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Just north of Pittsburgh PA in a little crossroads just off the interstate near Ellwood City lies the Monastery of the Transfiguration.  A small community of nuns from the Romanian Orthodox Church live there and are very hospitable to those who come by, even unannounced.

It was less than an hour from where I went to seminary, so regular groups of seminarians would drive up, often unannounced, and raid the gift shop, buying icons and incense, and visit the amazing chapel and gaze upon the icon that wept holy oil.

One of our unannounced visits took place in the week after Easter one year.  I drove some friends to the secluded location. As we drove into the small parking lot, we saw an older woman on her hands and knees working in the garden. 

When she saw us coming, she struggled to her feet, and wiping her hands on her apron she greeted us as we approached her.

“Christ is Risen!” she said.

Being seminarians, we knew the correct response, at least after a moment of looking at each other, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

I’ve never forgotten how powerful that moment was, not to be greeted with colloquial pleasantries but by an acclamation of faith.  Our faith united us despite our different traditions and nationalities.

We began our service this morning with the same acclamation – Alleluia, Christ is risen! 

Do you believe this?

Thomas didn’t. Thomas couldn’t believe the rumors. First there was the testimony of the women who said that Jesus appeared to them in the garden. Then Peter and John reported that the tomb indeed was empty. And now all the other disciples said that Jesus had actually appeared to them. Jesus had entered a locked room where they were hiding. He wasn’t ghost. He was flesh and blood. He had risen. Good news indeed! But had Thomas missed it. The Gospel writer simply states, But Thomas wasn’t with them.

Thomas has become a figure frozen in time. For many Thomas is stuck in this moment, he even has a nickname -- Doubting Thomas. Over the years, Thomas has become a caricature of sorts. He has become the iconic skeptic, the rationalist of the twelve apostles. In many of the bad Hollywood versions of the life of Jesus, where Judas Iscariot is typically portrayed as the snarling, aloof figure that any child could pick out as the bad guy, Thomas is often portrayed as scratching his head or raising objections to things. He is portrayed as the fretting doubter.

How many children in Sunday schools learn the lesson – don’t be a Doubting Thomas.  But to me, Thomas’ name and his reputation are being ill-used.  The truth is we know very little else about Thomas outside this passage in John. From another account in John’s gospel, we do know that Thomas was very courageous in the face of growing opposition to Jesus. He speaks up when the other disciples are afraid to follow Jesus to Bethany where he might be arrested. It is Thomas who says, “Let us go with him also, that we might die with him.”  That doesn’t sound like a fretting doubter to me.

We have no reason to believe that Thomas’ life was plagued by doubt.  Doubting is not Thomas’ profession, nor is it his pastime. And yet, this one moment has been used as an example of someone who lacks faith or someone who is an overly analytical skeptic who should be reprimanded or at least pitied.

But personally I find Thomas here to be a much more sympathetic figure.  I resonate with Thomas, and you know what, I think many of you do too.

Let’s consider his doubt.  We do not hear the story of a stubborn man comfortable with his doubt.  Rather, Thomas is wrestling with the story he has heard.  His doubt is not an excuse for unbelief.  He doesn’t announce, “Well, you say you saw Jesus, but since I didn’t see him, I choose not to believe you.”

Thomas is simply being honest. He wasn’t there when Jesus appeared to the other apostles. When they tell him the good news, Thomas is left to wonder. Is this rumor of a risen Lord just wishful thinking on the part of his friends? Sure Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, but could Jesus himself defeat death?  Thomas wants what the rest of the disciples had.  Thomas wants to experience the risen Jesus.

Thomas’ doubt is full of expectation. Thomas wants to see Jesus. He doesn’t simply roll over in bed and sigh, “Oh well, I guess I’m just a skeptic at heart.”  Thomas has missed out on being with Jesus and he is the worse for it. Their word is not enough. He wants to share in their experience. After all, Jesus showed them his wounds.  I hear in this account the story of a man who wants the same chance.  His doubt is not a way of life, and he says so.  The Greek could also be translated this way, “Until I see the mark of the nails in his hands. Until I put my finger in the mark (the Greek is more colorful here, unless I jab my finger in the wound). Until I do these things, Thomas says, I will not believe. Thomas’ doubt is not one of “never,” it is one of “not yet.”

Thomas dares to demand more of the Lord than just the rumor of his resurrection. Thomas is a man of unrealized faith.  Faith is based on relationship.  I hear in Thomas’ doubt the cry of one who has found himself isolated, left out.  Thomas was one of the twelve.  He knew Jesus, he had seen the miracles.  I believe that it is based on that relationship and experience that Thomas is wanting more.

You may have heard the expression, “Blind faith,” but one of my favorite images I’ve heard used to describe faith is that the nature of faith is having courage to open one’s eyes in the dark.  

Thomas’ doubt is not hopeless, it is full of expectation.  Thomas is in the dark with his eyes wide open.

Some seem to believe quite readily and happily.  You tell me Jesus is risen, “Wow!  I believe it! Hallelujah!”  They believe the story sight-unseen.  Jesus calls these ones blessed, what could also be translated as “happy.”  For others, like Thomas, the journey is harder.  They want more than rumor or a second-hand experience.  They want to meet the risen Christ for themselves.

