Luke in "the meantime"

When you are reading Luke 21, and especially when you are reading it with a small Bible study group over lunch, it's hard to avoid the subject of the "second coming."  And it's even harder to avoid the question, "Is this it?  Is this the time?"  There are people (again) who are noticing the weather calamities, the political turmoils, all the signs that make us wonder whether it's time to quit your job and sit on your rooftop, or at least, get in the habit of praying more and going to worship more.

"Is this the time?  And if it is, what is the appropriate response?"

Those are the sorts of questions we dealt with yesterday at our lunch Bible study.  Or at least, those are the questions we started with.  And we came up with all of the usual discussion points too:  the points that there have been many times, in the last two millennia, that people have been sure that This Was It.  And so far, they have been wrong.  The points that Jesus also wants people to know, at other junctures in the Scripture, that no one really knows when he is coming back, so let's not start the count-down too early.

Then there is that verse that sticks out like a sore thumb:  "Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place."  What could Jesus possibly mean by this?  One person offered the possibility that perhaps the word "generation" meant something different in those days.  Unfortunately, the word "generation" meant then what it means now.  And several generations have come and gone, and "the second coming" has not happened.

So, what does this mean?

I offered the opinion that this scripture was written about the end of the world, but not just about the "end of the world".  This scripture was written about 'the second coming', but not just about the second coming.  It was written both for the end time and for the 'meantime', which is where we are all now.  And the exhortations are for us, whether we are living in the end times, or not.

I couldn't help noticing the juxtaposition of the big and cosmic signs in the sun and the moon and the stars, with the small and ordinary signs of the blossoming of the fig trees.  Jesus is warning his disciples to 'stay alert' to the small things, in the midst of all of the big things that are happening.  It's easy to focus on the big blasts of history and miss the signs of God's grace and unending love that are around us.

Who are these warnings written for?  someone asked at the Bible study on Wednesday.  I thought it was a very good question.  We might think that the warnings are for the doubters and the unbelievers, but they aren't.  The warnings and the exhortations are for us.  They are to remind us that to hold fast to God's promises even when the signs of the times are against us, even (and especially) when the darkness descends.  These verses from Luke aren't all that different from Paul's in Romans 8:  "Nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."  not life or death.  Not sun or moon or stars.  Not wars or rumors of wars.

Hold fast to God's promises.  Hold fast to the cross.  Hold fast to the love of God in Christ.  And live a life worthy of those promises:  a life that values the vulnerable and honors the poor.  Hold fast to God's promises.

Perhaps this is a message as much for the 'meantime' as it is for the end times, because the meantime can be pretty mean sometimes.

A Righteous Branch

I know this is not the image Jeremiah has in mind, but when I think of this scripture about the "righteous branch", I can't help getting this picture in my mind:  I am amid the dangerous waves of a churning river, either in a boat or capsized, and I am heading toward the rapids.  Suddenly, I look up and there it is:  a Branch, a strong Branch bending over the river.  I grab it and hold on.

Somehow, that's the picture I get in my mind, even though, like I said, I'm pretty sure it's not what Jeremiah had in mind.  I'm pretty sure that he is using the imagery of a Branch to connect with Israel and Judah's family Tree.  There have been plenty of unrighteous branches -- Kings who has not been faithful, have not worshipped Yahwah and who have not cared for the poor.  There hare been plenty of leaders who were shepherds who led their people astray.  But Jeremiah is saying that there will be a day when the King will be a true shepherd, who will be do justice and love mercy.  This King will not come from outside, but within the flock.  He will be "a shoot out of the stump of Jesse", to use words from another prophet, Isaiah.

Still, I can't get the picture of the low-hanging branch over the water out of my head.

"The Lord is your righteousness," the branch declares, just by hanging there.

It is an invitation to trust:  not my own wiles or wits, not my ability to swim, not my cleverness or even my own piety.  It is an invitation to trust the Branch.  Hold on.

So, on the first Sunday of Advent, the simple message may be this:  Hold on.  Trust that the one who hangs on the cross is your righteousness.  Trust that the one who fed the hungry, healed the sick and cleansed lepers is your righteousness.   Trust that the branch is strong enough to hold you, even though it looks weak.

Trust that the life he invites you to live is wise, even though it looks foolish.  Trust that doing justice and loving mercy is really the only way to life, even though the way leads through death.

Hold on.

Soon and Very Soon

We sang the old gospel song, "Soon and Very Soon/We are Going to See the King" on Sunday.  And I couldn't help it, while we were singing I could see them sitting near the front of the church.  They have both been gone for a few years now, but they always sat in about the same place near the front of the church, pulpit side.

Whenever we sang this particular song, I always saw them sitting and holding one another, and tears would be streaming down their faces.

