Glory: on whose terms? (The First Sunday after Christmas Day, 12/29/2024)

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Readings

Good morning, and Merry Christmas!

Our lectionary has set a rich feast before us; the sermon could go in any number of directions. We might focus on John the Baptist and the surprising logic of being a witness. The Word the Gospel celebrates is described as a light. Why does the light need a witness? We might focus on Jesus’ coming as opening the path to our becoming God’s daughters and sons. Or we might—and we will—wonder about the odd disconnect between the passion for Jerusalem in Isaiah and the psalm and those sober lines in the Gospel: “He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.”

Jerusalem, both a specific city at a particular longitude and latitude and one of the Bible’s central symbols for God’s passion to create and preserve a life-giving community. God deals with us individually. But because to be human—as Aristotle memorably defined it—is to be a political animal, dealing with us individually means dealing equally with our communities and institutions.

For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent,
and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest,
until her vindication shines out like the dawn,
and her salvation like a burning torch.

So Isaiah. And in the psalm the salvation of the individual and the salvation of Jerusalem are inseparable:

Worship the Lord, O Jerusalem; *
praise your God, O Zion;
For he has strengthened the bars of your gates; *
he has blessed your children within you.
He has established peace on your borders; *
he satisfies you with the finest wheat.

And in the run-up to Jesus’ birth as described in Luke’s Gospel this vision and these hopes are on full display. And then the lines in the Gospel prologue: “He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.” Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory.

How do we make sense of this strange story? The convenient answer: well, what do you expect from the Jews? Tapping into the latent anti-Semitism in our culture is convenient, because it lets us off the hook. But with Jesus, the apostles, all the New Testament writers being Jews, that’s a non-starter. How do we make sense of it all going sideways?

Let’s go back to Isaiah’s words:

For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent,
and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest,
until her vindication shines out like the dawn,
and her salvation like a burning torch.

In Jesus’ time Jews argued about how to hear those words. At one end of the scale: Jerusalem’s vindication as the condemnation of the gentiles. (The Zealots were here: the only good Roman is a dead Roman.) The other end of the scale: Jerusalem’s vindication as the salvation of the gentiles. And that’s where Jesus was.

It starts already in the angel’s proclamation to the shepherds: “Do not be afraid; for see– I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people” (Luke 2:10).

Fast forward to Jesus reading Isaiah in the synagogue in Nazareth: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” From a nationalistic perspective, so far so good. But then Jesus chooses examples: Elijah in the famine providing for a gentile, that widow at Zarephath in Sidon; Elisha healing Naaman the Syrian of leprosy.

That argument keeps popping up, so that at the end when the Jerusalem crowd has the choice of sparing Barabbas, who’s killed Romans, and Jesus, who hasn’t…

“He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him”—because Jesus did not offer vindication on their terms.

So God’s story ends in defeat or in a long drawn-out stalemate? Hardly. “But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God.” Receiving Jesus, believing in Jesus’ name: beginning with Holy Baptism that’s a life-long process. We don’t easily give up getting vindication on our own terms. But through this process God’s glory becomes visible, which was and is the point of Jerusalem’s vindication. Paul writes to the Corinthians: “You are God’s building… God’s temple is holy and you are that temple” (1 Cor 3:9, 17).

God’s glory, God’s healing, off-the-scale love in all its beauty and terror. (For John the Evangelist, recall, Jesus’ glorification and Jesus’ crucifixion are the same event.) God’s glory, Jerusalem’s vindication on God’s terms, the healing of the nations. We celebrate it in Jesus; Paul looks to celebrate it everywhere from Corinth…to Sun Prairie. While John the Evangelist writes “and we have seen his glory,” the story doesn’t even pause there. We assemble, we extend our hands to receive into ourselves Jesus’ Body, Jesus’ Blood, because there’s a whole world out there hungry for God’s glory.

Amen, and Merry Christmas!

The Riddle (Christmas Day, 12/25/2024)

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Some centuries before tonight’s events, the prophet Elijah’s generation was immersed in profound change—economic, social, cultural—you name it. The fear and anxiety in the air did not leave Elijah untouched. At one point he journeyed to Mt Sinai: “I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away” (1 Ki. 19:10).

As the story goes, the LORD said “’Go out and stand on the mountain before the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by.’ Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence” (1 Ki. 19:11-12).

All these convulsions, and the LORD is in none of them—until “a sound of sheer silence.” Surprising, both because these convulsions were characteristic on the LORD’s presence when Moses and the people showed up centuries earier at Sinai, and because these are the sort of convulsions Elijah probably thought necessary for the LORD to sort things out. But no: “a sound of sheer silence.” So the LORD’s appearance turns out to be a riddle: Who is this God? What is this God up to? What does this God want from us?

Tonight’s events mirror Elijah’s experience. All during Advent we’ve been praying “O come, O come Emmanuel,” our prayers echoing so many biblical texts (Isaiah: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence” [Isa. 64:1]), and channeling our own fears and anxieties. An angel appears, then the choir of the angelic army (recall the Red Army Choir)—and the shepherds are directed to… a newborn baby: a sound of sheer silence—except when the diaper needs changing. All these images of irresistible power (the angel’s first words: “Do not be afraid”)—and then this baby. After four weeks of “O come, O come” and hoping (perhaps? probably?) for something like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s coming in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, a newborn baby. So we’re right there with Elijah: Who is this God? What is this God up to? What does this God want from us?