One of the blessings of our tradition is that we are not afraid to touch, in fact we encourage it.  In a few minutes we will encourage you to touch your neighbor – exchange the sign of peace, with a handshake, sometimes even with a hug or a kiss.  When we received the Eucharist, it isn’t hermetically sealed in sterile containers; it’s placed in your hand by someone else’s hand.  We drink wine from the same cup as other people – it’s a messy business, if you think about it.

But I find something holy in all this touching, all this contact.  Our faith is not one of pure rationality or reason, we get our hands dirty.

“Touch me, Thomas!” Jesus says.  At last, Thomas has a chance to be reunited with his risen Lord, his doubt is gone. 

With Thomas we are counted among those who have not seen.  All we have are the rumors, “The Lord is Risen!”  The question is left open -- will we yet believe?  Let us live our lives, with Thomas, in expectation of meeting the risen Lord.  Amen.

 

We have become so accustomed to them, we hardly notice them.  There are plain ones and jeweled ones, simple ones and elaborate ones.  Some have been passed down for generations.  Others are given as gifts.  They are ubiquitous, and yet, there are many who don’t know the whole story behind these little crosses we wear.

I remember hearing one preacher remark how odd it would seem for people from the time of Jesus to see us wearing them as jewelry, carrying them in procession, making them out of gold.  It would be, he said, as if there were people in our culture today walking around with miniature electric chairs hanging around their necks, or carrying a hangman’s noose up the aisle in a wedding ceremony.

What a peculiar thing – the cross.  What once was a symbol of torture and execution has become a beloved, revered symbol, one that identifies us as a people – Christians.  Why do we, seemingly in an effort to memorialize Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith, why do we revere the very instrument of his death?

I recall many years ago when my itchy spiritual feet were taking to me to unfamiliar churches and rituals looking for that thing I knew was missing I accompanied some friends to a service at Gethsemani Monastery near our college in Kentucky.  The service was on Good Friday.  It was called the Veneration of the Cross.  I had never seen anything like it – people got in line to go to the front of the church, not to take communion, but to bend over and kiss a large crucifix that one of the monks was holding.  Not wanting to miss out, I got in line and did as the Romans were doing.  I’m not sure this young Methodist preacher’s son felt anything in particular at that moment, but I believe it was one of those moments, those thin places, when something inside me moved.

In my younger days, in my zeal as a “hot prot,” I had loudly condemned the Catholic Church for their idolatry and their superstitions.  And yet, here I was touching my lips to this giant cross bearing the form of the suffering and dying Jesus.  It was REAL.  Somehow it spoke to me, and spoke to me on a very deep level.

It is an enigmatic symbol – we read into the cross things like victory and triumph, and yet for those gathered before it that first Good Friday standing in the sudden darkness on that hill outside Jerusalem, it meant nothing but defeat.  There were holes in it and the dried blood of other criminals who had been crucified on it before.  The Romans didn’t issue fresh ones.

There was no other death so cruel and humiliating.  It took hours to die, bleeding to death in the scorching sun or the driving rain.  The condemned had to fight for every breath, straining in what must have been excruciating agony against the nails that held him in place.

Indifferent soldiers and jeering crowds were usually the only company the condemned criminals had.  But not this Jesus, this dying man who had the sign “King of the Jews” nailed above his head on the cross.  There was a small crowd, mostly women, gathered at the foot of his cross.

He spoke words to them and to the soldiers attending his execution.  “Abba, forgive them.”  “Mother, behold your son.” “I thirst,” and finally, “It is finished,” what could also be translated, “It is accomplished.”

What has been accomplished, Jesus?  You have been unjustly tried by corrupt and cowardly men.  What does that accomplish?  You have been whipped and beaten, mocked and berated.  What did that accomplish?  The questions must have weighed heavy on those gathered at the foot of the cross.

Jesus breathed his last and handed over his spirit.  The spirit that came upon him at his baptism has now departed, not in glorious light, but in darkness.  There was no voice from heaven, only silence.  Creation groaned.  The ground shook, the rocks split.  There were rumors that the Veil in the Temple had been torn in two, top to bottom.  Darkness, questions, fear, grief.

What was accomplished, Jesus?

If we freeze that moment and contemplate on that dark, dreadful, mysterious hour, we cannot help but wonder why?  This is Mary’s son, the infant whom angels and kings came to worship.  This is the man who healed the sick and raised the dead.  This is the itinerant rabbi who embraced the unembraceable and dared to challenge the authorities.

What has he done to deserve this – to die a criminal, hung in shame for the world to see?

God, why have you forsaken him?

Ever since that dark day, people have looked upon this scene and tried to explain it.  Vast libraries of books prove that the world has been talking about it ever since.  And yet, how can we stand before this scene and not ask from our deepest soul, why?

The injustice of that moment mocks the life of the man who with his life taught his followers how to be just.  The wounds and the blood scar the memory of the one who healed others.  It was as if love itself was dying up there, gasping for breath, breathing his last.

Do not look for easy answers.  And do your best not to look away.  Do not look away from this terrible moment, this tragic scene.  This great grief has caused the sky to darken and the earth itself to quake.

Gaze just for a moment longer on this poor, dying one, and with the centurion let our words be, “Truly this man was the son of God.”  Amen.

A sermon for Passion Sunday, Year A
Matthew 26:36-27:66

Could you not stay awake with me?

What tone do you think Jesus used when he spoke these words to the disciples?  How might an actor bring life and emotion to these words?

Was he angry?

Was he discouraged and disappointed?

Was he fearful and lonely?

