Tripp Martin – Auburn First Baptist Church: Recent Episodes
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In the wake of violence in all of its many forms, we cling to the hope of moving forward, believing that peace is possible.
Questions are not only important, they are essential. They lead us to more than just answers.
God has already rolled the stone away, and the love of Christ has been unleashed. And, it is out there at work in this world.
There is no sign that says "90 miles to Bethphage". The only way to find it is to go and do.
I was listening to a podcast by the comedian, Nate Bargatze, and he was taking callers, who were asking him questions about stand-up comedy, and one of the callers was from Colorado. This was back during the pandemic when all the comedy clubs were shutting down and closing their doors temporarily. The caller asked Bargatze, “I’ve been doing stand-up comedy for about a year, and I was just starting to find my voice as a comedian; but now all the comedy clubs are shutting down. What should I do to continue learning my craft?”
Well, before Bargatze could respond to the caller’s actual question, he blurted out, “For starters, there is no way that you have found your voice as a comedian in just one year. It takes multiple years to discover your voice,” which is also true in life.
It takes years to discover who you are, but what nobody tells you is, once you figure out who you are, it is equally difficult to maintain it–to not lose sight of yourself in the midst of life.
We cultivate who we are within the love of God, for we are all God’s beloved children. It is knowing that we are God’s children that we are able to live lives of authenticity.
I probably spend more time than most walking through cemeteries. Oftentimes, I find myself after a graveside service wandering over to familiar markers, remembering the lives of beloved church members. On those markers, there are words of comfort and short descriptions, like “beloved mother” or “cherished friend”—remembering who we are.
One day I walked over to the markers for Claude and Mary Virginia Moore. Our annual lecture series was created by Mary Virginia in memory of her husband, Claude, who served this church faithfully for years as its Treasurer and as a Deacon.
At the very top of the marker for Claude is a picture of a chicken because he was Head of the Department and Professor of Poultry Science; but what really caught my eye was the short description at the very bottom of the marker, where in quotation marks it simply says, “A Steady Man.”
I have thought about that description for a long time. It speaks of that little known virtue of what Stanley Hauerwas calls, constancy. It is the virtue that enables all the other virtues. It gives us stability, steadiness, and authenticity in our lives. As Stanley Hauerwas writes, “A person of constancy can be trusted to be who they seem to be.”
It takes years to discover who we are, but we maintain it through constancy. It means that who we are is not determined by who we are with. We do not live compartmentalized lives–one way over here, and another way over there. It leads us to authenticity, where we are able to remove any masks that we are prone to wear because we do not want to be anyone other than who we are. It takes years to discover, but we maintain it through the simplicity and courage of constancy.
When Jesus took the commandments of God and reframed them as two commandments—to love God and to love neighbor—I think he was striving for the simplicity and courage of constancy. Just take the Ten Commandments, where the first part focuses on the love of God: do not have other gods, do not create idols, do not take the Lord’s name in vain, honor the Sabbath. All of those focus vertically on the love of God.
But then the next part of the Ten Commandments focuses horizontally on the love of neighbor: honor your father and mother, do not kill, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not bear false witness, do not cover your neighbor. Jesus takes all of that and says, love God with everything that is in you, and love your neighbor as yourself.” It is simple, but it takes courage to love God and to love your neighbor constantly.
In the story where Jesus cleanses the temple, we find another occasion where Jesus seems to emphasize authenticity and constancy, where he chases the money changers out of the Court of Gentiles in the Temple. We have oftentimes surmised that Jesus was upset with the practices of the Temple, where Gentiles were not welcomed and where the money changers were exploiting the poor, both of which Jesus would be upset with.
But, as Amy-Jill Levine points out, we do not find overwhelming evidence for either of them in this story. For starters, they were in the Court of Gentiles in the Temple where Gentiles were welcomed, and the money changers were simply doing their job, which was necessary for worship. The Temple was the only place where someone could make a sacrifice for God, and when they traveled from afar, they didn’t bring their animals with them. They could get lost or injured, so when they arrived, they went to see the money changers using their currency from another place to exchange it for the currency of the Temple, so they could purchase a sacrifice.
In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, when it cautions us not to turn a house of prayer into a den of robbers in this story, it is quoting the prophet Jeremiah, who was calling people to worship with authenticity. Jesus sees those who are coming to worship without an authentic spirit of prayer, and he is chasing them out. It’s why Alastair McIntyre says, “The enemy of constancy is charm, because charm makes it hard to determine whether we are being authentic or whether we are just going through the motions.”
We gather for worship to remember who we are as God’s beloved children, so that when we leave this place, our lives can continue to embody the worship of God. It is why Jesus says of the Temple, “We will tear this place down and in three days raise it up.” He was speaking about his life. Faith is not limited to a place. It is not compartmentalized. It moves beyond these walls, because there is a constancy to them.
It might sound as if constancy adds something to our lives—like there is more for us to do—but, in actuality, it removes something from our lives. It means that we never have to chase the expectations of others whenever those expectations change who we are as God’s beloved children.
I had a friend in Macon who served his congregation for years as their pastor, and whenever Otis walked into a room, he lit the room up. What you saw is what you got! He was completely authentic, never going through the motions.
Oftentimes, Otis was wearing a pair of overalls. He had this thick beard like he had not shaved since he turned seventeen years old, and he was an excellent listener. He was as comfortable with complete silence as he was with talking to a complete stranger.
Every day for exercise, he would go to Kroger and he would walk the aisles. He was not grocery shopping, and he was not looking for deals. He was getting to know the regular shoppers, while he got his steps in, and he was visiting with the staff.
The staff came to love him so much that every November after Halloween they would give Otis all of the leftover pumpkins–hundreds of them: big ones, small ones, round ones, odd-shaped ones. Then, under the cover of the night, he would load up his truck, and he would drive out to the house of a cherished friend or beloved family member, and he would leave all of the pumpkins in the front yard. When you went to get the paper the next morning, your lawn was littered with hundreds of pumpkins. The strange part was everybody hoped to be the house that year. I kind of hoped one year we would get the pumpkins.
Otis was beloved in that sort of way because he was so authentic. You just felt like you could be yourself around him. He lived a life of constancy: always kind, always open, always willing. He was the same wherever you saw him and with whomever he met.
I’m guessing that we could all look back in our lives and think of someone who lived with constancy around us. They always showed up for us. They were always available to us. They would speak words of grace constantly into our lives.
We might take some time during this season of Lent to think about them and to take notes from their lives, so that we might be a steady and constant presence for the love of God and the love of neighbor for somebody else.
Amen.
Today, we have started the journey of Lent, that forty-day trek that takes us from Ash Wednesday to Easter morning, where along the way we prepare ourselves through reflection and repentance for the joy that surprises us on Easter. We share this journey with the Church around the world, where we focus on practicing our faith, but practice has not always been seen as important as performance.
I remember years ago when Allen Iverson, one of the NBA’s greatest shooters in history, was asked about practice. It had been rumored that Iverson, the 76ers’ best player, was missing practice, so sports journalists cornered him at a press conference and asked him about practice. Iverson kept saying, “Are we talking about practice? I mean, are we talking about practice? We are not talking about a game. We are just talking about practice,” as if it was not important.
The conventional wisdom says if we do not keep score at practice, it is not as important as the performance of the game. Faith, though, reverses our understanding of practice. Faith is not about performance. It is not about keeping score. It is not about when everybody is watching. Faith is about when no one is paying attention.
