We have a story to tell (Christmas 2016)

Every birth story begins before any one is actually born. Skipping all the gory details, we all begin before we begin - our parents have a story to tell, whether they want to or not. Jesus’ story begins with his mother - well actually Luke starts with his uncle, Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. Anyone listening to Luke’s Gospel has this story, and of Mary’s visit with Gabriel and later with Elizabeth, in the back of their minds. These stories set the stage for what is to come, for tonight, for the mystery of Christmas. Those stories tell us to be ready for this birth because it changes everything; indeed, it has already changed the lives of Mary, Elizabeth, and Zechariah.

Did you notice that Jesus’ birth, his actual coming into the world, is basic? I’m talking about those first seven verses, the ones the lectionary actually leaves us. Notice there’s no snow, no angels, no animals; there’s not even an innkeeper. (Of course, our imagination has already added them in to the scene.) If we were listening for the first time, we might notice that Joseph and Mary are not married yet; that the child is wrapped like every other newborn, in warm cloths to keep him warm; that he is laid in a manger because they are not sleeping in an inn. And, if we were listening for the first time, we might wonder what is so special about this story. It is a story of humble details, yes, and still it is the story of a child being born - happens every day.

Every time I hear this birth story I wonder about Mary. For obvious reasons, yes, and also because I remember Gabriel’s words to her: …you will bear a son, Gabriel says,…He will be great, 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…and of his kingdom there will be no end… (Luke 1: 28 - 38). Did she wonder, like I do, how can this be? How can this child, this story, tell the story of the son of the Most High, of God?

The writer of Luke tells us in small details and big ones. For example, it is no coincidence that Jesus is born in Bethlehem. The Emperor’s census may demand that Joseph make his way to Bethlehem. And God uses that for God’s purposes. The people of Israel know that their king will come from Bethlehem; the prophets have said this for generations. And it is no coincidence that Joseph descends from David. This ancestry links him (and the child) to the great king of Israel. Pay attention, Luke seems to say, these little details matter. They tell us something has happened in this time and place that fulfills God’s promises.

And then, there are the big details: messengers and a choir of angels. They have more to tell us. Emperors and governors expect amazing things to happen to them. Shepherds expect wolves. These messengers, though, do not go to Rome or fancy palaces. They show up in a field; they visit the shepherds. The Emperor and governor are left alone in their palaces. The announcement of God’s life on earth is given to the humble and lowly: The son of God, the Messiah, has come to you, the angels say, go and see what God is doing for the people. Pay attention, the angels say, God is with you, go and see.

Have you ever seen or held a newborn? I hope so. It’s an amazing thing. There are few words, if any, to describe the experience: tiny lips and small ears? There is a quiet peacefulness occasionally broken by the cry of hunger. It is vulnerable and miraculous: life born again and again in our midst. It is wonderful and astonishing.

I have often wondered about the shepherds. Every year I notice that they are not traveling for the census: they live in those fields. I wonder if they count: in the eyes of the governor, Emperor, or even for themselves. 

And yet, God chooses them. Whoever they are, they are the first to visit the child; the first members of a crowd that will follow Him. They do not see Jesus walk on water, heal the sick, or feed the hungry. They meet a child: tiny lips, small ears, peaceful sleeping broken by the cry of hunger. They are the first witnesses to the mystery of Christmas: the incarnation, the miracle of God in the flesh. 

These shepherds: they expect wolves. Instead, they get a messenger and a choir of angels. They expect to go unnoticed. Instead, God sends them on a journey of their own. They expect to care for their sheep. Instead, they receive Joseph, Mary, and a baby. Nothing is as they expected. Everything has changed. They are the first witnesses of God’s redemption of the world.

If I could have one moment, I would like to see the encounter between the shepherds and Mary: to see the wonder on the shepherds faces; to see Mary’s (or Joseph’s) face as the shepherds tell their story; to hear the shepherds as they head back into the fields. 

How did this change them, all of them? Did Mary and Joseph find comfort in the ways the shepherds affirm God’s promises? Do the shepherds comprehend, even for a moment, that God notices them, cares about them, loves them? How does anyone begin to understand what they have seen and heard?

And here’s the thing: they each only have their part of the story. The shepherds only know what they have seen and heard. Mary and Joseph only know what they have seen and heard. Even Elizabeth and Zechariah only know what they have seen. Perhaps Mary was able to gather this all together, to understand and interpret what God was doing. I’m sure these stories followed Jesus everywhere he went. I imagine his mother (like I do to my children) told him these stories on the anniversary of his birth. Eventually, the stories all come together for us. We, the hearers of Luke’s Gospel, get all the pieces in their places to tell the story of God’s work. We are witnesses to the whole story.

I wonder what it means for you? Is there a moment that is your favorite? Or perhaps a moment that we could leave out, as least far as you’re concerned? Is there something in this story that is just for you? 

