B: Epiphany IV (2/1/09)

Mark 1:21-28

It’s still very early in the public ministry of Jesus of Nazareth. At approximately thirty years of age he left the carpentry shop he had inherited from Joseph, went down to the Jordan River to be baptized by John, heard the approving voice of God the Father, and got anointed by the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove.  He formed the nucleus of his band of followers, his disciples—the brothers James and John, and the brothers Andrew and Simon, and according to John’s account, Nathaniel. 

Now he’s ready to go public in a fresh way, and really get things rolling. He walks into the village of Capernaum—which, I can’t resist adding, I visited barely more than a week ago—finds the synagogue, and starts to teach. St Mark tells us that the people who were gathered there that day “were astonished at his teaching, for he taught them as one who had authority, and not as the scribes.” The scribes, of course, were their usual teachers, but I’m not going to get into what this little comment implies about the quality or content of their teaching because, for Mark, the emphasis is all on Jesus, and the extraordinary quality of his teaching. He taught as one who had authority. What he taught wasn’t secondary, derivative, a summary of somebody else’s wisdom or insight. Rather, it flowed from the center of his being, from his very essence. It was authentic; it had an unmistakable ring of truth. Jesus’ teaching had authority because he was speaking on behalf of the author. 

Then Jesus goes on, in effect, to demonstrate the authority of his words by the power of his deeds. There’s a man in the congregation who is evidently possessed by a demon—what Mark calls an “unclean spirit.” Jesus commands the spirit to come out of the man, and in a rather loud and dramatic fashion, it does. And everybody is amazed.

Now, one of the fascinating things about the Bible, particularly a passage from the gospels like this one, is that what we get out of it depends a great deal on who in the story we identify ourselves with. If you were to put yourself into this scene in the Capernaum synagogue, who would you be? There are only four choices, really: You could be Jesus, you could be an unnamed member of the congregation—one of the amazed onlookers, you could be the man who has an unclean spirit, or you could be the unclean spirit. Right? Have I missed anything? 

So, I think most of us, out of what we would take to be appropriate humility, would probably not identify ourselves with Jesus. And most of us would probably be equally reluctant to see ourselves as the demon. So, given the two remaining choices—the demon-possessed man and anonymous membership in the crowd of amazed onlookers—I think it’s safe to say that the vast majority of us are going to opt for anonymous membership in the crowd of amazed onlookers. After all, the members of the congregation were good, respectable people. They were normal (and we surely do all want to be normal; we all have our “inner child” that just wants to blend in with the crowd and not be conspicuous). They were trying to do the right thing, showing up in the synagogue. They were paying attention, and really liked this young man who was speaking. And when he was able to kick that demon out of that poor fellow—well, it was nothing short of amazing; we’ve never seen anything like it. 

And there’s an added convenience to viewing this story through the eyes of the amazed onlookers: It enables us to sincerely admire Jesus—which is a good thing to do; I mean, who wouldn’t want to sincerely admire Jesus?—but it also allows us to keep him at a safe distance. I’m not the one he’s talking to; I’m not the one he’s touching, because—hey—I’m not the one with the problem. I’m just normal. Keeping Jesus at a safe distance means we don’t have to step outside our comfort zone. We don’t have to change any of our habits or our attitudes or make any life-altering commitments. We can “feel spiritual” without actually being challenged.

But, what if I were to tell you that there’s a whole treasure trove of spiritual and practical benefits that is waiting for us, ours for the taking, if we’re willing to stretch a little bit, willing to step out and do something a little…risky?  What if we were to look at this story, not through the eyes of Jesus, not through the eyes of the demon, and not through the eyes of the normal and respectable—if totally amazed—onlookers in the synagogue congregation? What if, instead, we were to set aside our pride, and put ourselves in the place of the man with an ‘unclean spirit’? What would we see? 

First, we would be in touch with our own brokenness, our own helplessness in the face of the power of sin and death and evil. We would know our need for a savior, a deliverer, an advocate, someone on our side who is not only more powerful than we are, but more powerful than any challenge we might confront. 

Then, we would see a compassionate Jesus whose own heart is broken by the fact that we are “possessed” by a force that prevents us from being the person we were created to be. 

We would see a righteous Jesus who is justifiably angered by the injustice of our being held captive by the power of sin and death. 

We would see a powerful Jesus who speaks and acts with an authority that instills terror in anyone or anything that stands on the side of tyranny and oppression, anyone or anything that would seek to “possess” the beloved children of God. We would know the Jesus who is the model for the lion Aslan in the Narnia stories—a lion who is always good, but not in any way tame, not predictable, not “safe.” 

Most of all, we would know ourselves to have been delivered from that which enslaved us. We would know ourselves to have been set free from that which possessed us. Instead of being chained to the past, we would be able to embrace the future. Instead of being dragged down by guilt or grief, we would be free to organize our lives around hope and purpose.

It all depends on whose eyes we use to read the story.

But the blessings don’t stop there. When we identify ourselves with the man who is demon-possessed and is liberated by Jesus, we not only receive the grace of that freedom ourselves, but our own lives become a blessing to others. When we know ourselves to have been redeemed and made free, we become signs to the world of the inbreaking Kingdom of God, and the world is amazed. The world can “read” our lives—our lives as individual Christians, and our lives communally as the church—people can read our lives and “hear” Jesus speaking with authority and “see” Jesus acting with authority. They can marvel at the power in which God has acted on our behalf, and their hearts can be melted to the same liberating love that has set us free.