When we compare the Gospel of Mark to Matthew, Luke, and John, we see immediately that there are stark differences. For starters, Mark is shorter. It is like Mark has been vacuum-sealed, pulling out different details. Mark does not mention the birth of Jesus, like in Luke or Matthew. Mark does not reach back to the Word of God at Creation like John. Mark skips forward and starts at baptism.
Since so much has been taken out, Mark is action-packed. It is more about practice. It is why it begins with baptism. Baptism was a dress rehearsal, looking forward to the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. It is as Paul says, “When we are baptized into Christ Jesus, we are baptized into his death, so just as Christ was raised from the dead, so may we too walk in newness of life.”
Baptism is not about some future moment. It speaks to right now, walking in newness of life. It is about practice. It is the practice of setting aside what is old and taking up what is new. We can set aside old habits to take up new, life-giving practices. We can put down expired assumptions for fresh perspectives. We can disregard old resentment and destructive prejudice for hopeful change!
It happens each and every day in the ups and downs of life, even in the wilderness, because Jesus was baptized out there at the River Jordan in the wilderness, even though the wilderness is a place of uncertainty. It is a place of doubt and temptation. It is a place that can make practices feel rather small. I mean, “Are we talking about practice?” Is that really important out there in the wilderness?
Jesus emerges from the wilderness talking about this expansive vision of the kingdom of God, where all wrongs are made right, all sin is forgiven, and all brokenness is healed. Small practices have a way of leading us to something big.
It is why the psalmist kept praying, “Teach me your ways, O Lord, lead me to your path. Out there in the wilderness, though, the ways of the Lord are not always clear. The path is not always well defined like that path you see on a game board, where all you have to do is roll the dice, move the top hat six spaces, hoping to avoid jail. Out there in the wilderness, we do not always know the next step, much less the destination.
We were traveling a few years ago in San Francisco, a place we had never been before. Often times when we are in a new city, we will rely on public transportation. We just pull up the destination on our phone and look for the nearest bus stop.
We were going to a basketball game that night, so we left in plenty of time to grab a quick bite to eat and to navigate all the different bus routes. We got off the first bus line, and we were transferring to the next one, wandering around like confused tourists and looking for the next bus stop.
We kept looking for that large metal frame they often have with three or four seats and a small overhang where you can wait when it is raining. We looked at the phone, and it said we were standing at the bus stop, but it was nowhere in sight.
We started walking. We did not want to lose time. We just kept walking, looking for the next bus stop, which we never found. It felt like we were wandering in the wilderness! There was this one moment—this one fleeting moment of hope—where we looked up and we saw the bus we needed to get on. We started waving our arms, and the bus driver just waved back, unable to stop unless we were at a designated bus stop. We walked all the way there!
Later, we learned that the majority of the bus stops are simply marked by this subtle marking on the side of the curb, not even on the sidewalk. If you did not know to lean over and look for that marking, you remained lost. Small practices are like those subtle markings. When we know to look for them and lean on them, they can navigate us through the wilderness.
The Church, at times, has done us a disservice. When it speaks about faith with such iron clad certainty, and we find ourselves in the wilderness, we think it is our fault. But that is more about performance than it is about practice.
Whenever we find ourselves in the wilderness, we can return to the River Jordan. There is hope found as we gather around those waters. It’s like that powerful spiritual “Deep River,” which says,
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, Lord,
I want to cross over into campground.
Oh, don’t you want to go to that gospel feast,
That promised land where all is peace?
Oh, deep river, Lord,
I want to cross over into campground.
There is hope found in that current of grace, standing beside those waters, which we find in the wilderness. There is hope enough even to lead people through the wilderness of oppression. It is a place of new beginnings. It is a place that can give us hope in the wilderness.
Years ago, I stumbled upon a small practice that my grandmother would have said, “That feels a little too Catholic.” But like the imposition of ashes, where we make a cross on our foreheads, I have found that old practices that are new to us can be life-giving.
When I found myself in a wilderness, and I did not know the words to pray or what to do next, I would quietly and prayerfully make the mark of the cross over my heart—which I know feels a little odd.
The first time I had the cross made over me was actually in a Baptist church. I was a college student and the interim pastor was Kent Anglin, who also served as an interim here at Auburn First Baptist years ago. As he finished the sermon each week, he would offer a blessing and make the mark of the cross over the congregation, which was met by mixed reviews.
But in the wilderness, when I did not have the words to pray, and I did not know what to do next, I found comfort in that practice. Because it takes us back to where Jesus rehearses the crucifixion and the resurrection. It helped me hold on to that love, which always holds on to us, which is what we see in the cross.
It might not be a practice that is helpful to you, but the good news is that there are countless small practices, whether it is routine prayer, regular silence, gathering for worship, or reading scripture, that remind us to set aside what is old and to embrace what is new. As small as those practices are, they have a way of leading us through the wilderness of our lives.
Amen.
Back in the past, when the world was much larger than it is today, maybe you remember missionaries coming to your church to share stories about their work taking place elsewhere. I remember the gravity of those stories. You felt like you were listening to something sacred and significant, because here were people who picked up their lives and moved halfway around the world to serve the needs of others.
Those stories were like the one that Julie Widden Long tells about Leena Lavanya. Leena grew up as a Baptist in Andhra Pradesh, India, where her grandfather was a seminary professor and taught her all about the ways of Jesus. As a teenager, she went to a youth conference in Zimbabwe with the Baptist World Alliance, which is a part of our GMO budget. She heard Tony Campolo preach, talking about caring for the poor and serving the needs of the vulnerable.
She remembers him talking about that hymn, “All to Jesus, I Surrender.” Everyone in the auditorium in that worship service joined together to sing, “All to Thee, My blessed Savior, I surrender all.” He commented on how many would sing those words, but how difficult it is to live them.
When she returned home, for reasons she cannot explain, she started to notice the needs of people around her. She met a woman who did not have any safe way to earn a living. Leena decided to go out and purchase a basic, used sewing machine, and then she taught this woman how to sew. Out of this skill, she was able to build a different life for herself. Out of that experience, Leena went on to start a sewing school for women.
More and more, she found different ways to serve the needs of others. Eventually, she spent her days tending to the needs of children at a school for the poor, volunteering at community computer classes where there were those building a better life for themselves, taking care of patients at an AIDS hospice, serving the needs of those with leprosy, while providing pastoral care and leading worship services at surrounding villages.
It might remind us of what one writer has said, “There are some lives that are so beautiful that the only explanation for them is God.”
Those stories might feel a little unfamiliar to us, like they are foreign to our world, out of reach, that they don’t belong where we attend school or go to work. Those stories have to do with people who picked up and moved halfway around the world!
Leena, though, was not a missionary. She was serving in the place where she grew up. Our stories of service might sound different. They might look different. They might address different needs. But behind them is the same steadfast Love of God.
They can still end up feeling unfamiliar, not because they belong to someone who has moved halfway across the world, but because they call us to something different, something that changes our worlds. We discover that what is hard is oftentimes bound up with what is good.
It was a similar experience for Elisha, who knew that the end was near for Elijah. Elijah would ascend into heaven, and Elisha knew his world would change. He would all of a sudden feel the loneliness of leadership.
Elijah, knowing the end was near and not wanting Elisha to face that with him, kept telling Elisha to stay behind. When he was going to Bethel, he turned to Elisha and he said, “You just stay here.” Elisha refused, repeatedly. Elijah kept going on to Jericho and then on to Jordan and each time, he said to Elisha, “You stay behind.” Elisha said, “I will not leave you. I will stay with you to the end even if it is hard.”