This song, I learned, had been sung at their daughter's funeral.  Their daughter, their only child, had died of ALS, too young.  They had two beloved grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren, but whenever they heard this song, it reminded them of their daughter, and they cried.

So when we sang the song on Sunday, I couldn't help but see them still, even, sitting and crying, even though they are both gone now.  They cried even though the song said "No more cryin' there...." even though the song said, "no more dying there".. And I suppose they cried from a combination of grieving and hope.  They cried because in this world children should not die before their parents, and no one should go hungry, and young men should not have to go to war, and old people should not be left alone, with no one to care for them.  And they cried for the vision that God promises us:  a world where there will be no more crying and no more pain and no more death, a world where there will be enough water and enough light and enough love and enough life, where the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations.  They cried because they remembered the past and they yearned for the future.

Soon and Very Soon
We are Going to see the King.

What is it about singing?  As soon as I hear the song, my mind conjures up the memories; I see them so clearly.  It's as if that couple is still with us, singing and crying and worshiping.  Singing does that; it conjures something up, and helps us go on living and working and yearning for the future God promises, but that we can't quite grasp.

Sometimes, all we can do is wait.

And sing about it.

And that is enough.

It's the Week Before Advent

....I keep reminding myself, because it seems like such good news.

This means that Advent services start next week, not this week.  I have a few more days to iron out the details in our theme, to find songs prayers that match, and to make sure everyone knows their role.  It also means that I have a few more days to get my Sunday Advent schedule organized:  I'm preaching on the first and third Sundays in Advent, and I have time to make preaching folders and study ahead and fill those folders with ideas.  Theoretically, at least.

It means that I have a whole week to find that Advent Wreath that I bought a few years ago, but never put up on the dining room table, because Advent sneaks up on me right after Thanksgiving, and I'm not ready.

Perhaps this year we'll really observe a regular advent discipline in our home, like I've always wanted to.  Perhaps every night I'll light a candle and say a prayer during advent, the way I've always wanted to.  Perhaps every night I'll open a window on an Advent Calendar, and everything will go According to Plan.   Instead, our Advent observance has always been sort of haphazard and random, mixed in with some craft-making and shopping and (truth be told) Very Little Baking.

I am all for meaningful Advent traditions and rituals.  But Advent (and Christmas) always sort of sneaks up on me, even though I know it's out there, and I'm waiting for it, and anticipating it with both joy and fear, fear and joy.

I have this recurring dream that it's Christmas eve, and the tree is lit up and the house is arranged, and the dinner is ready (by some miracle), but I am not ready.  I have not bought some of my presents yet, and I have run out of time.  All of the stores are closed, and the feast has begun, and I am empty-handed.  I wake up (sort of) relieved, and with a new sense of urgency.  How many days left?  I wonder.

Advent themes are repentance and hope, waiting and getting ready.  The one word theme of Advent is "Come."  "Come Lord Jesus," and we are getting ready, we think.  We're decking the halls and making the feast and wrapping the presents (although some of us are better at these preparations than others).  Others of us are repenting all the time, every time we forget to light an Advent Candle, or make some small (or large) mistake, or take a wrong turn.

So it's a week before Advent, and maybe I'll really find that Advent Wreath this year, and I hope I do.  But the One we are waiting for, the One who is coming doesn't depend on my candle-lighting or my prayers.  He's coming for those who can't light the candle, who are too weak to pray.  He's coming for all of the ones who have lost their way, who have fallen and can't get up, who have died and need to be raised to new life.

He is coming to save us.

Whether I light the candle or not.

He's coming.

And he's here.

Holy Work

This year, for the first time in many years, my congregation did not have a Thanksgiving Day worship service.  We still participated in an ecumenical Thanksgiving Eve service, as we have for many years, but we did not gather at 10:00 a.m. in the Sanctuary and sing "Come, Ye Thankful People Come", and "Sing to the Lord of Harvest".  (One of our families always says that it isn't Thanksgiving until we've sung that particular hymn.)

The Thanksgiving Day service has a long and illustrious history at this congregation.  Our former church administrator, who grew up at this church, told me that back in the 1950s and 1960s, the sanctuary was full on Thanksgiving Day -- all with men and their children, worshipping while their wives prepared the feast.  To be honest, I couldn't even imagine that.  Crowds have not been so impressive the last few years, although the singing has always been pretty enthusiastic.  Singing the Thanksgiving hymns has always been my favorite part of the service.

This year, instead of going over to church and finding the bulletins in the usher's closet, I got up early and went to my mom's house, so that we could prepare the dinner together.  I haven't prepared a Thanksgiving dinner in years, since I have always had worship responsibilities in the morning.  But since I had the day free, my mom and I decided we'd do it together.  I had come over briefly the evening before, to help prepare the stuffing and get the turkey ready.  In the morning, we set the oven and stuffed and basted, set the table and and put out the decorations.  We made salads and cup up vegetables and wiped down counters, and took a couple of breaks with coffee.