It all depends on where you see yourself in the story.

Praised be Jesus Christ. Amen. 

Epiphany I: Baptism of Christ (2009)

Mark 1:4-11

“Who are you?”

That can be either a very simple question, or a very complicated one, can it not? We could answer truthfully by just stating our name, or we could answer truthfully by telling our life’s story. It’s a question of identity, and identity is a very serious question indeed. When we travel abroad, one document that we keep very close to at all times is our passport, because a passport is a fundamental document of identity, and if our identity should ever need to be verified, a passport, and sometimes only a passport, will accomplish that task. Of course, one of the best indicators of how important identity and the documentation of identity are in our society is the burgeoning criminal industry in identity theft—no doubt nearly all of us have either been a victim of identity theft or known a victim.

In one dimension, of course, our identity is fixed at birth. We’re born in a certain place at a certain time. Who our parents are is a matter of record, and one or both of those parents give us a name, which goes on an identity document called a Birth Certificate. For the most part, we can’t change any of these markers; we just accept them as given, though some of them might become more malleable as life goes on.

But in another dimension, the matter of identity is not quite so clear and concise. The circumstances of our lives play a huge role in shaping the identity that we eventually settle into. The sort of love and attention we receive from our parents has a tremendous effect. When Brenda and I met our baby granddaughter Charlotte for the first time the week before last, I was struck by how her mother and father are so completely “there” for her in every way, and how she is already privileged, right out of the starting gate, because there are so many other little ones who are not nearly so fortunate, and it will affect their identities.

In yet still another dimension, all of us consciously take actions that shape our identity. We apply ourselves in school, or not; we go to college, or not, and we choose this college and not that college; we choose this line of work and not that line of work; we marry this person rather than that person, or we choose instead to wait for the person we haven’t yet met. When my Baby Boomer generation was young, we were famous for having “identity crises,” and for needing to take time after graduating from college to “find” ourselves. 

So, as we saw three weeks ago, Jesus had a lot of his identity cards played for him before he was even born. The angel Gabriel told his mother that he would be the Son of God, the one through whom the LORD would save his people. The very name Jesus comes to us through Latin and Greek, but ultimately from Hebrew, where it is rendered Yeshua, and it means, literally, “the LORD saves.” How’s that for an identity!  And as we saw last Sunday, by the age of 12, at least, there were signs that Jesus was “living into” that identity by being about his “Father’s business” when he should have been playing video games with the other boys his age.

Today, then, we mark the event at which Jesus’ identity is revealed, claimed, and seized—his baptism by John in the Jordan River. As Jesus comes up out of the water, Mark’s gospel tells us, he immediately sees a hole in the sky, and a dove flying down through it right toward him. And he hears a voice coming out of the hole in the sky saying, “Attaboy! Nice job!” (That’s the MRSV—the Martins Revised Version translation!) This is a picture, an audio-visual snapshot of Jesus’ identity. It reveals his identity as God the Son in relation to God the Father and God the Holy Spirit.  And when we look at this snapshot along with the other photos in the album known as the Gospel according to St Mark, we can see that, even as Jesus is still dripping wet with river water, his future is already being shaped—configured to a particular form that looks a whole lot like a Cross.

As disciples of Jesus, our experience parallels his. In our baptism, our identity “in Christ” places us in that same picture, that same snapshot in our family photo album. In our baptism, and when we re-connect with that baptism like we’re going to do in a few minutes, we “hear” the echo of the Father’s voice as we become and continue to be his “beloved” sons and daughters. In that water, we are gifted with the same Holy Spirit that is represented by the dove that Jesus saw crashing through a hole in the sky. Heck, turn around and look at the font—we’ve got our own photographic record of the event right here at St Anne’s!  

Of course, our baptism, then, also places us on the same glide path that is shaped like a cross, shaped like death and resurrection. Today is a sort of transition point in liturgical times, when we begin to turn our attention away from the birth of Christ and toward his Passion and Resurrection, as we’re about six weeks away from the beginning of Lent. The identity we are given in baptism plants a seed. It provides us with the raw material—raw material that does not immunize us from suffering, but which strengthens our ability to respond with grace and gratitude to the suffering that comes our way. In baptism, we are given an identity that transcends any other identity we may be born with or may later acquire. It is in the water of the font that we learn truly who we are, because it is only on the water of the font that we learn truly Whose we are.

So it’s about time we got our ID document renewed. Please stand. 

(Renewal of Baptismal Vows follows)

Christmas I (2008)

John 1:1-1 Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7

St Anselm was a medieval Archbishop of Canterbury who was, and continues to be, renowned as one of the major theologians of western Christianity. One of his treatises was simply titled Why God Became Man.  At this time of year, that’s an appropriate question, one we do well to ask ourselves, over and over again, because, even though we know the answer—in part, thanks to St Anselm—we stand in constant need of being reminded.

Why do we have Christmas?  Why do we celebrate the Incarnation?

