"They Were Fishermen" (Matthew 4:12-23)

“Just” a Bus Driver

On the surface, school bus driver is a simple job. Deliver children from home to school and back again. But if you rode a bus as a child, you know it’s not that simple. All sorts of stuff can happen on a bus between school and home. Some children are tired of having sat at their desks all day, so they can’t help but stand up and stretch their legs. Others have gotten embroiled in a running spat with their friends, and it all boils over on the bus where there are no teachers to keep them in order. One personal memory I have is the regularity of projectiles—unwanted lunch items, sports balls, and scrunched-up paper fired by homemade slingshots. I may have even contributed to the air traffic chaos once or twice.

I’ve heard that studies report bus-driving to be a particularly high-stress occupation, and I can understand why. There are so many variables that can erupt into a problem at a moment’s notice. The traffic on your route suddenly becomes congested and you have to change your itinerary. A fight breaks out among your passengers. Questions or complaints might be fired at you from multiple people at once. And all of this on top of those exhaust fumes. It’s not a job I would want.

This past week, I stumbled onto the story of Pete, a school bus driver in Oklahoma. Several years back, a local paper had interviewed him,[1] presumably because he was not your average bus driver. He did more than take children to school and return them home safely. He was the person who greeted them by name with a smile in the morning. He was the person whose watchful eyes scanned the rearview mirror and showed concern whenever someone was upset or troubled. Plastered all over the interior of his bus were pictures and posters with inspirational quotes and encouraging reminders. Pete acknowledged in his interview that he cultivates a positive and playful attitude with the children. “Attitude,” he said, “IS everything!”

Pete also happens to be a follower of Christ. I can’t help but see a connection between his faith and his profession. He did more than steer his bus through the roads of his town. He steered the children on his bus through the roads of life, offering them good news and encouragement and, for at least a few minutes every day, a safe place where they knew they were heard and seen. He not only delivered them safe and sound to their homes, but he also pointed them toward their true, spiritual home, toward a caring power whose love is not based on grades or athletics or the approval of one’s peers but on our being God’s own children, all of us.

Pete was “just” a bus driver. But he was so much more.

God’s Kingdom: A Change in Attitude

Today’s scripture tells the story of how Jesus begins his ministry. His first words are “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near” (Matt 4:17). That word “repent” has acquired many connotations throughout the centuries. For some people, it conveys images of sorrow and shame and begrudging submission. But the word itself in Greek, metanoia, is much simpler and morally neutral. Its root meaning is to change one’s mind, to think differently. “Think differently, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” God’s kingdom is a revolution that begins in our thinking—our attitude, you might say.

Consider it for a moment. Everyone whom Jesus encounters in his ministry, he invites into a new attitude. To the marginalized in society, the nobodies and the nothings, Jesus says, “You are somebody very special, blessed and beloved, a child of God.” To the disgraced and the humiliated, Jesus says, “Lift up your head, you are forgiven. Your sin is not who you are. You are a child of God.” To the rich, the proud and the privileged, Jesus says, “Your worth is not in your possessions or what others think of you. Let go of these things, and know true joy. For you are children of God.”

Fishermen for the Kingdom

This revolution in attitude may help to explain today’s scripture. Because it’s rather curious that right after declaring the arrival of the kingdom of God (which sounds sort of high and mighty), Jesus enlists the help of…some fishermen? What would they know about the kingdom of God? Wouldn’t it make more sense for Jesus to recruit some sharp thinkers from among the religious and political elite, maybe some scribes and a priest and a few Pharisees? Imagine Jesus among us today, enlisting the help of a few salty auto mechanics rather than pastors or elders or presidents or missionaries.

If the kingdom of God is about changing the world through the force of legislation and war, then it would make sense for Jesus to recruit the most influential leaders and thinkers of his day. But the kingdom of God is not about changing the world through force. It’s about changing our hearts and minds (which is what really changes our world). And so Jesus begins with a couple of the guys who are nearest to him. He’s there beside the Sea of Galilee, and close by are Peter and Andrew—“for they were fishermen,” Matthew tells us rather matter-of factly (Matt 4:18). Of course fishermen would be by the sea.

They were “just” fishermen. But Jesus calls them and promises, “I will make you fish for people” (Matt 4:19). I wonder, is it just to show his cleverness that Jesus makes a metaphor out of their current occupation? Or is it more? I think Jesus is blessing who they are—fishermen—and telling them at the same time that their occupation and gifts are greater than they know. I think Jesus is enlisting them as fishermen for the kingdom of God, and not just in a metaphorical sense. At the end of the gospel of John, we find Peter back on a boat, fishing. It’s what he did before; it’s what he’ll always do.

In this interpretation, Jesus does not tear away four fishermen from the sea and make them into something else. Rather, Jesus blesses four fishermen on the sea and calls them to something more.

“Whatever You Do…”

Peter of Galilee was “just” a fisherman. Pete of Oklahoma was “just” a bus driver. But they were both so much more because Jesus changed their attitude and their way of living. They learned that they were children of God. They learned that they could be part of God’s kingdom right where they were. No longer did the past define them, or their family’s expectations, or what others thought, or what they had or had not achieved. And they could not help but share this good news with their world, “just” where they were, “just” with the gifts with which they had already been equipped.

Their stories invite me to consider my own story and yours too. What could be written about us? I imagine Jesus approaching me while I read a book—“for he was a reader and a writer,” the narrator might say. And Jesus says, “Follow me, and I will make a storyteller of hope and new life.” For others, Jesus might approach them in a classroom or in a work studio or on a construction site or in a garden or on the phone or at the park—for they were teachers, carpenters, builders, gardeners, socializers. And Jesus says, “Follow me—and whatever you do, do it for me.” If that sounds almost biblical, it’s because it is. Paul writes to the Colossians, “Whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus” (Col 3:17).