It strikes me as quite courageous. Elisha could have avoided saying one of the saddest words we ever have to say–the word, Goodbye. He stays with him even though it is hard, and he receives a double share of Elijah’s spirit.
If we try to make it too easy, we end up missing out on what is most good because so often those two things are woven together.
I am sure you already noticed what I just realized, that only six days had passed when Jesus took Peter, James, and John up to the mountain. The moment we call the Transfiguration. It had only been six days since that very uncomfortable confrontation, where Jesus broached the subject of the suffering that was to come. Jesus knew you can only love widely and live simply for so long before things get really difficult.
Peter was upset. The disciples did not understand. They had pinned their hopes to Jesus as the Messiah, the next King of Israel, and suffering was not a part of that plan. Peter spoke up, “Jesus, you’ve got to stop talking this way. People might overhear you.” Jesus pushed back, and he did not mince words: “Get behind me, Satan!” Peter did not understand.
It was only six days, not even a full week, where those concerns were still hanging in the air. Everyone is still thinking about them when Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up to the top of the mountain. On the mountain, there is that dazzling light around Jesus–the Transfiguration. Moses and Elijah on either side of him, and Peter thought, “Well, this is more like it. Let’s just stay here! We can build some dwelling places over there. This will be great!” He is ready to collect fire for the campsite that night.
Everything is good on top of the mountain. The hard part of the journey is already behind you. Let’s not talk about taking up a cross. Let’s stop discussing finding our lives by losing them. But Jesus knew that what is good is bound up with what is hard, so they walked back down.
I still remember when I was sitting in seminary class when my professor, without any warning, started to talk about the Missio Dei. It was like that first day in Spanish class, where the teacher gets up from her desk and goes to the board, introduces herself, and then does not say another word in English the rest of the class. About 10 minutes past and you are looking around out of the corner of your eyes, wondering if anybody else is completely lost.
My Latin was not very good. The Missio Dei simply means the Mission of God. When you say it in Latin, it feels unfamiliar, like it belongs to a foreign land and is out of reach, like you have to move halfway around the world to find it, but that is not the case.
We find the Mission of God wherever we are. We can serve the needs of others right around the corner from our lives. It can, though, end up feeling unfamiliar, not because you have to move somewhere else, but because it always invites us into the lives of others, which are unfamiliar to us—people whose lives look and feel different from ours.
We just might discover pain in someone else’s life, which is unsettling to us because we cannot understand it. We might also experience some dazzling light like standing on top of the mountain because what is good is bound up with what is hard in the Mission of God. The good news is there is a history of just that right here in this place where we are sitting.
If you look at the GMO budget, there are all these stories that leap off the page. Like the stories we heard at our storytelling event last year, where church members got together and shared stories about this place–about how it has leaned into its calling throughout the years.
Wallace Baldwin talked about Bob Stevenson, and others, who took a trip to Brazil. In 1988, they went to help people plant gardens and raise chickens, but as they stepped into the lives of others, they started to discover a need to build churches. They had never done that before, but they partnered with other congregations and started going back each year for those building projects.
Leigh Anne Chambliss Armstrong talked about the beginning of the Conversational English Ministry, which started around the kitchen table at Jeanette Jeffers’ house. Then others joined in, people like Jo Randall, who would bring her puppet, Josh, to do ventriloquism for everybody. It was just one way to offer the welcome of God to people who were new to Auburn.
Julia Morgan reminded us of Helen Brown, who along with others, would go to the jail every week for a Bible study, and she never failed to tell them, “You are loved unconditionally just the way you are.” We all need to hear someone say that to us, and we all need to know what it feels like to say that to somebody else.
Mary Ann Dell talked about how members from this church went to meet with the mayor to start talking about creating a Community Market with the Food Bank, and how we continue to serve the Community Market every year on Mother’s Day, as we host a baby shower for their baby closet, collecting items for the most precious and the most vulnerable in our community.
It is the Missio Dei, which simply means we share the concern that Jesus had for everyone, and we seek ways to offer our support. The Global Ministries Offering invites us to do just that, to participate with one another in the Mission of God—to join with others, both near and far, to do what is hard, but also what is deeply good.
Amen.
No matter how many times we look up at a clear night sky with all of those twinkling lights, the stars are mesmerizing. We could look up for hours just trying to count all of them, to locate constellations, and to wait for a shooting star!
It’s like the little girl who received a very special birthday gift one year. She unwrapped it, and it was a telescope! She had mentioned to her parents just one afternoon how exciting it would be to look up at the stars, and now, she could not wait for the next clear sky.
As she unfolded it and set it up, there was a little bit of a learning curve, looking through that eye hole and getting it focused just right; but when she did, she gazed up for hours. She felt like she was unlocking the mysteries of the universe. It felt like she could reach up and touch the stars, like she could reach up and touch the Divine.
William Brown reminds us that when we look up at the stars through a telescope, it is like a time machine. Since the stars are so far away, even looking through a telescope that brings them closer, the light takes so long to reach us. It is like looking into the past because the light originated years ago!
We might gaze up at the stars for all of those reasons: to look into the past, to remember where we have come from, to feel like we are touching the Divine—the one who created us—which gives us reassurance, even on our hardest of days.
Back then, a campfire was a primary gathering place, whether it was keeping warm on a day like today or cooking food at night, so I am certain that the psalmist spent countless hours gazing up at the stars. Maybe that is why the psalmist had that revelation: God determines the number of the stars. God gives them their names.
It was the only way the psalmist could describe the steadfast love of God and how immense it is, where it heals the brokenhearted, binds up the wounded, and lifts up the downtrodden.
When scientists peer through those massive telescopes, they tell us that stars are not static. They are different from those lights that we put up on our back porches that twinkle at night. They don’t stand still. Instead, stars are dancing. They are in constant motion!
When we look upon the presence of God, when we yearn for it in our lives, we do not want to make the same mistake that we do with the stars. Because God’s love never stands still. God’s love is in constant motion. God’s love is always at work.
When the people of God were stranded in exile in Babylon, they needed to hear that again, so the prophet Isaiah invited them to look up at the stars to see the past. Have you not known? God is the Creator. God stretched out the heavens like a curtain across the sky. Have you not heard? Lift up your eyes to the stars. God numbers them, and God names them. Have you not known? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. Those who wait on the Lord shall run and not grow weary. The one, who names the stars, does not stand still, but heals the brokenhearted, binds up the wounded, and lifts up the downtrodden.
If God can name the stars, God can name our pain as well, even our hidden pain.
Years ago, Frank Warren started a website, which became quite controversial, because you could post a secret online anonymously. All you had to do was fill out a postcard and put it in the mail anonymously, and it would be uploaded to the website.
It was fraught with problems, as you might imagine. Like the Starbucks postcard that was uploaded and simply said, “Sometimes I give decaf to customers who are rude.” But, initially, the site was quite popular, perhaps because it gave voice to what is hidden. One of the saddest posts simply read, “I found these stamps as a child. I have always wanted to have someone to send them to. I have never had someone.” We can carry around hidden pain.
Out of this pain, we can name our questions about it. Like if God Loves us, and this world, why is there so much pain? It is a hard question to answer. It escapes explanation. But if this world was created out of love, God cannot coerce or control this world, because love never does that to another. There is a freedom woven into Creation, which entails a fragility, because there is always risk in love.
