In Those Days...

Here it is, a few days before Christmas.  I have been lighting the candles and saying the prayers and going about my duties and my days, meeting with people and reading but not taking as much time for intentional reflection as I'd like.

A couple of days ago I went to visit a shut-in, and I brought my old confirmation Bible along with me instead of the newer, shinier translation.  It's still in pretty good shape, even though it is about 50 years old.  And I read out of that old translation, about Caesar Augustus and swaddling cloths, and I remembered back to when I made it my mission to memorize Luke chapter 2, out of this very translation.

I think I was ten or eleven years old, and I don't remember why I took up the challenge to memorize these passages.  It wasn't required for a Christmas pageant; my parents were not encouraging me to memorize scripture passages.  I didn't go to a parochial school either.  But somehow, one December I decided that this was what I would like to do:  memorize as much of the Christmas story as I could.

Every day I would crunch through the snow on the way to school, and I would start out with chapter 2, verse 1, and see how far I could get.  I didn't know who Quirinius was, or where Syria was, and I didn't know that the word "Caesar" meant "Emperor", but I plowed through the verses, understanding more or less, getting a little farther every day.

"In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled.  this was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria."

I think I may have made it all the way to verse 14, in the end.  Every day I walked and recited, I recited and walked.  It was December.

I suppose it was my Advent discipline, although I would not have said so at the time.  At the time, I don't think I knew what an Advent discipline was.   And I'm not sure that the process of memorization itself yielded any special insights into the scriptures -- at least not at the time.

I think back to that year.  I have been a pastor now for twenty-five years.  At the time I tried to memorize the Christmas story I had no idea how my life would turn out.  I had not an inkling that I would be doing this work, that I would be reciting the story myself every single year.

A few years ago, in another congregation, I was visiting a shut-in just a few days before Christmas.  He was a retired pastor who had served our congregation.  Recently he had had a stroke, and this hearty active man was now in a nursing home, barely able to speak.

I came with communion and the Christmas story.  His wife joined us.  She was there every day, all day, just staying with him.  And when I began to read from Luke chapter 2, he started saying the words along with me.

By heart.

Every once in awhile he would fade out, but he always came back strongly on three words, "in a manger".  And while we were speaking together, reciting together, I noticed that those three words, "in a manger" -- were repeated three times in that one chapter.  How could I have been reading those words all these years and not noticed this.

There is so much in the Christmas story -- the shepherds and the angels, the long journey to Bethlehem, "Glory to God in the highest!"  And in the middle of it all is the manger.  The child is lying in a manger.

This is the sign.  This is the sign of Christmas.  It is the manger that carries the child.

All those years ago, I trudged up and down the streets, and I memorized the words, not knowing where the words really led.  And then one day, many years later, they led to the manger.  The lowly place.

And the words became food:  the bread of life.  In a manger.

Impatience

It is Advent, for a few more days anyway, and, I will confess that I haven't been feeling all that advent-y this year.  For some reason or another.  Perhaps it's the Texas weather, all sunshine and rain and no snow (except for that one extremely unusual Thursday evening.)  I don't think that's it, though, because this is my third Advent in Texas, and I don't remember feeling this way the last two years.

Maybe it's the fact that Advent is so short this year.  We light the fourth Advent Candle in the morning, and bam!  by sundown it is Christmas Eve.  I love a long advent, with time to reflect over all of the candles, with time to think deep thoughts about wonder and waiting, making time and space for the coming Christ, who is also present.

There is this one small thing, though, every Sunday.  For some odd reason, I decided, on the first Sunday of Advent, to wrap up a number of sunglasses and give them out to the children, and invite them to see differently this season.  Advent is for seeing in a different way.  I am terrible at wrapping gifts.  I will do almost anything to avoid it.  But I got a roll of Christmas wrapping paper and wrapped up the sunglasses, and put the under the tree.  (Don't judge me.  Yes, our church Christmas tree is up before Christmas.)

That first Sunday I had the children look for the present under the tree, and a couple of them ran over and picked it up and brought it back, and we opened it together.