Maybe it’s hard to believe that your present job or role in life can be used toward the goodness of God’s kingdom. I know that voice of doubt personally. It has raised its voice in the past and said, “Making coffees for people? That’s not what God called you to do. Shifting paperwork? That’s not what God called you to do.” And I don’t know—maybe there are some things that cannot be done entirely for Christ, because they oppose or obstruct God’s kingdom rather than welcome it. But what I do know is that faith is much more like an adverb than a noun, much more like an attitude than a concrete set of actions. It has to do with the way that I conduct myself all across life. Whatever my actions are, do I do them with love, so that people might see the God who is love? Like Pete the bus driver, who smiles and says the names of his children and affirms that they are each special in his eyes.

Whatever you are, you can be one for Christ. A fisherman. A bus driver. A grandma, a builder—a butcher, a baker, a candle-stick maker! You can be part of God’s kingdom. All it takes is repentance—or if you like, a change in attitude. (As Pete would say, “Attitude IS everything!”)

Prayer

Loving God,
Who meets us where we are
On a boat, on a bus—
Sometimes life feels
Like it’s just the same thing
Over and over
…
May we hear with the disciples
Jesus calling, “Repent—
Change your attitude.”
Help us to know ourselves
As your beloved children
Already equipped with unique gifts
That only we can give.
Make us a part of your kingdom. 

In Christ, who unites us in one mind: Amen.

[1] Emily Anderson, “My Outlook: Pastor Pete Balaban, School Bus Driver,” My Outlook: Pastor Pete Balaban, School Bus Driver | Edmond Outlook, accessed January 16, 2023. 

Sin: A Site of Epiphany

Discomfort Discussing Sin

“When was the last time you sinned?”…is not an easy question for me to answer. I don’t like to think about my own sin. I’d rather think about other people’s. It is much easier for me to gossip or accuse or judge. Sometimes I even enjoy talking about other people’s sin. “How could they do that? What were they thinking?” Maybe talking about other people’s sin makes me feel safe from sin. Distant from it. Removed. I would never act that way. I’m still a long way from that behavior. 

Some of you know that before I came to Trinity, I spent three years researching and writing a commentary on Leviticus and Numbers. (As a side note, I want to share my joy: I’ve just completed and submitted my final edits—so now you can keep your eyes peeled for my name on the bestsellers’ list!) Most people keep a safe distance from Leviticus and Numbers. I know I did. It’s a bunch of blood, guts, and fire, right? Animal sacrifice, archaic purity laws about what you can and cannot touch or eat, barbaric wars. What could these things possibly have to do with the gospel? Well, as I painstakingly separated the crust of ancient culture from the spiritual meaning within, I discovered there is quite a lot of wisdom and good news in Leviticus and Numbers. Let me share with you one surprising revelation.

Before reading Leviticus, I thought of sin as wickedness. Sin is what the bad guys do. Or it’s what happens when good people slip and act with bad intentions. Sin is in the heart. But in Leviticus, God overwhelmingly talks about sin as unintentional or unacknowledged behavior. In other words, what is in the heart does not matter nearly as much as the real-life, hands-on consequences of our actions. One Hebrew word for sin, chatta’, literally means “to miss the mark.” Sin is any action that misses the mark of God’s design for the good life, anything that hurts oneself or another. According to God in Leviticus, the problem with sin is not that we have bad intentions or evil hearts, but that we rarely listen to our hearts. Most of the time, our hurtful actions that miss the mark are unintentional or unacknowledged. (To illustrate with an exception that proves the point: we may on occasion knowingly break a law, but we usually justify or rationalize our action in a way that keeps any actual wrongdoing hidden or unacknowledged; we actually think what we did was okay.)

Perhaps this explains why it’s easier for me to acknowledge other people’s sin than my own. I’m not aware of it. I keep it hidden, repressed, unacknowledged. Think about all the distractions in our world today that we can use to drown out or ignore our own sin. People lose themselves in their phones, or in food, or even in the constant company of friends. They numb themselves with work, or with drinks, or with drugs. They keep themselves busy chasing their desires for profit, for pleasure, for prestige. For some people, to be alone with themselves for even ten minutes is a frightening prospect. Who knows what they might hear? Who knows what their heart might whisper to them?

Leviticus seems to appreciate these dynamics of repression and denial. According to God in Leviticus, the first step to resolving any sin is becoming honest with ourselves. It is a crucial, unavoidable step. All the sin and guilt offerings revolve around this common turning point: a moment of realization when the person becomes aware of their error and feels guilt or remorse.

Maybe you know what this feels like. For some people, it’s a sudden, unexpected onset of tears, a breaking open of the heart, as they realize a deeper truth about the way that they have missed the mark. For others, it may be a gnawing anxiety, something that wakes them up in the middle of the night when they defenseless, when they have none of their distractions to keep the sense of sin at bay. However it appears, we all from time to time encounter these moments of truth when we know we have missed the mark.

Where Christ Appears

The good news of Leviticus is that no sin can separate us from God when we are honest about it. When people acknowledge their sin, they immediately know God’s forgiveness (which I suspect is there from the very start), and they once again experience God’s loving embrace.

And that’s the good news of our scripture today, and specifically the good news of this Epiphany season. Epiphany, remember, means “appearance,” and in the church we celebrate the appearance of Christ. Last Sunday, when we celebrated the day of Epiphany itself, we remembered how Christ appeared to all the world—to the people of Israel in Jerusalem as well as to the strangers from far away in the east. This Sunday, we celebrate how Christ first appears to the individuals who will follow him. And the first words we hear in our scripture are John the Baptizer’s proclamation: “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29).[1] The first two disciples of Jesus begin to follow him immediately after John has made this proclamation (1:36; cf. 1:29). The implication is that they follow Jesus precisely because they have a sense of their own sin, their own missing the mark, and they desire a better way of life.

The paradoxical good news, then, is that our sin is a blessed site of epiphany. Our sin is precisely where Christ appears, where Christ meets us. Contrary to the conventional thinking of our world, where we must first prove ourselves and present ourselves as qualified, Christ appears to us when we are honest and broken. As he says elsewhere, it is the sick who need a physician (cf. Mark 2:17).

