immediately think, that was an undisputed miracle of God.

I live in the quieter, less certain time of Epiphany. A time when the religious leaders are facing inward and don’t quite know what’s going on. A time when political leaders act out of fear and self-interest. A time when outsiders are coming in, when strangers are using different words than I do and living in a different way.

Something Special 

The quieter, less certain time of Epiphany can be frightening. If I cannot rely on the angels to come to me, like they came to the shepherds, or if I cannot depend on divine communication directly disclosed in dreams, then where does my faith become real? Where do I encounter God?

The good and difficult news of today’s Epiphany scripture is that we might encounter God where we least expect to: in the face of the stranger.

In today’s story, the strangers from the East—the ones who rather blindly followed a star—are the messengers of God. The more I think about this, the more I am amazed. These strangers from the East would not have called God by the same name that the ancient Israelites used. They would not have known about the prophecies of a Messiah. They would not have known how to offer a proper sacrifice at the Temple. All that they knew was that there was Something special—Something that demanded their attention and even their worship—underneath this star.

Beyond the Stopgap “God” of Religion 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German minister and theologian famous for his resistance to Hitler, once wrote that he felt a “brotherhood” with religious outsiders more than he felt with people in the church. He complained that when he talked about God with religious folks, he started to feel “awkward and uncomfortable” and even “slightly dishonest.”[1] Why? Because in the church, the name “God” often becomes a reference to a spectacular solution. The name “God” becomes a stopgap solution of supernatural proportions. Can’t explain something scientifically? Bring in God. Afraid of death? Bring in God. Feel really bad about yourself and want to feel better? Bring in God.

But for Bonhoeffer, God wasn’t a solution to be brought in when we couldn’t do things ourselves. God was already at the center of life, already at the heart of our daily experience. Our normal lives—everything from working and eating to talking and sleeping—all of this was already filled with the wonder and mystery of God. And so Bonhoeffer said that he actually felt more comfortable using the name “God” with religionless folks, because with them “God” was not a name used to solve a problem but rather a name used to express wonder at the mystery of life and gratitude for all that is good.

Strange Messengers Pointing to Something Special 

I have to agree with Bonhoeffer. For me, strangers outside of our religion can point us to what really matters in our faith.

Some of you know that I moved to a new house a couple months ago. The best way I could quickly sum up my new housemate, Nick, is to say that his list of recent accomplishments includes serving the police department and performing stand-up comedy. He is both dependable and droll. He is also agnostic. So he is an outsider to today’s church, a stranger, and yet I would also call him “wise”—not unlike the wise men in our scripture today.

Much like the strangers from the East, who surely spoke in a strange dialect, Nick speaks with different words than I do. He wouldn’t normally use words like “sin” or “forgiveness.” Rather, he’d talk about messing up or getting a second chance. And yet despite this difference, Nick takes life seriously, as though there is something special in it, something worth paying attention to—even if that something doesn’t go by the name “God” or doesn’t have a God-shaped appearance. Just like the strangers from the East, whose words alerted the religious leaders to something those leaders were not aware of, Nick and his impious jokes often point me beyond my own selfish and self-certain projections of God to something more mysterious and more alive.

In fact, I have a working hypothesis now that a good comedian is just the alter ego of a pastor. His jokes do much more than make you laugh. They open your eyes to what really matters and what doesn’t. A good comedian smashes our idols even as he suggests there is something special, something worth living for. Much like Jesus, he brings down the powerful and lifts up the lowly. Seen in a certain light, a good comedian is the prophet of a coming kingdom—a kingdom that has not quite found flesh yet, but stirs somewhere in our hearts and echoes in our laughter.

The Best “Hangover Cure” for Christmas 

Living with Nick reminds me of the good news proclaimed by Epiphany. Even if we don’t receive the visits of angels, or dreams that make the divine will distinctly clear, God lives among us. The flipside to this good news is perhaps difficult to digest: we might encounter God where we least expect to—on the lips of strange messengers. Perhaps someone who calls God by a different name will point us to where Christ is living in our world. Perhaps someone who does not believe in the name “God” at all, will reveal to us the mystery and wonder of God in a fresh and vibrant and unexpected way.