This description, though, does not do justice to the event:  the children tore, ripped, clawed open the box, in their excitement.  It was momentary pandemonium.  (To their credit, they carefully put the wrapping paper pieces in a basket afterwards.)

I decided to wrap up a different present the two next weeks as well.  A gift under the tree.  The children opened it with great joy and wonder and haste.  We could all feel their excitement, even if all the box contained was a play microphone.  It didn't matter!  There was something unknown in there and they wanted to find it!

They were impatient.

I know that Advent is a time of waiting, but sometimes it seems so sedate, and when I saw the children, I caught a glimpse of wildness, and I thought:  maybe Advent is really a wild season, not a tame one.  Maybe Advent is full of things we cannot control, and maybe the things we are waiting for are also wilder than we imagined.  What if we were opening a box of peace on earth?  What if the gift God offered us contained healing and hope for all the things that hurt our hearts, for all the things that endanger our world?

Would we be impatient too?  Would we claw it open just to see what is inside?

For a few more Days, it is Advent.  For these next few days, Lord, let me not be sedate.  Let me be impatient to know what is inside your love.  Not just for me.  But for this whole terrible and beautiful world.

Sermon Advent 3: "Preach!"

Based on John 1:6-8, 19-28

            During my extremely brief career in theatre, I had one small but memorable role in a church production of “Camelot.”

             I had no lines but one solo – and you heard but didn’t see me as I sang from behind a curtain.  

             I played a character called “Nimue” -- and it was my job to sing to Merlin and lure him away from King Arthur and Camelot.  

            It was a small but important role (I told myself) because it was important for Merlin to be out of the picture for most of the play. 

            So I sang my song and Merlin followed the voice.

            I had one job – and then I disappeared.

            I can’t help thinking about this one, small role when I think about John the Baptist in today’s gospel reading.  

             John has a small, but important role. 

            And who does John say that he is? 

            He mostly tells us who he is not – he says – I am NOT the Messiah.  I am NOT Elijah.  I am  NOT the prophet. 

            Who is he?  He is… the voice.  He is a voice crying in the wilderness. 

            A voice.  That’s what John is. 

            Like the voice behind the curtain.  Heard, but not seen. 

            He’s not even called “John the Baptist” – just John. 

            John the Voice.   

            His main job is not baptizing – it’s pointing to the one who is coming after him.

             He is a witness to who Jesus is, and who he will be.  That’s what he does.   

            And he is adamant about who he is NOT – because it is so much more important who Jesus is.

            John is standing around talking to the religious leaders when he says it, his witness. 

            He says this, “Among you stands one you do not know.”   

            That is his testimony.

             Later on he will see Jesus and he will point to him and say, “There he is, the lamb of God. 

            The one who takes away the sin of the world.”  But to start, he says this intriguing thing, “Among you is one you do not know.”

            And it seems to me that this is the beginning of our witness, our voice, as well. 

            We will end up saying other things, but this is the first truth:  among you stands one you do not know. 

            Because if Christmas means anything it means this:  God is with us, God is among us, God is here, not absent from us.

            And when I mean “Here” I don’t mean just “in the church” – although I believe and I hope he is here, among us, in our community and our families and working in our personal lives to transform us.

             But he is here – in Montgomery and in Conroe and in Willis.  He’s in Grace school, and he’s at Mateley Ranch and Geisinger and Stewart and Lone Star and all of the other schools. 

            He’s in the Chamber of Commerce and Fire Station. 

            But most of the time we don’t see him or notice that he is here.

            I think that is one of the reasons that churches had steeples, back in the day – to remind people of God’s presence – not just in the church – but in the neighborhood, in the world.

             The church stands as a reminder, but it doesn’t point to itself.        Like John the Baptist – we point to something much bigger than us.

            We stand here, we gather together, and what we say is, “Among you is one you do not know.”

             And then we point to where we see him, and who he is for us.  But in order to do that we need to know where we are see him, we need to stop and breathe and look around. 

            That is – in part – what Advent is for.  It is has become a time of year full will activity and preparation, with expectations that are often actually impossible to meet. 

            How can we make Christmas, how can WE make Christmas special for everyone this year?