Disciples as Lifelong Learners

Jesus’ first words in the gospel of John are the same words that he speaks to us today, “What are you looking for?” The first word of the two disciples’ response is “Rabbi.” In other words, they are looking for a teacher. They are willing to be lifelong students, because they recognize that they have missed the mark and need to relearn the way of life. When the disciples ask where Jesus is staying, his response, “Come and see,” implies that the removal of sin and the learning of God’s way is not comparable to reaching a destination once-and-for-all. It’s not a single transaction. It is a day-by-day journey through which we are always learning and discovering. “Come and see.” We might ask ourselves at the end of every day, “What did I see following Jesus today?”

What jumps out to me in this initial conversation is that, while for the disciples it begins with honesty and an awareness of their sin and brokenness, its good news is rooted not in fear of damnation or worry of judgment but in curiosity and desire. There is a warmness in this encounter, a recognition that, though they are sinful, they are already safe in the presence of Christ. Previously they may have lived in anxious repression or denial of their missing the mark, but now they are honest and hopeful about it; they have a teacher who embraces them and knows the way. They have someone to follow.

Discipleship as Relationship

But following Jesus is only half of today’s story of discipleship. It’s only half of the story of this Lamb who takes away the sin of the world. The other half of today’s story is staying with Jesus. The disciples who follow after Jesus, stay with him. Later in the gospel of John, Jesus will use the same language when he says, “Abide in me as I abide in you” (John 15:4). Later, he is even more specific: “Abide in my love” (John 15:9-10).  

Sometimes I think of a teacher as a person who imparts knowledge of concepts and ideas. But I don’t think Jesus is primarily this kind of teacher, and I don’t think our faith is a matter of this kind of education. We are disciples not of a method but of a person. We are not in a course but in a relationship. We are not learning knowledge but love. Christ is not something we get, but someone who gets us. This means that Christians are not experts with the answer to everything. Rather, they are broken people who know their need for relationship and guidance. A wise follower of Christ will not tell you the answer to your question, but rather point you to God.

Our strength is not being alone. Everyone can relate to this on a human level. Not being alone is a great strength, whether that is against a difficult prognosis, an uncertain future, a great loss. How much greater is this strength, then, to know that it is God who is with us. That God meets us right where we are, in our honest brokenness, and invites us to follow him and stay with him. We are safe with him.

A Life of “Come and See”

How we live in relationship with Christ is probably a question that each of us could answer a little differently. But I appreciate the example of Gregory of Nyssa, a church leader from the fourth century, who said this: we see clearly when we keep our eyes on Jesus. To follow Jesus and to stay with Jesus is a life of “Come and see.” It means keeping our eyes upon Jesus, which we do when we contemplate scripture, when we bare ourselves honestly in prayer and seek him, when we gather together with two or three others in Christ’s name. Keeping our eyes upon Jesus helps us to recalibrate where we have been sinning, or missing the mark. It puts everything in perspective. Life is no longer about winning or control, about possessions or prestige, about shame or failure. Life is about God’s love, from which nothing can separate us, not even our sin. In fact, if we look at today’s scripture…that’s precisely where this story of good news begins.

Prayer

God of our salvation,
Who does not condemn us for our sin
But meets us there to show the way—
Help us like the first disciples
To be honest with ourselves
And to know our brokenness
…
That we might train our eyes on Jesus
And be lifelong learners of his way
And abide in him as he abides in us.
Through the Lamb of God, 

Who takes away the sin of the world: Amen.

---

[1] Many have interpreted this identification as a reference to the Passover lamb, but I would offer a thought to broaden our thinking. The Passover lamb did not take away sin; it defended the Israelites from the death of the firstborn. In Leviticus, however, sacrificial offerings did often act as purification for the tabernacle; that is, these offerings symbolized the cleansing of the tabernacle from the people’s sin. John the Baptizer’s metaphor, then, may suggest that Jesus comes not as a substitutional offering, who dies in our place, but as a sacrificial offering whose death purifies the world of sin.

Receiving Christ (Matthew 2:1-12)

The Wise Men

Have you been watching the wise men in our sanctuary? They’ve been moving the last month, and today they’ve reached the baby Jesus! As you may already know, our nativity scenes are not entirely biblically accurate. They conflate into a single night what happened over the course of months or even years. Our scripture today reminds us that the wise men do not show up on the night of Jesus’ birth. When they see the star that heralds the birth of a new king, they must first make a long journey from the east—probably from the land of Israel’s old foe, Babylon—and then they have to readjust their destination, because they arrive in Jerusalem only to discover the new king is not there. Finally they arrive at Bethlehem—but at a house, not a stable. By this time, Jesus is probably several months old, maybe even a year or two.

Then there’s the number of the wise men. Our nativities usually show three of them, because there are three gifts, but the scripture never mentions their number. Finally, there is the question of their profession. What is a wise man? The Greek word magi comes from the Persian word magos, which originally referred to a sort of priest who served in the royal court. The magi were skilled in interpreting the world, including the stars, which is why we sometimes hear that they were astrologers. The similarity between their name, magi, and our word “magic” is no coincidence. Some magi dabbled in spells and enchantments, which were strictly forbidden in Jewish scripture.

It is not uncommon for the wise men, or magi, to take center stage in our imaginations when we read today’s scripture. We imagine the story according to their perspective: their long journey, their fraught dialogue with king Herod, and finally their kneeling before the child Jesus with their gifts. The song “We Three Kings” perfectly encapsulates our imagination of their experience. “We three kings of Orient are; bearing gifts we traverse afar, field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star.” (Why does the song call them “kings,” we might ask. The answer is found in the Jewish scripture. Isaiah 60 and Psalm 72 each anticipate a future in which kings from all over the world will bring gifts to the king of Israel and bow before him. These strange, noble men from the east, who bear gifts and kneel before Jesus, seem to fit that mold so well, some readers consider them the prophesied kings.)

A Tale of Two Kings

But this morning, I want us to tear our eyes away from the three kings (or however many wise men there were) for just a moment, because the real drama in our scripture is about two kings. Listen to how the story begins and how it immediately opposes one king against another: “In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?’” (Matt 2:1-2). Notice that the wise men do not kneel before King Herod or pay him homage. Notice that, instead, they ask him about another king. Notice, too, that the chief priests and scribes cite a prophecy that confirms the wise men’s intuition: a ruler will be born, they say, in Bethlehem, one who will “shepherd [the] people Israel” (Matt 2:6; Mic 5:2). The arrival of the wise men thus inflames King Herod with fear. He perceives a challenge to his throne, a rival king. So he immediately hatches a plan to eliminate this new enemy. He asks the religious leaders about the messiah—not so that he might welcome this long-awaited savior of the Jewish people, but so that he might find him and kill him.