If you’ll allow me to channel Nick’s language for a moment, I would say that Epiphany is the best “hangover cure” for Christmas. Having come down from a celebration of angels and divine dreams and God’s glory written across the sky, we might feel a sudden despondency at the unremarkable plainness of our lives. Where is God?

Epiphany proclaims the good news that Christ has not left us. He’s here as he always has been. We may just need the helping hand of a stranger to find him.

Prayer 

Incognito Christ,
Whose good news
We sometimes hear
By the lips of strange messengers—
Be revealed among us
This Epiphany season,
And confront us
With life-giving truth.
Amen.

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[1] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, “Letter to Eberhard Bethge: 30 April 1944,” http://www.onbeing.org/program/ethics-and-will-god-legacy-dietrich-bonhoeffer/feature/letter-eberhard-bethge/879, accessed January 5, 2017.

The Song of God (Psalm 148)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 1, 2017, Christmas I)

(With the help of the children and the youth)

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“The Music of Heaven in All Things”

Who here has listened to a seashell before? I’m guessing most of you already have. In case you haven’t, I’ve brought one with me. Let’s take a listen. What do you hear?

The ocean! This seashell sings the song of the sea.

Now what about Peppermint Patties? Have you ever listened to one before? Here, take one, and break it in half close to your ear.

What do you hear?

Both the seashell and the Peppermint Pattie sing a song.

Nearly one thousand years ago, there was a woman leader in the church, Hildegard, who said that everything in the world is singing a song of praise to God. She said that she heard “the music of heaven in all things.”[1]

I bet if the person who wrote today’s scripture were here with us today, she would say the exact same thing. I imagine that she would be so excited to hear the seashell and the Peppermint Patties, that she herself would start to sing along, whooshing with the seashell and ppphhing with the Peppermint Patties.[2]

And then I imagine that her excitement would spill over, and she would begin to share with us all the other songs she had heard. That’s sort of what she does in today’s scripture. She listens to everything around her—the sky, the earth, the water, all the animals big and small—and she hears them singing praise to God. Here’s how she describes it. [Read Psalm 148]

What a song our writer hears! Everyone and everything is singing. The moon and the snow and the trees and the birds. All of creation.

Our writer lets us in on a secret that much of our world has forgot:

If you listen closely enough to something—anything—you will hear a beautiful song.

Hearing the Song in Christmas

I wonder if it’s not this song that we hear in the story of Christmas. Just like in today’s scripture, all of creation sings. Remember all the characters in the Christmas story? First we have angels in heaven praising God. Then we have a star in the sky, singing a song that captivates the wise men. And around the baby Jesus in the manger, there must have been cattle and sheep, singing their songs, “Moo…” and “Bahh….” And then we have all sorts of people praising God: the shepherds singing in the field, the old and faithful Simeon and Anna praying softly in wonder, the baby Jesus cooing and crying as all babies do. In the Christmas story, all of creation sings a beautiful song of praise to God.

And then we join that song ourselves, whenever we sing Christmas carols.

A Song of Life

Today’s scripture is a wonderful reminder that the song of Christmas never ends. Even as we take down the stockings and the lights and the ornaments, all of creation continues to sing a beautiful song of praise to God.

I’m not a great listener, but even I hear the song sometimes. Whenever I hear the song, it brings me new life. I hear the song in the sunrise and in my first cup of coffee. I hear it in other people as we share new ideas. Sometimes I hear the song when I play a board game with my family or good friends. I wonder: where do you hear the song? What brings you new life? (What do you do before you go to bed—read? play a game? eat a snack? Do you hear it then? Have you ever heard it in the stars? Or maybe when you’re standing on top of a mountain?)

According to our writer today, wherever we hear this song, we are not just an audience. We are invited to join the song—“young men and women alike, old and young together!” says our writer. This doesn’t necessarily mean we’re singing out loud. (Some of us do have beautiful voices, like Rob who sung for us today. Others of us, like my brother, couldn’t hit a note if you handed it to him.) I think singing means bringing life to the people around you. My brother does this by encouraging people when they’re down. Others might sing by doing something beautiful, painting a picture or telling a story. Others might sing simply by smiling or hugging or saying, “I think you’re great.”

