What can we say December 18? Advent 4

   Beyond this week's texts, check out my "God Became Small: Preaching Advent" blog with thoughts on how to preach this peculiar season, with loads of illustrative material; and also, looking toward Saturday and Sunday of this week, the same sort of thing on "Preaching Christmas."

    Isaiah 7:10-16. I wish I could time-travel back to chat with Matthew and others in that circle of the very first Christian Bible scholar-theologians and listen to them explain their affection for today’s Old Testament text. I can go back in my memory to my Religion 101 class. My deeply religious friend got apoplectic when the professor tried to explain that the Hebrew here (ha-almah) wasn’t “a virgin” but “the young woman.” Why do people cling so fiercely to the notion that prophecies are predictive? The text is far richer than any image of Isaiah gazing into the divine crystal ball and foretelling what would happen in 700+ years. What help would that have been to Ahaz or the Israelites anyhow? They were under extreme duress, with hard decisions looming.

   The glory of Isaiah 7:10-16, which doesn’t detract from Mary and Jesus, but actually adds a profound, unexpected, even political dimension? Pressured by the Assyrian juggernaut, Ahaz is flailing about, suspecting a treaty might help, but might not. But to do nothing? – which is Isaiah’s counsel, or at least that’s what “Trust God!” had to feel like.

   God curiously urges Ahaz to ask for a sign. Our people are fond of signs (usually in place of diligent Bible reflection, spiritual formation, Christian conversation and prayer!) – leading them into what Bruce Waltke (Finding the Will of God: A Pagan Notion?) called “the Hunch method.” The dream house I’ve driven by every day for years has a For Sale sign! It’s a sign from God we should buy it! A hunch, baptized. People never see a poor person with three poorly clothed children crossing the road and think Hmm, it’s a sign: God wants us to adopt an impoverished immigrant family.

   My comic mind flits to The Life of Brian, where the crazy crowd pleads for a sign. It’s his shoe he dropped. It’s the juniper berries; a woman asks for another sign and gets upbraided, “Do not tempt him, shallow one, isn’t the miracle of the juniper bushes enough?”

   Ahaz, wrapped in a cloak of temporary piety, refrains: “No, I will not put the Lord to the test.” 

I love Martin Luther’s view on this: “Impious Ahaz simulates a holy attitude… Thus hypocrites, when it is not necessary, are most religious; but when they ought to be humble, they are most haughty.” Ahaz may have rightly suspected that the sign to be given would not suit his power-grubbing, politically-advantageous fantasies. Your people likely feel weary of the bickering and inanity they see among politicians. Share with them Isaiah’s ding of Ahaz: “It is too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also?” You’re weary of politics? Think how exhausted God must be!

   The unasked for sign is the last thing Ahaz wanted: “The young woman” – in Hebrew, ha-almah – will have a child. Which “the” woman? One standing nearby? Isaiah’s wife? Isaiah must have exasperated Mrs. Isaiah by his choice of baby names, like Mahershalalhashbaz, Shearyashuv, their names being prophecies. Another made-up, prophetic name is announced for this child: Immanuel, familiar to us now but a bizarre one back then – meaning, as we know, “God with us.” Ahaz wanted more, like a legion or thicker walls around Jerusalem. Instead, the infant-sized promise that God is with us. This is the heart of Advent and Christmas – and the whole Gospel.

   Sam Wells wisely has shown us that the most important word in the Bible, and in all of theology, is with. God is with us – which is way better than a dazzling fortune-telling of what will happen centuries from now. God is as with us as this child is with its mother right now. God is with – not the magical fixer or divine insulator, but just with us, always. This then informs how we do ministry: we don’t fix people, we aren’t charitable toward people, and we certainly don’t pity them; we are with them. If you’ve not yet, read A Nazareth Manifesto. Best theology book in a decade.

   Romans 1:1-7. It would take some derring-do to preach on the prologue to Romans on Advent 4!

And yet, Jesus shows up, and apostles happen! And “obedience of faith” – what a phrase!! Right out of the chute, Paul declares it’s “among all the Gentiles” – oh my! He’s writing to “all God’s beloved in Rome” – of all places! The epicenter of the corrupt, lost world Jesus invaded and came to rescue.

   This Gospel was “promised beforehand.” Just as with Isaiah, it’s not that the Gospel was predicted long ago. God’s eternal plan, God’s constant manner of being, God’s own heart, always laboring, always loving, culminating in the Jesus moment – not a backup plan, not a last ditch effort, but God’s holy intention from the commencement of creation itself. Michelangelo’s creation of Adam depicts God with a woman and child tucked under his left arm – a visual of God’s eternal, beforehand promise and way.

   Notice the words we’d find in a theological dictionary, all piled on top of one another, as Paul tries to explicate the revolution that Jesus touched off: servant, called, sent, set apart, good news, holiness, grace, obedience of faith. All this “by a spirit of holiness” – the same one that came upon Mary! He probably anticipated that his listeners, once the letter was wrapped up, delivered, and finally read aloud in Rome, were people of low social standing. So he speaks to them of being “slaves” – maybe a step down for many of them! – with no rights, no standing, and yet with the ultimate standing, the freedom and nobility of being God’s family!