As a tale of two kings, our scripture today suggests a contrast. On the one hand, there is King Herod, a king of this world, who will do anything to secure his own power. We learn from other historical documents that King Herod executed numerous individuals, including members of his own family, just to protect his throne. He even executed some residents of his own territory when he died, just to ensure that his death would be a time of mourning and sadness. On the other hand, there is the newborn king before whom the wise men kneel with gifts. What kind of king will he be? Well, let’s listen to the prophetic vision of the psalmist: “May all kings fall down before him, all nations give him service. For he delivers the needy when they call, the poor and those who have no helper. He has pity on the weak and needy, and saves the lives of the needy. From oppression and violence he redeems their life; and precious is their blood in his sight” (Psalm 72:11-14). One king cares only about himself and demands subservience. The other king cares about others and serves them selflessly.

Of Insiders and Outsiders

Today the church celebrates Epiphany, which literally means “appearance.” For the church, Epiphany refers to the appearance of Christ to the world. The main story of Epiphany is today’s story of the wise men, because in this story Christ becomes known to others near and far, to strangers from the outer reaches of the East, as well as to the king and chief priests and scribes in Jerusalem.

What fascinates me in today’s story is how people respond differently to Christ’s appearance. On the one hand, the religious insiders in Jerusalem—the king and the chief priests and the scribes—are all “frightened,” Matthew says (Matt 2:3-4). On the other hand, these strangers from the east, who would have worshiped God with different names than the Israelites, who wouldn’t have known how to offer a proper sacrifice at the Temple, are overwhelmed with joy.

Why would the religious insiders be frightened? It seems counterintuitive. Wouldn’t they who hold the prophecies, they who have been waiting for centuries, be the happiest of all?

I don’t know if you heard the story about St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Davidson, North Carolina. In 2014, they installed a statue on the church grounds that depicts a homeless person sleeping on a bench. If you get close enough to the statue, you can see that the homeless person is Jesus—there are the marks of crucifixion on his feet. But the early response was mixed. One woman in the neighborhood called the cops on this homeless person. Others wrote letters to the editor of the local news, expressing displeasure that a homeless person would be memorialized.

I’ve heard that, paradoxically, religion can be one of the best ways to avoid God. For me, this story sheds some light on that curious idea. Some people understand God as a protector of their worldview and their way of doing things.  They use God as a servant of their own interests. God wants what they want, God dislikes what they dislike. God supports the same candidates they do and fights against the same enemies. In the end, God is just their ego writ large, their interests and values crowned as king. Such a God is a formidable defense for people who would prefer to live by their own power, who feel no genuine need for a savior because they already have savings accounts and a secure future and all the amenities they could want. Such a God actually safeguards a person from ever encountering the holy One who is beyond all images, whose love knows no party lines or flags or boundaries, whose glory is in all creation.

Perhaps King Herod and the chief priests and the scribes and “all Jerusalem” are frightened because they are quite content with their present arrangement. Living as an occupied region of the Roman empire might not be the ideal situation, but at least these folks have some leverage as the religious and political insiders of their corner of the world. They would rather not receive Christ because they have already assumed that role themselves. For them, God is just a way to keep things relatively comfortable, to keep things the way they are.

The Invitation of Epiphany

 This story of Epiphany invites me to reflect. Do I see the world through the fearful eyes of King Herod and the religious leaders or through the faithful eyes of the wise men? Epiphany invites me to see the world not as though it were filled with threats to my own way of life but as though it were filled with grace that opens up onto a much larger, richer way of life. The irony of religion is that it can become a very fearful, defensive expression of the self, as it is for King Herod and the religious insiders of Jerusalem. It can become a way to protect my own interests, whether those concern my nation, culture, race, economy, ideology, or whatever else is dear to my way of thinking. But religion can also lead to an open and trusting posture, as it did for the wise men, who find God not in the familiar but in the unfamiliar. They kneel before God in a foreign land, where God has a different name, where people worship in different ways. As Jesus would later say, faith is not so much a matter of getting the name or concept right; it’s not about the people who say, “Lord, lord” (cf. Matt 7:21-23). Rather, it’s about something bigger than words and ideas; it’s about a way of living; it’s about people who trust in God’s love, who look for it in all shapes and sizes, not under names and flags but in forgiveness and generosity and care for others.

Epiphany invites me to reflect on my posture. Are my knuckles white with grasping? Am I always calculating, strategizing, worrying? Or do I ever find myself kneeling before something so filled with grace, so much better than I could have planned or expected, that I am overwhelmed with joy?

Prayer

Holy God,
Your appearance in our world
Can be threatening to our way of life.
Your heart is much bigger
Than our narrow interests
…
Mold our hearts after the magi,
That we might live less in our heads,
Be less concerned about names, ideas, plans;
That we might long for grace
And find it in unexpected places.
In Christ, the king for those who have no helper. Amen.

Not Alone (Matt 2:13-23)

New Year’s “Failures”

It is New Year’s Day, and for many people that means two things: Resolutions. And failure! According to one study, nearly one out of four resolution-makers will fail in their resolve by the end of the first week. Over half will fail by the end of the first month. Over ninety percent will have failed by the end of the year. Resolutions, it seems, are a sure exercise in the futility of our willpower.

The obvious lesson of New Year’s resolutions, then, is the likelihood that sooner or later we will fail. But I wonder if New Year’s resolutions reveal more than our weak resolve. I wonder if they reveal the idolatry of our world. We idolize strength. We idolize self-sufficiency. We idolize the self-made individual who single-handedly accomplishes their ambitions. We put on a pedestal high achievers, big earners, people who look perfect. And just as easily, we tear them apart at the first sign of weakness or failure. It’s no surprise, then, that we do the same thing with ourselves. We resolve to be perfect, and then when we fail, we give up. We think we can do it on our own; when we can’t, we lose all hope.