But, as Austin Farrer, an English theologian, says, “Cruel things do not reveal a cruel God. Instead, they hide from us the God of love.” If we are willing to name our pain, we discover that God’s heart breaks alongside ours. We are never left alone in our pain.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, as many of you know, suffered under the terrors of the Nazi regime. On the wall of his prison cell in the concentration camp, he wrote, “Only a suffering God can help.” Because a suffering God does not, will not, and cannot leave us alone in our pain. Instead, God enters into it with us.
It is as the poet Anne Weems wrote, “Jesus wept. It was as simple, and as complicated as that.”
Along with naming our pain, we need to name our community—the people and the places that we turn to in the midst of our pain. We might only name our pain to one trusted person, but we can turn to our community to help absorb some of that pain from us, as they cry with us, pray with us, and share with us.
In her memoir about her experience with Lou Gehrig’s disease, or ALS, a degenerative progressive illness. Ulla-Carin Linquist remembers the day when she realized something was not right. She was out in a boat in a beautiful lake. As they were bringing the boat back in, they got to a very shallow place in the lake where they had to turn off the motor and lift it up out of the water because it would drag the ground. Over that stretch of the lake, they had to row the boat across it. She remembers gripping the oars and leaning back with all of her weight and trying to pull on the oars, but they felt as heavy as lead pipes. She didn’t have any strength in her muscles.
A year from that day, she had to rely on others to help her walk, eat, and bathe, still anticipating some of the worst of the disease. She asked all of the hard questions. But cruel things do not reveal a cruel God. They hide from us the God of love.
She cried hidden tears, not wanting to be a burden on her family. But she eventually learned to rely on others, as she goes on to write, “Others can be my oars and row for me.” We find the steadfast love of God in those who row for us.
Maybe the prophet Isaiah said it too strongly, “We will run and not grow weary.” Well, there are days when even if we feel the nearer presence of God, we will still feel weary. We will not be able to imagine running.
But Isaiah also said, perhaps we can walk and not faint. There are days when that is closer to the truth because God’s love never stands still. God names the stars, and God knows our names as well.
Amen.
Every summer when I was in seminary, they assigned a book for all of the faculty and the students to read in anticipation for a retreat that we would all take, students and faculty, in the mountains of North Carolina just west of Winston-Salem, where the seminary was located. We would gather in the evening for worship. We would hear from different faculty members throughout the week. We would discuss the theme of the book. And
In the summer before the fall of my second year, we were also welcoming a new faculty member, a new preaching professor. One night, he stood up in worship to offer the sermon, standing behind this plain lectern, and he paused. Before his sermon, he expressed his excitement about joining the faculty and how much he enjoyed getting to know all the students that week, but then he paused for another second.
He said, “I do have one thing I need to confess.” We all held our breath because even in seminary confession is rare. We leaned in a little bit closer, wondering what he was going to reveal, and he said, “I have to confess the temptation to be impressive.” I do not remember anything about his sermon that night, but I have never forgotten his confession.
It is a temptation which is not new. We overhear it in the story about Jesus at the beginning of his ministry in the Gospel of Mark. He stands up on the Sabbath in the synagogue—a sacred day, a sacred place—there in Capernaum in the region of Galilee. Those sitting listening to him that day said that he spoke with authority, unlike the scribes.
The scribes were the biblical scholars. They were the experts. They were the best Sunday school teachers in town. Jesus, though, taught differently, and we are not quite sure what that means. But we do know it draws us further into the details of this story.
Perhaps Jesus is conveying more than just knowledge, for in the middle of his Sunday school lesson, a man starts convulsing, and he notices him. He reaches out, and he heals him. That is the point of the story that so oftentimes we get caught up in, as we are drawn to the unexplainable.
But if we read the story closely, it is about the teaching of Jesus. Even after the healing, it is repeated–this is a new teaching. The healing reinforces the teaching. It is something that ends up defining the life and ministry of Jesus. Love is less about what we know and more about what we do.
After the day in the synagogue, we overhear that old temptation, because it says, “The fame of Jesus started to spread.” People were talking. People were seeking him out, which we might assume is a good thing! Except, we overhear Jesus repeatedly and constantly throughout the Gospel of Mark say, “Don’t mention everything that I am up to.” Jesus did not want to be famous; he wanted to be faithful.
It is, as Henri Nouwen writes, “Jesus did not come to prove himself. He did not come to walk on coals, swallow fire, or put his hand in the lion’s mouth to demonstrate that he had something worthwhile to say.” Jesus did not want to get his name in the Guinness Book of World Records. He wanted to prayerfully and faithfully care for others.
We find fame all around us. Not just the fame of internationally known stars and celebrities—people that we do not want to admit that we know who they are dating. But then there’s the country song that says, “I’ve got some famous friends you’ve probably never heard of, but back in Rutherford County, our crowd is second to none. You might not know them here in this big city we’re in, but when I get back home, I’ve got some famous friends.”
There is also local fame. The high school quarterback that has the most passing yards in school history. The wealthiest family in a three-county area. The local band that draws the largest crowd. Then in this ever-changing world of ours, there is also the fame of social media defined by likes, clicks, and comments—both on the global level and the local.
We should treat fame, and all of its derivatives, with healthy apprehension because it skews how we see others, and how we see ourselves.
The temptation to be impressive has even found its way into the church. As far back as 1 Corinthians, when they were divided and arguing over whether it was permitted to eat meat that had been sacrificed to idols or not. Back then, after there was a sacrifice to an idol, the meat would find its way into the public market. There were those who believed that if you ate meat sacrificed to idols, it would taint your life.
Then there were those, like Paul, who believed in one God, so that if meat was sacrificed to an idol, it would not affect your life. On the one hand, there are those with this knowledge, like Paul, and Paul wanted to affirm them. But on the other hand, there were those who were looked down upon because they thought differently. Paul did not want to leave them out.
We cannot put God first by putting somebody else last, “For knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” It can take a lifetime to figure out the difference between those two, for knowledge is essential. It is important, especially if it helps us love others well; but then, there is a knowledge, where in subtle ways, it can make us feel impressive, masquerading as helpful.
Apparently, the light of Christ is not a spotlight. It does not single out fame. Instead, it illuminates everything that is good.
It invites us to join the supporting cast of people’s lives. Now, I know nobody remembers who won best supporting actor last year at the Oscars. I had to look it up. It was Ke Huy Quan. But we are invited to take on a supporting role in people’s lives—not called to impress, just called to love.
The church is a community with countless, supporting roles: committee members, Sunday school teachers, Bible openers, candle lighters, choir members, deacons, ushers, coffee makers, dishwashers. Those who change light bulbs, send out reminders, and sweep floors. It is not flashy. There is no fame, but there is this love that builds others up.
Barbara Brown Taylor tells this beautiful story about a monk who did not understand a particular passage of scripture, and all he wanted to do was to draw close to the presence of God, to stand in the presence of Almighty God, and to understand this passage. He decided to make a commitment to go into a room by himself, where all he would do was fast days on end and meditate on this passage of scripture until God revealed to him what it meant.
Days turned into weeks, and he held fast to his commitment; but after a while, exhaustion and frustration started to set in, and he finally gave up. He decided, instead, that he was going to go ask his fellow monk what he thought the meaning of the passage was.
As soon as he stood up and walked out of his room to go and ask for help, an angel of the Lord appeared to him and said, “Your seventy-week fast did not bring you one step closer to God, but now that you have humbled yourself enough to go to your friend, God sent me to reveal the meaning of the passage.”
At the end of the day, we need each other, for knowledge puffs up, and love—only love—builds up!
Amen.