              Will we set the right table, get the right presents, invite the right people?

             Can we make it to all of the places we are expected to be? 

            It is just a week before Christmas eve, and the first thing I want to say to you is “among you is one you do not know.”  

            And when you are looking around for him this coming week, notice first of all the places of grace. 

            Notice the places where you do not need to measure up, where you are known and loved, where arms are open. 

            Notice the places where people make sacrifices, where there is mercy abounding. 

            Notice the places where there is justice, where people are lifted up, where they are seen and claimed as children of God.   

            And tell the world:  “among you there is one you do not know.” 

            He is here, and he is here FOR YOU.   

            He is here for you, and he is here for the sake of the world.    

            He is the light of the world, and we are the ones called to bear witness to the light.

             He is the light of the world,  the one who sheds light on both the shabbiness and the glory in the world. 

            He sheds light on our pain, and he heals us.  He sheds light on our sin, and he forgives us. 

            He sheds light on our hunger, and he feeds us. 

            He is the light of the world, and we are called to see it. 

            He is the light of the world, and we are called to preach it. 

            He is the light of the world, and we are called to point to it – with our lives, with our words, in our actions. 

            Like John. 

            It starts with a Voice.  It starts with a voice, and it leads to a life dedicated to making known the Christ who stands among us, unknown.

            It’s a time of year – just before Christmas – when there is more darkness than light. 

            Sometimes it seems that way in more ways then one. 

            But there is one among us whose mercy is strange, who loves his enemies, whose steadfast love endures forever.

            A few days ago, I saw on television a rare encounter.

             It was between Meghan McCain, John McCain’s daughter, and Joe Biden, the former Vice President

            She was interviewing him about his new book, and she confessed that she couldn’t get through it, because he was talking about his son’s cancer and that is the same cancer that her father has. 

            And the Vice President came and sat next to her and told her how her dad had been such an influence on his son’s life and how they had been friends and how there was hope and she should not give up.

             And I caught a glimpse then of mercy and love and bonds that are stronger than death, of what it looks like that God is in the midst of us, God is among us. 

            Where do you see mercy?  Where do you see sacrifice?

             Where do you see the hungry being fed, the poor being lifted up?  Where do you see relationships being healed?

            Dear world, among you is one you do not know. 

            He is the Lamb of God.  He is the Light of the World. 

            He takes away the sin of the world.

            And he calls you:  Beloved.

            AMEN

           

            

Advent 2: In the Wilderness, Prepare!

 Isaiah 40/Mark 1:1-8

          

            “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas … Everywhere you go”

            For a brief moment – late Thursday night and early Friday morning – I sort of felt like singing this song.

             It snowed! 

            Something I have been told NEVER happens here.

             It snowed, and it was a surprise, and one of my friends said she and her husband just drove up and down the streets near them because then they could see the snowflakes hitting the windshield. 

            Simple pleasures. 

            And in the morning there was this light coating of snow, and when my husband went to the store for a couple of things, he said that everyone was in good spirits there –talking and wishing each other a Merry Christmas!

            “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas ….. Everywhere you go….”

            It reminded me of preparing for Christmas when I was a little girl, and when my dad and I would go out to get the tree, and we’d drive in that snowy cold winter air like they have up north and we’d sing this song all the way to the Christmas tree lot. 

            Because for some reason or another, snow, a beautiful blanket of snow, said Christmas to us.

            It was part of the Christmas preparations, and we expected it, but we couldn’t make it happen.

            It’s beginning to look a lot like – Christmas.  

            Everywhere you go. 

            But what does “Christmas” look like?  

            The image that the prophet Isaiah paints is something else – not preparation for Christmas but preparation for the Kingdom of God .              “Prepare the way of the Lord”, the prophet says – and it’s a huge construction project.

            The valleys will be raised up and the mountains made low and the crooked places straight, because God is going to make an actual appearance. 

            Isaiah is speaking to people who have been in exile, who have been conquered by their enemies and sent away – people who may feel both hopeless and desperate – but also perhaps – feel the weight of their own unfaithfulness. 

            They had turned away from God. 