Whatever else Christmas is, it’s that riddle. Let us go with the shepherds to pay attention to that riddle; our lives and peace hang on it.

“Good, I’m not crazy.” Mary & Elizabeth compare notes (4th Sunday of Advent, 12/22/2024)

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There’s a double dose of good news in today’s readings: God is indeed coming to set things right, and God generously invites us to be part of this. We’ll start with the invitation, then move to the setting things right.

The Gospel reading starts out “In those days…” If we ask “which days?” we need to go back a few verses and hear the angel Gabriel saying to Mary: “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

“Do not be afraid…” first, probably, because angels are powerful creatures. Gabriel’s one of the more powerful and he’s standing right there in the living room. But “Do not be afraid…” also because Mary’s a Jew, whose people have been colonized by a series of pagan empires for over five hundred years, Rome simply being the latest. Mary has to think back over 500 years to remember a time when the Jews were free—if only in theory. If we had to think that far back it’d put us before Columbus. After all that time, can the God of King David, who many think has been conspicuously absent for the last 500 years, be trusted?

Mary trusts, and at the end of the conversation responds “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” God gives Mary—gives us—the quite amazing dignity of being agents in this story. Recalling our reading from Hebrews, Jesus is able to say “See, I have come to do your will” because Mary has given her “Here am I.” Jesus offers up his body because Mary has offered hers up: “let it be with me according to your word.”

Mary’s response brings us up to today’s reading, in which Mary heads for the one person who might understand what she’s just gotten herself into. Elizabeth, her relative, is also pregnant, despite being “advanced in years” and previously judged barren. An angel had been involved in that one also. A year before all this happened, neither Elizabeth nor Mary would have had any thought of being part of a divine project of this magnitude. But here they are.

Elizabeth greets Mary, and her speech takes up most of the Gospel reading. We read Mary’s reply, “The Song of Mary,” between the first two lessons. It’s one conversation.

Why did Luke include this scene? It doesn’t particularly advance the action. But it shows us something we almost never see elsewhere in the Gospels, and never at this length: two disciples talking to each other. And what comes through in both their speeches is a combination of “Oh, good, I’m not crazy,” wonder at being in the story at all, and a fierce joy at what God is doing.

“Oh, good, I’m not crazy.” Neither of them say that; I suspect both were thinking it: Elizabeth, preparing to be a mother when most of her friends are enjoying being grandmothers, Mary, with the angel’s voice—it was an angel, wasn’t it?—ringing in her ears. When you get caught up in God’s projects it helps to have someone with whom to run a sanity check. This is why God puts us into congregations.

Both are a little dazed at being in the story at all. “[W]hy has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” “[F]or he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.” And the joy: present in Elizabeth’s “the mother of my Lord” and developed throughout Mary’s song.

Repentance, about which we’ve been speaking these last weeks, is not the focus of the Christian life. That would be like a photographer spending all her time cleaning her lenses. But it’s necessary so that something interesting can happen. And in the encounter between Elizabeth and Mary, we have an image of what that “something interesting” might look like. Two strong women, dreaming dreams and seeing visions, supported by and rejoicing in each other’s friendship, rejoicing in the first stirrings—quite literally—of what God is doing in their midst.

God’s generous invitation to be part of God’s good news, extended not just to Elizabeth and Mary, but to each one of us. Recall Paul’s absurdly mixed metaphor: “My children, I am going through the pain of giving birth to you all over again, until Christ is formed in you” (Gal. 4:19 NJB). Until Christ is formed in you.

Now, what about this business of God coming to set things right? Here we might focus on these lines from Mary’s song:

He has shown the strength of his arm,
he has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.

Mary’s channeling pretty much the entire biblical witness here: we as a race have turned away from God and as a result regularly commit atrocities against our neighbors, all of whom bear God’s image. So “setting things right” is more than a bit of reform here or there. The status quo is inhuman. No wonder that the British banned the singing of Mary’s song in India during their rule, or that in the 1980’s the Guatemalan government banned its public recitation, or the military junta in Argentina banned its public display.[1]

Is God’s coming good news? If my status and riches depend on oppression and violence, not so much. So, not surprisingly, some of the most pointed prayers in the Book of Common Prayer are assigned to these four weeks of Advent:

Week 1: …give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…

Week 2: …Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins…

Week 3: …because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us;

Week 4: Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation…

So, in one of our prayers of confession, we acknowledge “the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.”Is God’s coming good news? Depends on which side I’m on, the sheep or the goats, and the Advent season pleads with us to take this seriously.

OK, preacher, how do we witness to this? If the status quo is inhumane, what do we do? A good chunk of the New Testament is devoted to this question; consider these snapshots:

Jesus’ instruction: “You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” (Mk. 10:42-44)

Philemon is a slave-owner and Onesimus a slave: Paul tells Philemon they need to treat each other as brothers in Christ. That plants the seed that eventually results in many countries abolishing slavery.

The first witnesses to the resurrection are women, and Junia is recognized among the apostles (Rom 16:7). Things like these plant the seed that eventually results in women winning civil rights and, in some parts of the Christian Church, the barriers falling to ordination.