Due to various reasons, which have taken place over the last 20 to 30 years, Stanley Hauerwas says that the church now carries a new burden of proof. There has been an increase, or rise in the Nones, those without any religious affiliation, because they have witnessed scandal, experienced judgmentalism, or faced unfair disapproval by the church. We how have to demonstrate or prove the sincerity of our compassion.
Under those kinds of circumstances, it’s easy to take on a defensive posture, where we stand up in the courtroom, hit the table, and say, “I object!” We want to argue our side of the story—that we are compassionate. The only problem is when we look at the life of Jesus we do not see a defensive posture. But he doesn’t have an offensive stance either. He’s not going around trying to prosecute the other side. He steps outside of the courtroom altogether!
He is simply focused on his calling and purpose, which is why Psalm 139 is so valuable to us. It has a way of reaching deep down inside of us and touching something important, where that poetry says, “O LORD, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, O LORD, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.” We are fearfully and wonderfully made, created with purpose and calling.
It might have been a few years since we last played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, but we can go back and still remember what it’s like to have that blindfold tied around us. Then someone, who’s enjoying it more than they should, spins us around for what feels like a hundred times. We then pause, while the room is still spinning, and we are trying to get our bearings to figure out which direction we used to be facing.
When we feel that new burden of proof as a church, it is disorienting. We don’t know what to say. We’re not sure what to do. We don’t know how to get our bearings. But we find them again by remembering our purpose and calling.
In that story from 1 Samuel, which is referred to as the calling of Samuel because he goes on to carry that title prophet, to name the first kings of Israel, we find Samuel far from that title. It was during a time where it says the Word of God was rare, that either God was silent or hidden or ignored. It says Samuel had not yet encountered God, but he is there helping the priest, Eli. Samuel’s a great help to Eli because his eyesight is failing him, but it says the lamp of God in the Temple has not gone.
It is meant to show the contrast in the story, where we can’t always trust our assumptions or our uncertainty. Whereas, Eli’s eyesight is failing, the light of God has not gone out. Whereas, people have not heard from God, God is going to speak to Samuel.
Then one evening, Samuel hears this voice, “Samuel. Samuel,” and he gets up and he goes running to Eli. And Eli, a little disoriented because he didn’t call out, says, “Go lie back down.” Well, this happens two more times, and finally, that seasoned experience of Eli says when you hear this voice again, simply say, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”
This story about the calling of Samuel is atypical when we look at all the stories about calling throughout the pages of scripture because so often in the pages of scripture, a calling comes with specific instructions. Think about Moses who is told to go to Pharaoh and say, “Let my people go,” or Jonah who is given a map, and he is supposed to go to Nineveh to speak of repentance to the Assyrians. But in this story, there are no instructions for Samuel, which turns out to be quite helpful to us.
At its very core, a calling is not about a specific task: it is about a way of life. If you want to know about a calling, do not ask a minister. A minister, with this knee-jerk reaction, will start telling you about a calling to a specific task. If you want to know about a calling, ask someone in the pew, like Samuel, who is going to talk about a way of life.
If you asked anybody in the early church, they would describe a calling simply as the Christian faith. It was that way for the first several hundred years because they felt called from no faith, or a different faith, to this new way of life that they called the Christian faith. That may not be our experience. Many of us may have grown up in the church running around these hallways, but a calling is always to a new way of life.
All of that changed in the early church when Emperor Constantine declared Christianity the official religion of Rome, which came with its own set of problems. If you were born a Roman citizen, you were simply born into Christianity. You were born into the rolls of the church, never giving it much thought. But at its core, a calling is to a way of life.
We should never underestimate the power of purpose. Victor Frankel writes, “Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose.” Adam Hamilton reminds us that Victor Frankel was a psychiatrist and a Holocaust survivor.
In 1942, Victor and his family were sent to a concentration camp. Victor survived, but his family did not. Afterwards he felt compelled to write the book, Man’s Search for Meaning, or by its original title, Saying Yes to Life In Spite of Everything. In the concentration camp, he observed that if prisoners were able to hold on to that belief that their lives, in fact, were still significant—that they were fearfully and wonderfully made—it helped them to persevere. In his medical practice, based on these observations, he developed an approach that helped countless people, who were ready to give up on life.
We find deeper meaning and purpose in the ways of Jesus, where we are all called to compassion and kindness, meekness and gentleness, justice and forgiveness.
Matthew Crawford is a motorcycle mechanic, and he holds a doctorate in political philosophy from the University of Chicago. He has worked in a think tank and in a garage. He says he has learned as much from being a mechanic as he did a PhD student.
He says the reason for that is, “Old bikes don’t flatter you, they educate you.” They do not follow a manual. You have to learn along the way. There will be bolts that are rusted, and you have to figure out how to loosen them. There will be parts that are no longer available, and you have to improvise. There will be dents in the motorcycle that make it difficult to take apart and even harder to put back together.
The ways of Jesus do not flatter us, they educate us. We learn by doing them. It’s why we talk about the Word become flesh. We lean into that calling that we all share, and we learn by showing up, by walking alongside others, by listening, by changing, by making sacrifices.
We cannot learn those things by standing at a safe distance. We learn by interacting, by asking, by assisting. We can begin by remembering that we are all fearfully and wonderfully made. We have this purpose and calling, which can guide us through all manner of circumstances—never making us defensive, but always leading us forward.
Amen.
During his travels, Paul was in Ephesus, and he met a group of disciples who were followers of Jesus, and he asked them, “Did you receive the Holy Spirit when you became believers?”
Now it sounds like one of those questions where even though you have no idea what the person is asking about, you feel the need to give the expected answer, “Well, yes, of course we did!” But they told Paul they had never heard of the Holy Spirit. Paul reached out and plunged them into the waters of baptism yet again, and they received the Spirit of God.
They went on to say that they had received John’s baptism, focused solely on repentance, but Paul knew that beyond repentance is the journey of faith, which is full of calling, courage, and change—all of which are the work of the Spirit of God.
When Jesus was baptized, it says that the Spirit descended on him like a dove, and you could overhear this voice say, “This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Jesus fully embraced and embarked on this journey, which was full of calling, courage, and change—showing us the way.
Behind this baptism, and behind this journey, is always a great deal of humility. John the Baptist says he was not worthy to wear Jesus’ sandals. Jesus goes out to join this band of outsiders gathering in the wilderness separate from the religious elite. Then Jesus wades into those waters and is baptized by John. We find humility around every single corner of this story, which allows the Spirit of God to show up!
Whether it’s John or Jesus, or this group of disciples that admit they had never heard of the Holy Spirit—wherever there is humility, the Spirit of God is at work. With that kind of humility, we are able to listen for the work of the Spirit.
Listening for the Spirit is different from listening to somebody else in a conversation. In a conversation, our eardrum translates sound waves into brain waves. We can lean in a little bit closer. We can put our hand over our ear to capture more sound. We can use a microphone to amplify it, but listening to the Spirit is different.
In recent studies, scientists have discovered that spiders use their webs to listen. The silk fibers are sensitive to any vibration, which the spider can detect. They use their webs as an extension of themselves. They reach out, create connections, and they listen to and pay attention to everything around them.
We, too, can reach out, creating real, tangible connections with others, to listen for the Spirit of God. Kate Bowler and Jessica Richie warn us not to put too much emphasis on any one sound. As they say,
“We read only a single news source or listen to only one friend before making up our minds. We may think we have considered all the options, but, more and more, we associate with people who are in mental lockstep.”
Since the Spirit of God shows up wherever there is humility, we can reach out, creating real, tangible connections with others, so we can listen widely for the work of the Spirit of God.