How many of you have seen The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings? J.R.R. Tolkien, the man who wrote those stories, was a curious and creative Christ-follower. And when he told the story of Middle Earth, he said that all of life began with a song: a song that went out into the emptiness, so that there was no longer emptiness but life. That, I think, is a wonderful picture for what it means to sing the song of God. We bring life to our world.

“You’re Not Singing Anymore!”

A couple of years ago when I was in England, I went to several soccer games—what the British would call “football matches.” Watching a soccer game in England is a lot like watching a sports game in the United States, with one major difference.

Here, at a sports game, sometimes the fans sing a chant or a song. What songs or chants do they sing?

In England, the fans don’t just sing now and then. They’re singing all the time. And not only chants like, “Defense!” or “We will rock you,” but songs that they themselves created. And the fans wouldn’t just sing for their own team. They would sometime sing songs against the opposing fans. For example, if your team was losing and you were sad and you had stopped singing, the other fans would start singing at you, “You’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing anymore! You’re not singing anymore!” (All this to the tune of “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah,” no less.) It was very irritating to hear.

I wonder, though, if that’s true in life. Sometimes when life is tough, or when I’m feeling sad, I don’t feel like singing.

But according to our writer today, the song of God is not simply a victory song, a song that we sing after we’ve won. The song of God is much bigger than that. It’s a song that creation is always singing. Maybe you’ve noticed at times when you haven’t felt so good, when things have been difficult, that the sun still shines, the birds still sing, the wind still whispers, the stars still hum in the night sky, the seashell still whistles, the Peppermint Patties still ppphh. Our writer says that creation is always praising God, not only when things are good, but also when things are difficult. We might remember that the Christmas story came at a dark and difficult time in the history of Israel—but even then, the angels and the stars and the cattle and the shepherds sang, and what wonderful life came forth.

Maybe the Christmas story is our story too. I wonder if it’s not this very song that brings us back to life when we feel down, that gives us new life when everything around us has faded.

The Song Sings Out into the Emptiness

Today is the beginning of a new year. Much of the world is quiet. We can almost feel the emptiness of the days ahead, the days waiting to be filled with life. Some of these days will bring us happiness, and others sorrow. The good news of our scripture is that whatever the days bring, the song of God will always surround us; that if we listen closely enough, we can hear this beautiful song in anything—in everything. We can join it ourselves, not only when we’re winning but also when we’re losing. In fact, it’s especially important to sing then. Because the song of God brings life. Like Tolkien said: it sings out into the emptiness, and the emptiness cannot overcome it.

Prayer

God of new life,
Whose song we hear
In stars and seashells and everything in-between—
Open our ears
And loosen our tongues,
That we may hear your song in all creation
And join its life-giving chorus.
Amen.

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[1] Two quotes commonly attributed to Hildegard of Bingen are: “All of creation is a song of praise to God,” and, “There is the music of heaven in all things.”

[2] Nobody knows who wrote today’s scripture; it could have been a guy or a girl. I’m imagining a girl, because many of the girls I know are careful listeners, the kind who would hear these songs.

"Word and Flesh" (John 1:1-14)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 25, 2016, Christmas)

(With the help of the children and the youth)

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A Different Kind of Christmas Story

When you think of the Christmas story, what do you think of? What characters or places or events do you imagine?

In today’s scripture, John tells the Christmas story. It’s a different kind of Christmas story than the one we hear in Matthew and Luke, where we see stars and angels and the baby Jesus. John’s Christmas story is cosmic. It’s a little bit like those movies where the camera zooms out and you see all the planets and stars and galaxies.

The Word of Christmas and Creation

John says that the story of Christmas is also the story of creation, because both of them celebrate the same thing: God’s Word. A Word that brought life to the entire universe. A Word that came to life in Jesus.

All this talk about a word of great power makes me think about magic words. Do you know any magic words? What’s supposed to happen when you say them? (Does this really happen?)