Here’s the deal: Even though God loves us, and created us in His image, and wants us to share the very essence of His life and being, we, as human beings, are alienated from God. We are cut off from God. There’s a gulf between us and God that makes the Grand Canyon look like a line in the sand. We are therefore unable to enjoy the life that God created us to have. We are incapable of experiencing our full humanity. Both as individuals, and as a race, we are at cross-purposes with God. God belongs at the center of our being, but we have displaced Him—we have displaced Him with our own ego. We have bowed low before any number of “other gods”—gods like success, power, alcohol, drugs, sexual fulfillment; the list could go on. As we tell God in our corporate worship: “We have not loved you with our whole heart, we have not loved out neighbors as ourselves.”  Or, more dramatically, perhaps: “We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we from time to time most grievously have committed, by thought, word, and deed, against thy divine Majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us.”

Traditional Christianity labels this alienation between God and humankind as Sin—a condition each of us is born with which inclines us to make ourselves the measure of all things, and draws us away from the love of God. You can use that label, or not. Either way, though, it doesn’t change the reality.

”But wait, there’s more.”

 Not only do we have a problem; the problem is getting worse! We can’t just hold onto the status quo, thinking that, while it may not be all we would like it to be, it’s not all that bad either.  The status quo is slipping away. We’re trapped between steadily rising flood waters in front of us, and a deteriorating riverbank behind us. We have no hope, unless we can find a bridge across the gulf—the canyon, the chasm—that divides us from God. And only God can provide such a bridge, only God Himself can bridge the gap. We have no power within ourselves to meet Him halfway. Something must be done on our behalf.  God must come to our aid, or else we are doomed to ongoing misery in this world and oblivion in the next.

Now for the good news: God has done something on our behalf. God has come to our aid.  First, He gave us the Law—a knowledge of how we ought to live so as to counteract our inborn propensity toward Sin. The Law is written in nature. The Law is written on our hearts—it’s what we call “conscience.” And the Law is written, so to speak, “in stone”; that is, God’s Law made visible in His relationship with the particular nation through whom He chose to reveal Himself—the ancient Hebrews, the Jews.

The Law reveals the true nature and extent of our condition. The Law shows us just how wide the gulf is between God’s holiness—God’s completeness, God’s purity, God’s perfection—the Law shows us the gulf between God’s holiness and our sinfulness—our incompleteness, our contingency, our weakness and fragility, the fragmented and unfocused character of our lives. The Law is like a light shining on a dirty kitchen and revealing the cockroaches. They’re still there when it’s dark—in fact, they’re happier when it’s dark—but the light enables us to see them. We’re still sinners without the Law, but the Law enables us to see our sinfulness.

However, the Law is only a stopgap. It’s a tremendous gift because it shows us our problem.  But it doesn’t solve the problem. We cannot throw the Law into the canyon  and expect it to form a bridge that will take us to God. Something more must be done, and God has done it, and that’s why we have Christmas.  God has thrown, not the Law, but Himself, into the gap that separates us, and has completely bridged that gap. In the mystical language of the prologue to John’s gospel, we encounter our common faith that “…the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.”  The One whom we proclaim in our creed as “God from God, light from light, true God from true God” took human flesh, human nature, and dwelt, tabernacled—“pitched his tent,” literally rendered—the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. In so doing, God completely associated Himself with us, implicating Himself with the human condition.

And he did so completely. This is what St Paul is getting at in his letter to the Galatians when he describes Christ as “born under the Law.” The Law is the perfect symbol for the entirety of the human condition, because it is the vehicle by which we see that condition clearly and fully. To say that Christ was born “under the Law” is to say that, in Jesus, God is thoroughly and unreservedly incarnate. There is no room for half-measures here.

He does not bridge just half the gap—or three-quarters, or ninety percent, or whatever—and expect us to make up the difference.  There were those in the early centuries of Christianity who thought just that.  They asserted that God only appeared to be human in the person of Jesus, that the divine spirit of God dwelt within the human body of Jesus, but did not really become one with that body. It was just a vehicle. These folks were motivated by a commendable desire to protect the honor and uniqueness and utter holiness of God.

But they were wrong. Their views are now known to be heresy. If, in His incarnation, God only partially covers the difference between us and Him, then all is in vain. If God does not become fully human in Jesus, taking our nature upon Him without reservation, then the gulf remains. We are still in our sins, and have no hope.

So do you see why we have Christmas? It is utterly necessary for our salvation. We are people of hope precisely because God did bridge the gap. In Christ, God completely participates in and shares human nature and human life. “Pleased as Man with Man to dwell, Jesus our Emmanuel.” As a result of this unspeakable generosity and love, we have the opportunity to walk in marvelous light, to share and participate in the luminous life of the Blessed Trinity, the eternal life of God. If there is ever any news that should motivate us to “Go tell it on the mountain,” this is surely it! The gap is closed. Heaven and earth are joined.  God has become as we are that we may become as He is.  Alleluia and Amen.