    Paul’s allusions to the Shema and various Psalms remind us that in the days leading up to Jesus’ birth, Mary and Joseph were still devout Jews (as they would be after the birth too!), doing things like reciting the Shema, and singing Psalms. Jesus, in utero, would have heard his mother’s voice doing so, muffled a bit, but rejoicing his infant heart.

   Matthew 1:18-25. A text so familiar: better to be the docent pointing to its wonder than to try to explain it or make it relevant or devise some moral takeaway. To me, three little things here are noteworthy, if I’m the docent pointing to the wonder. The angels anticipates their fear. Yes, Mary and Joseph had good cause to fear, as do we, always. And yet Scott Bader-Saye’s wisdom comes to mind. Noting how, in our post-9/11 culture, security is everything, and so we wind up living timid lives: “Instead of being courageous, we are content to be safe… We fear excessively when we allow the avoidance of evil to trump the pursuit of the good… Our overwhelming fears need, themselves, to be overwhelmed by bigger and better things.” Joseph and Mary’s fears certainly were.

   Joseph astounds. The text speaks of him as “righteous,” caring tenderly enough for her to avoid shaming and ostracizing her. Joseph is a quiet example of mercy. He’s just quiet. In the pageants, he doesn’t get many or any lines. He just stands there, holding the donkey reins, gazing at mother and child. I want to be like him, just close to them, watching, watchful, grateful.

   Matthew reminds us of the child with the prophetic name at Isaiah’s court, Immanuel, God with us – and then clarifies how this nickname jives marvelous with the proper name to be given to this child: Jesus, yeshu‘a, which means either “Lord, help!” or “the Lord saves” – or both. Madeleine L’Engle said Jesus’ first cry sounded like the ringing of a bell. Jesus is one with the cry of all humanity. And Jesus is the divine reply to the cry of all humanity, in his cry, in his being Immanuel.

*****

  My best exploration of the birth/coming of Jesus theologically, and personally, is in Birth: The Mystery of Being Born (in the Pastoring for Life series) - with an extensive (for me!) exploration of Mary's experience, Jesus' birth, and his very first days on earth.

What can we say December 11? Advent 3

   Beyond this week's texts, check out my "God Became Small: Preaching Advent" blog with thoughts on how to preach this peculiar season, with loads of illustrative material; and also, looking toward the end of next week, the same sort of thing on "Preaching Christmas."

   * And if you're Methodist, or just interested in us, I released a blog last week on the question of voting and division: "Christ was born! - so Methodists could Vote?"

    I defer to the pink candle over the lectionary, as I’m determined, 3 Sundays into Advent, to give Mary considerable attention. It’s not just her week, with the 3^rd candle. It’s her season. Waiting for the Lord to take on reality, to become flesh in her life, in our lives. That’s Advent.

    So Luke 1:49b-56 provides. I’ll back up to v. 39 and ponder the Visitation, the remarkable, unsurpassed in beauty fellowship of hope. Mary, Elizabeth, needing to be together, the children to come with some recognition of one another, even in utero. No takeaway. No moral. We just watch these two – and reflect on Mary’s song. She sang! What did her voice sound like? I picture, not a big vibrato soprano, but a clearer, simpler maybe 2^nd soprano or alto.

   Her song startles, upsets, turns the placid world of piety upside-down. She sings not of sweetness or the giddy delight of having a baby, but of might, of mercy, God scattering the proud, bringing down the powerful, filling the hungry, sending the rich away empty. Put this woman in jail! Hide her away someplace safe – not for her but for us!

   The opening, “My soul magnifies the Lord,” amazes. She magnifies the Lord, but not artificially. She is like a lens, a prism: please, see the Lord largely in me. Maybe even in the other lectionary texts.

   Isaiah 35:1-10. I like to reflect on our lections that Mary knew as her Scriptures, and try to divine what her perspective on them might have been when she was so very pregnant. The prophecy of Isaiah must have thrilled her with its inspiring vision of the transformation of nature. “They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God” – so whereas Isaiah was thinking of an eschatological revolution in nature, Mary might have been dimly, courageously, hopefully aware that the child pressing against her belly, in her very own body, would be the glory and majesty of God about to appear. She would be the lucky one to see the glory and majesty first.

   Surely the prayers, “Strengthen the weak hands, make firm the feeble knees” must have resonated with her in her exhaustion, carrying extra weight, with her daily chores, having made an arduous journey to visit Elizabeth. Isaiah 35 prays for those with “fearful hearts,” encouraging them to “be strong, do not fear, here is your God, he will come.” I just love how Amy Grant sang her surmises of what must have gone on in Mary’s heart during those days: “I am frightened by the load I bear, in a world as cold as stone Must I walk this path alone? Breath of heaven, hold me together, lighten my darkness. Help me be strong, Help me be, Help me.”

   Did Mary ponder the “highway of the Lord,” where “even fools cannot get lost”? Her journey to Elizabeth’s home must have been arduous. No GPS, no helpers, much to fear. How much courage did she have? How eager was she to be with Elizabeth, her friend, her elder, her mentor?

   Of course, the tone of Isaiah shifts, as does the music I hear in my head. A powerful alto thunders in with Handel’s text taken from Isaiah: “Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened…” Oh my. My soul just rushed from the quiet by a well in backwater Nazareth to a concert hall in London. Notice all the singing in Isaiah’s text. The ransomed don’t just trudge back to Zion; they sing their way home. Mary was a singer – although I’ll never picture her as the alto with the big vibrato.