What about in everyday life? Let’s say that you want a cookie, and your mom or your dad says to you, “Say the magic word.” What word do you say? And what happens?

All Words Are Magic

You know what I think? I think all words are magic. I think all words change the world.

When someone gives you a compliment, how does it make you feel? How does it change you?

Bodies Made of Words

In today’s Christmas story, John says that God’s Word became flesh. That’s sort of like saying that our bodies are made of words. That all the compliments we’ve received, and all the encouragement, and all the instruction—all these words have helped to shape us and make us who we are.

Think for a moment about who you are. What are some of the words that have shaped you—maybe words that your parents have said, or your friends?

Now I’m wondering about the baby Jesus, who’s with us today in the manger. I’m marveling about what John says: that Jesus is made up of God’s word. What do you think this means?

I think what John is saying is that as the baby Jesus grows up to be a young child, and then a teenager, and then a young adult, he keeps hearing a special word from God. Not “Abracadabra.” Not “hocus pocus.” Not even “please.” What words do you think God is saying to Jesus? I believe God’s saying, “I love you.” (I think God says the same thing to all of us, but I believe Jesus heard it most clearly and trusted in it with all his heart.)

I believe “I love you” is the Word of God that became flesh, that made up the body of Jesus.

The Word God Says

And according to John’s Christmas story, the Word that comes to life in Jesus is seeking to come to life in us. John says that if we hear this Word and trust in it, it’s like we are reborn.

So today as we welcome the baby Jesus into our world and our lives, we also welcome the Word that God says. What is this Word? What is it that God says to us?

I love you.

Prayer

Baby Jesus,
Holy Christ child,
Full of God’s love—
May we too hear that special Word of God,
And grow with you
In God’s love.
Amen.

For All the People (Luke 2:1-20)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on December 24, 2016, Christmas Eve)

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Why Only the Shepherds?

If the angel in tonight’s scripture is to be believed, the good and joyful news of Christmas is for everyone. “For all the people.”

And yet in tonight’s scripture, it is only the shepherds who hear the good and joyful news. I wonder: why do only the shepherds hear it, if it’s indeed for everyone?

…Because They’re the Only Ones to Respond?

There is an old folk tale that the Jewish rabbis tell. Abraham, they say, isn’t the only person who received God’s call. He’s the only one who said, “Yes.” Israel, they say, aren’t the only people whom God invited into a special covenant. They’re the only people who said, “Yes.”

I wonder—I wonder if a similar tale might not also be told about the shepherds. Imagine with me for a moment. Could it be that on the night Jesus was born, the shepherds were not the only ones to receive a visit from the angel of the Lord? Could it be that the angel in fact delivered the good news of great joy for all the people—to all the people?

Perhaps first the angel went to the kings and princes of the world. But because they were merrymaking in the radiance of their palaces, they could not see the shine of the angel. Nor could they hear the angel’s message above the noise of their festivities.

And so maybe the angel went next to the merchants. But because they were counting money in the light of their lodging, they could not see the shine of the angel. Nor could they hear the angel’s message above the clang of their coins.

And who knows? After that, the angel may have gone to the soldiers. But because they were eating and drinking by the great light of their campfire, they could not see the shine of the angel. Nor could they hear the angel’s message above the clamor of their carousing.

And so it was that, finally, the angel went to the shepherds, who were keeping watch over their flock by night. Dark, silent, empty night. Only the shepherds saw the angel that night, because only they had nothing else to see. Only they heard the angel’s good news, because only they had nothing else to hear.

A Message That Means the Most to the Least

Of course there’s no way to know whether the angel actually visited others besides the shepherds on this night many years ago. But perhaps that question is beside the point. Perhaps the point of such a folk tale is to invite us into the story, to ask us, “Now what about you? Would you see the angel if the angel came to you? Would you hear the angel’s good news?”