Despite their best efforts, the disciples, even this early in the story of the last hours of Jesus’ life, are already deserting him.  They cannot even manage to keep awake, to pray, to protect him.

I imagine all of these emotions must have surged through Jesus’ heart that night, the night he was betrayed.

We have just heard a dramatic reading of the passion of our Lord according to Matthew.

You may be wondering, why is this Sunday unlike any other?  Why did we have two readings from the Gospel?  We have entered into worship singing “hosanna,” celebrating the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem.  But soon the tone has turned dire and ominous – Jesus has been arrested.  Jesus has been killed!

Why have we rushed through the story?

It seems that our culture won’t allow us to stay awake with Jesus either.  Our lives are very busy.  We are overworked and over-played.  We rush from work to take the kids to soccer practice or to get to dance class.  We manage to squeeze in dinner and homework and a little time for ourselves before we get to bed to start it all over again in the morning.

This week is unlike any other.  Jesus asks, “Could you not stay awake with me?”

It would be easy with all the busyness of the week not to show up to church again until next Sunday morning.  Unlike the disciples, it wouldn’t be sleep that would distract us from watching with Jesus.  It would be our schedules.

The Church in her wisdom recognized this problem.  Once upon a time, Holy Week, which begins today, was a time when most Christians would faithfully go to church, at least on Good Friday and maybe even Maundy Thursday.  But now, more and more a thing like Holy Week seems to be counter-cultural.  As it is on Ash Wednesday, many could not begin to tell you when Maundy Thursday is, let alone Good Friday. 

In response the church has transformed this Sunday from just Palm Sunday full of triumph, to Passion Sunday full of paradox.  The readings today not only show us Jesus’ triumphal entry, but they also show us the dark side of Holy Week.  We see Jesus suffering.  We witness him beaten and despised, whipped and hung on a tree. 

We witness the paradoxes that filled the last week of Jesus’ life.  The crowds first shout, “Hosanna to the Son of David!  Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”  And then shortly thereafter the same voices cry, “Let him be crucified!”

The Jesus of the Triumphal Entry is attractive, a winner.  The Jesus of Gethsemane is more enigmatic, more disturbing.  The Risen Lord is a joy to behold, but the dying Jesus, with his flesh torn, gasping for air, breathing his last, from this Jesus, we wish to divert our eyes.  But there would be no empty tomb if there were no bloody cross.

We need to tell the full story.

We have been telling the full story of Jesus’ life and ministry, week-in, week-out, for the rest of the year.  We have contemplated the miracles Jesus performed and the teachings he gave to those who would hear him.  And now we have come to this week of weeks – the last week of his life, and the first week of the rest of the story. 

I invite you this week – despite the disinterested and busy culture around you, stay awake with Jesus.  Spend time in prayer and meditation, preparing yourself for the road that is ahead of all of us.  As we walk these last days of Lent, we have entered the last hours of Jesus’ life.  We need to see it all.  The Triumphal Entry, The Last Supper, the washing of feet, the Garden of Gethsemane, the betrayal, the trial, the torture, the via dolorosa, Calvary, the tomb and the miracle of Easter morning.

We are not forced to abandon Jesus during his last hours.  We reenacted the Triumphal Procession this morning, but we need not reenact the betrayal and flight of the disciples.

This church will be open every night this week, offering a quiet space for prayer and meditation.   This week is the week of weeks for our faith.  Whenever we hear the words in the Eucharistic prayer, “On the night he was handed over to suffering and death” or “For in the night in which he was betrayed” that very night is this week, this Thursday to be precise.  We will celebrate the last supper as if for the first time.  By three o’clock on Friday afternoon we will come to a place of great grief.  This same Jesus, the infant king whom the magi worshipped, the miraculous healer and teacher whom the crowds flocked to see, the Son of David who entered Jerusalem in triumph would be left to die just outside its walls, abandoned, alone and despised.  And then early on Sunday morning we will gather in the hush of civil twilight and contemplate the mystery and miracle of Easter morning.

During this coming Holy Week, let’s try our best to go against the prevailing culture.  Let us keep awake with Jesus.  Let us not rush from triumph to triumph without first walking with our Lord through the valley of the shadow of his death.   We are here this morning with the paradox of a triumphant entrance and a lonely exit.  There’s much more to the story, and we will visit each of these places this week. 

During this Holy Week, let us take time to hear those words that Jesus heard.  Let us listen anew to what God may be saying to us.

During this Holy Week, let us take time to walk, if only for a short while, the road that our Lord walked.  As our feet wend their way this week toward Calvary, let us recall anew how costly our redemption was.

During this Holy Week, let us take time to see, if only remotely, some of those things that Jesus saw. 

But most of all, during this Holy Week, let us look upon him.  When we look up on the Crucified One we look upon the one who has reconciled heaven and earth.  The curse is undone.  When we had become subject to evil and death, God sent the son to redeem us.  In a world full of darkness, a light has dawned, and the darkness has not overcome it.  Evil has been answered with love, hatred with forgiveness.  Death has lost its grip over us, all because of the cross.

Let us prepare for the joy of Easter, with the courage it takes to look upon the cross.  Let us stay awake and keep watch with Jesus.  Amen

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Lent, Year A
John 9:1-41

I want to begin this morning doing something I almost never do – begin with a commercial.  On Tuesday evening during Holy Week, which is believe it or not, two weeks from this coming Tuesday, it is our tradition here at Christ Church to gather together and hear the Gospel of the Year read in its entirety.