   On the way home during Advent, the preacher could do worse than invite people simply to ponder the holiness, the faith, the courage, the anxiety, the hope, the isolation, the uncertainty that was Mary, mother of our Lord. So much beauty. There’s no takeaway, no lesson, no “point.” We just ponder. I think my best preaching dares to do such a thing.

   James 5:7-10 has the lovely Advent-ish counsel, “Be patient until the coming of the Lord.” His analogy is of the farmer waiting for the crops to come in. Who requires more patience? The farmer? Or the pregnant mother? Fortunately both take time, and yet the wait has its own agonies, like the life of faith. Here’s a playful question I may pop into my homily: if James, this James, was the brother of our Lord, did he for a moment reflect on his own mother – Mary also! – pregnant with his brother Jesus, or with him? 

Had she sung to him, to them? Another reverie may be in order, no takeaways or points, just inviting people to gawk at the tenderness, the beauty, the holiness of the holy family.

    “Strengthen your hearts.” Sounds like the common fare of secular gurus. James explains how, and why: “The coming of the Lord is near.” It’s not “Be strong,” but “The Lord is coming – so be strong.” Massive difference. And you have to love James’s practical, churchy counsel: “Don’t grumble.” If you are patient for the Lord’s coming, there’s just no space or energy for grumbling.

   Matthew 11:2-11. More John the Baptist! He’s now in prison, not active any longer, only listening for rumors of what’s happening. Jesus knows and sends a report: what’s going on out here is stunning. How many times through history have those imprisoned for their faithful labors been stuck inside while God’s work is still unfolding out there! And you have to admire Jesus’ framing of things. It’s not “Tell him I’ve got it,” or “I’m being amazing out here, I’m the Messiah, after all!” Instead, it’s what Jesus (and John!) cared about: not identity, but what’s actually transforming the lives of people. I think of this amazing podcast about John Garland’s ministry at the Mexican border (“Maybe God: Can Loving ‘Illegals’ Save our Souls, part 2”) where he says it’s not so much doing something for someone, but just being there to bear witness to the beautiful thing God is doing. 

*****

  My best exploration of the birth/coming of Jesus theologically, and personally, is in Birth: The Mystery of Being Born (in the Pastoring for Life series) - with an extensive (for me!) exploration of Mary's experience, Jesus' birth, and his very first days on earth.

What can we say December 4? Advent 2

   Beyond this week's texts, check out my "God Became Small: Preaching Advent" blog with thoughts on how to preach this peculiar season, with loads of illustrative material.

   Both our Old Testament and Gospel texts play on images of shoots and branches, the defiant growth that emerges even out of a seemingly dead stump. John’s vision is more violent, an ax whacking away at what only seems to be sturdy and living.

   Isaiah 11:1-10 interests me with its obsession with virtue – something we aren’t obsessed with at all, even in church life. I constantly return to one of the incandescent moments in Mark Helprin’s marvelous Winter’s Tale: in this thoughtful ramble on wealth, fame and possessions, Hardesty’s father says “Little men spend their day sin pursuit of such things. I know from experience that at the moment of their deaths they see their lives shattered before them like glass. Not so, the man who knows the virtues and lives by them. The world goes this way and that. Ideas are in fashion or not, and those who should prevail are often defeated. But it doesn’t matter. The virtues remain uncorrupted and uncorruptible. They are rewards in themselves, the bulwarks with which we can protect our vision of beauty, and the strengths by which we can stand, unperturbed, in the storm that comes when seeking God.”

    Maya Angelou suggested that “Courage is the most important of all the virtues, because without courage you can’t practice any other virtue consistently.” Notice the word “practice.” Courage, honesty, integrity, wisdom, character: these virtues are to be practiced, like skills. And I’m unsure about his, but Pádraig Ó Tuama reports that in American Sign Language, “the sign for courage implies strength that comes from the body, with both finger-spread hands beginning at the chest and moving out to form the letter ‘s’ for strength.” What is interesting is that the sign for ‘fear’ in British Sign Language uses the same finger-spread hand and touches the chest. It occurs to me that courage comes from the same place as fear, and where there is fear, there is the possibility of courage.”

    Fear and courage. That’s Advent.

    I’ve written before on Matthew 3:1-12 and will reiterate a few thoughts now. Years ago, I heard a great sermon suggesting you never see John the Baptist on any Christmas cards – and yet he’s the pivotal way in to all the Bible’s Christmas stories! A Church member heard me say this and devised for me history’s first (only?) John the Baptist Christmas Card!  It really is a season of “confessing sins” (a superlatively Advent-ish thing to do). Maybe we’d prefer not to be dubbed “You brood of vipers!” – but is this the case? “Bear fruits worthy of repentance” – and “Do not presume…” How much presumption is there in the Christian religion – and especially at Christmas!

   I always wonder if Shel Silverstein’s children’s book might, oddly, help us think about the ax being at the root of the tree. Do you know The Giving Tree (which works well at Christmas with a cut tree in your house, right?)? The tree provides shade and apples to a young boy, until he grows up and drifts away – only to return in need of wood for a house, then wood for a boat to go far away, and then for simply a stump on which to sit: a hard journey indeed – for the boy and for the tree!