The mystery of Christmas is vast and immense. It can be hard to enter. It is a revelation of God and of who we are. How do we begin to understand God’s self wrapped in the package of humanity? And we know this story does not end with a king, at least not a typical king. How do we comprehend God’s life as vulnerable and humble as a baby’s, or even a shepherd’s? Can we imagine that God notices us, cares about us, loves us? 

God’s birth gives life to our lives. God’s humanity gives meaning to our humanity. And our humanity, our lives, gives life to God. Now, God’s love resides and lives in us. Now, we are known to the divine and the divine is known to us. The mystery of the incarnation is God’s self given to us, all of us, through space and time, throughout history. God comes to us and embraces us as we are, God’s very own. It is an invitation to be fully and wholly who God intends us to be. This is the gift God’s life gives to us that we live no longer for our selves. Now, we live as the one God made us to be: lives full of God’s grace, mercy and love.

And now we, like the shepherds and Mary and Joseph and Elizabeth and Zechariah and all the generations that have come before and come after us, we have a story to tell. It is the story of God’s love made real in the flesh, the birth of a child. It is the story of a life lived not for its own sake, for the sake of all creation. It is the story of a son and a king, the Son of the Most High, the glory of God in heaven for all the world to see. It is a story treasure and ponder in our hearts, a story that changes everything.

We are fragile. We are beloved: Ash Wednesday/Lent 1B

This week was a little unplanned. Monday 14 inches of snow, at least, settled into our region of Kentucky, pretty much shut everything down. We had no school: FOR A WEEK! Our Ash Wednesday services were canceled. And, for a few moments, I wondered if we would have church on Sunday.

I found there were three ways I dealt with all of this change. There was at least one day – and many moments – when I was frustrated, grumpy, and anxious. There were other moments (like sledding with the children – way beyond my comfort zone) when I decided to just jump in and enjoy the moment. And, by the time I started working on my sermon for Sunday, I found I could dig deep into my experience and find some meaning in this unplanned time.

This was the first time in my life when I missed an Ash Wednesday service. Even in college, when I was not attending church very often, I still made it to Ash Wednesday. In New Orleans, well Louisiana, we got at least Monday – Wednesday off of school for Mardi Gras Break. I went to Ash Wednesday with the same faithfulness that I attended Bacchus and Rex. At the age of 40, I found myself sitting at my kitchen island anxious for some dust.

I’ve had a long struggle finding my theology of repentance.  I’ve often wondered what meaning or purpose comes from repenting from "little" things. It’s only in the last decade that I’ve found comfort in our prayer of confession; and, this comfort comes from one line: by what we have done, and by what we have left undone…  These phrases, I find, cover a lot of living space. By the time I make it to this line (the fourth one in), I’ve found at least one thing (often a laundry list) of “little things” that need a “do-over.” At minimum, this phrase offers me a clean slate every week.
   
With this in mind, Ash Wednesday has always been my one big, yearly "do-over." The Litany of Pentitence covers a myriad of sins that I'm either not willing to admit or afraid to confess. And this year I was knocked over by what it meant to not experience this moment of confession in community. I discovered how much the "outward,sacramental" moment of ashes scrapped on my forehead meant to me. Every year, as those ashes are placed again and again on our foreheads, I remember that we are loved and forgiven by God, our creator. I experience God's mercy; and those ashes become a physical moment when that forgiveness and mercy are tangible. This year my soul ached for them.
     
I had planned to use the sermon/homily on Ash Wednesday as a reminder of our fragility. The last six weeks, for me, were filled with constant reminders that we are fragile. Despite what we might believe about ourselves (our intelligence, our medicine, our science, our technology), we are fragile.

I've heard many times during these weeks that children are not "supposed" to die before their parents; that someone is too young to be so sick; that bad things shouldn't happen to good people...still, our children are fragile. Young people are fragile. Good people are fragile. We are ALL fragile. We are made from dust. And at the end of our lives, we return to dust. We are fragile. The dust on our foreheads reminds us that life is fragile.

At the end of the Ash Wednesday liturgy, we gather around this altar and share bread and wine. This sacrament, the Eucharist, is the outward reminder of what we know to be true: God's gift to our fragile life is God's love. This feast reminds us that the one enduring quality of our lives is love because love never ends. Nothing destroys love, not even death. And so, on Ash Wednesday we do not end with dust; we finish with a feast. I grew up in the Lutheran church and before the Eucharist we would sing, "This is the feast of victory for our God. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!" Now, I'm not supposed to say Alleluia during Lent. And this Lent, I don't mind because I need, my soul needs, to hear the song of God’s love in that word: ALLELUIA! My soul needs to remember that despite even death God's love reigns. I need to remember that even in his last moments Jesus loved his friends and followers. I need to remember that I experience that love in this meal, the same meal he shared with them. I want to remember that yes, we are fragile, and God's love is stronger than our fragility.

I think I know why the First Sunday of Lent begins with this reading from Mark. It is, most likely, not because of Jesus' Baptism. It is probably because of Jesus' 40 days in the wilderness. Ash Wednesday marks, for us, the beginning of our 40 days. During this time, our traditions are fasting, praying, and taking up acts of service. This is a call to mirror Christ's time in the desert: to resist temptation, and to notice the way God comforts and protects us as we resist.