If we return to the original story in Luke’s gospel, one thing we can say with certainty is that the shepherds did hear the angel’s good news. They received it joyfully. I think it’s more than coincidence that the shepherds are the ones to hear the angel. In the gospel of Luke, the heroes of faith are almost always on the underside of life. The poor, the crippled, the blind, the lame, the prostitutes, the sick…and here, the shepherds. The good news of a savior is for all people. But it means the most to the least among us, the people who presently have the least reason to celebrate. They are the most inclined to hear the good news, to see it, to rejoice over it. The folks who are satisfied and self-content, preoccupied with their pleasures and pursuits, like the princes and merchants and soldiers of our folk tale, are likely to miss out altogether on the angel’s proclamation. Even if they did hear it, they would be just as likely to think nothing of it. A child is being born somewhere? So what?

All of this makes me wonder. Can I really hear the angel’s good news tonight? I recently learned that my brother’s moving back to Richmond, and so my whole family really is in a festive mood this year. What does the good news of Christmas mean to folks like me and my family, who are relatively satisfied and self-content? Is it possible for us to experience what the shepherds experienced?

Standing with the Shepherds

I have a hunch that if we look deeply enough within ourselves, we will all of us find that we are standing with the shepherds tonight—in dark, empty stillness. Some of us feel the black silence of that night more immediately than others. Some of us are walking through the empty night of grief, feeling the absence of a loved one. Others of us may be walking in the shadows of uncertainty, worrying about a doctor’s prognosis or fretting about a rocky relationship. Still others of us, like my family this year, may really be doing just fine. But just fine is just as needful of a savior, of someone who will breathe new life into old routine, someone who will upset our complacency and excite us with holy adventure.

It’s like the angel says: the good news of great joy is for all people. So come. In our emptiness, our weakness, or simply our need for new life, let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.

Prayer

God of star and song,
Whose good news rings out
Across dark, silent, empty nights—
With the shepherds,
We rush eagerly
To look for you;
And with them,
We rejoice in your love,
Which is made flesh in our lives
As it was on this night long ago.

Amen.

The Shape of Immanuel (Isaiah 7:10-16)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 18, 2016, Advent IV)

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A Nickname Heavy with Memory 

My earliest Christmas memories take me across the mountains to Kentucky, where my family would always drive to visit with Maga and Granddad, Grandpa and Grandma, and all my aunts and uncles. The most memorable scene among these recollections is the cheerful ruckus that would greet us upon our arrival. After a long journey in the car, listening to the same Christmas tapes again and again, playing twenty questions, solving crossword puzzles, and counting cows, we were completely exhausted. But in an instant, that all changed. Upon our arrival and before we could all get out of the car, my grandparents and aunts and uncles would be out the front door, swarming us with hugs. Uncle Noel would bend down, embrace me against his prickly whiskers, and say, “Big Jon!” Granddad would say something silly, like, “There’s my honey-bun!” (Please know that I was only three or four when Granddad called me this. I wouldn’t tolerate it for much longer.)

“Big Jon.” “Honey-bun.” They were nicknames that I only heard once a year, but I still hear their echo every Christmas. They remind me of times gone by, of a time when I was the smallest and hearing “Big Jon” made me feel on top of the world, of a time when I was the youngest and hearing “Honey-bun” made me feel most treasured among all the family.

Chances are, you have a few such nicknames yourself. Nicknames that whisk you away back into a very specific time or place. Nicknames that only a special friend would say, or nicknames that you would only hear on special occasions.

Jesus has just such a nickname. It’s a nickname that we really only hear once a year. We read it in both of today’s scriptures. “Immanuel.” In Hebrew, it means “God with us.”

Most of us are familiar with the name. It probably comforts and reassures us. Immanuel. “God with us”: not God above us, or God beyond us, or God against us. God with us.

But just like “Big Jon” and “Honey-bun,” just like any special nickname you’ve ever had, Immanuel—“God with us”—has a special history. Immanuel is a nickname heavy with memory and full of meaning. It whisks us all the way back into the world of the ancient prophet Isaiah, into the very words that he proclaims in today’s scripture.

Ahaz and the Bullies 

In Isaiah’s day, the king of Judah, Ahaz, faced a dilemma. On the one hand, the massive empire of Assyria was conquering people after people, nation after nation, and King Ahaz was next in line. On the other hand, there were a couple of other middling kings like Ahaz himself who were conspiring against Assyria. They came to Ahaz with a proposition: join us and fight back against the Assyrian juggernaut…or we’ll just conquer you ourselves and make use of your resources.