   Trees amaze. Richard Powers's Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Overstory, is about nine quirky misfits who eventually unite to protect trees - which are enormously important in the environment and the economy! 

    J.R.R. Tolkien loved trees as a child, and as he wrote The Lord of the Rings, especially with his Ents who spoke slowly "because anything worth saying was worth saying slowly, and anything worth hearing was worth hearing slowly." His grief was heightened by the ravaging of forests for the big ironworks and war munition manufacturing in Birmingham - mirrored in Isengard, Saruman's domain and factory of evil.

    Trees matter in Scripture - in today's readings, in Psalm 1 ("like a tree planted by the water"), in Jesus' apprenticeship with is dad as a woodworker, and even in the cross itself (Nikos Kazantzakis, in The Last Temptation of Christ, envisioned Jesus being forced to craft crosses for the Romans!).

   After John’s fuming is done, Luke reports that “with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.” We sure believe in preaching as Good News – but clearly, for John the Baptist and Luke, the “good news” isn’t something sunny, positive, cheerful, or happy. It’s about vipers and axes, giving away one coat if you have two (so isn’t a closet purge in order?). 

****

   Check out my book, valuable for preachers and laity during Advent, Why This Jubilee? - reflections on carols, sacred and secular.

Young Karl Barth Preaching, Offending, and Reassessing

    I laughed out loud a few times while reading Christiane Tietz’s wonderful new biography of Karl Barth. Once was during her recounting of his first pastorate in Safenwil. Full of Gospel zeal, he encountered (for the first time in his life) real people with profound social and economic troubles. His sermons began to veer toward what some regarded as “political,” and he was deemed by quite a few to be “socialist.” The common folk cheered all he had to say.

   But not Walter Hüssy, the grown son of the local factory owners who had financially paid for the bulk of the church building’s construction a few years earlier. He penned an open letter to Barth, published in the town newspaper: “Barth’s agitating speech was an attempt to sow discord between employers and employees. The owners after all are those who pull the cart, and need some elbow room.”

   Barth replied, in the same newspaper: “My honored sir, may I loan or give you a few good books where you can teach yourself some things? You address me in my role as pastor, that I should have a mediating effect. That would suit you! With your permission however, as pastor I set myself a different program, over which I owe no accounting to you. You may be older than I, but nonetheless you are still young enough to develop better insights. I sincerely wish you that.”

   The following Sunday, the church was packed beyond capacity! The slugfest was all the talk of Safenwil. The paper published an anonymous column entitled “The Red Danger in Safenwil,” noting Barth’s subversive agitation, and stating uncertainty whether he was really a good Christian or not. The Hüssys promptly departed the church – with their large donations.

   His professor of theology in Basel, Paul Wernle, corresponded with him, leading him to rethink not the content but the tone of his remarks. Wernle suggested he’d answered “crudeness with crudeness and rudeness with rudeness.” Pondering this, Barth admitted “When I read Hüssy’s attack, I didn’t feel any personal offense, but a desire to fight: take up the sword of the Lord and Gideon! I didn’t intend anything but to run down an enemy of a good cause. But now, fourteen days later, as the smoke has cleared, I must acknowledge that I behaved in an Old Testament-like fashion. My gesture appears less heroic now, and I can sense all the egocentric aspects that contributed to it.”

   He resolved to do better next time. On this, he never made significant progress. Preaching five years later, he asked out loud if Safenwil didn’t need a different pastor, “a pastor from whose sermons the love of God emanates with such power that you have to feel it, that you are moved. I apparently am not able to speak to you in such a way, because apparently in myself there is something very deeply not in order with God.”

   I am moved by these words, and hope they were genuine. Barth, I believe, trusted so firmly in the power of the Word to effect change that, when he observed a listlessness, a lack of response in his people and the town, he looked within seeking an explanation.

   Soon thereafter, he grew more acerbic: “You wish for me to be a false prophet, the pastor who pleases the people. To have a pastor in this village means to have eternal unrest in the village, a person who in the most uncomfortable way will continually question everything and give unexpected replies to all questions.”

   And so, bugged by all of this, but also mortified by theologians who could curtsy to the German war efforts, he wrote his Epistle to the Romans, called by theologian Karl Adam “a bomb on the playground of the theologians.” A new congregation gathered around him: countless young theologians and pastors around the world breathing in his fresh new life. And his days of pastoring in a small village were over. Should we say … thankfully?

   For all of us screwing up the courage to say what we need to say, and searching for the right tone, in some little church somewhere, we want what is within us to be "in right order," and we want to speak truly - even if they do not ask or pay us to stir up eternal unrest. For me, noticing a titan like Karl Barth walked this same difficult road, is encouraging. 

***

  Check out Will Wold's "Preacher Lab" podcast, on which I was his guess in his latest episode - talking about the preaching life, of course.

What can we say November 27? Advent 1

   “God Became Small: Preaching Advent,” which reflects on the season and also has a load of illustrative material that might fit in any of the four Sundays.