“Honor the emperor” (1 Peter 2:17)—and hold the empire accountable for the pretty language it uses to describe its values (Acts 16:35-40).

In short, the default strategy is consenting to God transforming our life together in the church (“let it be with me according to your word.”) and that acting as a catalyst—as leaven—for the whole loaf. And, when it comes to it (“We must obey God rather than any human authority.” ([Acts 5:29]), not being afraid to cause “good trouble.”

God is coming to set things right and—wonder of wonders—we’re invited to be a part of that. How might that play out in the week ahead?

[1] See http://enemylove.com/subversive-magnificat-mary-expected-messiah-to-be-like/, accessed 12/7/2021.

John the Baptist on putting “trust and be not afraid” into practice (3rd Sunday of Advent, December 15, 2024)

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So, today’s candle, pink, not violet. The traditional name for the third Sunday of Advent is Gaudete (Rejoice). There’s plenty of rejoicing in the first three readings, but John the Baptist’s instructions might sound more like violet. And Luke ends that account with “So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.” How’s that good news?

Last week we heard John saying “Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low.” Well, there go the property values! God’s coming to sort things out. Whether I hear that as good news can easily depend on how comfortable I am with current arrangements (economic, social, etc.). So Luke’s “good news to the people” might be a challenge: am I willing to stand enough with the poor and dispossessed to welcome God’s coming as good news?

God’s sorting things out: how’s that supposed to work? Zephaniah: “I will deal with all your oppressors at that time.” John: “His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” Here what John does is more important than what John says, because it’s too easy to interpret John’s words (and many other words in Scripture) in ways that collide with Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s observation (“If only there were evil people somewhere, insidiously committing evil deeds”, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”). John calls everyone to baptism: everyone in the water! Continuing repentance is everyone’s work.

Nevertheless, this pink candle: Rejoice. Rejoice, not because things are rosy, but because God’s coming. Paul: “The Lord is near.” Or, with Isaiah: “I will trust in him and not be afraid.” Isaiah isn’t talking about emotions. Often fear is knocking on the door. It’s a matter of what we choose to do, let fear in or let it keep knocking; act on the basis of fear, or trust.

This is what John the Baptist is talking about in the bulk of today’s reading. Yes, he’s talking about repentance. But ‘repentance’ is just a fancy word for making a U-turn: stop doing that, start doing this. Stop acting out of fear (tax collectors: collecting more than prescribed; soldiers: false accusations); start acting out of trust (“Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.”). For John, as for Scripture in general, fear and trust aren’t isolated emotions, but the more-or-less conscious motors of our everyday actions.

Two more things about fear and trust, and then we’re about done. First, notice that John’s instructions mostly have to do with the moments when we may think we’re not accountable to anyone. During Advent our culture directs us largely to observable matters: getting the Christmas lights up, sending out cards, buying gifts, issuing invitations. Our tradition doesn’t denigrate that, but does direct us to the non-observable matters, the things we think to do with impunity. While these things may represent a small or large sphere of action; they are our clearest testimony to whether we view God’s coming kingdom as good news or not. And the choices we make there are forming us into people who will feel at home in that kingdom—or not.

Second, these actions expressing trust: in Zephaniah we heard “And I will save the lame and gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise and renown in all the earth.” One of the ways God does this is through the trusting actions of former oppressors. So the “Gaudete/Rejoice” is about not just God’s future coming, but about the present effects of our responses to that coming.

How might we summarize John’s “good news” today? The Coming One, who baptizes with the Holy Spirit and fire, is more than capable of empowering us to act in the daily grind not out of fear, but out of trust. Rejoice!

Repentance (2nd Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024)

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Readings

In our second reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians we heard: “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians is known as Paul’s joyful epistle: God is powerfully at work in Philippi; Paul and the Philippians get to be part of it. But Paul’s words caution: there’s been a good beginning; there’s still a good way to go for the completion. And in between the beginning and completion he calls even the Philippians to repentance.

Paul, we might say, is happy to channel Malachi and John the Baptist—also when addressing the baptized!

Last Sunday we entered Advent praying “Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…” Casting away the works of darkness is, of course, not simply what we do the first week of Advent, but what we do continually as Christians. We learn—and it is a lifelong task—how to recognize ourselves as sinners. It is like peeling an onion: layer after layer, and sometimes involving tears. As Luther put it in the first of his 95 theses: “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, “Repent” (Mt 4:17), he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.”

Repentance, of course, is not a stand-alone project. The “entire life of believers” revolves around loving God and neighbor. Repentance is about what gets in the way of that love.

Repentance, the core of our work in Advent. The classic treatment of repentance is in one of the homilies Queen Elizabeth sent to us clergy in 1562. This sermon is simply a summary and contextualization of that homily. Repentance: a process involving four steps: contrition, confession, faith, and amendment of life.

Contrition Contrition is expressed chiefly in the confession itself: “We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, / which we from time to time most grievously have committed, / by thought, word, and deed… / We do earnestly repent, / and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; / the remembrance of them is grievous unto us, / the burden of them is intolerable.” A great deal of Scripture’s testimony is condensed in these words. God loves us—yes. We’re created in God’s image—yes. But we’ve responded to that love rather badly and marred that image. And so we return again and again to these words. They may or may not match my current self-image. If there’s a disconnect between the words and my self-image, the problem isn’t with the words.