The practice of the laying on of hands reminds us to reach out and to make those connections, so we can listen widely and more closely. The laying on of hands is also a humbling experience, feeling the weight of the hands of the priesthood of the believers upon us, the weight of that responsibility, whether it is the laying on of hands of ordination or the laying on of hands when we are plunged into the waters of grace, and called to the ways of Jesus.
It is why we are so thankful for our Deacons, who listen and who lead, and who remind us to do the same.
Amen.
Years ago, on a Friday night when we didn’t have any plans, Katharine and I decided to bake cookies. I got in my car and I drove over to her apartment and she preheated the oven, but we knew we didn’t want to eat all the cookies ourselves, so I called some friends. They were our married friends.
We had been dating for a while, but we were not yet engaged, and when I had them on the phone I didn’t tell them we were making cookies. I just asked them if they’d be home later, and if we could drop by because we had a surprise, and I hung up the phone.
Katharine looked at me, and said, “You know what they’re going to think?” With this dumb look on my face, I said, “Bringing cookies over?” She said, “No, they’re going to think we’re engaged.”
I doubted her at first, but when we knocked on their door, they opened it really slowly, both leaning out together, waiting for some big announcement. Katharine held up the cookies quickly with her left hand in view, and I’ve never seen anyone so disappointed in cookies.
We are curious creatures, always wondering, “When are they going to get engaged?”, or “What’s that large box wrapped up underneath the Christmas tree?” Curiosity is good. It is a gift unless we allow what we do not know to get in the way of what we do know.
There is always a certain amount of mystery around life and around faith. As the Apostle Paul writes in 1 Corinthians, “We see in a mirror dimly.” But then there are certain things that we do know, as Paul also writes in Romans, “Now to God who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages, but is now disclosed . . . .” What was hidden has now been revealed. What was secret has now been told.
The ways of Jesus reveal to us the ways of the love of God, revealing the strength of patience, kindness, gentleness, meekness, generosity, compassion, and hope over the struggles and concerns of this world.
The story about Mary at Christmas is filled with mystery and revelation. Gabriel comes and reveals many things to her: You will have a baby, and his name will be Jesus. He will be called “Son of the Most High.” He will sit on the throne of David. He will be holy.
But our faith is always wrapped in mystery, like, “How will everything be different because of this good news?” Perhaps that’s why Gabriel led with, “Now, don’t be afraid.” Even though there was mystery, Mary said faithfully, “Here am I, a servant of the Lord.”
Curiosity is good. It is a gift unless we allow what we do not know to get in the way of what we do know. Take, for example, what scripture says about caring for the poor. There is plenty of mystery all throughout the pages of scripture, questions that we need to ask, but questions that we cannot fully answer.
But there is no mystery about what scripture says about caring for the poor, where in Isaiah 58:7, it says, “Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and to bring the homeless poor into your house?”, or in Luke 14:13, “When you give a banquet, invite the poor . . .”, or in 2 Corinthians 8:15, “The one who had much did not have too much, and the one who had little did not have too little.”
Now, there are other questions that we find all throughout Scripture, questions that we need to ask and that we need to ponder, even if we cannot fully answer them; but where the love of God has been revealed to us, we need to follow the example of Mary, saying, “Here am I, a servant of the Lord.”
In order to see the big picture, we have to first see the small picture, and in our faith, we call that incarnation. The Word—big picture—has become flesh—small picture. The big picture is full of mystery, but the love of God is revealed to us through the ways of Jesus. That is the picture of Christmas! We don’t want what we do not know to consume us so much that we end up avoiding what we do know about the ways of Jesus.
In 1977, Jim Henson created a show based on a book by Russell Hoban. The book was based on the short story, “The Gift of the Magi” by O’Henry. The show was Emmett Otter’s Jug Band. I remember watching it every single Christmas.
It was about Emmett and his mother who were just scraping by trying to make ends meet. Emmett’s mother would make money by doing laundry for other people using an old-fashioned wash tub. Emmett would make a little extra money by doing odd jobs around people’s homes, fixing odds and ends. My favorite song in the entire show was “There Ain’t No Hole in the Washtub.”
After a hard day’s work, working long hours, Emmett and his mother would get back into their small john boat and row back across the lake going home, and they would sing together to cheer themselves up, remembering what was good around them. They would sing, “at least there ain’t no hole in the wash tub.” As long as there was no hole in the wash tub, it meant they could continue to make ends meet.
Well, one Christmas, unbeknownst to one another, they both decided they really wanted to get a nice Christmas gift for the other to express their gratitude and their love for one another. There was a talent show in town where the prize was $50, and you could buy a really nice Christmas gift for $50!
Without telling each other, they both entered the talent show, but they both had a problem. Emmett’s mother needed to buy fabric to make clothes to wear to enter the talent show. Without telling Emmett, she sold his tools to get money to buy fabric. Then Emmett needed a stand-up bass for his jug band, and the only way to make a bass was to turn over a wash tub and to poke a hole in it, which is what she used to make money.
Well, they both—thoughtfully and not lightly—took a chance, because of the love they felt for one another. They entered the talent show, and they played and sang beautifully, but they both lost to the Riverbottom Gang, a group of troublemakers who created a band called The Nightmare.
They were both devastated! Not just because they lost, but they didn’t know how they were going to tell each other what they had done, or how they were going to make ends meet.
Well, fortunately, the owner of a local restaurant attending the talent show heard both of them sing and hired both of them to play regularly at his restaurant—better than a $50 prize. They loved to sing, and they loved to sing together.
There are plenty of questions in our faith and in this life—plenty of mystery that surrounds everything that matters the most. We should ask those questions. It is good to ponder those questions.
But wherever the love of God has been revealed to us, and where it calls us and invites us to love others, we should take a chance along with Mary, saying, “Here am I, a servant of the Lord.”
Amen.
At particular moments and in specific circumstances, there are times when we stumble upon a different kind of joy.
It’s not the joy of party hats or award ceremonies. No one is jumping out from behind the couch and yelling, “surprise,” or putting a first-place medal around our necks. You don’t unwrap this joy or scratch off the winning ticket. It is different.
Frederick Buechner, God rest his soul, was on vacation with his family when they stumbled upon this different kind of joy. He says they were standing there looking out, watching the water carefully and waiting by the water patiently when all of the sudden, out of the blue, this whale leaped into the air surrounded by the glistening sun, and then crashed back down with this magnificent splash.
He says he was not ready for it.
All of a sudden, he felt tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. He looked at his family on his right and on his left, and they had tears welling up in their eyes as well.
He says that he thought about this reaction for a long time, for weeks and months, and he finally decided that they had started to cry because they had caught a glimpse of the kingdom of God–something beautiful and sacred in the midst of the harshness of this world.
As he writes, ”The world does bad things to us all, and we do bad things to the world and to each other, and maybe most of all to ourselves.” But at the heart of it all is unimaginable joy.
He says, “Joy is home. And I believe the tears that came to our eyes were more than anything else, homesick tears.”
If you’ve ever been homesick, you know it is completely and utterly overwhelming. It’s like that stomach pain that makes you double over where you can’t stand up or walk around. You can’t think of anything else, but how bad it hurts.
When you are homesick, all you want to do and all you can think about is seeing your family, who just last week was driving you crazy. Home is not the joy of excitement, it’s not the joy of enthusiasm, it is the joy of the ordinary. Because at home, we don’t always brush our hair. We don’t always put on makeup. We walk around in our socks that are fuzzy and embarrassing, and we wear our favorite pants that have holes in them, so we can’t wear them out of the house.