What I noticed in my study this week, though, was everything surrounding these temptations: Jesus' Baptism and his work of proclamation. Jesus enters the desert AFTER he is claimed by God as the beloved. And when he exits the desert, he immediately begins to share the good news of God's kingdom. These are reminders to us: we, too, are claimed by God, beloved by God; we, too, proclaim and share the good news of God's kingdom with our lives. And somewhere(s) in the midst of our lives, we experience a desert: sometimes for 40 days in a row; sometimes the 40 days are spread out over weeks, months, years; often there's more than one desert.

The good news is that we don't enter the desert alone: God goes with us. The good news is we don't depend only on our own strength or ability: we are already claimed as God's beloved and God goes with us. And, on other side of the desert, we have a story to tell: a story of how God draws near to us: a story of love.

When we are baptized, two things happen. We are sprinkled (or dunked in) water. Then, the priest takes oil and draws a cross on our foreheads: "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ's own forever." This moment is an outward revelation of something we hold to be true: that every one of us is a child of God, beloved, claimed, and marked as God's own forever. Then, on Ash Wednesday, we take dust and mark it on our foreheads: outward symbols of our fragility and our belovedness. Finally, we gather at this table every Sunday and remember the depth of God's love, grace, and mercy for us. Yes, we are fragile; and, yes, we are beloved by our creator.

It is with this knowledge, the cross marked on our foreheads with oil, made visible with ashes, that we enter into the world. The beloved of God face temptation, resist evil, even find sustenance in the desert; and somewhere in the midst of it all, we find God right there alongside us, near to us, right there with us.

This is my prayer for us this Lent: as we acknowledge our weakness, dwell in our suffering, recognize our fragility, we will experience God's enduring, faithful love for all of creation. Yes, we are fragile; and yes, God's love is strong and mighty, never ending, and never failing. Thanks be to God!

Where is the child who has been born...: We Make the Road by Walking, Chapter 16

It was very difficult to read this chapter,"Keep Herod in Christmas," on the 2 year anniversary of the shooting of 20 children at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut. This tragedy is a vivid echo of Herod's slaughter of the innocents depicted in Matthew's Gospel. The children who died December 14, 2012 give us vivid portraits of the children who died at the hands of Herod.

Matthew 2: 16 - 18 tells the story of Herod's slaughter of innocent children. Herod, in his anger against the wise men and because of his fear of Christ's birth, sends his troops to kill all the infant boys living in Bethlehem. It is an echo of Pharaoh's slaughter of Israelite boys in the Book of Exodus. It is a foreshadowing of over 120 children killed in Islamabad, Pakistan. It is a tragic, violent story that feels antithetical to the "Christmas spirit."
 
Of course, this is why we don't tell this story very often; this is why the day for Feast of the Innocent's is rarely celebrated. Stories of the killing of children are not stories we embrace or seek to tel, especially not at Christmas. Instead, we focus, rightly so, on birth, especially the birth of Christ. We joyfully celebrate God's coming among us and the many, many implications that has on our lives. Matthew, though, does not want us to forget. Remember, Matthew seems to say, remember that there are dark places in our world. Remember that the brokenness of humanity, our desires for power and control, are real. Remember that Jesus' life is a response to the violent corruption of creation. And we should not forget. We must recognize and weave together these two sides of the story: the joyful birth and life of Christ, and the reality of corrupt power, violence, and death.

McLaren finds a way to weave these two sides of the story together. He writes, 

"[we must] grapple with what we believe about God. Does God promote or demand violence? Does God favor the sacrifice of children for the well-being of adults? Is God best reflected in the image of powerful old men who send the young and vulnerable to die on their behalf? Or is God best seen in the image of a helpless baby, identifying with the victims, sharing their vulnerability, full of fragile but limitless promise?"

Our theology, what we believe about God, directly impacts our behavior and what we teach others about God. Is it the will of God that Jesus die on the cross? Or is it the will of God that Jesus' violent death is redeemed by the empty tomb? Is it the will of God that Herod murder those innocent children? Or does God weep with those who love them, and for our corrupt desires for power and violence? Is it the will of God that we compete with one another, no matter the cost, for physical and emotional power? Or does God yearn for us to practice compassion, mercy, and vulnerability? Our answers to these questions shape the way we live, our relationships, and, inevitably, our world.

Unicef recently declared 2014 as one of the worst years for children stating that up to 15 million children live in areas entangled in violent conflict. In our own county, as many as 25% of our children are hungry. Do we believe this is God's will for creation? Can we imagine that God calls us to respond, to be bearers of Christ's life in the world? Can we boldly offer a different response to Christ's birth, and life among us, than Herod's act of violent, corrupt power? Will we continue to sacrifice children on behalf of our self-interests, our desire for power and control? Or will we sacrifice our desires for the sake of our children? These are hard questions in the midst of Christmas. And yet, our answers will lead us either to Christ's manger or Herod's castle.