    Isaiah 2:1-5. What is God’s coming about? Isaiah eloquently invites us to expect something broader than just me as an individual. It’s international, cosmic in scope. Preaching Advent is brief, and hopefully surprising, drawing people out into something beyond the narrowness of the year and the strictures of shopping and decorating. Perhaps reflecting on what we’re seeing through the James Webb telescope, which people seem fond of, is a way to draw people into greater awe and unfathomable expectation.

    Isaiah envisions (or God showed him!) a day when God’s purposes will be consummated. God’s seemingly little hill, Mt. Zion (hardly the highest!) will be the highest, nations will stream into it, all will learn and walk in God’s ways, and weapons will be reforged into implements of life and goodness. Why go to Mt. Zion/Jerusalem? Not to sight-see or have a religious experience, but “that he may teach us his ways, and that we might walk from his paths.” Some unlearning will be required: “Neither will they learn war any more” reminds us that it is learned, not just some natural inevitability.

    I love John August Swanson's "Festival of Lights." The sermon’s punchline is right in the text: “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!” (and in worship we can sing “I want to Walk as a Child of the Light”).

    Romans 13:11-14. So many pregnant, alluring phrases in this text! What time is it? Late in the year? or just beginning? Time to wake up! 

I think of Rip van Winkle, sleeping through the American revolution, or the “Sleepers of Ephesus,” who missed the years of transition from the persecution of Christianity to its official place in the empire. There’s some spiritual drowsiness, always, our whole culture preferring distraction, self-delusion, fake images, celebrities over heroes, pet notions over truth, ideology over ideals. There is a kind of sleepy-headed, almost comatose repetition of vapid, cultural Christmas customs.

    The waking isn’t like Frodo coming to in the joyful climax of The Return of the King. It’s, as Paul suggests, alarming. 

 Maria Skobtsova, known as Mother Maria of Paris, and now St. Mary of Paris, born 1891 in Latvia, executed in a Nazi concentration camp in 1945 for being part of the French resistance, wrote that “It would be a great lie to tell those who are searching: ‘Go to church, because there you will find peace.’ The opposite is true. The Church tells those who are at peace and asleep: ‘Go to church, because there you will feel real anguish for your sin and the world’s sin. There you will feel an insatiable hunger for Christ’s truth. There, instead of becoming lukewarm, you’ll be set on fire; instead of being pacified, you’ll become alarmed; instead of learning the wisdom of this world, you will become fools for Christ.”

   Americans also have “the Great Awakening,” a revival that was unanticipated and hard to understand today.  Read Jonathan Edwards’s dense, theologically muscular and not very entertaining sermons – and it’s hard to conceive that the masses, especially young adults, were stirred to renewed and deepened commitments to Christ.  Makes you wonder what might actually ‘work’ today.  Lighter, more accessible fare?  Or denser, harder stuff?

   I also think of Awakenings, the book by Oliver Sacks (and then the 1990 film) – the story of victims of an encephalitis epidemic who surprisingly began to do quite well after years of affliction.  All are fitting images of the power the Gospel might have on a vapid, routine kind of life.

   And then the text St. Augustine found when randomly opening his Bible – and everything changed. Can a text do that much heavy lifting? I love Sarah Ruden’s new translation of this moment in the Confessions: “I was weeping with agonizing anguish in my heart; and then I heard a voice from next door, a little boy or girl, I don’t know which, incessantly and insistently chanting, ‘Pick it up! Read it! Pick it up! Read it!’” – and it fell open to Romans 13, in particular this: ‘not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy’ (I was doing okay for the first four… but then the last two?).  ‘But put on the Lord Jesus’ (clothing again…), ‘and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires.’  We have made all sorts of provisions for the flesh to gratify its desires!  We speak fondly of ‘comfort food,’ or for all sorts of occasions we say ‘I need a drink,’ or ‘You deserve that vacation at the beach.’

   If you're doing the Augustine angle, don't forget Mary Oliver's wonderful (short, entirely memorable) poem: "Things take the time they take. / Don't worry. / How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine.”

    St. John Chrysostom commented on the almost inevitable connection between drunkenness and the others: “For nothing so kindles lust and sets wrath ablaze as drunkenness and tippling… Wherefore I exhort you, flee from fornication and the mother thereof, drunkenness.” We make total provision for the flesh – and even ask God to help!

   I shouldn’t diss the Gospel reading, Matthew 24:36-44. But the apocalyptists have ruined Jesus' ominous yet inviting talk about “the day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son” (as if God the Father arranged things so Jesus his son could enjoy plausible denial!). Spooky “left behind” images lead people down a path toward a curious kind of modern Gnosticism, don’t they? It’s all about readiness, not niceness, a vigilant and holy engagement with the things of God – not easily pulled off ever, much less in this season. There probably is something poignant in that it happens at “an unexpected hour” (v. 44). Why should it be different from anything else that matters? Bad news, sudden death, marriage ending, cancer diagnosis… Who saw it coming? I shuffle off to John Irving’s brilliant characterization (in A Prayer for Owen Meany) of the middle of those night phone calls: “burglar alarms of the heart.”

****

  Check out Will Wold's "Preacher Lab" podcast, on which I was his guess in his latest episode - talking about the preaching life, of course. And... 

   Check out my book, valuable for preachers and laity during Advent, Why This Jubilee? - reflections on carols, sacred and secular.