Who Is Carrying Whom?

But God does not lose hope. Neither does God expect perfection. When God took on flesh and entered into our world, he could not make it on his own. He had to be carried.

The beginning of the Christmas story is angels singing and shepherds glorifying God and the noble magi kneeling before Jesus and Mary and Joseph tenderly watching over their child. But Matthew tells us that, after the initial joy and celebration, there is great darkness and danger. Jesus is born into the same world that we inhabit—a world filled with fear and violence, a world that is not safe. And Jesus is just as vulnerable to these risks as we are today. He is born into the world with a mark on his head. King Herod—who lives according to the gospel of strength and self-sufficiency, who trusts no one, not even his own family, some of whom he would even put to death for fear that they would take his throne—King Herod wants little baby Jesus dead, and he goes to disastrous lengths to ensure the result. For this reason, an angel of the Lord warns Joseph to get up and “take the child…and flee to Egypt” (Matt 2:13).

Our Old Testament scripture today is from the prophet Isaiah. It presents a fascinating contrast to the Christmas story. Isaiah praises God for carrying Israel out of danger (Isa 63:9). Isaiah’s language echoes other Old Testament passages that compare God’s deliverance of the people Israel from Egypt to a mother eagle who carries her brood out of danger. The message is plain. The people Israel cannot do it on their own. They need help. They need God to carry them out of Egypt.

But the Christmas story shows us a striking reversal. God cannot do it on his own. God needs help. God in Christ needs Joseph to carry him down to Egypt. Lest we think that this story is a one off, that once baby Jesus grows up to be an adult he will be strong and self-sufficient, we might remember the cross. Jesus’ story does not end with a man flexing his muscles and securing his own way in the world.

“This Is My Body, Broken for You”

On the one hand, Jesus’ apparent weakness could be seen as cause for despair. If God cannot make it on his own, then who can?

On the other hand, this could be the very crux of the good news. If God cannot make it on his own, then who can? We can let go of perfection! We can let go of this impossible ideal, this idol of self-sufficiency. The good news is not that God comes to make us invincible, but that God comes in weakness, where we need each other, where we must carry each other. The good news is love, which is born in relationship. Love is what carries us when we cannot make it on our own. It is love that carries Jesus away from the murderous king Herod. It is love that will lift up the tax collectors and prostitutes, the poor, the little children, the widows, the Samaritan woman, Zacchaeus, and so many others.

Every week at the table, we remember how Jesus gives himself to us. This week in the season of Christmas, we might remember how, first, Mary and then Joseph give themselves to Jesus. How before Jesus lifts up others, Jesus himself needs to be carried. He needed Mary, who gave birth to him, to say, “This is my body, broken for you.” He needed Joseph, who carried him to Egypt, to say, “This is my body, broken for you.”[1]

Where Christ Is Born

Whether you’ve made resolutions for the new year or not, maybe today’s scripture will provide a gentle and sobering caution against any expectations of perfection that we have for ourselves. Maybe it will remind us that failure or weakness is not the end of the story but the beginning. It’s where Christ is born. Maybe it will remind us that we cannot make it on our own. Maybe it will remind us of what matters most—not personal achievement but carrying each other.

Because chances are that, as an American Christian, you grew up learning about the importance of having a “personal relationship” with Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. It is easy to hear that word “personal” and think “private.” It is easy to adapt our faith to the ideals—and the idols—of our culture. We can think that Jesus in our heart is enough, and from there we can make it on our own to accomplish whatever we set our mind to do. But the picture in the gospels is different. Jesus envisions a life where we are never alone, a life where we carry and are carried by one another. Jesus first says, “Follow me” to two men, not one, and those two quickly grow to twelve. Later he sends out his disciples not alone but in pairs. Finally, as he prepares for his final days on earth, he promises his followers that he will always be with them, but in very specific terms. “Whenever two or three of you are gathered in my name, I am there” (Matt 18:20). “The church, according to the New Testament, is not a loose confederation of individuals. The church is a body—a living, breathing organism whose members are so intimately connected that they can only move together. On any given day, every member of that body needs help, and every member has some help to give.”[2]

The good news of Christmas is certainly that God is with us and we are not alone. But if we left it at that, we would miss out on the depths and riches of God’s love. God’s presence is not the guarantee of strength and success, but the embrace that draws us together in our weak and fragile humanity. God’s salvation is a story of one person carrying another because we cannot do it alone. Sometimes it is us being carried. Other times, it may be us carrying God, if you would believe it. Either way, it is how Christ is born into our world. Not in perfection, but in our need. Christ is with us when we carry one another.

Prayer

Holy God,
Who is born not in perfection
But into this flesh,
Vulnerable and needy—
May the infant Christ
Disarm us of ambitions
Toward independence and perfection
…
Carry us, dear God,
As we in our humble and honest ways
Carry you into the world.
May your love be our salvation,
Now and forever. In Christ: Amen.



[1] Inspired by Rachel Held Evans with Jeff Chu, Wholehearted Faith (New York: HarperOne, 2021), 3-6.


[2] Adapted from Nate Larkin, Samson and the Pirate Monks: Calling Men to Authentic Brotherhood (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2007), 73.

Why Do the Shepherds Hear the Good News? (Luke 2:1-3, 8-10)

A Lowly Bunch

James Rebanks is a shepherd in the Lake District of northwest England, a beautiful region filled with mountains, forests, and lakes. His family has farmed sheep there for a long time, since before the parish church began recording births, deaths, and marriages in the 16^th century. In his book The Shepherd’s Life, he writes tenderly and toughly about all the messy intimacies of farming sheep: breeding, feeding, lambing, clipping, dosing, bathing, shearing, medicating, gathering, herding, chasing, and protecting. The list of responsibilities goes on. Some of the techniques that he uses have been handed down through the centuries, even millennia. The shepherds in the Lake District were tending their sheep there before there were kings, perhaps even before the Vikings landed on the shores of the British Isles. Their care for their sheep goes back a long way. Their care for their sheep is older than thrones and armies and nations.