Contrition involves both awareness of sin and sorrow for sin. Sometimes this comes easily. We screw up royally, we know it, we do what’s necessary so that it doesn’t happen again. There are some mistakes we only have to make once. That’s how contrition is supposed to work.

Often awareness of sin and sorrow for sin don’t come quite so easily. The minority party within us is aware; the majority is all for blurring the issue, changing the subject. We lack the imagination to see the effects of our sin on us and those around us.

Here’s one test. I should be able to talk about everything I do with someone. If I’m doing things that I can’t talk to anyone about, that isn’t simply a red flag. That’s all the klaxons going off and all the red lights flashing.

Sometimes the contrition we need has to do with sins we’re completely unaware of, but which those around us are quite aware of. So here’s the question: am I listening for what they might be telling me? Most of us do not like criticism, and our neighbors know that. So they’d be crazy to give a direct answer to “Tell me what you really think.” But if we’re trying to listen to both what is said and to the silences—with minimal filtering from our own fears and agendas we might pick up what we need to hear.

But whether it takes a short time or a long time to get to awareness of and sorrow for sin, in all cases it’s a matter of keeping the eye on the goal, love of God and neighbor. What’s making that harder? What’s eroding my desire to even achieve that goal?

And when for a particular sin we get to awareness and sorrow, it’s time to move on to the next step. There’s no value in wallowing in contrition (“Oh, what a terrible person I am!”), and it can quickly become counterproductive.

Confession Confession,expressed chiefly in the confession itself, is a matter of taking responsibility for these manifold sins and wickedness. Of course, none of these happened in a vacuum, but however much nature or nurture made these easier, they are still our acts, and we remain trapped by them until we acknowledge them as ours, until we confess.

Faith Here we’re not talking about faith in general, but the faith or trust that God will in fact forgive my sins, be merciful to me. There’s an important circle here that can spiral either upwards or downwards. If I feel little need for God’s mercy, I don’t need much faith in God’s mercy. I may not dare open myself to knowledge of that need without some of that faith. As I learn how much I need that mercy, the faith needs to keep up with the knowledge, or I end up in denial, spiral downwards. To assist that faith, in Rite I itself, after the absolution there is the option of reading one or more sentences that emphasize God’s mercy (page 332). To the degree that I’ve let myself acknowledge my need, I may really need to hear those! And, hearing those, I can continue to grow in self knowledge, and in faith in God’s mercy, and the spiral can continue upward.

By the way, sometimes believing that God will forgive my sins, be merciful to me, is difficult enough that it’s worth scheduling private confession with a priest. Sometimes hearing “The Lord has put away all your sins” face to face is exactly what I need to hear.

Amendment of life The invitation to confession already points us toward amendment of life: “and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his holy ways” Toward the end of the confession we pray “and grant that we may ever hereafter / serve and please thee in newness of life, / to the honor and glory of thy Name.” In the Absolution: “confirm and strengthen you in all goodness”: this is not going to be easy. Were it easy, “strengthen you” would be an unnecessary petition.

Amendment of life isn’t easy. It involves change. It can be painful. The good news is that we don’t have to do it alone. It helps to have a friend with whom you can share your journey and get some accountability. You have a deacon and will soon have a regular priest: make use of them!

In our tradition we don’t expect to reach perfection in this life—but that’s no reason not to work towards it. We might work towards it for the sake of better loving God and neighbor, but few of us are far enough along spiritually for that to be a reliably sustainable motive. So here’s a more sustainable motive: the alternatives to amendment of life are even more painful. Recall M Scott Peck’s opening argument in his book The Road Less Traveled: “Life is difficult.… What makes life difficult is that the process of confronting and solving problems is a painful one.… Fearing the pain involved, almost all of us, to a greater or lesser degree, attempt to avoid problems” And, finally, this attempt “becomes more painful than the legitimate suffering it was designed to avoid.” So, amendment of life, the less painful option.

“And I am sure that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” We live between the beginning and the completion, and repentance is an ongoing part of our commitment to love God and neighbor. Repentance: Contrition, confession, faith, amendment of life. Sustained and empowered by Almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, let us renew our dedication to this work as we continue in Advent.

Hope (1st Sunday of Advent, December 1, 2024)

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Readings

And so we begin another year, with all the hopes and fears anything new brings. The readings and the liturgy can pretty much carry us along; perhaps what the sermon can offer is attention to three of the images in or behind our readings.

The first is that word “righteous” in Jeremiah. “A righteous Branch… execute justice and righteousness… Jerusalem… called: ‘The LORD is our righteousness.’”

“Righteous” and “Righteousness” are today pretty much restricted to religious contexts. That’s a pity, because ‘righteous’ (tsaddiq in Hebrew) is a remarkably useful word. A person who is righteous (a tsaddiq) is a person who does what needs to be done to fulfill the obligations of a relationship, even if it means coloring outside the lines.

In the Old Testament one of the classic examples of the tsaddiq is the widow Tamar. She owes it to her dead husband to have a son who’ll carry on his name. But her father-in-law, Judah, is standing in the way, and has shown no sign of budging. So, off with the widow’s garb, on with the prostitute’s garb, and she has the son by an oblivious Judah. Judah’s outraged—until she shows him the credit card receipt—but then has to acknowledge her as the more righteous: she’s done what’s necessary to carry on her husband’s (Judah’s son’s) name. She’s the Tamar who shows up in Jesus’ genealogy in Matthew.