Christmas Eve 2008

I can be something of a grouser and complainer during the weeks leading up to Christmas.  At no other time of year do I find my own inner being quite so much at odds with what’s going on in the secular culture.  But even I have to admit that there is a certain mystique to it all.  The “Christmas spirit,” however we think of it, does encourage us to look for the best in one another, which is remarkable precisely because most of the time we tend to see the worst in each other.  Shoppers see inattentive and snippy sales clerks. Sales clerks see obnoxious and demanding shoppers. We see drivers expressing “road rage” on the highways.  Con artists find a new sucker every day. Bad cops are paid off to look the other way at crime, and office holders, as we have seen so dramatically in Illinois, sell their power and influence to the highest bidder. 

All this tends to make us pretty cynical about human nature. We end up defining people by their behavior: So-and-so is a drunk, someone else is a philanderer, he has a temper problem, she’s a manipulative bully, and so on.  The spirit of Christmas lifts us—even if temporarily—the spirit of Christmas lifts us out of that kind of cynicism and judgmentalism. 

But it is, of course, not merely the “spirit” of Christmas that accomplishes this for us; it is the decisive act of God which lies at the heart of our Christmas celebration.  God has done something that forever disarms our cynicism toward human nature. 

Among the less well-known of C.S. Lewis’ prolific literary output is a trilogy of science fiction novels.  The first one, Out of the Silent Planet, features a self-effacing language scholar named Ransom, who is kidnapped by an evil scientist and his crony and taken in a spaceship to the planet Malacandra. The climactic scene of the story is a meeting between Ransom and a mysterious being whose name and title are both Oyarsa, and who is the ruler of Malacandra. Oyarsa is curious about Ransom’s home planet—Earth. Earth also once had an Oyarsa, Ransom is told, but he became “bent”—you and I might say “crooked”— and turned to evil. So Maleldil, the supreme creator and ruler of the universe, quarantined Earth from all other worlds, and confined its bent Oyarsa there, so he couldn’t do any damage elsewhere in the universe. Since then there has been no contact between Malacandra and Earth, but the Malacandrans have heard rumors that Maleldil has been up to some strange and daring activities in an attempt to redeem what had gone wrong there. Ransom then tells the Oyarsa of Malacandra the Christian story of the Incarnation, how God actually entered human experience, as a human being. Oyarsa is mightily impressed, for of all the worlds and all the races of creatures in the universe, this is the only instance he has ever heard of in which Maleldil has entered one of the worlds which he made and taken the form of one of the species which he created. Oyarsa finally tells Ransom: “You have shown me more wonders than are known in the whole of heaven.”

Yes, human nature is horribly “bent,” and we experience that “bent-ness” every day of our lives. But yet, God has greatly dignified human nature by taking it up into his own divine nature. And that act of love established the means by which that bent and twisted nature of ours can be placed back in the fire, like a blacksmith would do to a damaged horseshoe, where it can be softened up, and re-fashioned straight and true.

Each celebration of Christmas has the potential to change us. When we experience the “spirit of the season,” we have an opportunity to become more loving, more generous, maybe even more religious. More than once have I heard conversion stories that begin or culminate at the celebration of the Eucharist on Christmas Eve. Maybe this celebration tonight will be that turning point of conversion for somebody here, that watershed moment of insight that will be looked back on gratefully many years from now.

But that, wonderful as it all is, is just frosting on the cake. The real cause for Christmas rejoicing is that it is the festival of the Incarnation. The scandal of the Incarnation is that God himself is forever changed by it. He who is by nature pure spirit now has a human face, and the name of that face is Jesus. The human face of God was first revealed to an obscure Jewish couple in a remote corner of the Roman Empire, then to some humble and unsophisticated sheep   herders and some strange astrologers and magicians from un-heard of lands to the east. Finally, that human face of God was revealed most completely as Jesus looked down from the cross on his mother and his disciples and his persecutors.

In his dying and rising, and in the sacred ritual meal by which we remember that dying and rising—the meal which we celebrate tonight—the human face of God is revealed to you and to me. Eventually, we will all see that face when he returns as a just and righteous, but loving and compassionate, judge.

It is a venerable Christian custom, particularly at this time of year, during the Nicene creed, to bow deeply or even genuflect—go down on one knee—at the words which speak of the Incarnation: “...he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary, and was made Man.” I invite you to join me in this gesture of adoration and acknowledgement of the Incarnation, and what a sign it is of the depths of God’s love for our fallen race. The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. Come, let us adore him. Amen.

 

Year B: Advent IV (12/21/08)

Luke 1:26-38

Romans 16:25-27

II Samuel 7:8-16

She was an ordinary girl, this Miriam. Her parents, Anne and Joachim, were good people, though not remarkable. Her home town, Nazareth, was a decent enough place to live, though it had never won any “most livable city” awards. She’d had a good Jewish upbringing, pious, synagogue-attending, respectful of the history and traditions of her people. Oh, and now she was engaged. Her parents had arranged it all, of course, but they had not done too badly by her. Joseph had steady work, he was a carpenter, and it looked like he would be able to support her comfortably. Miriam was sure she would grow to love him over the course of time. Their betrothal was now official, a legal contract, and soon she would move in with him as his wife.