            But now – now they were living far away from their home and they were dislocated from the things that made their faith real to them.            The temple was gone.  Had God left them too? 

            They were like people who associated snow with Christmas – living in a land of no snow. 

            They were refugees looking for a place to worship – a place that looked like home. 

            And the prophet was saying to them – God is going to make an actual appearance.  Prepare the way of the Lord. 

            It’s a big construction project because the people know that they need a big construction project. 

            They need God to come to them.   

            They need an actual appearance by God.    And In Isaiah, God promises that they will get it. 

            God is coming to them.  Prepare the way.

            But Isaiah says something more than that.  He doesn’t just say, “Prepare.”  He says, “in the wilderness prepare….”  And I have been wondering about this lately. 

            In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord.   

            Is this important? 

            What does it mean?  Why prepare in the wilderness?  It’s the place where the people wandered for 40 years before entering the promised land.

             It’s the place where Jesus went to be tempted for 40 days.  The wilderness can be beautiful but it can be barren and it is dangerous. 

            And it is where we are.

            Aren’t we?  I can’t help thinking this.

             I’m seeing pictures of fires burning in Los Angeles.  I hear stories of refugees with no place to go.

             I remember the devastation of flooding in Houston, in the Caribbean, in Puerto Rico. 

            People celebrating at a concert in Las Vegas are murdered, and people worshipping at a church in Sutherland Springs. 

            And more and more, I hear the language of “them and us” … if we disagree with each other, we use the language of contempt.   It seems like the wilderness to me.

            And then there are the small and individual stories I hear about:  the woman who asks me to pray for her husband, who has depression.  The teenage boy dying of cancer.   The woman grieving the loss of her sister.   

            In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, the prophet says.  Because that is where we are. 

            God is going to make an actual appearance – where we are, in the wilderness.

            I will tell you now that one of the hard things this summer was finally moving out of our home in Minnesota. 

            Not because I didn’t want to move, but because – well – moving is just hard work, even when you know it’s hard, it turns out to be even harder.

             And while we were moving I found out that there was a new member of the family – my great-niece was born – and I desperately wanted to meet that little baby. 

            But it was all moving all the time, and there wasn’t time to go and see her.

             I remember one night thinking if I wasn’t so tired, I would just like to meet that little baby, but not having the energy to do anything about it, and my nephew sent a little video of her. 

            And you know, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t an Actual Appearance – but it was something.

            And finally, when we were back this week, they all came over to my mom’s house, they all came over for supper, and I got to meet her. Lyric is her name.  Like the song. 

            And I got to hold her.  And sing to her.  “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas… everywhere you go.” 

            Not because of the snow.  Because of a child.

            In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, the prophet says to us.

             Because that is where we are.  He is coming to us there.  He’s coming to bring life.  He’s coming to bring peace.  He’s coming to bring love.

            And he says, “Repent.” 

            Which means a lot of things, but one thing is “turn around.” 

            Turn around because we are always looking in the wrong places for God, and we’re looking in the wrong places for salvation. 

            We’re looking inside ourselves, we’re looking at powerful people.  But God is coming to us in the wilderness, God is coming to us where it’s cold, and where we are vulnerable, and where we are grieving. 

            God is coming to us in weakness, in a baby in a manger, in the cross where we crucified him.   

            God is coming to us not in power, but in weakness, not in revenge but in love. 

            Prepare the way of the Lord. 

            Turn around and open your arms, and your heart.

            Turn to your neighbor, turn to the stranger.

            Let it be true:

            For you. 

            Because you see it.  Because you bring it.

           

            It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.  Everywhere you go.

            Let every heart prepare him room.

            AMEN

           

            

Advent Baptism

Sunday is the 4th Sunday of Advent.  We will baptize two children that morning.

I'm tempted sometimes, when there is a baptism, to say, "there will be no sermon.  The baptism IS the sermon this morning."  And I mean REALLY tempted.  Compared to the parents and the children and the sponsors standing there, compared to the water being poured, compared to the prayer remembering God's mighty acts, and the words, "Alice, Michael, Emily, Matthew.... I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit" -- compared to this, what are all of my words?  Compared to the cross traced in oil and the candle given, "Let your light so shine before others." compared to all of this, the words of my sermon often seem tame.