The Lord, precisely in this sense, is righteous. It doesn’t matter how powerful Israel’s enemies are. It doesn’t matter how deep a hole Israel has dug herself in. The last thing the Lord will say is “Well, you brought this on yourself; what do you expect me to do?” The Lord is righteous. If that means bringing Israel out of Egypt, opening a way through the sea, the Lord will do it. If that means toppling the Babylonian Empire so the exiles can return home, the Lord will do it. If it means taking on human flesh to live as one of us, the Lord will do it. The Lord is righteous.

It’s that confidence in the Lord’s righteousness that animates the psalm. It doesn’t matter what combination of external enemies and self-inflicted wounds the psalmist is dealing with: the Lord can and will sort it out. That’s the confidence the psalm—and our tradition—invite us to share. The Lord is righteous, creative, stubborn; the Lord will sort it out.

The second image is from the Gospel, “the Son of Man coming in a cloud.” We heard those same words last Sunday in vision from Daniel 7. Recall the vision: Daniel sees a series of four beasts, each more terrifying than the last, with the last one hounding God’s people. But then the Ancient One comes onstage, the beasts are dealt with, and “the Son of Man coming in a cloud”—that one receives kingship. (And so we heard the text at the Feast of Christ the King.) It’s a remarkably hopeful vision: the face of the human future is not bestial, but human. The terrorists don’t win. The surveillance state doesn’t win. God bats last; God and humanity win.

You see, if the future that awaits us is bestial, then the dissipation and drunkenness Jesus warns us against in today’s Gospel sound like pretty good options. If the future that awaits us is bestial, then the invitation “to cast away the works of darkness” is futile. But the future that awaits us has a human face, Jesus’ face, so hope—with the swimming upstream that it entails—is the rational response.

The Lord is righteous. This Son of Man secures a human future. Two images from our readings. The third image lies just below the surface and serves as the motor. It’s captured in one of the carols that didn’t make it into our hymnal: “Tomorrow shall be my dancing day: / I would my true love did so chance / To see the legend of my play, / To call my true love to my dance: / Sing, O my love, O my love, my love, my love; / This have I done for my true love.” That’s the story we’re in, “we” as the human race, “we” as each individual. How the Nicene Creed manages to summarize this romance, this love story, without using the word ‘love’ is a head-scratcher. Anyhow, as love is necessarily a joint project, God’s standing invitation: let’s write this story together. And in that spirit the Church invites us into this season of Advent.

Cristo Rey: ¿Y estamos celebrando qué precisamente? (24 de noviembre, 2024)

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Hoy estamos celebrando la fiesta de Cristo Rey. Pero, ¿qué estamos celebrando exactamente?

Nuestro salmo ofrece una respuesta: poder. “Más potente que la voz de muchas aguas, / más potente que los rompientes del mar, / más potente es el Señor en las alturas.” Y, bueno, la cuestión de poder es bien presente en las otras lecturas.

Recordemos el contexto de la primera lectura. En una visión Daniel veía cuatro bestias saliendo de un mar turbulento, cada bestia más espantosa que las previas, y la última bestia luchando contra y venciendo al pueblo de Dios. Entonces la llegada del Anciano, con “un hijo de hombre” recibiendo “el poder, la gloria, y el reino.”

Escuchamos el mismo tema en la Revelación: “Jesucristo… tiene autoridad sobre los reyes de la tierra.”

Y en el Evangelio, Pilato ostentando su poder sobre el preso. Si hubiéramos leído un versículo más, habríamos escuchado la réplica de Pilato: “¿Y qué es la verdad?” En el mundo de Pilato, con suficiente poder, la verdad no importa. Y este es el mundo que nos aguarda afuera.

Bueno. Con inmensa gratitud celebramos el poder de nuestro Dios. Sin este poder no hay salida. Entonces, aprovechemos las oportunidades de fortalecer nuestro sentido de su poder, o en estas lecturas o en nuestras experiencias con la grandeza de su creación.

Sin embargo, si estamos celebrando solamente este poder, tenemos un problema. ¿Por qué tenemos que vivir en la parte de Daniel 7 donde la bestia lucha contra y vence al pueblo de Dios y no en la parte donde el poder, la gloria, y el reino de este hijo de hombre es obvio? ¿Por qué tenemos que vivir en el mundo de Pilato donde Pilato tiene la última palabra?

No tengo la respuesta. En las palabras de Dios por Isaías: “mis ideas no son como las de ustedes” (55:8). Pero en nuestros textos sí hay un indicio. La bestia lucha contra el pueblo de Dios. Y ¿qué sabemos de este pueblo de Dios? En la Revelación: “Cristo nos ama, y nos ha librado de nuestros pecados.” ¿Quiénes somos? Amados, pecadores librados. Entonces, aunque podemos hablar—como hablan muchos de los salmos—de los justos y los malos, debemos hablar también de pecadores recibiendo la libertad que Dios ofrece y de pecadores rechazándola. Jesucristo ama a Pedro…y a Pilato. En la primera carta de Pablo a Timoteo: Dios “quiere que todos se salven y lleguen a conocer la verdad” (2:4). O, como Jesús ben Sirac lo expresa en Eclesiástico, “El hombre se compadece solo de su prójimo, pero el Señor se compadece de todo ser viviente; él reprende, corrige, enseña, y guía como un pastor a su rebaño” (18:13).