Life was not stress-free for anyone in Nazareth at that time, of course, including for Miriam. (Her namesake, by the way, was the great heroine of Israel, Moses’ own sister, and Miriam was proud of this fact; the Greeks and Romans would have called her “Maria.”) The village of Nazareth, and the province of Galilee, had been annexed into the Roman Empire about a hundred years earlier, and it was not an entirely happy arrangement. In fact, there was a good bit of political unrest in the air, and anxiety about the future. But that very fact is itself testimony to the ordinariness of Miriam’s, or Mary’s, life and times. How many eras in human history have been devoid of political unrest and anxiety about the future? Everyone lived one day at a time, hoping for the best, praying that everything would somehow just all work out.

Which doesn’t sound all that different from the way you and I live. We work and play and shop and try to have relationships and raise families. We try to experience joy in life, but sometimes it seems like sorrow is all there is. We try to stay healthy, but we all get sick. We have times of depression and times of elation, times of alienation and times of unity. At times we’re overwhelmed by guilt, and at times we’re overwhelmed by forgiveness. All of which is to say, we lead ordinary lives. We are tempted to despair, and we are tempted to hope.

And if we are indeed tempted to hope, invited to hope, we owe a portion of that invitation to Miriam, to Mary, and to her people. They were good at hoping. They had perfected hoping into a fine art. They had been promised, and were hoping for, a deliverer, one who would free them from the oppressor’s yoke, and lead them into a time of peace and justice and prosperity. This deliverer would be known as “messiah”, the anointed-one of God, cut from the same mold as the heroic messiah—King David. Indeed, the prophecies were that this messiah would descend from David’s own royal lineage. The prophet Nathan had promised David that 

“...the Lord will make you a house. When your days are fulfilled, and you lie down with your fathers, I will raise up your offspring after you, who shall come forth from your body, and I will establish his kingdom. …Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me; your throne shall be established forever.”

So Mary, ordinary Mary, had a special hope, an extraordinary hope. She hoped that her generation would be the one to see the messiah, who would be not only the deliverer of her people, but a light to the nations, an ensign to the peoples, a beacon who would draw the whole world into God’s gracious reign of righteousness and justice.  Perhaps Mary, ordinary Mary, allowed herself to fantasize on what it might look like if her extraordinary hope were to be fulfilled. The Hebrew scriptures, the Law and the Prophets, certainly did not lack for vivid pictorial representations, both frightening and comforting, of the Day of the Lord, the coming of the messiah. In her fantasy, Mary could have drawn on this rich supply of images. Would the advent of Messiah be preceded by troops of angels doing battle with and defeating the legions of Rome?  Would there be an awesome celestial light show and a spine-tingling chorus of trumpets in the heavens as the storm clouds parted and Messiah descended to earth in a flaming chariot as he claimed his kingdom in an unmistakable public display?

These are just a few of the visions that may have danced in the head of an ordinary young Hebrew woman on the eve of her marriage to an ordinary Nazarene carpenter at the time when Caesar Augustus ruled the Roman empire and Quirinius was governor of Syria. But the imminent fulfillment of Israel’s hope also has meaning for us who are not genetically of the house of Israel. For us, the content of our hope in the advent of the messiah is summarized by St Paul in the concluding paragraph of a letter he wrote to the Christian community in the city of Rome, when he spoke of the

…mystery which was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed and through the prophetic writings is made known to all nations, according to the command of God, to bring about the obedience of faith…

From a Gentile perspective, the significance of the Messiah’s coming is not merely national, but  cosmic.  God’s motivation for sending his messiah among us was, in the words of the ancient Latin hymn,

In sorrow that the ancient curse should doom to death a universe…

God himself had pronounced the curse on Adam and Eve when he banished them from the Garden of Eden, but it was not within his heart of love to see that curse come to fruition. The mystery kept secret for long ages is a plan of salvation, a plan of redemption from the ancient curse, a plan to “no more let sins and sorrows grow, nor thorns infest the ground…”, but, rather, to “make his blessings flow far as the curse is found.” It is a plan to deal definitively with violence and oppression and injustice and cruelty and even natural disasters. Yes, even earthquakes, fires, and floods are signs that the ancient curse, the curse that threatens to doom to death a universe, is indeed found far and wide.

And it all hangs . . . it all hangs on the ordinary obedience of ordinary Mary, from ordinary Nazareth, engaged to ordinary Joseph. The angel Gabriel was sent by God, not with a police escort, not in a horse-drawn carriage, not in a Cadillac limousine with a full media contingent, but, it would seem, rather inconspicuously. There’s no indication that he had any contact with anyone other than the intended recipient of his message, Mary herself. Her ordinary life would never again be quite so ordinary. Oh, she had intended to become pregnant, probably pretty soon after her marriage, but this was just a bit…too soon. It was a lot to ask of ordinary Mary.

 Yet, she was well-trained. She realized that to be chosen to be the mother of the messiah was indeed to be “highly favored.” For a moment, everyone’s fate was in her hands, the fate of captive Israel mourning in lonely exile, the fate of a universe doomed to death by an ancient curse. But in that moment, Mary chose to recognize God’s claim on her, she chose to obey. And in her obedience, Mary chose hope, Mary chose life. “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” 

Let it be to me according to your word. From that brief declaration of consent flows everything that we know as Christmas. From that brief statement of ordinary obedience by an ordinary young lady, issues the extraordinary fulfillment of every human hope. The glory of Christmas, the revelation of the mystery kept secret for long ages, came about through the willingness of an ordinary woman to obey God’s claim on her life. And in that light, we may well ask ourselves, what other glories might God be ready to reveal in response to the ordinary obedience of his ordinary disciples? Mary is unique in the particular nature of her vocation, and for that all generations will call her blessed. But she is not unique in the fact that God has a registered claim on her life. Through the death and resurrection of the messiah, God’s son and Mary’s son, God has “redeemed” us for himself. We belong to him.