To put it more simply, King Ahaz found himself cornered in a dark alley. Off to the distance on one side stands the biggest bully in town. On the other side are approaching two smaller but no less capable bullies. There’s simply no way out. Beside Ahaz is his puny compatriot, Isaiah, a prophet. And while Ahaz contemplates whether to fling himself at the mercy of the big bully or the two smaller tough guys, Isaiah keeps whispering into his ear, “Don’t worry about these bullies. Just trust in God!”

Today’s scripture picks the story up at this point. God is repeating Isaiah’s plea: Just trust me. Ask for a sign, and I’ll prove to you that you can trust me (cf. 7:11). Ahaz responds, “I will not ask, and I will not put the Lord to the test” (7:12). He probably hopes that his response will pass for piety.[1] But the truth is, Ahaz doesn’t want to test God because Ahaz doesn’t want to trust God. He’s already made up his mind to trust the gods of power, which is to say, he’s decided to throw himself at the mercy of the world superpower, Assyria.

The God of Immanuel Versus the Gods of Power 

Isaiah calls his bluff: “Is it too little for you to weary humans, that you weary my God also?” (7:13). “My God,” Isaiah says. He already see that Ahaz trusts in different gods, in the gods of war with their thundering chariots and iron-cast weapons and fearsome warrior kings.

Even so, the Lord God insists on giving Ahaz a sign to prove that the Lord God is on his side. The bizarre thing is, the Lord God chooses probably the last sign that would convince Ahaz: a baby boy. His name is Immanuel. This baby boy is the sign that God is with Ahaz and the fearful people of Judah. This baby boy is proof that God stands with them.

So imagine with me again: Ahaz is cowering in that dark alley, cornered between the biggest bully in town and two other sizable bullies. The puny Isaiah suddenly presents him with a baby child and says, “See! You can trust God.” We can understand, perhaps, why Ahaz would shake his head with a smirk. If God had given him the sign of an angelic army or an unstoppable new weapon, then perhaps he would have trusted God.[2] As it is, Ahaz must be practical. He must be realistic. And so he chooses to submit himself to the greatest power he can see, Assyria. It’s only smart to join the side that’s going to win. Right?

God in the Shape of a Child 

Brigitte Kahl, a New Testament scholar in New York, grew up in the former East Germany. Her father, like many other Germans of his generation, served in Hitler’s army. When that army invaded the surrounding countries of Europe, the German soldiers wore belt buckles engraved with the words, “Gott mitt unz.”[3] “God with us.” Immanuel.

Over two thousands have passed since the time of Isaiah. But we have not progressed much further than Ahaz himself did. Much of the world still worships a warrior God, a God of power. For much of the world, the sign of “God with us” is triumph and success. The sign of “God with us” is the megachurch with thousands or the superpower nation that dominates the globe.

That’s why it’s important to remember the special history behind Jesus’ nickname, “Immanuel,” the memory that makes it heavy with meaning. When we sing, “O come, o come, Immanuel,” or when we read about Immanuel being born by Mary, we are also reciting the story of King Ahaz. We are proclaiming that in our darkest hour, God comes to us not in the shape of power but in the shape of a child. We are changing the tune of history, trusting in infants instead of infantry, cheering on children instead of chariots. We are singing a song of love instead of power. Indeed, if the rest of Jesus’ story is anything to go by, the story of Immanuel means that God’s “power” is love. A love that forgives people and empowers them to have new life. A love that welcomes outsiders and empowers them to have new life. A love that embraces the lowly and empowers them to have new life. A love that makes peace with the enemy and empowers them to have new life. Love is a powerless “power,” as powerless as a child. And yet it does what no warrior king or army of chariots ever can.

Love bears new life.

Prayer 

God who is Love,
Who stirs ever in the womb
Of a world shackled still to power—
Be born among us
In the little and the lowly.
As you entrust your life to us,
So may we entrust ours to you.
May the shape of your love
Shape our hearts
And bring heaven to earth,
Close by us, we pray.
Amen.