Por eso, el poder de Dios es buenas noticias para nosotros los pecadores porque Dios es—primero—Amor, y emplea su poder con paciencia. Paciencia con nosotros, paciencia con nuestros enemigos. Y quizá—quizá—esta es una parte de la respuesta a nuestra pregunta. ¿Por qué seguimos diciendo “Cristo volverá”? También porque Dios es paciente.

Y si Dios es paciente, que nosotros—pecadores recibiendo la libertad que Dios ofrece—seamos pacientes, compasivos, con nuestros prójimos, también con nuestros enemigos. No como una expresión de resignación o de impotencia, sino porque así se comparta nuestro Dios. ¡Viva Cristo Rey!

An invitation to joyful confidence and humble wisdom (25th Sunday after Pentecost, 11/17/2024)

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Readings (Track 2)

Our readings from Daniel and Mark make quite a pair. The Daniel reading ends a long description of the Last Things; the Mark reading begins a long description of the Last Things. In both, all hell is breaking loose or is about to. In both, hell doesn’t get the last word. How are our innards supposed to respond? Both readings—together with the psalm and epistle—are an invitation to joyful confidence and humble wisdom. Joyful confidence and humble wisdom. Let’s see if you agree.

Psalm 16. It’s one of the Psalter’s many individual petitions. “Protect me, O God, for I take refuge in you.” The situation is lethal; the Grave and the Pit are in view. Nevertheless, the psalmist is confident in the Lord’s power and goodness, so the overriding emotion is joy, both in the present and anticipated in the future. Fear’s probably knocking (pounding?) on the door. But the psalmist doesn’t have to answer; we don’t have to answer every robocall.

So giving attention to joy’s a choice. If we pay attention, there’s joy in the present: “My boundaries enclose a pleasant land; / indeed, I have a goodly heritage.” And in the future: “And in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.” Those who’ve read C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters may recall that senior devil’s rant (“[God’s] a hedonist at heart.”[1]). In the present:

And since the other readings will get us thinking about wisdom, notice v.7: “I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel; / my heart teaches me, night after night.” Counsel, actionable wisdom, on an ongoing basis.

What the psalmist is experiencing is what we pray for in that short prayer immediately following Baptism: “Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.” The psalm gives us a palpable picture of how God’s answer to that prayer can be experienced.

So, an invitation to a confidence that generates joy.

Hebrews. The psalmist’s confidence rested on the Lord’s experienced power and goodness, experienced by the psalmist and the psalmist’s community. The confidence repeatedly expressed in our Hebrews text rests on that same power and goodness at work in Jesus—as we celebrate at every Eucharist. And here the confidence generates corporate faithfulness.

Turns out our 21st century temptations aren’t all that different from 1st century temptations. “Not neglecting to meet together.” It can be a strong temptation: anything to avoid having to deal with that person. But withdrawal makes the same sense for a Christian as it does for a football player. “So you’re a football player. What team are you on?” “No team, just a football player.”

Anyhow, an invitation to the confidence that generates corporate faithfulness.

Mark. Our Mark reading starts by continuing the eyesight issue from last week. What do the disciples see when they see a scribe? What do they see watching the very different gifts of the rich and the poor widow? Even after three years with Jesus, he’s still working on their eyesight. Today, looking at the temple, the disciples are all “Ooh, Aah,” when you don’t even have to be a prophet to know that between the high taxes and the Zealots, the temple’s days are numbered. But Jesus keeps trying—as he does with us.

As the reading continues some disciples ask “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” They want a timetable, information out there that doesn’t require any change on their part. Jesus has no interest in giving that sort of answer. His answer instead is punctuated by “Beware!” —sometimes better translated as “Watch!” or “On guard!” The future will demand wisdom, discernment. From Scripture’s perspective the only wisdom worth the name is a humble wisdom, a wisdom ever-aware of its own limits. So, in Jesus’ answer: don’t try to prepare your speech for the hostile authorities beforehand—the Holy Spirit will take care of that; don’t assume you know when the Master will return.

However we summarize Jesus’ answer (“All hell will break loose, but hell doesn’t get the last word!”), it clearly invites confidence. Equally clearly, an invitation to humble wisdom, without which that confidence will probably be counterproductive.

Daniel. The bottom line of that long description running from chapter 10 to 12: the Lord is sovereign, whether in the times of the Persians or the Greeks, whether the faithful are honored or hunted. The last verse supplies the exclamation point: “Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever.”

Let’s stay with that verse for a bit. That word ‘wise’ has shown up repeatedly in Daniel. It introduces Daniel and his three companions back in chapter 1; it characterizes the persecuted faithful in the days of Antiochus Epiphanes (chapter 11), whose genocidal policies sparked the Maccabean revolt. In Isaiah, it introduces the servant in the fourth “Servant Song:” “See, my servant shall prosper [be wise].” That same Song is probably responsible for the description “those who lead many to righteousness.”