So Mary is exemplary. Her response to God’s move to exercise his claim as our redeemer is an example to us. If we, in our ordinariness, were to make Mary’s words our own—“I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word”—if we were to make these words our own, what results might we expect to see? As individuals, we might well experience great awkwardness, virtually unbearable awkwardness, at first. Mary certainly did. Despite the euphoria of her angelic visitation, it was never easy to explain her pregnancy to her family and friends, let alone to Joseph! And it was not easy, several years later, to watch the one who has been born as a messiah-king die in disgrace as a criminal. But when we say “yes” to God, we experience the kind of peace that protects us, not from the storm, but in the storm. We know ourselves to be securely grounded, and experience profound wholeness and joy.

What might it look like if, as the parish of St Anne, we said in a concerted way, “Behold the servant of the Lord; be it unto us according to your word.”?  In the near term, there would be some moments of panic, as we experience the pain of being close to the pain of others. But before long, I believe, we would find ourselves in the midst of resources—human, financial, and material—more abundant than we can imagine. I suspect that God’s philosophy of inventory control is “just in time,” and he will not release his blessings upon us until we are committed to putting them to use. That same results would accrue, I believe, on a diocesan level. If, as the family of the Diocese of Northern Indiana, we declared in a united way, “Behold the servant of the Lord; let it be to us according to your word”, I would expect to see us blessed with courage and confidence, together with our bishop, to make our witness to the rest of the church and to the world with clarity and peace.

And as a result of such re-commitment to God’s claim on our ordinary lives, I would expect to see blessings overflow into secular society, with an impact on the level of violence and ethnic and cultural animosity and social disintegration in our cities and towns, and an impact on the level of suspicion and fear with which we approach this economic recession. In short, by saying “yes” to God, in emulation of blessed Mary, we lay the foundation for the fulfillment of all our hopes. So let us not hold out for a chorus of trumpets and a celestial light show. Our ordinary angel is greeting us and telling us that we are highly favored. Let us “just say yes,” and allow Christ to be formed in us, that we may give birth to his kingdom of justice and righteousness. Come, Lord Jesus. Amen. 

Year B: Advent II (12/7/08)

    Mark 1:1-8

II Peter 3:8-15, 18

I and those of my generation are children of the space age. When a manned space mission was launched, all three television networks interrupted their regular programming and showed it live. We grew up familiar with the voice of mission control saying “T-minus 47 minutes and counting” or “T-minus sixteen minutes and holding.” We got worried when the countdown was “holding,” because it meant there was a problem, and sometimes the hold lasted several hours or even a day. It was as if time stood still, and we ached for the gratification of hearing the final countdown—Ten-nine-eight-seven…and down to “We have liftoff.”

But the idea of a “countdown” leading up to an eagerly-anticipated event is not something new with the space age. Many of an older generation may remember the tradition—not yet entirely extinct—of the Advent calendar. Every day during Advent a little door would be opened or a space uncovered, revealing some church symbol or biblical prophecy that pointed to the coming of the Christ child. The Advent calendar unmistakably says, if not in so many words, “Christmas is coming.” It is a countdown to December 25. But it also keeps those who use it focused on the spiritual themes of Advent, which are waiting, hoping, and preparing.

In calendar time, then—whether it’s an Advent calendar or just an ordinary one—there are now about tw-and-half more weeks until Christmas. The countdown is under way, and it’s always “counting,” never “holding”! Here at St Anne’s, the choir is putting the final polish on the Festival of Lessons and Carols that they will lead us in on the 21st. The Altar Guild has planned for poinsettias and greenery with which to decorate the church for Christmas. I know many of you have made travel arrangements for yourselves and loved ones. Some of us have already done a good bit of shopping and meal planning, and that sort of thing. Even in the midst of the world’s generic “holiday” frenzy, Christians are—subliminally, at least—Christians are aware of an ongoing countdown, a climax toward which all these preparations are aimed.

In what we might call “cosmic time,” nobody except God knows exactly where we are in the countdown. All that the Christian faith reveals to us is that life is indeed one long countdown to the end of reality as we know it. The present scheme of things is temporary. It may end tonight; it may go on for thousands of years longer. But it’s temporary. As we have seen over the past several Sundays, from a faith-filled perspective, the end of history is something to look forward to with hope and joy, but it is intimidating nonetheless. As long ago as the lifetime of St Peter, there were those who were getting antsy about what seemed like an interminable delay in the second coming of our Lord. They were eager for it to happen—right now! Peter wrote and reminded them that any delay in the end of this present age and the inauguration of the world to come is purely for our benefit:

The Lord is not slow about his promise as some count slowness, but is forbearing toward you, not wishing that any should perish…”

And when the forbearance is over? Peter writes,

But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire, and the earth and the works that are upon it will be burned up. 