What can we say November 20? Christ the King

    Jeremiah 23:1-6. Pondering Christ the King, the lectionary suggests we should contrast the bad shepherds, the lousy kings, of which there were (and are!) plenty. We think “shepherd” as lowly, but in the ancient world, kings of vast empires were often spoken of as shepherds. Interesting, but this would be an unusual choice of lections for such a Sunday.

   Colossians 1:11-20. What a great text for Christ the King. I recall reading and then watching the film, The DaVinci Code, with my much beloved Ian McKellen playing the smug, sinister Leigh Teabing spouting absurdities about the 4^th century emperor Constantine imposing views of Jesus as divine on the subordinates in his empire. Colossians stands there, a mere 2, 3 at most decades after Jesus’ death, making the most extraordinary, divine claims about him. All of creation was about Jesus, by him for him. The language soars: he was/is/will always be the “image of God,” the “fulness of God,” “in whom all things hold together,” “the Head.”

   Colossians invites us to do what sermons too rarely do: simply to contemplate Jesus, to gaze, to be in awe. No moral, no takeaway. Dorothy Day, late in her life, was asked by Harvard sociologist Robert Coles to write some autobiographical recollections. Her reply? “I try to remember this life that the Lord gave me; the other day I wrote down the words ‘a life remembered,’ and I was going to try to make a summary for myself, write what mattered most – but I couldn’t do it. I just sat there and thought of our Lord, and His visit to us all those centuries ago, and I said to myself that my great luck was to have had Him on my mind for so long in my life!”

   He is the image. Coins in Paul’s world featured the image of the divine emperor. Jesus is fully stamped with God, and the image is genuine, not faked or exaggerated. Thinking image: I’m still stunned by Daniel Boorstin’s astonishingly perceptive book, The Image, which reads as if written in 2022, but it’s 60 years old now: “In this book I describe the world of our own making, how we have used our wealth, our literacy, our technology and our progress to create a thicket of unreality which stands between us and the facts of life.” He assesses our society’s self-deception, our national self-hypnosis, our insatiable demand for illusions. Celebrities substitute for heroes; American dreams are pitifully replaced by American illusions; images overshadow ideals. To say Jesus is the image of God could not be more counter-cultural.

   The beauty of Jesus as image of the true God? Dorothy Day fixated on Jesus, which served her and thousands of others well. David Ford wrote that the antidote to despair is praise. We praise Jesus. Despair flees. We are surprisingly liberated from the world portrayed by the Beatles’ “I me me mine.”

   He is the Center; in him all things hold together. In 1919, in the wake of the ravages of World War I, the Irish troubles, a flu pandemic to put Covid in the shade, and his wife critically ill, William Butler Yeats wrote, “The falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the center cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world; everywhere innocence is drowned; the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Surely the second coming is at hand.” There is no center any more. Only Jesus can fill that space.

   And he holds what is separated together. He’s all about reconciliation. He can do this as we turn to him, as we embody his compassion, his listening, his empathy. It’s like Fr. Greg Boyle’s “Geiger counter”: we look for beauty and goodness. We don’t measure, we meet; we see not sin but son. It works in the way Christian Wiman narrates falling in love, that “sudden rift in my life and mind, as if our love demanded some expression beyond blissful intensity our 2 lives made. Love isn’t limiting. He quotes Elizabeth Bowen: “To turn toward one face is to find your self face to face with everything.” Could it be that God turns toward us in this one child, and as we turn to him, we turn toward each other in hopeful, reconciling ways?

   He is our Head. We may be fond of thinking of the hands and feet of Christ, and dream of being these. But it’s his head, thinking, looking, talking, weeping, sighing, hearing, pierced… O Sacred Head Now Wounded indeed. This is his kingship on this Christ the King Sunday. A crown of thorns, not Queen Elizabeth’s crown of jewels and ermine.

   The notion that the whole purpose of creation was… Jesus: I try to think of the whole purpose of my life being something or another. Maybe it was that day I reported in Christian Century when the infant child of precious church members was rushed to Duke Medical Center, as they’d discovered a malignant tumor wrapped around her spinal cord. I drove 3 hours to be with this family, but I had no words. I just cried. A grinning pastor kin to them somehow materialized, spouting words of confidence – which I did not have. The pediatric oncologist got to me: he had a plan, something to be done. I was so useless, and wished I’d gone to medical school instead. I decided to leave ministry. Really.

   Then, late into the night, as I was about to excuse myself, the parents asked me if I could hold their daughter for a while. She hadn’t stopped crying for hours. They were exhausted, and had a massive day ahead. Yes, I could hold her. They went off, somewhere, and I rocked this crying baby. Finally, she settled and fell asleep. What did I have to offer? Brilliant sermons? Wise theology? Clever prayers? All I could do was hold her.

   It occurred to me that all my training, my Ph.D. in theology and all my worships and experience in ministry, were preparing me for just this moment, to do nothing but hold a crying child in the dark of night. She got some rest, as did her parents. Really: what more did I go into ministry for, after all? I thought of Mary and Joseph rocking Jesus in the dark. It really was all about just this. Maybe all of creation was just about this, Jesus, God’s precious, vulnerable, suffering child, held, cradled, much loved.