This year, of course, we will hear Matthew read in its entirety in one sitting – well we might have an intermission.  Why on earth would you do that, you might ask.  The reason is that the Gospels as we have them in our Bible, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, were not experienced by their original audiences in weekly installments.  Biblical scholars tell us that they are collections of oral stories and traditions that had been handed down by followers of Jesus in their various communities.

Now why don’t you read John aloud, you might ask – well the simple reason is that the first three Gospels are read in three year cycles – John’s gospel doesn’t have a year assigned to it.  Rather readings from John are featured in and amongst the other gospel lessons.  Indeed we’ve been hearing John during this season of Lent.

We heard from John, a LOT of John, again this morning.  John is different from the other gospels in that it is more literary.  It seems to have been crafted more deliberately and carefully – it’s theology and indeed the Greek used in writing it are beautiful and more refined.  Whole chunks of John are LONG speeches by Jesus – not just stories about Jesus but many of Jesus’ inner thoughts.

This morning we have heard a story which may be familiar to many of you – the healing of the man born blind and the interrogation of his parents.  We have a long narrative piece here, with several scenes, almost like the script to a play.

What we don’t have this morning is the context.  We hear this lesson in isolation, which limits some of the meaning and affect it might have if it were heard in the larger, literary scope of John’s gospel.  This is why we have the corporate readings of the other gospels – to hear them in their entirety and in their full contexts.

So bear with me if I take a moment to set this reading in the larger context of John’s story.

Last week we heard the story of the Samaritan woman at the well.  This week, the lectionary crafters have skipped ahead to a similar encounter – this man born blind.  But MUCH has happened between these two lessons.

The story of the Samaritan woman at the well comes soon after Jesus’ discourse with Nicodemus which we heard two weeks ago.  Jesus is breaking boundaries and conventions, challenging Pharisees and Samaritans alike.  Jesus is doing a new thing in the midst of these people who populate the narrative of John.

In the section between last week’s lesson and this week’s we hear of healings: the Centurion’s servant, and the lame man sitting beside the Pool of Bethesda – Jesus’ fame is spreading.  These healings don’t go unnoticed by the people but also by the religious authorities.

Jesus feeds 5,000 people, and then tells them, “I am the bread of life.”  Jesus is journeying toward Jerusalem, and we can’t help but sense that the tension is growing – a showdown is looming.

“A prophet has no honor in his own country,” Jesus reflects ominously.

Jesus walks on water.  Peter confesses that Jesus is the “holy one of God.”

Meanwhile, the reactions to Jesus’ ministry are also become more polarizing.  Many of the people want to make Jesus king, but religious authorities want to kill him and don’t keep their plans very secret.

Jesus defends a woman taken in adultery who is about to be stoned, pointing past the Law to a renewed understanding of God’s love and God’s grace.  Jesus tells those who would listen – I am the light of the world.  The Pharisees and religious authorities are asking out loud – is this man a demon?

Right before today’s lesson Jesus has a confrontation with the Jewish leaders, he calls them children of the devil rather than children of Abraham.  A line is being drawn in the sand.

Jesus’ last words to them are, “Before Abraham was, I am.”  They, of course, accuse him of heresy and the verse right before our lesson begins reads this way:

So they took up stones to throw at him; but Jesus hid himself, and went out of the temple.

Just a short time before this, Jesus had stopped them from stoning a woman, but now, the stones are being picked up with his name on them.

It is in this context that we read today’s lesson.  Do you see how knowing this bit of background makes this story much more powerful and ominous?  This story is part of the larger story.

As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth.

The other bit of context we get here is the world-view of those among whom Jesus moved every day.  Not just the common people, but the Jewish authorities even Jesus’ disciples seemed to believe that this man’s blindness was the result of someone’s sin.

Today we might call it karma.

Jesus doesn’t get caught up in a debate with them – rather he heals the man proclaiming that the man’s blindness was to show God’s might in him.

The man is healed.  But this is where the trouble starts.

His neighbors debate whether it could really be the same man.  The bring the man to the Pharisees who are more concerned that Jesus healed him on the Sabbath, claiming this fact as proof that Jesus is not of God.

They go and get this man’s parents – again, the assumption is made that the man’s blindness was the result of sin.  A rather amusing debate rages between the authorities and the healed man and his parents.

The one thing they cannot do is tolerate his testimony about Jesus – go be his disciple then, they say and kick him out of the synagogue.

It is here that the true nature of what Jesus has done is revealed.  This man has been born blind.  Those around him are looking for someone to blame.  Jesus heals him saying it is to glorify God.

The people aren’t even happy for him – instead they want to investigate how he was healed.

In the end, this healing and its aftermath serve to illustrate who exactly the blind ones were.

The Jewish authorities kept pointing to this man as a sinner.  Jesus doesn’t dispute that, rather he points to this paradox – the kingdom of God is full of examples where the tables are turned – a blind man is healed and now can see, but his healing serves to show the blindness of those around him.  They were looking for sin in him, when the sin was in themselves.

I do not know for certain why the lectionary crafters put this story back to back with the story of the Samaritan woman at the well, but I do see some parallels.

Both of them had nosy neighbors.  Both of them had reputations – namely as sinners.  Both of them were outcasts.

Jesus restores them and they cannot keep quiet about it – the man’s sight is restored and he testifies to God’s mercy, and the woman at the well is turned from a woman of bad reputation to one of the first evangelists.