While James clearly delights in the shepherd’s life, he does not gloss over its difficulties. Today, he farms over 900 sheep and still struggles to make ends meet. It’s nothing new. Centuries ago, he says, shepherds needed to find other work to eke out a living. And they did. Rather than leave the trade behind to find a more profitable line, shepherds stayed with their sheep and scraped by on the other odd jobs they could find. James writes that, growing up, his schoolteachers presumed that education could lift children like him out of the trade, could lead them to “rise above [themselves].” The assumption was clear. A shepherd was not something a child should aspire to be. They could be more.

When James visited the United States for the first time on his book tour, what he saw of our countryside both shocked him and was perhaps all too familiar. He writes, “I saw shabby wood-frame houses rotting by the roadside, and picket fences blown over by the wind. I passed boarded-up shops in the hearts of small towns, and tumbledown barns and abandoned farmland.”[1] In other words, he saw a similar disregard for the people closest to the land.

The disregard for shepherds and farmers today, is nothing new. When Luke writes about the birth of Jesus, he purposefully paints a stark social contrast. The scene opens with Emperor August, the mightiest man in the known world, whose very word has the power to move people from one location to another. But when Jesus is born and the good news is announced by God’s angels, the proclamation does not first issue in a palace as would be customary for a royal birth. Instead it is announced to some peasants, some dirty, stinky shepherds with not even a proper roof over their heads. Earlier, Mary had sung a song that celebrated how God would bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly (Luke 1:52). Here is a first illustration of that reversal. It is a reversal we will see time and again in Luke, as Jesus repeatedly welcomes and embraces the last and the least, from the sick and diseased to little children, from prostitutes to Samaritans and gentiles.

Why the Shepherds?

I love these reversals. Yet I wonder at the meaning of them. I cannot help but notice that the angel declares “good news of great joy for all the people” (2:10). All the people. So why is it that on that first night some hear the good news, and others do not? Why do the lowly shepherds hear the angels’ song, but not the mighty emperor Augustus and the governor Quirinius?

There is an old folk tale that the Jewish rabbis tell. Abraham, they say, isn’t the only person who received God’s call. God called other individuals, but they refused. Abraham was the only one who said, “Yes.” And Israel, these rabbis say, aren’t the only people whom God invited into a special covenant. God invited others, but they refused. Israel is 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. Imagine that the angels go announce the good news to the kings and princes of the world. But they are making merry in the radiance of their palaces and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above the noise of their festivities.

And the angels go to the merchants. But they are counting money by well-kept fires and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above the clang of their coins.

And the angels go to the soldiers. But they are bent over maps and planning their next battle and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above their heated discussion.

The rulers, the merchants, and the soldiers are all preoccupied with a world of things to possess and to control and in which to indulge themselves.

But when the angels go to the shepherds who are only caring for their sheep, the shepherds who have no ambitions toward greatness and who are building no kingdoms of their own—they see the angels in the darkness of the night. They hear their song in the silence of the fields.

Following the Shepherds

Today is the last Sunday of Advent. It’s not quite Christmas, and so I want to be careful that I don’t get ahead of myself in my reflections. The story today is not that Christ is born, but that the good news of Christ’s arrival is announced—and some characters hear the news, while others do not.

The story of the shepherds, then, invites me to ask: Am I able to hear the good news of Christ when it is proclaimed? Am I more like Emperor Augustus? Do I presume that the world revolves around me? Do I presume to stay in control by my words and actions? Or am I more like the shepherds, taking one step at a time and watching for what’s next? In this season, when I am easily caught up in the rush of my plans, the shepherds bid me to slow down for those who are in need, to stop for those who are injured. In this season, when I am easily caught up in the desire for everything to be just right, the shepherds bid me to be content where I am, trusting that God can use me right here.

The ironic thing about the shepherds is that they are held in rather low regard, but their job description is awfully close to God’s. In fact, “shepherd” is one of the most ancient titles for God, not only in Israel but in all the Ancient Near East. It’s no coincidence that David’s most famous song begins, “The Lord is my shepherd…” (Ps 23:1). Over the course of his life, Jesus will demonstrate again and again how God is not the warrior that the world wants, but rather the shepherd that the world needs.

The shepherds, then, are characters after God’s own heart. Their desire is not power but relationship. So, when the angels announce the good news of God’s relationship with humanity, the shepherds are the first to hear. Unlike the others, they have no other  preoccupation, no agenda. They only have hearts hungry for relationship.

Prayer

O great Shepherd of us all,
Who cares for us intimately
From birth to death—
Sometimes we live too fast
Or with too many plans
To receive your love
…
Lead us in the footsteps
Of the shepherds
To desire relationship more than power,
To be hungry for your love, Christ himself. Amen.

---

[1] James Rebanks, “An English Sheep Farmer’s View of Rural America,” https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/01/opinion/an-english-sheep-farmers-view-of-rural-america.html, accessed December 12, 2022.

Magnifying God (Luke 1:46-55)

The Invisible Gorilla

You would think that if a gorilla wandered across your field of vision, you would notice, right? About twenty years ago, a couple of psychologists ran an experiment. They asked participants to watch a video. In the video, two teams are passing around two basketballs, one team in white shirts, the other in black. The psychologists instructed the participants to count the number of times that the players in white passed the ball. At the end of the experiment, they asked the participants, “Did you see the gorilla?” Because, sure enough, in the middle of the video, a person in a gorilla costume wanders into the middle of the screen, beats his chest, and then wanders off screen. Incredibly, only half of the participants noticed the gorilla. The rest were too focused on the basketball.

The creators of the experiment, Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons, explain that the exercise illustrates the phenomenon of selective attention. The idea is simple and apparently true. We tend to see only what we are looking for. We might think that we would notice something new and unusual—surely we would notice a gorilla!—but in fact we’re liable to miss it because our attention is focused elsewhere. About a century before this gorilla experiment, American philosopher William James made a similar observation. He explained that at any point in time, we are surrounded by infinitely more external stimuli and internal thoughts than we can pay attention to. To prevent us from becoming overwhelmed, our mind chooses to attend to whichever objects we deem relevant, and it disregards the rest.

At the risk of oversimplifying the point, we could summarize it this way. We only pay attention to one thing, when in reality there are many things. We only pay attention to one thing, when in reality there are many things.