   Luke 23:33-43. Christ is king? Want to see what his reign is like? He looks down, suffering the worst physical horror, personal shame and terrible ignominy, and forgives the jokesters who are mocking him. They don’t ask for forgiveness; they don’t confess their sins; they have zero clue who he really is. Unasked, he forgives. That’s all we need to know about the vastness of God’s mercy.

    The thief, portrayed in medieval art as holding Jesus’ hand as they march into heaven, has no stake to mercy, but receives it, and lavishly. What could be more elegant than the Taize chorus, “Jesus, Remember me, when you come into your kingdom”?

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   Check out my book, valuable for preachers and laity during Advent, Why This Jubilee? - reflections on carols, sacred and secular.

What can we say November 13? 23rd after Pentecost

    Isaiah 65:17-25. God’s dream, our dream, such wonder – and yet when I read this text I sag a little and ask “How long?” Verse 17 says “I am about to…” That was in the 6^th century BCE. I guess “a thousand years are like a day” (Psalm 90:4) to God! – so we’re deep into God’s third day of God’s “about to.” Not cynical, but realistic – and well-worth naming in an honest sermon. This post-exilic prophet wasn’t merely expecting heaven / eternal life, but a real dawning here and now. Ours is to name it’s not here fully or all that obviously – and yet ours is to look for signs, glimpses, manifestations.

   Time works mystically for this prophet – and for God. Verse 22: “The work of their hands shall my Chosen outlive” (Robert Alter’s rendering). I think of Nouwen’s lovely thoughts in Our Greatest Gift on finding ways to be fruitful beyond our seasons of productivity. “The question is not how much more can I achieve or do, but how can I live so I can continue to be fruitful when I am no longer here?” Paul’s great resurrection chapter, 1 Corinthians 15, concludes with a plea that God “establish the work of our hands.” And Niebuhr’s wise thought: “Nothing worth doing can be achieved in a single lifetime; therefore we are saved by hope.”

   If “Thy will be done on earth as in heaven” is a thing, Isaiah 65’s vision that “no longer shall an infant live only a few days” might remind us that infant mortality or thriving is a reliable index of the quality of community life – making us attentive to the ways medical care and nutrition can be inaccessible or lousy, and what tasks we have now as we consider this. Housing – affordable, clean, even glorious – also figures in this text, and is another valid index of whether we are a just society or not, and what moves toward the top of our to-do list.

   I’m inspired, as you probably are, by Father Greg Boyle’s astonishing work with gang members. He never boasts of figuring out some clever technique for such work, but instead talks about seeing what God is doing in them, of seeing beauty in them, and celebrating God’s wonder with them. And I recall an amazing podcast about John Garland’s ministry at the Mexican border (“Maybe God: Can Loving ‘Illegals’ Save our Souls, part 2”) where he says it’s not so much doing something for someone, but just being there to bear witness to the beautiful thing God is doing. Indeed, Isaiah 65 was right, and continues to be right: God is and is about to do a new thing.

   Walter Brueggemann calls this text “a glorious artistic achievement. It is also an act of daring, doxological faith that refuses to be curbed by present circumstance. This poet knows that Yahweh’s coming newness is not contained within our present notions of the possible.”

   2 Thessalonians 3:6-13 would be daunting (for me at least) to preach. If I lay the text out, people would holler not “Amen” but “Get a real job!” What’s the trouble Paul’s dealing with? Had some in Thessalonika reverted to Greco-Roman patron-client relationships – within the Body of Christ? Or were some so enlightened, so sure the eschaton had dawned, that they forsook their jobs? Paul’s interest is pretty clearly mutual responsibility within the church.

   Luke 21:5-19 isn’t all that promising either. Jesus offers up a doom and gloom message. He certainly doesn’t promise peace or ease – a word for us clergy and for our laity. On the day I am writing this, I received 2 prayer requests from church members, noting how the world is such a mess, and so that wanted me to pray for them to have joy and peace despite all that. I replied by suggesting that if we are close to the heart of God during such times, we will not feel so much peace or joy, but we will share in God’s agony. Ministry, in sync with God, simply will not feel sunny or successful – if Jesus is any guide.

   I continue to be struck by the words of Maria Skobtsova, known as Mother Maria of Paris, and now St. Mary of Paris, born 1891 in Latvia, executed in a Nazi concentration camp in 1945 for being part of the French resistance: “It would be a great lie to tell those who are searching: ‘Go to church, because there you will find peace.’ The opposite is true. The Church tells those who are at peace and asleep: ‘Go to church, because there you will feel real anguish for your sin and the world’s sin. There you will feel an insatiable hunger for Christ’s truth. There, instead of becoming lukewarm, you’ll be set on fire; instead of being pacified, you’ll become alarmed; instead of learning the wisdom of this world, you will become fools for Christ.”

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   Check out my book, valuable for preachers and laity during Advent, Why This Jubilee? - reflections on carols, sacred and secular.

What can we say Nov. 6? All Saints / 22nd after Pentecost

   We will observe All Saints’ Day on November 6. If you are, let me refer you to my blog from the last time All Saints fell on a Sunday – with lots of reflections, illustrations and suggestions. The 2022 All Saints lections we’ll get to below. Right now, I want to touch on the Nov. 6, not-specifically-for-All-Saints texts.