“Those who are wise.” In the book of Daniel, Daniel and his companions are the paradigms of the wise. By their time, Lady Wisdom, participant in God’s creation, “delighting in the human race” (Prov. 8:31), and Moses’ Law had pretty much merged. So Daniel and his companions carefully observe Moses’ Law. Perhaps surprisingly, this frees them to give their best service to foreign kings. I think Jeremiah, who wrote “But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile” (Jer. 29:7), would have liked that.

Jumping ahead, in a variety of ways the New Testament celebrates Jesus as the incarnation of Wisdom. Back in Proverbs, the personification of wisdom as Lady Wisdom was more than a rhetorical ornament. It captured the insight that gaining wisdom is more like getting to know a person than accumulating innumerable maxims. The incarnation seals that: if I seek wisdom, I seek to know Jesus. Not simply Jesus’ teaching or Jesus’ example—these can quickly and conveniently become abstractions—but Jesus himself, with all the open-endedness and mystery any personal relationship involves.

But talk of wisdom is dangerous, as Proverbs already recognized: “Do you see persons wise in their own eyes? There is more hope for fools than for them” (Prov. 26:12). Wisdom neglectful of its own limits is no wisdom. And I don’t escape that danger by announcing that I’m seeking to know Jesus. It’s tempting to cherry-pick the parts of Jesus I find attractive. But, for example, Jesus aligned with none of the Jewish parties: Pharisees, Sadducees, Herodians, Zealots, Qumran separatists, etc., and annoyed most of them. He cut diagonally across all of them. I would expect the same to be true of our parties today, whether political or religious. So if Jesus is not periodically annoying me, I’m probably cherry-picking.

Coming at the same issue from a different direction, it’s easy to assume that after baptism and confirmation we’ve got the basics, and it’s just a matter of—as the Hobbits would say—“filling up the corners.” The Chilean priest Segundo Galilea is closer to the truth when he writes “Let’s not assume that a Christian believes in and prays to the Christian God. There are always ambiguities and subtle idolatries in the God they adore and follow. Getting acquainted with and conversion to the God of the Gospel is a task for one’s entire life, and for everyone.”[2]

But isn’t emphasizing the limits of our wisdom a buzzkill? Recall the baptismal prayer: “the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.” When wonder, awe, even curiosity kick in, the limits of our wisdom move over into the “Win” column.

To resume, as in Mark, our Daniel text invites us to confidence (“All hell will break loose, but hell doesn’t get the last word!”) and wisdom. And here I’ve spent more time pulling back the camera to notice the importance of a wisdom that stays conscious of its limits.

And, pulling back the camera in a different direction, taking in the Book of Daniel as a whole, what that confidence and wisdom do is create a quite remarkable freedom to engage Empire. Sometimes there are happy endings: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego; Daniel in the lion’s den. Sometimes not. In the runup to today’s text we hear “The wise among the people shall give understanding to many; for some days, however, they shall fall by sword and flame, and suffer captivity and plunder” (Dan. 11:33). It’s not that the wise (the faithful) have changed their strategy; it’s just that the choices of the powerful are sometimes wise, sometimes foolish. And that lies beyond our control, but not the Lord’s. With Daniel and Mark: the Lord bats last.

[1] Chapter 22.

[2] “No pensemos que a priori un católico cree y ora al Dios cristiano. Siempre hay ambigüedades e ‘idolatrías’ sutiles en el Dios que adora y sigue. El conocimiento y conversión al Dios del evangelio es una tarea para toda la vida y para todos” (El camino de la Espiritualidad, p.55).

“Then the eyes of the blind [disciples] shall be opened” (24th Sunday after Pentecost, 11/3/2024)

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Readings (Track 1)

Centuries before Jesus, when Solomon’s temple was still standing, the prophet Isaiah, surrounded by the folly that passed for wisdom, spoke of God’s coming salvation. One of his images: “Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped” (35:5). What might that look like? Today’s Gospel provides one answer, Jesus working at opening the eyes of the disciples.

“As he taught, he said, ‘Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.’”

What do the disciples see when they see a scribe? All the outward signs proclaim honor, but open eyes don’t stop with appearances. Where does Jesus get this? Maybe through recalling stories like the one about the prophet Samuel, sent to anoint Israel’s next king. The Lord to Samuel: “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7). So, not Eliab, but David. Or maybe through the multiple texts in Proverbs we noticed a few weeks back. A rich man: rich through diligence or theft? A poor man: poor through sloth or oppression? Based on appearances we don’t know. Or maybe from having grown up in the North, where scribes who copy and interpret the legal documents can be seen rather differently than in the capital.

Is Jesus talking about every scribe? Of course not. He is talking about what we see, what assumptions inform what we see.

And, of course, Jesus’ words continue to be passed down also because they speak to new situations. Soon the new churches have bishops, priests, deacons—and the temptations of long robes, preferred seating, etc. are as relevant as ever. But that would be another sermon.

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened.” Jesus keeps working the problem.

“He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.’”

What do the disciples see? Which gifts look impressive? Jesus’ mother had sung “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, / and has lifted up the lowly.” Perhaps Jesus is remembering that too. In any case, what they see, what we see, is important also because it determines what we do. We heard Jesus’ brother James a few weeks back: “For if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in…” (2:2).