Then my brother arrived, with his grown children.  They went over to the nursing home and picked up my dad.  My husband, his mother and his son arrived a little later.  We took trips down to the social room where we got everything ready to be served.

And we prayed:  "Come Lord Jesus/Be our Guest/Let these Gifts/To Us be Blest.  Amen"

My brother and I did a little impromptu singing:  a couple of little-known songs from the Bing Crosby Christmas Album.  We tried to engage my dad, but he was not joining in, at least not then.  We wheeled him out to the piano, where he listened to my husband and my nephew play for a little while.  During the pumpkin pie, though, my dad started to smile, and when I tried again to sing a little of "I'll Be Home for Christmas," he said, simply, "Bing Crosby."

"Do you remember when they sang that song, Dad?"  I asked.  I answered myself,  "It was during World War II."

Later on, my brother took my dad back to the nursing home, and we vacuumed the floor and put the leftovers in little tubs to send home with people.  I gave my neice a pair of homemade footies that I had been working on for an impossibly long time.  She liked them, and that made me thankful.

So, I didn't sing "Come, Ye Faithful People Come" this year, and I supposed I missed hearing that song in the foreground, with the stalwart members of my congregation.  But I still heard their voices in the background, the memories of the voices of my community the foundation of my Holy Work on Thanksgiving.

This meal we prepared together, my mom and I, this is Holy Work too, isn't it?  This table we set and the conversation we shared, this is Holy Work too.  It is not just when I break the bread in the congregation that I am doing Holy Work.

Don't get me wrong:  I love being a pastor, and I give thanks for the opportunity that I have to consecrate bread and wine, to speak words of grace, to gather and to send out people into God's world. I am thankful for this Holy Work.  But I am thankful for the opportunity to wipe down the table and to sing with my Dad, and to lift the turkey out of the oven with my mom as well.

I could still hear "Come Ye Faithful People Come" in the background.

That Moment When...

I had a pile of phone calls to make today, most of them asking people whether they would serve in a particular capacity, or be involved in community ministry.

But a few of them were just checking in.

I had this one piece of paper on my desk, a phone call I had tried to make a few days ago, because the woman's husband ask that I check in.  Her mother had died recently, he said, and she was taking it hard.  I had left a message before, but didn't throw the piece of paper away.  I decided I ought to try to reach her one more time.

It was almost the end of the day.  I dialed the number.  The first thing I heard on the other end of the line:  uncontrollable sobbing.

The woman had just found out, within the last hour, that her daughter had died.

"Who told you to call me?"  she asked.

The Holy Spirit.

Perhaps.

Sometimes I don't pay attention.  Sometimes despite myself, I do.

That's all I have to say, tonight.  That's all I have to say.

Except this:  when I arrived at her house, three of her friends from work were also with her, sitting with her, talking a little.  God has many comforters.

That's all I have to say.

What Makes It Worthwhile

I went home early today, coming down with a cold, feeling low, sore throat, all those things.  I've been calling people for a community meeting lately, and a lot of people are not able to come, for a variety of good reasons.  But you know what?  It's discouraging, especially when you have a cold and are feeling sorry for yourself already.

That's one of the things they don't teach you about in seminary:  calling people on the phone to do stuff, especially when they have a variety of good reasons for saying no.

Of course, I (kind of) already knew about this, as I used to call to recruit Sunday School teachers.  It was long ago, even before I went to seminary, and I learned a lot from that experience.  Mainly, I learned what it was like to call a lot of people on the phone and hear them say "no".  I also learned some things about how busy people are, all the things that people juggle in their lives.  Sometimes they sounded like excuses, and sometimes they sounded like the weight of the world, griefs and worries I could not imagine.  I would hear about it.  It's one of the reasons I think, discouraging as it might be, that it's a good thing to call people on the phone and ask them to do things.  Even when people say no, I learn.

Sometimes they say yes, anyway.  Sometimes they (not only) say yes, but it turns out that I have asked them to do just the right thing.  It could be washing the dishes or watching my dog, or leading a Bible study or praying in front of people.  It could be singing a song or bringing brownies.

I want to see more of it.  I love when the sixth grade girl sings a solo in church, or when the 75 year old woman decides that she wants to begin reading the lessons in church, or when the young man who hates public speaking gets up and tells us how the church is not "them", it is us.  "They" aren't asking for money, he said.   Ir's us.  It's our community.  That's what he said.

That's what makes it worthwhile:  when someone prays who has never prayed before, when someone stands up and leads (who isn't me), when someone claims their identity as a child of God, and shines.