    Haggai 1:15-29 would have been terrific for Reformation Sunday. The prophet tries to jostle the people out of their sleepy-headedness, out of their weary discouragement, and to rebuild the temple. The date he spoke? October 17, 520. I love the scholarly precision we find in the commentaries! Most standing there could not recall the former temple and its splendor. Could Haggai? Joshua and Zerubbabel (a name that is just so fun to say out loud!) could not as they’d been born in exile. Silver and gold will be required; the Lord claims it’s all his anyhow.

     The image we carry is that the temple they did build in response was modest, even shabby. But it can’t have been too shabby. It appears to have been a smidgeon larger than Solomon’s, and it stood for exactly 500 years until Herod took it down to replace it.

   2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 12-17 would be tough to preach, with the ominous Godless One stalking the people. Mind you, the notion of such a godless one being puffed up above all other objects of worship might give us the shivers, given all going on in our culture and wider world today. Luke 20:27-28 is (for me) another hard text to warm up to. Another good reason to stick with the All Saints’ lections!

   Ephesians 1:11-23 is one of those lovely texts that don’t require much explaining; it’s more eloquent just to linger over them. I certainly wouldn’t try to make such powerful words “relevant” or any such nonsense. They speak beautifully for themselves. I hope my people will notice I cherish these words, that I am personally awed by them. I hope to sound like a docent in a museum, pointing with gawking delight. Maybe my people will get caught up in the mood! The luxurious, lavish verbiage had to be mind-boggling to the early Christians, meager as their resources and prospects were. Frank Thielman is right: “Words that emphasize God’s meticulous planning pile up one upon another – purpose, work, counsel, will – how privileged are we!” Heirs, inheritances, riches, glory, destiny... 

   That last word, “destiny,” begs for a parenthesis. The old “God is in control” notion is ridiculous, of course. I love how Markus Barth (Karl’s son!) clarifies how personal this destining is: “It pertains exclusively to the relationship of the Father to his children. If no wise human father would treat his children according to a schedule fixed before their birth, how much less would the Father who is blessed in Ephesians 1:3-14!”

   The responsibilities of even the most fabulous heirs were driven home to me at the World Methodist Council in 1986 when Donald English reported on attending the wedding of Sarah Ferguson and Prince Andrew – and how the couple, immensely wealthy, able to do whatever they might wish, had bowed and pledged fealty to the crown, to the “rights and responsibilities” that went with being a royal couple.

    I love Paul’s “prayer report” here. It’s not so much that What we asked God for was ‘answered.’ What intrigues is the content of his prayer – that the recipients, the objects of his praying, might have a “spirit of wisdom and revelation,” that their “eyes of their hearts might be enlightened” (reminding me of St. Francis’s constant prayer during his season of conversion, “Most high, glorious God, enlighten the darkness of my heart, and give me, Lord, correct faith, firm hope, perfect charity, wisdom and perception, that I may do what is truly your most holy will.”

   Paul also prays for 3 things (Do you wish people prayed this for you? for one another?): (1) the hope to which he has called you, (2) the God’s glorious inheritance, and (3) the magnitude of God! Do we get such prayer requests? What if we did? The hope business: Emily Dickinson suggested that “Hope is the thing in the soul with feathers…” – but is it in the soul? Or is it more about God? Markus Barth, again: “The emphasis lies not so much on the mood of the person hoping as on the substance or subject matter of expectation.” It’s the thing hoped for. Christopher Lasch (in his marvelous The True and Only Heaven) clarified that optimism is the fantasy that all will be better tomorrow, and it depends on us; but hope is the ability to deal with tomorrow if things aren’t better – and it depends not on us but on God.

   Luke 6:20-31. Unsure nowadays whether to sing David Haas’s wonderful “Blest Are They,” after the trouble he got into. His text is also the far more beloved Matthean slant on the Beatitudes. Luke’s is tougher, adding the “Woe” moments absent in Matthew. We’d probably prefer Jesus bless the “poor in spirit” instead of more simply Luke’s “poor.”

   Clarence Jordan shrewdly pointed out that the poor prefer Luke, while the rest of us delight in Matthew! Jesus spoke to the poor, the nobodies – and blessed them. They were accustomed to being cursed, ignored or blamed – as we see in our world today. How amazing was Jesus? For All Saints’ Day, it’s hard not to hear the line “Blessed are those who mourn.” We come mourning, indeed – but we grieve as those who have hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Again, I trust the reading of the names in God’s holy place more than I trust my frail words to express the hope of the Gospel!

   Robert Schuller tried to modernize the text with the rubric “The Be-Happy Attitudes.” But Jesus isn’t issuing commandments, much less doling out advice for a chipper life. He blesses, he embraces, loves, knows, recognizes, and gives hope to the hopeless, to the people nobody else wants – and then he brings down a Woe! on the big dogs, those who think they’re somebody, and especially the self-righteous. Jesus’ words are light years from the conventional wisdom of our day. He doesn’t say Blessed are the good-looking, the successful, the well-connected, the white Americans, and he doesn’t say Woe to the immigrant, the unemployed, the lonely or the homeless. The preacher has one more chance just now to chip away at the façade of thin, culturally-mashed-down thinking, and open the window into Jesus’ revolutionary worldview.

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   Check out my book, valuable for preachers and laity during Advent, Why This Jubilee? - reflections on carols, sacred and secular.