OK, with that in mind, I, for one, am very grateful for the forbearance!

So there’s calendar time, cosmic time, and also liturgical time—church time. It’s Advent, and John the Baptist— the forerunner, the way-paver, the advance man, the harbinger, the dominating symbol of “mid-Advent”—What’s he up to, anyway? St Mark’s gospel tells us that

John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. And there went out to him all the country of Judea, and all the people of Jerusalem; and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. 

John’s preaching and people’s lives are changing. They’re confessing their sins and getting baptized. They’re repenting. John says, in effect, “I’m just the warm-up act. The main event is coming right behind me and—take my word—it’s something you’re going to want to be ready for.” There was a countdown in John the Baptist’s ministry. There wasn’t a precise clock, but it was definitely “T-minus not-very-much and counting.” There was a sense of urgency. Ignition and liftoff were imminent. The more aware we are of the nearness of Christ—whether we’re speaking chronologically, cosmically, or liturgically—the more aware we are of the approaching arrival of Christ, the more irresistible becomes the urge to repent. The nearness of Christ naturally evokes a response of repentance.

What is repentance? Repentance is a change of mind that leads to change in behavior. If you’re in the habit of voting Republican, but realize one day that you really do believe that government should be a key player in solving economic and social problems, and start to vote Democratic, that’s repentance. If you’re a fan of the Indianapolis Colts, but come to believe that the Chicago Bears are more worthy of your attention and support, and you paint your house—which was previously medium blue with white trim—you paint your house dark blue with orange trim, that’s repentance. Now, repentance often also leads to a change of heart. But it’s the change of mind and change of behavior that are closer to the core of repentance. Actual change of heart often brings up the rear, arriving on the scene after change of mind and change of behavior have already settled in.

The sort of repentance that Advent evokes is not necessarily breast-beating sorrow. We misunderstand repentance if we identify it with a dramatic and emotional display of contrition. Still less is repentance a matter of hating oneself, or wallowing in shame. Rather, repentance springs from the same place that we get a desire to please someone whom we respect and admire and perhaps love. When a child cleans up her room or empties the dishwasher because she knows it will make her mother so happy, and there is joy for her in the prospect of her mother’s happiness, that behavior comes from the same place that gives birth to repentance. When a student puts extra effort into an assignment because he is just in awe of his teacher, and there is joy for him in the prospect of making his teacher proud, that behavior comes from the same place that gives birth to repentance. When a soldier gives extraordinary attention to duty out of an overflowing admiration for the leadership of his commanding officer, and the thought of pleasing that commanding officer is a source of joy and pride for him, such behavior springs from the same place that gives birth to repentance.

Christ is coming. The countdown is proceeding. And when he comes, we want him to be pleased with us. We want him to find us at our posts, doing our duty, fully prepared to greet him, and filled with joyful hope. So we repent. We repent by taking inventory of our lives, by naming and turning aside from all those things that might divert our attention from him, so that when the countdown reaches T-minus zero, we will not be afraid or ashamed, but will rejoice to behold his appearing. Come, Lord Jesus. Amen. 

Christ the King (23 November 2008)

Matthew 25:31-46

Ezekiel 34:11-17, 20-24

Psalm 95:1-7

Today is that last Sunday of the church year, and we are celebrating the feast of Christ the King: Festival vestments, extra candles on the altar, prayers that reference the kingship of Christ, incense, hymns and other special music that reinforce the theme—all the usual markers of not just an ordinary Sunday, but a special Sunday.

Christ the King is not an ancient feast in the Christian calendar; in fact, it’s quite recent, dating back only to the middle of the last century. And in our own American Prayer Book, it’s only implicit rather than official. You won’t find the expression Christ the King officially attached to this day in the calendar; it is styled simply the Last Sunday after Pentecost. This is perhaps a reflection of our American discomfort with the very idea of royalty. The principle of equality between human beings is embedded very deep in our national DNA. We instinctively pull back from any notion of hierarchy or chain-of-command or any such thing that is not rooted in democratic decision-making processes. So we have a tendency to process our experience of, say, the British royal family, into peculiarly American categories like “rock star” or “cultural icon.” We know what to do with a rock star or other celebrity. We have no idea what to do with an actual king or queen.

So, as we attempt to come to terms with this festival of Christ the King, perhaps we would do well to first take certain images of royalty off the table, to point to them and say, “This is not what we mean when we call Christ our King.” First of all, Christ the King is not Christ the tyrant, Christ the despot. He’s not a self-indulgent egomaniac like, say, some of the Egyptian Pharaohs, or the Roman Caesars, or certain Asian sultans and potentates. He’s not like the petty French and English monarchs in TV docudramas, like Henry VIII or Louis XIV. But neither is Christ the King comparable to some ideal mythical “good king”, like, for example, King Arthur, ruling over Camelot wisely and benevolently as he leads his people into the land of “happily ever after,” even while taking care of an occasional crisis along the way. And Christ the King is certainly not to be thought of as a mere symbol or figurehead, and therefore of questionable relevance, like the current monarchs in Great Britain or Japan or Sweden or any number of other countries.

So, having set aside these unhelpful images of the kingship of Christ, what are we left with? What is it that we can positively affirm about Christ the King? I would suggest that today’s scripture readings supply us with two distinct but complementary and interdependent lenses through which we might view the kingship of Christ.