These were outsiders who had no voice, and suddenly Jesus gives them their voice, and people listen.  In the case of the woman, people are converted, Samaritan people are converted.  In the case of this man, tensions grow and Jesus is rejected by his own people.

The sin is what people notice –the sin of this woman that has driven her to draw water from the well by herself in the heat of the day; the supposed sin of this man or his parents that has caused his blindness.

Jesus is pointing their eyes to a place beyond sin, as he had done with the woman taken in adultery.  The people were obsessed with crime and punishment, but Jesus’ obsession was to see the human being buried under the condemnation of the crowds.  These were God’s children, sinful, adulterous, blind, but God’s children nonetheless.

Jesus breaks through the barriers, speaking with a forbidden woman of the town, healing a sinful man on the Sabbath.  Jesus identifies with these sinners by risking his own reputation, and by risking the condemnation of the religious elite.   Restored these people rejoice, testifying and praising God.

Now Jesus’ asks – who exactly is it who is blind?

This is the work of God’s kingdom, God’s commonwealth – restoration and reconciliation.  Some want to play the blame game and marginalize all those who aren’t as perfect as they are.  Jesus is showing us that it is these very imperfect, marginalized people who are the very kind of people God’s kingdom is all about.  Look beyond the sin, beyond the curse, and see God’s healing, God’s restoration.  In the end, this man’s blindness wasn’t the problem, it was the blindness of those who had rejected him.

May God give us the mercy to risk our reputations to embrace those whom others consider sinful, and may God open our eyes to see God’s own plans at work around us.  Amen.

A sermon for The Second Sunday of Lent, Year A

John 3:1-17; Genesis 12:1-4a

Forty-one years ago, on St. Helena Island, lying just off the coast of South Carolina, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference was holding a staff retreat.  It was held at a Quaker retreat center that had originally been of the first schools for freed slaves.  The members of the SCLC who had gathered for the retreat were not there to bask in the summery weather.  Instead they were facing a critical crossroads in their mission.

Leading this retreat was Martin Luther King, Jr., their founder and president.  Dr. King had news for them -- he was changing his mind.  In the ten years that the SCLC had existed, their goal had been to bring about radical change in the society around them – the realization of civil rights for African Americans.  They had sponsored bus boycotts, sit-ins and marches on towns in the Deep South that were hotbeds of the nascent racism and segregation that had thrived since the days of Reconstruction. 

But now Dr. King had a new message.  He explained to the gathered leaders that he now understood that the struggle was much more profound.  Their crisis facing American society was far more deep-seated than just the resistance they had encountered.  The change that America needed must be deeper, thus their mission had to be broader.  They were no longer fighting just for civil rights for Blacks.  He began to speak of human rights, for all people. Just weeks before, he had delivered a remarkable sermon at the Riverside Church in New York City.   In the sermon Dr. King described the dangers of a society fixated on civil rights becoming a nation of individualists.

He began to call for a new kind of revolution in America.

He said, “We as a nation must undergo a radical revolution of values. We must rapidly begin the shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights, are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.”

He saw the need for fundamental change in the civil rights movement and he needed his followers to understand it with him, to have the courage to change their way of thinking.

At night Nicodemus came to Jesus.  Being a member of the religious establishment, he probably came at night and in private to avoid being seen with Jesus.

Nicodemus came with questions – honest, vulnerable questions.  In the course of their conversation, Jesus tells Nicodemus, “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”  Did anyone else do a double-take there when you heard the Gospel read?  A voice from my fundamentalist past said, “Now preacher, my Bible says, ‘Ye must be born again!’” 

Well the translators of the New Revised Standard Version, our official copy of the Bible have taken the Greek word here, anothen, and translated it “from above” instead of “again.”  The Greek is actually ambiguous.  This is fairly typical in John’s Gospel – the Greek is elevated, mystical – unlike the earthy phrases and expressions of Mark.  This kind of nuanced conversation would only happen in John’s Gospel – plays on words and clarifying terms.  John’s Jesus always seems to be walking just a few feet above the heads of his listeners.  Regardless, let’s go with how our translators bring it to us – Jesus said, “You must be born from above.”  I know, I know – change is hard.

But this phrase begins a conversation between these two wise men on this whole concept.  I find it quite appropriate that our ears trip over the words – we are a little confused, those of us who grew up saying things like “I am a born-again Christian.”  This change is disconcerting, unsettling.  Like Nicodemus, we have to lean in, clarify what Jesus is saying, “Jesus, say that again please.” 

Like Nicodemus, we don’t quite understand Jesus. 

Jesus is trying to get Nicodemus to think in a new way, to leave behind his old understandings of things earthly and things heavenly, to see beyond his old way of thinking to a new reality.  For Nicodemus this is very hard, he gets tripped up over semantics.  What do you mean, Jesus?

Jesus says, “You must be born anothen.”  Nicodemus immediately thinks of his mother’s womb.

Jesus here uses many images to try to capture Nicodemus’ imagination.  Those born from above are born by water and the spirit – it has nothing to do with wombs, Nicodemus.  The Spirit is like the wind – wild and free – we cannot predict it or control it.  Still Nicodemus doesn’t seem to get it.

Nicodemus can serve as a bit of an “everyman” here.  We are a lot like Nicodemus.  We don’t get it either.  We get tripped up by semantics and imagery.  Jesus is asking Nicodemus and us to think in a new way.  Jesus tells Nicodemus and us to be born from above, by water and the spirit.  Jesus is speaking prophetically, calling Nicodemus and us to a new place, to see things in a new and transformative way.