Homesick tears remind us of a different kind of joy. The joy of belonging. The joy of fulfillment. The joy of God’s grace.
Every single advent we overhear Mary’s joy, where she proclaims, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant” It is a kind of joy that lifts up the lowly and fills the hungry with good things.
We need to pay close attention to Mary’s joy, so we come to understand it. Because in the world that Mary lived in, things were not always easy. She was still waiting to be married when she received the news about her pregnancy. She lived in a world plagued by Roman oppression. She did not have any influence or power. She knew what it meant to sit at her table and to feel real hunger.
And yet, she speaks of the Joy of God!
Perhaps she knew what that joy looked like and sounded like because she was so familiar with the voice of the prophet Isaiah in scripture, where the prophet proclaims, God brings good news to the oppressed, binds up the brokenhearted, proclaims liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners.
When we look at each one of those things, it is a different experience of home, returning to freedom, fostering healing, and receiving salvation. There might even be tears of joy within them.
Isaiah is speaking to a people returning home from the Babylonian exile, where they had been taken away and lived so long. The Persians finally defeated the Babylonians and the Persian ruler, Cyrus, let the people return home. But when Isaiah is speaking, all is still not well.
The temple is still in ruins. The people are still fractured. And yet Isaiah speaks of joy. He says, it will be like a wedding where the bridegroom wears garland and the bride wears jewels. There is a celebration! It is not the mourning of a funeral. It is the celebration of a new beginning because it is returning home.
We might discount the joy of home because it’s rather pedestrian. Home is where we do our laundry, fill out our grocery list, clean the bathroom. But is there joy?
Miroslav Volf is a theologian that teaches at Yale. He and a couple other professors created an undergraduate course called “Life Worth Living”. Surprisingly, it has become a sensation. It is hard to get a seat in the class.
They ask questions from a 30,000 foot view, like “What is worth wanting in the first place?” He says, if we’re not careful, we can end up wanting that old Walgreens slogan, you know, “Life at the corner of happy and healthy.” If all was well, we would be happy. But is that the same thing as a good life?
There are times when happy is a trade-off for what is most good because what is most good can be deeply challenging and stretching. There is happy, but then there is joy, which can find us even when everything is not going our way. It’s the joy of belonging, the joy of fulfillment, and the joy of grace.
Years ago, Don Shockley was the chaplain at Emory University, but before serving in that position, he was a pastor of a congregation in rural Alabama. He had this habit of getting up early on Sunday morning and going to a local coffee shop to finish his sermon, working against the deadline of the 11 o’clock hour.
He says that it was remarkable how many times he noticed something at the coffee shop that ended up being in his sermon that morning. In fact, on one Sunday morning during the season of Advent, he got up and went to the local coffee shop, and he was sitting there—hovering over his notes, scribbling different things, crossing things out, adding further notes, drinking his coffee—when one of the waitresses started to get nervous. She noticed him writing all of these things down. Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her watching him.
Then she came over, pointed her finger at him, and accused him of being an undercover agent, working for the larger franchise that owned that local coffee shop, sent to take notes on her job performance. He said, Oh, no, I’m just the pastor of the church around the corner, trying to finish my sermon before worship.
He had to convince her he was not a spy. When she finally was convinced, as she walked away, he overheard her say, “I’m sure glad you’re not one of those expecters.”
Not inspector, but expecter, which found its way into his Advent sermon, as we are expecting the arrival of Christ,
He was accused—and perhaps we are too—of being chief expecters of the joy of God, even when life is hard. During the season of Advent, we can learn again what it means to stay awake to a different kind of joy, as we are surrounded by the goodness and grace of God.
They are ordinary moments where we might catch a glimpse of the sheer beauty of creation, and realize that we are a part of it.
Amen.
Like baseball cards, autographs, or rare books, over the years, I have found myself collecting sentences—sentences which put words to things that are so hard to say. And one of those sentences is by Barbara Kingsolver, where she says, “The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance, but live right in it, under its roof.”
The very least we can do is figure out what it is that we hope for. And the most we can do is live inside that hope.
That is the purpose of Advent: to figure out what we hope for and then to live inside that Hope. Because today we start that journey, where we are waiting and expecting and anticipating the birth of Jesus who comes with Hope for this world.
But, as we know, hope is rather elusive. We don’t always know where to find it, or when we find it, how to hold on to it. Hope doesn’t jump up and down waving its arms, making a scene like that person twirling that sign in front of the sandwich shop that just opened. Hope quietly walks up beside us and takes us by the hand in the midst of the problems of this world.
Before we stand in the Hope of the nativity scene we find in Matthew and Luke, we are first confronted with the grave concerns and alarm bells of Isaiah and Mark. At the nativity scene, the journey to Bethlehem is finally over. Joseph has made peace with all of his apprehensions, Mary has moved beyond her fear, Jesus is born, and we can rest ourselves in the Hope of God.
Before the nativity scene, we are faced with all of the problems of this world, which is where we find Isaiah and Mark. They noticed all of those concerns that we notice. It is the distress of conflict that we see around the world. or experience in our families. It is the heartache of suffering that we witness in the headlines or that we see in our hospitals. It is the prejudice or malice that we can trace throughout history or that we see unfold on the playgrounds of our elementary schools. That is where Isaiah and Mark begin. They sound the alarm.
Isaiah looks around at all these problems and prays for God to tear open the heavens and to come down, for mountains to quake and nations to tremble. And then Mark looks at all those problems and starts to envision the light of the sun going out and stars falling from the sky. They are crying out for change, and none of it sounds rather comforting.
You wouldn’t ask Isaiah or Mark to read the Christmas story when the family comes over. They would scare the kids—mountains quaking and stars falling. But they start where we all start: longing for a lasting Hope.
But then Hope quietly walks up beside Isaiah and Mark and takes them by the hand. where Isaiah says. “We are the clay and God is the potter.” The hands of God hold us and mold us with steadfast love. And then Mark points to the fig tree and says, “When you see the branches become tender and leaves begin to sprout, you know that summer is near.” A season of renewal and new life is arriving.
When we look out at the problems throughout this world, and we feel the weight of that suffering and heartache, to be honest, there are times when a quiet Hope seems a little ridiculous.
In the story of Harry Potter, which is usually on television this time of year, we find Harry in class with Professor Lupin, and they are talking about fear—that universal concern that we find everywhere that pushes against our Hope. They’re talking about what to do when you face a “Boggart”. A boggart apparently is this mystical shape-shifting creature that takes the form of your greatest fear. Whatever you are afraid of, that’s what you’re going to see. So when they open the box in class and the boggart comes out, the students see things like this gigantic, threatening spider, or this terrifying, venomous snake.
As MaryAnn McKibben Dana reminds us, the spell to use against a boggart is saying “Riddikulus!” while imagining something that’s funny, where all of a sudden this terrifying spider is now wearing roller skates and falling all over itself. or this terrifying venomous snake now looks like this silly jack-in-the-box. She says it’s one way to cultivate Hope.
It is not that our concerns or fears are a laughing matter. Rather, it is seeing them as they really are and not giving them power they do not deserve over us or this world. It’s a little like that bully that’s always nagging us, picking on us at recess. But, one day, we notice that bully is really acting out of his insecurity. That the bully, in fact, is afraid and weak. And it changes how we see the situation.
The attempt of fear to rule our lives and this world compared to the strength and endurance of love and community is ridiculous. Hope quietly walks up beside us and takes us by the hand in the midst of the problems of this world.