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[1] On the face of things, this seems like a pretty pious response. Jesus said something similar when Satan tempted him in the wilderness. But whereas Jesus refused to test God as a result of his trust in God, Ahaz refuses to test God because he does not want to trust in God. He’s already made up his mind to trust the gods of power, who at that time are embodied by Assyria.


[2] Cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, God Is in the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas (trans. O. C. Dean Jr.; ed. Jana Reiss; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010), 11: “A shaking of heads, perhaps even an evil laugh, must go through our old, smart, experienced, self-assured world, when it hears the call of salvation of believing Christians: ‘For a child has been born for us, a son given to us.’”


[3] Barbara Lundblad, “Commentary on Isaiah 7:10-16,” https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1942, accessed on December 15, 2016.

Irresistible Joy (Isa 35:1-10)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 11, 2016, Advent III)

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Green Is Stronger

Some of you who have lived near Short Pump for a long time will know, it’s not always been like it is today. Today it is a happening place. In this season especially, it is spilling over with shoppers and stress and enough traffic to give you a headache just thinking about it.

But twenty years or so ago, there was none of that. I remember when there was nothing but trees across from Short Pump Elementary. I remember when the service station there at the corner of Pump and Broad still had that upended airplane sticking out of its roof. And I remember Shorty’s gas station. In my 5-year-old mind, I thought of Shorty’s as a country version of 7-Eleven. There was a sort of comfort that came from driving by its familiar, rustic presence. It smiled at us in an old country way whenever we passed by.

And so it was no little thing, when one day the building that was Shorty’s was dismantled. Not only that, but all the trees behind and around Shorty’s were razed to the ground. What was once a simple, sympathetic corner station, was now nothing but a wasteland of weeds, a wilderness without warmth. What once gave a friendly nod and said, “Howdy,” as we passed by, now uttered nothing more than a sorrowful sigh.

For years, the land on that corner lot remained sad and empty. I never paid it much attention until a few years ago—when my own eyes were surprised to see trees where before there had only been weeds! The glory and majesty of this green growth grabbed me with joy and gladness. The trees were singing a song of praise and thanksgiving. The land was alive again.

Apparently, the same sort of thing happens all over the world. I read recently that the rainforests are growing back in places where they had been bulldozed and burned to the earth. How relentless trees and plants and vines are. They cannot be repressed. They are, in a sense, irresistible.

Green is quietly stronger than our machines.

The Wilderness Is Glad, the Desert Is Singing

What I saw in that corner lot where Shorty’s once stood, and what we see all over this earth, is the mysterious gospel that Isaiah proclaims today. In today’s scripture, Isaiah rhapsodizes about blossoms and streams, about reeds and rushes. He sings about the green joy of creation.

But in the chapter before today’s scripture, the picture is entirely the opposite. There he speaks the language of death and decay. He talks about rotting and withering, about thorns and nettles and thistles, about a barren wilderness dominated by hyenas and hawks (34:4, 13-15). It is Isaiah’s colorful way of saying that the people of Israel’s self-destructive ways are about to catch up with them. And we know that this is true. To live by the sword is to die by the sword: as Israel neglected the love of God and sought worldly power, so they fell to the powers of the world.

Isaiah sees this fateful future and mourns the death and decay that fills his vision. But that death and decay is not the end of the story. In today’s scripture, Isaiah sees a bit further and proclaims what might be called a gospel of greenness. Looking out across the vast wasteland of Israel’s destruction, Isaiah sees the most curious thing: the wilderness is glad, the desert is singing. The earth that has been razed to its roots is now rejoicing. How strange! You’d think that such a fate would lead it to sorrow and sighing, not gladness and singing.

But having seen the transformation of the wasteland where Shorty’s once stood, I now have an inkling of the green gospel that Isaiah announces. The land is never completely silenced. It’s as though Isaiah hears the land vibrantly proclaim, “You can burn us, flood us, tear us up beyond all recognition…but you will never silence the Godly greenness from which comes our life.” And indeed, Isaiah sees the green beginnings of life blossoming across the land once more: he sees crocuses blooming where before there had been nothing, pools of waters where there had been sand, and reeds and rushes where there had been thorns.