Lent can be a time of radical transformation, not only in the way we think, but in the way we live.  Lent can be a time of change, and change can be both exhilarating and frustrating, both exciting and confusing.

In Lent we face the changes that face us in life.  We ponder our mortality and that of others.  I don’t know about you, but I had a sick moment of recollection this past week when news of yet another campus shooting came over the airwaves.  All too familiar feelings washed over me.  Not again.  Remember that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return.

Jesus says to us, “You must be born from above.”  Lent can also be a time of personal change and growth.  Many of us have chosen a Lenten discipline, whether it be to give up caffeine or exercise more, to complain less or engage in more charitable works.  Regardless, these disciplines involve change in our routines and change can be unsettling.

Our church is going through change.  It’s no longer a secret, if it ever was.  We regularly make headlines.  Archbishop Williams is increasingly under fire both in England and globally for his beliefs and opinions.  Five primates now say that they are boycotting the Lambeth conference later this year, because “those people” will be there.  On a national and international level we are considering what it truly means to be in communion with each other, even when we disagree, sometimes profoundly disagree. 

But it’s not just our church that is changing.  Were it only that simple.  Society around us is changing.  Attitudes are not the same as they were 30 or even 20 years ago.  The choice is ours to pretend nothing has changed or to face these challenges with the courage of those who have been born from above.  But change is scary; change is unsettling.

Dr. King spoke of change, moving from civil rights for his people to speaking of human rights for all people.  What had brought him to this change in heart, in direction?

Weeks earlier he had been in Louisville, Kentucky to participate in a protest against segregated housing.  While there, he was hit in the head by a rock after he tried to reason with a group of teenagers that would not let his car pass.  He simply said to them, "We've got to learn to live together as brothers."  A new way of thinking – change.

That night, Dr. King spoke to his supporters still holding that rock.

Dr. King spoke of the need to strike out at evil in all the ways it intersects with our lives – racism leading to violence, materialism leading to exploitation and all of it ultimately leading to militarism.  Taking sides against each other, and the taking up arms.  Dr. King concluded it is all interrelated.

"You really can't get rid of one without getting rid of the others," he said. "Jesus confronted this problem of the interrelatedness of evil one day.  In the gospel of John a rich man named Nicodemus came to Jesus and asked, What must I do to be saved?”

"Jesus didn't get bogged down in a specific evil. He didn't say, now Nicodemus you must not drink liquor. He didn't say, Nicodemus you must not commit adultery. He didn't say, Nicodemus you must not lie. He didn't say, Nicodemus you must not steal. He said, Nicodemus you must be born again. Nicodemus, the whole structure of your life must be changed.”

"What America must be told today,” Dr. King went on to say, “is that she must be born again. The whole structure of American life must be changed."

Do his words upset or frighten you?  Perhaps they should. 

Stewart Burns has pondered Dr. King’s words and what they mean for us today, “The rules must be changed.” He writes, “There must be a revolution of values. Only by reallocating and redefining power would it be possible to wipe out the triple interlocking evils of racism, exploitation, and militarism.”

Change, growth, a brand new way of thinking and being – Jesus called us to it, so did Dr. King – these prophetic voices.  Would that we had prophets such as these in every generation to call us to a new place, to think a brand new way, to lead us to inhabit a new land.

Change is coming.  Change is inevitable.  Sometimes it is thrust upon us with events such as September 11^th or April 16^th.  We cannot resist.  We and all those we love are caught up in these changes, sudden and irrevocable. 

But often change comes upon us more gradually.  For most of us, it is hard to remember what life was like before email and cell phones. In a relatively short time, we have been changed by the culture around us, step by step, almost imperceptibly.  This kind of change is still happening, whether we are aware of it or not.

And then sometimes change takes the form of a human face:  Rosa Parks, Nelson Mandela, Katherine Jefferts Schori, Gene Robinson.  It is hard to resist change when it has a human face.  Change is coming.  Change is already here.  It is our choice how to respond to it.

May we be like Nicodemus, who came to Jesus, even if it was at night, to ask questions and to listen for the answers.  No he didn’t get it right at first, but he kept listening; he kept asking; he kept seeking.

May we be more like Abram in today’s Old Testament reading.  God called him to leave his home, his country, the familiar to go to a new place.  It was only in doing so that Abram could accomplish with his life the things God intended.  If only Abram would be willing to leave his people behind and endure the pain and confusion of so great a change, ultimately all the nations of the earth would be blessed.

God’s spirit is moving, like the wind.  The spirit blows where it chooses.  God’s spirit is calling us to a new place, to a new way of thinking, and ultimately to a new life.  We are called, then, to trust the character of God, to trust the creative and transforming power of God in our lives, all our lives.  It is a call that urges us, entices us into the future yes a future of the unknown.  Yes, such a future can be scary, uncertain, but it is also a future filled with new hope and new possibilities.  Amen.

A sermon for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany, Year A
John 1:29-42

Epiphany is the season of light.  Now, somewhere out there one of you is thinking, “Wait, didn’t he say Advent was the season of light.  And didn’t he say something similar about Christmas?”