McKibben Dana reminds us, “Hope isn’t what we feel. Hope isn’t even what we imagine as possible. Hope is what we do in the face of pain, suffering, and injustice.”
Hope is what we do. We share mercy with others. We show up for one another. We practice compassion. We say “yes” to perseverance and “no” to apathy. Hope is less of a feeling and more of an ethic for our lives.
In the moment when Joseph was about to leave, he decided to stay. And when Mary was overcome by fear, she proclaims the Goodness of God. And despite the brutality of Herod, Jesus is born as a vulnerable baby.
It might seem a little ridiculous, but it’s actually Hope at work. And the least we can do is figure out what we Hope for; and the most we can do is live into that Hope.
When I was growing up, we had all these nativity scenes around the house. They became something that our family collected. They were bought on a trip somewhere or given as a gift from a loved one. They all had special significance, which means they were out of reach from us, up on a shelf somewhere.
Well, when Katharine and I became brand new parents, my mother bought for us and our family a nativity scene which was quite different. It was made by Fisher-Price—virtually indestructible. You could pick it up, you could drop it, it was always fine. And, at first, I thought, “This makes no sense. Why would you make a nativity scene where you could take the angel and throw it across the room?”
But, then I realized the answer is Hope. The Hope of Christmas is not meant to be displayed on a shelf. We are to pick it up and to use it, because the Love of God quietly walks up beside us, takes our hand in the face of all the problems of this world, giving us a lasting Hope, which can change what we do.
Amen.
When we sit down and read through those pages, are we only thinking about ourselves and people who have experienced this world as we have? Or, are we mindful of others who have experienced this world in other ways?
We resist quick judgement, and we appeal to the Grace of God, because God Loves everybody.
Where in our lives are we pursuing comfort, where what is called for is a little discomfort?
The Church is a curator, flipping through the stories of Faith and holding them up for all of us. And, with each story, we hope to point toward the steadfast Love of God, the Grace of Jesus the Christ, and the Hope of the Fellowship of the Spirit.
What we build in this world that matters the most—things that we can see with our eyes—comes from the things that we cannot see, which always unfold slowly before us.
It is in contentment that we discover God’s Abundance—despite the fact that we are not in control.
There is a transcendent side to what is practical, and in it we see the fullness of the Love of God.
The wider the Love of God becomes, the more it stretches us, and it’s harder to offer It to others—and Baptists learned this the hard way.
In this place, we try to make room for Silence—for looking and listening—discovering God in ways we would not otherwise.
We gather here each week to remember—and to hold onto that Story—that God is our Creator, our Redeemer, and our Sustainer.
What a wonderful Gift we have to share with one another: the Gift of simple prayer—speaking plainly and honestly with God—opening ourselves up to the same Love that was in Christ Jesus.
When we have somebody to Love—or somebody to Love us—we can endure our hardest sadness, and we can put down our deepest regret, and we can celebrate with the utmost Joy, because we will see that the Home of God is among us.
We never want the Holy moments to end. It’s why we gather to remember. It’s why we gather around the table to experience, again, the Love of Christ—where rejection becomes Embrace, where brokenness becomes Strength, where defeat becomes Victory, and where death becomes Life.
Palm Sunday is meant to change our mind to embrace the strength of Humility and a very different kind of Victory.
We should always celebrate when someone comes into the party. We should never overlook the importance of unlikely friendships. And, we should never underestimate the power of belonging.
Our internal clock seems to move faster than the second hand on our watch. We want a quicker route to our destination, but a quicker route only gets us off course.
The gift of sitting in a different place in our life — looking at it by the Light of Christ — we find God’s Healing, Forgiveness, and Redemption.
It is a challenge keeping our eyes fully open as we walk throughout this world—preventing our refuge from becoming our escape.
In our lives, we do face moments — not often, but on occasion — where we have to choose what will define us: where we have to wrestle with the cost of integrity.
Any time we talk about God—wherever we are—whether it is here in this room, or out there beyond these walls: we need to speak carefully.
We can develop rhythms and routines in our lives — like lighting the Christ Candle — that remind us: God is here.
When Mary sings about the Love of God, she does not focus on what is big and impressive. Instead, she holds close those things that receive far less recognition. “Gather Us In” by Lisle Gwynn Garrity, A Sanctified Art LLC, SanctifiedArt.org.
God’s Peace continues to be at work, and we can choose to participate in It. “Berakah” by Hannah Garrity, A Sanctified Art LLC, SanctifiedArt.org.
We hope for this world to be better. We work for this world to be better. But, along the way, we realize: it does not all depend on us. “Awake to Wonder,” digital painting with collage by Lisle Gwynn Garrity, A Sanctified Art LLC, SanctifiedArt.org.
Like Hannah, the people are now crying out to God, and the Gospel of Mark is providing them the assurance: God remembers us. Hope is not lost. Love never ends. Grace is from everlasting to everlasting. Painting: “Hannah at Prayer” by Wilhelm Wachtel (1875-1942)
God’s Love is found in unlikely places. It shows up in the shadows. It is there in the valley. It has the same Grit as Ruth’s commitment, and it has the same Grace as the widow’s faithfulness.
We all need to name our sadness and loss, because the gift of Love is the burden of grief—and the other side of grief is Grace.
We need to practice inconvenience regularly, as a way to honor the people around us, to cultivate the Community of Faith, to serve the needs of others, and — most of all — to experience the Joy of God.
When we look over the fence at somebody else’s life, it sometimes makes us feel like there is a deficit in our own—like something is missing. But, gratitude is different. Gratitude focuses our eyes on what is there in our lives—thankful for all that is present. And, our giving is rooted in our gratitude.
Because God is mindful of us, we can find God — and God can find us — wherever we are. We are never alone.
The Grace of God, which gave Life to Creation and has the Power to Transform our lives — and that Sustains us each and every day — can be found in small tasks.
If we listen to Creation, God is saying something to us. Creation is the Whisper of God’s Love, which has given us and all of Creation the Gift of Life.
We need to be on the lookout for where Scripture magnifies the Grace of God: to see each person as a Child of God—especially those who have less cushion around their life.
I found this place where questions are welcome — where all people are welcome — where we make mistakes, but we try to emphasize Grace.
Jesus is Living Bread, and bread is not a meal for a special occasion. It’s not for a rare event. It’s what we eat each and every day.
When we overhear the prayers of others, they sound just like our prayers. And it reminds us of the main theme of the Body of Christ: this place is a refuge for all people.
Photo credit: “Linda” on Flickr.
Even though the Church — wherever it is found — has fallen short of bringing people together, the Church has still inherited the Gift of Diversity.
The Church — the Body of Christ — should live in such a way, that it does not make sense unless the Love of God exists.
The Spirit of God leads us to see the Image of Christ in others. And, if we listen closely, we might hear the choir warming up, and we are invited to join the Song.
When we abide in the Love of Christ, it leads us back home to God’s Presence, but it also takes us to new places that will change who we are.
When the potter sits down at the table and she watches the wheel spin around and around, she applies a light touch to shape the clay in good ways. It takes patience. It takes time. It takes care and concern. It’s how God Loves us, and it’s how we are called to share God’s Love with others.
When we try to put all the pieces together, we find a thread of Peace running throughout all of Scripture that leads us to the very Heart of God.
God does not show partiality. God’s Grace has a way of bringing people together; and, when that happens that “Alleluia” starts to rise up inside of us, yet again.
Image credit: “Easter Morning” by Jen Norton
The risk of Palm Sunday is nothing new. When we throw our cloaks down, they are bound to get a little dirty.