We Are a Part of This Green Creation

But why all this focus on trees and water and blossoms? It’s inspirational, perhaps, but what does it have to do with us? What did it have to do with the people of Israel after they had fallen to the oppressive power of foreign empires?

What if Isaiah is telling us that the story of the wasteland—which is also the story of Shorty’s and the story of the rainforests—is also our story? What if Isaiah is inviting us to join with the rest of creation—or rather, to realize that we are a part of this green creation, that the green joy of God overtakes us as it does the rest of creation? If this is so, then Isaiah’s gospel for us is the gospel of greenness. It proclaims that nothing can extinguish life. Even when we are empty and lifeless and languishing in the shadow of death, even when we cannot see, cannot hear, cannot move, cannot find a single word to say—even then, there is among us and within us the tiny, green, budding promise of life.

For Isaiah, it is this promise of life that brings joy. What a timely reminder for us. In this season especially, folks confuse joy with certain outward signs of cheer, or with the feeling that these things bring. Folks confuse joy with big presents, lively gatherings, and sumptuous meals, or with the warm, fuzzy feelings of such things. This isn’t to say that Isaiah is against presents or gatherings or feasts or warm, fuzzy feelings. It’s only to say, rather, that he cares more about what’s behind these things, the unseen joy that inspires these things, that inspires us even when we don’t have these things.

For Isaiah, joy has nothing to do with the glass being full or the glass being empty, but with the promise of a pitcher that is always pouring more water. Joy has nothing to do with the forest or the wasteland, but with the irresistible green power that inspires life in either place. Joy is what inspired those trees on the weeded wilderness where Shorty’s once stood. Joy is what inspires those rainforests that keep coming back.

And this same irresistible joy, according to Isaiah, is what inspires us.

Death Does Not Have the Final Word

A short time ago, I attended a memorial service where I reunited with a couple of my cousins. One of them has a young old son, Luke, who has Joubert’s Syndrome. He walks with a firm limp, often requiring the aid of a walker, and he socializes with the simplest of gestures and words. He may also live a shorter life than many of us. On top of these complications, Luke also recently lost his mother and his grandfather to cancer. His circumstances are not what we would characterize as joyful.

We commonly hear at funerals and memorial services that death does not have the final word. At this memorial service, I saw that this is true. Because Luke, who has confronted death time and time again, was full of life. When the choir sang a beautiful anthem, he alone rejoiced with great applause. At the reception, he leapt around in his walker with the spring-step of a deer. His smile blossomed and brought joy to whomever he encountered. He was the “greenest” spirit around. His evergreen presence at that memorial service led people from “sorrow and sighing” to “joy and gladness.”

Joy:

All of Creation Believing in the Song That the Creator Sings

Little Luke helped to open my eyes to the truth of joy. Joy is not the conviction that things will turn out well, that we will all live happily ever after. Such a joy would be proved false and empty. Not everything has turned out well for Luke.

Joy, instead, means trusting that the life God gives us, and the love that we share, is good and beautiful and true, regardless of how everything turns out.

Joy is not a guarantee of happiness. Joy did not prevent the corner lot where Shorty’s stood from being razed to its roots, nor does it protect the rainforests from destruction at the hand of greedy corporations. Joy is simply the irresistible, evergreen spirit that inspires life. Joy is life believing in the goodness of life. It is all of creation believing in the song that the Creator sings.

Joy is the reason that the wilderness of Shorty’s blossomed once more. Joy is the reason that Luke was found frolicking at a funeral, bursting with life in the face of death. Joy is the reason that Jesus came to us years ago, keeps coming to us today—insistent that the life God gives us is good and beautiful and true.

Joy to the world, indeed—for it is through the God’s green joy that this world leaps back to life, again and again.

Prayer

Evergreen God,
Whose irresistible joy
Inspires blossoms in the dry desert
And abundant life at funerals—
May the empty and sorrowful spaces in our hearts
Become fertile ground for the new life
That your joy brings.
In the name of our song, Jesus Christ.
Amen.