You are right to accuse me of some measure of redundancy and repetition, because, at least in my imagination, all three seasons emphasize light.  In Advent, the light is growing.  Along with our growing sense of anticipation and expectation, we light candles in the darkness, one more each week.  At Christmas we celebrate the light at its fullest – we festoon trees with lights and the nave is lined with candles.  And now, during this season after the Epiphany, we talk about and sing about and ponder light again, but this difference is that the light is now spreading.

God’s light, incarnate in Jesus, shines forth.  It shines forth drawing all manner of people to its source.  Not just God’s people, but those who have never heard the story – magi come from the East to worship.  All nations are drawn to God’s light.

Epiphany means “a manifestation” or “a striking appearance.”  The season after the Epiphany is full of manifestations of Jesus, both his nature and his power – the lectionary readings include Jesus’ first miracle, the wedding at Cana.  We also hear stories of Jesus’ striking appearance -- the Transfiguration, and here the baptism of Jesus by John.

The baptism of Jesus is recorded in all four of the gospels.  As you might expect, each writer puts a slightly different spin and draws out nuances for his own purposes.  The writer of John, of course, uses this moment to shine a light fully on Jesus as the Anointed One – here is the very one that John the Baptist has been waiting for.  Here is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.

Not only is the baptism recorded in each of the Gospels but so is this detail about the spirit descending on Jesus like a dove.  In John’s Gospel, only John the Baptist can see it happening, but he testifies to it.  John the Baptizer is an instrument of the Epiphany, of the revelation of Jesus.

I love icons.  I love to “read” them because they each truly tell a story, even if they seem to the casual observer only to be a Byzantine styled portrait of a saint.  Icons tell stories, stories that are meant to be passed down, the good news they tell to be shared and spread.  There are details you would miss if you didn’t know to look for them.  One detail to always take note of, especially if the icon depicts a crowd scene, is what are the various characters doing with their hands.

Quite often you will notice that one or more of the characters are pointing away from themselves and toward the true focus of the story.  Sometimes they are pointing to a text or a symbol, but as you can probably intuit, the person to whom they are usually pointing is Jesus himself.  Many icons of the Blessed Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus have some kind of this gesturing going on.

As much as you might honor the intent of Rembrandt or Van Gogh in one of their creations, I think it meet and right to honor the intent of the iconographer and the characters portrayed there in – follow the hands, obey the gestures.  Where are they pointing?

In these readings this morning, John the Baptist is frozen in time, the last of the Hebrew prophets, pointing away from himself and toward Jesus.  Here is the lamb of God.

And John’s Gospel doesn’t end the encounter there – John the Baptist literally sends some of his disciples after Jesus – go, follow him!  He’s the one you are looking for!  And they go.  This is the only Gospel that depicts the calling of the first apostles this way.

Do you see the nature of this season here?   Remember that in our use of the term, Epiphany can also mean a personal revelation.  The light bulb appears above someone’s head – an “aha!” moment.  These followers of John are shown the true messiah, the anointed one.  John pointing away from himself – there he is!

Now, we Episcopalians are not known for our evangelistic zeal.  We would be the last on the street corner preaching to others about Jesus.  We are a bit too civilized and polite for such antics.  We are more likely to respect another’s personal spiritual journey rather than go around trying to scare strangers into coming to our church because we have all the answers.  No, typically our evangelism moves at a much slower, more deliberate pace – built on relationship not fear or zeal. 

I had a conversation just yesterday with a college student in another diocese who is bringing one of his friends to church with him today.  He is a recent convert to the Episcopal church himself, and he is bringing one of his best friends with him to their cathedral this morning to help prepare her, he said, for his confirmation.  I don’t know what her background is, but my guess is that the Episcopal liturgy, especially in a cathedral setting, may come as a bit of a shock.

But isn’t that one of our greatest secrets -- we Episcopalians do evangelize.  No, we aren’t out on the street corners, our evangelism is our liturgy.  We as a group of individuals gathered here practice pointing away from ourselves to one who is greater.  We draw near with faith and we receive forgiveness and grace, not in imaginary dreams, but in real bread and wine, as tangible as flesh and blood.

This season after the Epiphany is quite short this year – just about as short as it can get.  In just two and a half weeks we will begin our journey yet again through Lent.  In case you haven’t heard we are already pondering what that journey will look like for us as a group, believers, non-believers, skeptics and prophets.  We will spend our Lenten sojourn “Seeking the Divine.”

Now, I doubt Christians from more evangelistic traditions would think that this would qualify in any way as evangelism, but I believe it is.  This Lent we will not spend our time navel-gazing or running through a litany of our sins.  We will point away from ourselves to the other, to the divine, and in doing so, we may yet encounter one of the great mysteries of our faith.  Through the various practices and traditions we will try, when we do encounter the divine in those “thin places,” the places where God draws near to those seeking God, as we point away from ourselves often we discover the extended hands of the divine pointing right back at us.  Amen.

A sermon on the Eve of Christmas, Year A
Luke 2:1-14

Christmas has come.  No need to wait any longer.  Christmas is here.

For those of you old enough to reflect back, I would dare say that if you thought back there would be at least one or two Christmases that are most memorable.  Perhaps it was the last one you celebrated with someone you loved.  Perhaps it just seemed to that the Ghost of Christmas Present visited your home with brighter candles and your hearts were lighter.

Down through the centuries there have been particularly memorable Christmases as well.  Indeed 93 years ago this very night, one of the most peculiar occurrences connected with Christmas took place, and people are still talking about it.

It was in the early days of the First World War.  It was in the region of Ypres in Belgium.  British and German troops were dug in.  In these early days of the war how could they have known how long the war would last or how many thousands of their comrades would die.