Let’s look first at the powerful narrative from the twenty-fifth chapter of St Matthew’s gospel. It paints a picture that takes us to the end of time—or, more accurately, to that time outside of time—when “the Son of Man comes in his glory and all the angels with him,” when Jesus “sits on his glorious throne.” It’s certainly a picture of royalty and all the signs and symbols that are associated with royalty. But it doesn’t stop there. It gets more specific. Matthew goes on to describe a scene of judgment, a scene where the one seated on the throne, whom we know to be Christ, discriminates between those gathered in the throng in front of him. He discriminates between those whom he considers to be sheep—these are the favored ones—whom he directs to gather on his right, and those whom he considers to be goats—these are the unfavored ones—whom he directs to gather on his left. This is a glorious scene, but it’s certainly not free of stress. It’s not a particularly happy occasion, especially among the “goats.” I guarantee you that nobody there is singing “Kumbaya”! Judgment is just that way.

But by the time we heard the gospel, we had already encountered a very similar, though certainly not identical, scene from the thirty-fourth chapter of Ezekiel. Ezekiel puts these words onto the lips of the LORD:

Behold, I, I myself will judge between the fat sheep and the lean sheep. Because you push with side and shoulder, and thrust at all the weak with your horns, till you have scattered them abroad, I will save my flock, they shall no longer be a prey; and I will judge between sheep and sheep. 

Now, the job of a judge is to measure human behavior against some standard. The standard may be a formal written legal code, an unwritten common law tradition, or a universal social custom, but it is always something objective, something that a wide diversity of people can look at and see the same thing. A standard of judgment also needs to be impersonal—that is, it applies equally to everyone; a judge is not allowed to play favorites. A judge calls us to account for our conduct. Sometimes a judge is looking specifically for bad conduct; this is the job of a judge in a court of law. Other kinds of judges, though, are on the lookout for good conduct, such as the ability to sing or dance or cook, or some such. Of course, human judges are never perfect. Every umpire will have a slightly different judgment about where the strike zone is precisely located. But uniformity and consistency are certainly goals even for umpires. Perfect uniformity and consistency do not define success, however. In this case, the attempt is just as important as the outcome, because it’s the knowledge that consistency is the goal that enables us to navigate life with some degree of confidence. Without those who exercise the ministry of judgment, we would live in a world like Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, where words don’t have any objective or consistent meaning, but mean only what those who speak them say they mean at any given time.

So, we learn from Matthew and Isaiah that part of the kingly ministry of Christ is to be a judge: Christ our King is Christ our judge. He will call us to account for what we do with the knowledge that we have. We have been given knowledge of right and wrong, and Christ our royal judge will call us to account for how we have used that knowledge. We have been given knowledge of God—in creation, in scripture, in the life and worship of the Church—and Christ our royal judge will call us to account for how we use that knowledge. We have been given knowledge of God’s call and God’s activity in our lives and in the world. Christ our royal judge will call us to account for how we have used that knowledge.

Christ our King is Christ our judge. But it’s a stereoscopic lens that the feast of Christ the King gives us—like one of those 3-D Viewmasters that those of us of a certain age routinely found in our Christmas stockings when we were kids—and our view is obscure if we do not also see his kingship as that of a shepherd. It is, after all, sheep and goats that Jesus is separating on the last day—and separating sheep from goats is the essential job of a shepherd! Looking back at the Isaiah passage, the God who declares himself to be a judge first declares himself to be a shepherd:

As a shepherd seeks out his flock when some of his sheep have been scattered abroad, so will I seek out my sheep; and I will rescue them from all places where they have been scattered … And I will bring them out from the peoples, and gather them from the countries, and will bring them into their own land; and I will feed them on the mountains of Israel…

And the Psalm for today reminds us that “…we are the people of his pasture and the sheep of his hand.” 

Now, the job of a shepherd is to consistently provide several things to the animals entrusted to his care. A shepherd provides food and water, which is to say that he leads the sheep to pastures and streams where they can find the nourishment needed to sustain life and allow it to thrive. A shepherd also provides guidance and leadership, pulling when pulling is called for and pushing when pushing is called for—whatever it takes. And shepherds, of course, provide protection from thieves and predators, banishing and driving away those who would lure the sheep away from the fold or attempt to enter the fold and cause them harm.

Christ our Shepherd-King provides us, his sheep, with exactly this kind of ministry. The very words pastor and pastoral come directly from the business of minding sheep. Jesus provides pastoral care directly—through the sacraments, through our prayers, and through the presence of the Holy Spirit—and Jesus provides pastoral care indirectly, through ‘sub-shepherds’ whom we call bishops and priests, and through the various and diverse ministries of the laity within the Body of Christ. Christ our Shepherd-King provides us with spiritual nourishment; he provides us with vocation, guidance, and direction; and he provides us with protection from forces and desires that “draw us from the love of God.”

Christ the King is intimately relevant to our lives, as the one who calls us, equips us to follow him, and holds us accountable for our faithfulness to that holy and divine vocation. On this celebration of his kingship, we righty and appropriately offer him the honor and praise of our grateful hearts. All hail King Jesus! Amen.