From Fear to Joy

When the angel Gabriel visits Mary and says, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” Luke tells us that “she [is] much perplexed by his words” (1:28-29). She likely has many thoughts and feels many things, all at once. I am favored? The Lord is with me? I’m just a girl, not even out of her father’s house. Fear is perhaps the predominant feeling, the one she pays the most attention to, because upon seeing her reaction, Gabriel rushes to reassure her, “Do not be afraid, Mary” (1:30). He then promises that her child will be called the Son of God and will inherit the throne of David. Israel has been without a true king now for centuries. It lives under Roman occupation and oppression. A king is a big deal. A king is the promise of freedom and new life.

If Mary’s first response to the news is fear, her later response is the opposite: joy. In today’s scripture, which takes place while Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth, she erupts into jubilant song. Her song has since become a beloved prayer in the church, known as the Magnificat. Some communities of faith recite it on a daily basis. Mary’s song rejoices in the special attention that God pays to the lowly and left out. Remember how Gabriel’s greeting declared to Mary that she was a favored one and God was with her (1:28)? Now she perceives that the child in her womb will declare this same good news to others, that they are beloved by God, and God is with them. Her song celebrates how God “lift[s] up the lowly” and “fill[s] the hungry with good things” and “help[s] his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy” (1:52-54).

Sometimes I take Mary’s joy for granted. It’s such a familiar part of the Advent story that I just assume anyone would be joyful in her circumstances. But I wonder if that is true. Because Mary’s situation is filled with complications and uncertainties that she could do without. When her pregnancy starts to show, there will be mean stares and sneers and whispers of judgment. Never mind all the responsibilities that will come with having to raise a child before she was prepared to do so. And what if Joseph leaves her? Make no mistake, life is not going according to plan for Mary. Life is being thrown at her.

Yet that initial feeling of fear, human and understandable as it is, fades when Mary focuses on God’s favor toward her, God’s presence with her. When she pays attention to God’s love, she rejoices.

Making a Big Deal out of God’s Love

“My soul magnifies the Lord,” Mary sings. The Greek for “magnify,” megaluno, simply means “make big.” I would compare it to the English expression “to make a big deal out of something.” The reality of our lives is that there are always many things going on, but we selectively pay attention to one thing. We all make a big deal about something.

Some people make a big deal about their boss and how unreasonable they are. Some people make a big deal about money and how they need more of it. Some people make a big deal about their spouse and all their grudges toward them. Some people make a big deal about their misfortunes and how everything seems to be going against them. In my experience, making a big deal out of my resentments has a snowball effect; I see more and more problems all around me, and I am left feeling worried and anxious.

Mary makes a big deal out of God’s love for her. She makes a big deal out of God’s love for everyone, and especially for the people who have been told (or silently shown) that their lives don’t really matter, the poor, the hungry, the homeless. Mary’s song actually echoes much of Hannah’s song from the Old Testament (Hannah was the mother of another miracle child, Samuel), which suggests that Mary has practice in singing this sort of song. She has already made a habit of looking for God’s love in the world. Which explains her joy. Mary could have made a big deal out of the humiliation she would soon experience among her pious neighbors. She could have made a big deal out of not being prepared for a child and all the responsibilities motherhood would entail. She had a lot of possible resentments and anxieties that she could have magnified. But instead she magnifies God’s love for her. And her joy eclipses her fear.

Unlearning and Relearning

Mary’s song invites me this Advent to ask, “What am I making a big deal out of?” What am I magnifying?

The news teaches me to make a big deal out of power. Social media teaches me to make a big deal out of fame and image. The holiday advertisements teach me to make a big deal out of comfort and convenience. All of this can leave me feeling anxious and fearful. Do I have enough? How do other people see me? Is the world falling apart?

I have been taught by the world to magnify power, prestige, and possessions, and to magnify all the problems that result when I don’t have these things. It is not natural for me to magnify God. I have learned from the world a language of control and complaint, but not the language of praise and prayer. All the more reason this Advent to study Mary’s example, to unlearn old habits and to learn instead a new habit of magnifying God. One practice that helps me to learn this new habit is gratitude. I know some people who like to begin their day by making a list of five things they are grateful for. I know others who practice gratitude in a more contemplative manner; they sit patiently and simply wait to see what gratitude arises, if any. In either case, the idea is not to burden oneself with a spiritual duty or a box to check off. The idea, rather, is to exercise one’s attention on God’s love.

In my experience, God’s love is often quiet. (Is it a coincidence, I wonder, that the angels in the Christmas story frequently appear at night, when the day’s work is done, and the world has quieted?) Every week now, I get Christmas cards in the mail with short, hand-written notes. And I am comforted to remember I have friends who care for me. God loves me. Last week, I was at a nursing care center, and a group of children were wandering the halls. I saw how their smiles were infectious, invisibly passing through doorways and lighting up the faces of residents. God loves others, especially the lowly and left out. God makes his face to shine upon them.

Mary’s story teaches me that the joy of Advent (and the joy of our faith) is not the simple high of a good feeling. It is a practiced song. It is an exercise of attention. It is learning and speaking the language of praise and prayer. And, amid the many things of this world, it attunes me to what matters most: God’s love.

Prayer

Tender God,
Whose love lifts up the lowly and left out,
Whose love topples the high and mighty,
Not with force but with a disarming embrace
That invites the surrender of control—
Turn our attention away from the grudges and complaints
That keep us mired in fear
…
And attune our hearts
To your love,
To joyfully sing its praise.
In Christ, whose eternal approach is good news of great joy: Amen.

Making Peace (Luke 1:39-45)

Peace as a “No”

I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word “peace,” my first thought is “the absence of war.” If someone said to me, “I come in peace,” I would think, “This person has no intention of fighting.” In other words, my tendency is to define peace in negative terms. I define peace by what is missing rather than by what is present. I think of peace as a “no” rather than a “yes.” No shouting, no hitting, no guns, no violence, no death.

But I think this definition is missing something.