Salvation: Jesus working on our vision—on our hearing, for that matter—so that we treat each other well. A surprising number of our acts of seeing and hearing reflect who we are, who we are becoming.

And sometimes the rich get it right, as our first reading reminds us. It would have been easy for Boaz to write Ruth and Naomi off. He doesn’t. He listens. And as the parts of the text we didn’t hear in the assigned readings make clear, he makes decisions that are financially costly to do right by the women. One result, as the text reminds us in a delightfully understated postscript, King David.

We can close by noticing an additional layer to the contributions to the temple treasury story. Mark puts the story right at the entrance to Passover/Holy Week. At Passover the High Priest, richly attired, accompanied by all the pomp and ceremony Jerusalem can muster, will offer the prescribed sacrifices. At that same Passover, a prisoner stripped of everything, will stretch “out his arms upon the cross.” As we heard in our second reading, the author of Hebrews has no doubt which sacrifice was the more efficacious, the more worthy of honor. If our eyes are open enough to see the value of the widow’s two small copper coins, we just might be able to see the value of that prisoner’s self-offering.

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped.” So in the coming week who knows when the Lord might nudge us: “What do you see? What do you see?”

The Guy Who Stopped Jesus in His Tracks (23rd Sunday after Pentecost, 10/27/2024)

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Readings (Track 2)

The working title for this sermon: “The Guy Who Stopped Jesus in His Tracks.” Did you notice that in the Gospel reading? “’Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’” Jesus, pretty much constantly in movement in Mark’s Gospel, but in response to Bartimaeus’ words, “Jesus stood still.” That’s what we heard the author of the letter to the Hebrews talking about: “he always lives to make intercession for them.” In our world: the more important the person, the more layers to get through to (maybe) reach them. That’s the surprise with Jesus, Son of David, or (from our Hebrews reading) “such a high priest, holy, blameless, undefiled, separated from sinners, and exalted above the heavens.” No layers, available 24/7.

That’s followed by a second surprise: Jesus asks Bartimaeus a question: “What do you want me to do for you?” Again, in our world the more important the person, the more assumptions they tend to make about the people around them. Jesus doesn’t do that. He asks Bartimaeus what Bartimaeus wants, recognizes and respects Bartimaeus’ dignity.

Even with the best intentions it’s easy to make assumptions. My first career was in the Christian relief and development agency World Vision. Particularly in development it’s easy to assume that we know what the community needs, how those needs should be met, etc. It takes time and effort to escape such assumptions, and we kept at it also through a standing joke: The three great lies? The check is in the mail. Of course I’ll respect you in the morning. We’re from World Vision and we’re here to help you.

No. Jesus asks, and responds to Bartimaeus’ answer. “My teacher, let me see again.”

Then there’s a third, and final surprise. Jesus’ words invite Bartimaeus to set his own course. “Go; your faith has made you well.” Bartimaeus could have gone home, opened a pizza joint, whatever. Our text: “Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.” That puts Bartimaeus on the short list of competent theologians in Mark’s Gospel: he realized his best course was to follow this Jesus. It’s something like that scene in the movie Under Siege where Tate (the former playmate) says to Ryback “The safest place on this ship is right behind you!”

So that’s the story, and I suppose we could also title it “Be like Bartimaeus.” And stories like this ground the use of the Jesus Prayer in the Orthodox Tradition: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.” It’s not a bad practice, and might balance out all the other scripts knocking around in our heads.

And Jesus answers every prayer as directly as Bartimaeus’ prayer? No, and so Jesus tells stories elsewhere about being downright stubborn in prayer, like the widow who wears down the unjust judge by continuing to petition (Lk 18:1-8). And one reason Jesus gathers us into parishes is so that we can encourage each other in this stubbornness.

Now, if we pull back the camera to include the other readings, there’s a larger story, and I’ll notice it briefly before closing.

The Jeremiah reading and the psalm look to a triumphant return from exile to Jerusalem. We know when the exile started: that was the Babylonian (Iraqi) destruction of Jerusalem in 586 bc. When it ended: that’s a trickier question. Some returned after the Persians (Iran) defeated Babylon (Iraq), but Jerusalem remained under foreign heels, first Persian, then Greek, then—also in Jesus’ time—Roman. And by this point in Mark’s Gospel Jesus is headed for Jerusalem, and next story after Bartimaeus is the Triumphal Entry. Our Jeremiah reading mentioned the blind—probably the reason for its pairing with today’s Gospel—so Jesus is following the Jeremiah/Psalm script? The Temple gets cleansed, the Romans thrown out, and the Kingdom fully established?

Well, no. Jesus challenges us to be stubborn in prayer because the Holy Trinity is even more stubborn, not content with half measures, determined to have mercy not only on Jerusalem, but on Susa, Athens, Rome, and cities past the New Testament horizon, like Sun Prairie. And that meant Holy Week, or, as Hebrews puts it, “Unlike the other high priests, he has no need to offer sacrifices day after day, first for his own sins, and then for those of the people; this he did once for all when he offered himself.”

‘Stubborn’ is one word; ‘committed’ equally comes to mind. That ham and eggs breakfast: the chicken is involved, the pig is committed. The Holy Trinity is like the pig, committed to our salvation, stubborn in seeking it, inviting us to recognize in the coming week the multiple opportunities to respond like Bartimaeus.