Baptism is wild.  Something is happening.  We can see and hear and touch it, or at least some of it.  Underneath the things we see, something more is happening.

God is with us.

I met with the parents on Monday and we remembered all of the things that God promises in baptism:  safe passage as on the ark, death and resurrection, a new birth, adoption into God's family.  God promises that we will be clothed with God's righteousness, that we will be a part of God's new creation, that we will be grafted into the living vine, which is Jesus.

All of these things are happening.  When we see the water poured, when we feel the oil on our heads, when we hear the words, we catch a glimpse, but only a glimpse.

This is the 4th Sunday of Advent.  Something is happening.  Mary is going to have a baby.  It is a surprise to Joseph, and not a good surprise.  I always think that the promise of a baby is good news, but that is not always the case.  Sometimes the baby is bad news.  Sometimes the news is mixed.  Joseph knows that this baby is trouble.

It's true.  Jesus is trouble.  He is also Emmanuel -- God with us.  He will save us from our sins.  And he will get us into trouble, for his sake.

Sometimes when I have a baptism on Sunday I am tempted to say, "There will be no sermon this morning.  The baptism is the sermon."  But I never do.

Maybe what I should say is this:  Here's what the baptism means.  God is with us.  God is with us and this baptism means that God will never let go of us.  That's how good his promises are.

But that's not all.  God is with us and he gives us this mission -- and that mission will get us into trouble.  Sharing the love of Jesus is not for the faint-of-heart.

The angel says to Joseph, "Don't be afraid."  There is going to be trouble, but God is in it.  Maybe that's what we should say before baptisms too:  don't be afraid.

Baptism is wild.

Christmas is wild, too.  Because Jesus is coming.

Knitting in Advent

I have started knitting again.

I haven't been knitting that much, since moving to Texas last year.  For one thing, I felt overwhelmed at first.  For another thing, people kept telling me that I would never need those warm socks and footies that I loved knitting.  And when it's 100 degrees out, and it plummets to about 85 at night -- well, it just doesn't seem like knitting weather.

But, the temperature has been dipping down a little lower lately.  Also, it is Advent now, just barely.  So I got out my trusty knitting needles and threw caution to the wind.  I started knitting a pair of footies.

It is not a bad way to spend Advent.

One of the first words we hear in Advent is "Wait."  Wait, because it is God who is coming to us, and not the other way around.  And we can pray for God to come quickly (and sometimes we even do), but there is not one thing we can do to MAKE God come.  This one is on God.  Salvation is on God, not us.

I don't know about you, but waiting drives me crazy.  And that waiting when it is clear that what you are waiting for is on the other person -- that drives me the craziest.  Waiting in the doctor's office, so that the doctor can tell me what is wrong and how to fix it, and then give the right medicine -- waiting for the electrician to come and re-wire the basement -- waiting for the plumber to come and fix the leak -- that is the hardest thing.

So I think that waiting in Advent may be in part to remind us about the things that we can do, and the things we can't do.  As it turns out, only God can save us.  Only God can heal what is ultimately wrong.   Only God can bring the kind of light we need, and place that light within our hearts.  Only God can bring the living water, so that we will never be thirsty.  Only God can knit our hearts back together, only God can knit us together with him, so that we are joined unbreakably to love and to life   and to hope and to peace.

Only God can do it.  And he has.  And he does.  And he will, again.

But in the meantime, we wait.  But while we wait, we are reminded that there are things we can do.  They won't make Jesus come more quickly.  But they are things that testify to our hope.

So many of us light the candles.  One a week.  And as the light of the candle grows, we remember that he is coming to us, he is coming to us -- that he walks among us, inhabits our world, our lives, and even our bodies.  Our hands.

So we light the candles.  There are so many ways to light the candles:  by giving away bread, by sharing a cup of water, by holding the hands of the dying, by standing up for the vulnerable, by welcoming the stranger.

As for me, today I will knit.  And I will consider the one who, by his grace, inhabits even my hands, even our hands, and who has knit us all together by his love.