On the one hand, I remember schoolteachers who preserved peace in the classroom with what I would call a reign of terror. They yelled. They threatened. They smoldered. They did not make me feel safe. Their classrooms were not what I would consider peaceful, even though no one spoke out of turn or fought. Their peace was like the peace of Rome, the pax romana. As the Romans would say, “If you want peace, prepare for war.” In this frame of thought, peace is only ever secured by an iron fist and fear.

On the other hand, I remember schoolteachers who were perfectly peaceful themselves…and also perfectly passive. They were the proverbial doormats. They did not maintain the rules or boundaries of the classroom, and the students were free to do whatever they pleased. The result was chaos. In these classrooms, I did not feel safe. They were not what I would consider peaceful environments, even though the teacher refrained from shouting or harsh discipline.

Both types of schoolteachers—the dictators and the doormats— say “no” to any signs of hostility or violence, either in the students or in themselves. Both aspire toward a kind of peace. Yet in neither type of classroom did I feel at peace.

Where did I feel safe? In classrooms where the teacher was less focused on maintaining control (whether of the class or herself), and more focused on caring for the students. The teachers in whose presence I felt most at peace were the teachers who responded to problems or accidents with compassion. They would not simply punish troublemakers, they would ask them what was the matter. They did not seek to eliminate conflict, but to resolve it by addressing the underlying matters of hurt and misunderstanding. I felt safest—at peace—with the teachers who cared for us.

A Peaceful Pause

When I read today’s scripture, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace. I feel like I’ve climbed through the window of scripture into a home of deep warmth and welcome, a home where I am safe. I feel comforted and nurtured in the presence of Mary and Elizabeth.

I think part of the reason for this experience is that our scripture today gives us a precious glimpse into the personal lives of key characters in the Christmas story. In Matthew, Mary and Joseph are both silent, and we are left wondering how they feel about their experience. Luke, however, rounds out his characters by showing us their reactions and letting us into their thoughts and feelings and conversations. Today’s scripture picks up right after the angel Gabriel’s visit to Mary. Mary has just heard from Gabriel that she will bear the son of God (1:35). She also hears that her relative, the elderly Elizabeth who everyone thought was barren, is sixth months pregnant (1:36). Our scripture tells us the first thing that Mary does after the angel Gabriel leaves. She makes haste to the home of Elizabeth (1:40). Why? I imagine it is because she is desperate not to be alone. Everything we know about Joseph suggests he is a thoughtful guy (cf. Matt 1:19), but in the wake of the impossible news she has just received, Mary needs more than a sympathetic ear or shoulder to lean upon. She needs someone else who knows what she’s going through, who’s going through something similar herself. So she goes to Elizabeth, who also is bearing a miracle child.

The scene of Mary and Elizabeth together is a tender intermission in the Advent narrative. It is a peaceful pause. Mary enters Elizabeth’s home, and blessings immediately pour out of Elizabeth’s mouth. “Blessed are you,” “blessed is the fruit of your womb,” “blessed is she who believed” (1:42, 45). And I imagine that as these blessings flow from Elizabeth, she is embracing Mary and covering her with blankets and whipping up whatever she can in the way of food and gently prodding her bewildered, mute husband, John, out of the way so they can have some privacy and talk about the things that only they can really know.

More Than a Feeling

The peace that I discern in today’s scripture is, on the surface, a good feeling. It just feels good to read about the caring camaraderie of Mary and Elizabeth. I imagine it’s a little bit like the experience some people enjoy when they watch a Hallmark Christmas movie or read an uplifting Christmas memoir. It simply makes them feel good. And I wouldn’t want to diminish that experience.

But I do wonder if the peace on display in this passage isn’t a little bit more than simply the absence of conflict, or even the absence of worry and bad feelings. Because make no mistake, both of these women know adversity. Elizabeth has silently suffered the shame of her culture, in which having no children severely diminishes one’s standing in the eyes of others. Mary will undoubtedly receive similar looks of shame, as her pregnancy starts to show. On top of these personal experiences, both women live as voiceless nobodies, whether in the immediate surroundings of their patriarchal Jewish community, or in the broader setting of Roman occupation and oppression. They must daily submit to other authorities, whether it’s an emperor who orders a census that requires a harsh, impromptu journey, or simply impulsive husbands and greedy tax collectors and aggressive Roman soldiers.

I wonder, then, if their peace is not the fruit of a deeper experience, an experience that knows pain and fear and conflict and yet is not determined by those feelings; an experience that knows adversity and yet insists on blessing. Is it a coincidence that this peaceful scene involves two mothers-to-be? Elizabeth twice makes mention of their wombs, which reminds us that both women are actively carrying and caring for the life that is within them. Could it be that their peace is not so much a feeling, but rather their full-bodied commitment to care? Could it be that their peace has to do with their partnership with God?

Saying “Yes” to God

Later in the gospel, Jesus will talk about peace as something you do, something you make. “Blessed are the peace-makers.” It’s a reminder to me that peace is more than the absence of violence. Peace is more than a feeling. Peace is partnering with God, as Mary and Elizabeth did. Peace is saying “Yes” to God and trusting in God’s work in our world. Peace is what my best teachers made, when they saw the image of God in every child and responded accordingly, seeing them not as problems but as children of God worthy of care and healing. They did not simply say, “No more of that!” They said, “Yes, you are loved. Yes, you deserve goodness.”

The peace of Advent is not the absence of conflict or bad feelings. It is not just something we experience. It is a full-bodied partnership with God. It is not a feeling from which we act, but action from which we feel better. The peace of Advent is caring for the world as God cares for the world. Peace has to do with care, not control. Controlling others is the false peace of the pax romana (and dictator teachers). Controlling ourselves is the false peace of passivity (and doormat teachers). Care is where peace is made. Is born. Here’s how Paul puts it: “Let your gentleness [your care] be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests [your care] be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil 4:5-7). 

Prayer

Most merciful God,
In whose womb creation is reborn—
Where we seek the false peace of control,
Of simply saying “no” to conflict and bad feelings,
Remind us of your care,
Your insistent “yes” to the world
…
May the examples of Elizabeth and Mary
And other Christ-followers then and now
Inspire us to partner with you.
May we know your peace by making it,
By caring for the world around us.
In Christ, the prince of peace: Amen.