No one is quite sure how it began, but British soldiers noticed on Christmas Eve that the German soldiers were lighting candles and decorating trees and even their trenches with them.  Then the sounds of “Stille Nacht” crossed the no man’s land between them.  The British soldiers returned with “Christians Awake.”

Soon with no thought to their safety, British and German soldiers were crossing the cratered ground between their trenches to exchange gifts: jam, cigars, chocolate, and, of course, whiskey.  The atmosphere of good will lasted the entirety of Christmas Day.  There were even reports of a football match between the sides, with Germany winning 3-2.

The good will spread down the line, in some places it was reported that hostilities were ended until after New Years.

What is it about Christmas?  Why does it affect people so?  Is it the memories of childhood?  Or is there something more profound at work on this night?

There is one aspect of the celebration of Christmas that captures my imagination more than any other.  That is the seeming struggle of light against darkness.

During the season of Advent, we have been lighting one extra candle each Sunday, our growing light chasing away the darkness.

Can there be any greater symbol than light, especially as we have just passed the Winter Solstice.  This is indeed the darkest time of the year.  The days are at their shortest – the nights at their longest.  Is it any wonder then that the three major holidays taking place concurrently, Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa use light as major symbols?  In all three, candles play a central role.

But we don’t stop there, especially we Christians.  We festoon our homes and yards and neighborhoods with artificial lights.  Whether they are multicolored or just clear, the lights of Christmas some capture the wonder and joy of the season.  In this season of darkness, we kindle fire, we light lights.

This is an action born in hope.  The prophet Isaiah told of a time when a people who walked in darkness would see a great light.  The light he is speaking of is not the Rockefeller Christmas tree but the true light that has come into the world.  It enlightens everyone and the darkness has not overcome it.

The light that the Christ Child represents on Christmas morning is the promise of God’s love for us.  God has not abandoned us.  God’s intention is that we have light and not be left wandering in the darkness.

This promise of light, fulfilled in the Christ Child is a promise that is meant to bring us hope.  We live in a world that continues to be plagued with darkness, whether it be from other people, or institutions, or even countries.  There is still plenty of darkness around.  And yet the message of Christmas morning is light, driving away the darkness that does not understand it, and this light brings us hope.

But it wasn’t a candle lying in a manger that brings us hope.  It was a child.  The miracle of Christmas morning is the Incarnation.  The Incarnation, God made flesh, is one of the boldest and most revolutionary statements that we as Christians claim every time we recite the creeds.

By his Incarnation, Jesus the Messiah, the Christ, not only embodied the light that has shined in the darkness, but he has also restored a relationship that had been lost.  As you will hear in the blessing at the end of the service, in his birth, Jesus has reunited Heaven to Earth and Earth to Heaven.

When God became a human being, it was as if to draw attention to those things that the world and its people just don’t seem to get right.  There are those whose attention and passions are focused mostly on earthly things.  They give very little attention to the divine, to the spiritual aspects of life.  Their appetites and pleasures rule their lives, allowing their mortal bodies the greatest control over their behavior.

Then there are those focused on heavenly things at the loss of an earthly connection.  There are very real needs in our world that cannot wait for Jesus’ promised second coming.  The earth needs us to protect her, to care for her.  There are people in our midst that don’t need to hear a sermon as much as they need a warm meal and a safe place to live.

Jesus’ life represents a reunion of these two aspects of our existence as human beings.  We are physical beings with physical needs, but we are also spiritual beings who experience spiritual hunger, not just physical.  Jesus’ life and teachings draws some people’s eyes toward heaven, but it also should bring other people’s eyes back down to earth.

Jesus, then, represents this bridge figure, reuniting seeming opposites, but his life serves to remind us that in order to be fully human, we must embrace our divinity, and in order to reach the heights of spiritual bliss, we must live lives fully as humans.

In the New Year, some may embark on a new spiritual quest, doing meditation, reading all sorts of books.  Others will obsess about losing some weight or building muscle.  How about a balance of the two – spiritual and physical makeovers for us all.

So let us linger at the manger during this Christmas season.

That’s right, this Christmas season.  Tomorrow is just the first day of Christmas.  Everyone knows how many days of Christmas there are – we sing about them every year.  And yet come the day after tomorrow, stores will begin dismantling their displays, and some homeowners will even begin to take down decorations.

The world gives up just when the party is starting.  We have 12 days to celebrate the birth of the Messiah.  We have almost two full weeks to linger at the manger and consider the incarnation.

It’s not that merchants are anxious to put up their Epiphany decorations.  I’ve already seen hearts and cupids where the stockings and wrapping paper used to be.  Many people have grown bored with Christmas, and they are ready to move on.  We, at Christ Church, however, will not.  We will be singing “Christmas Carols” well into the New Year.

There are still others in a rush.  There are those who rush to Calvary much too quickly.  Some of the living nativities in the area actually end with a tableau of the crucifixion.  There are Christian retailers who sell ornamental nails with which we might festoon our Christmas trees.

Certainly we do not deny the reality of the cross and the resurrection and their importance to our faith, but might we take a little time to enjoy the life of Jesus and not rush to the death of Jesus?  Might we linger at the manger, consider the mystery of the incarnation, and like Mary, ponder these things in our hearts?

As the light has come to its brightest in the child who is born this night, let us celebrate that light in what is often a dark world.  Let us kindle the light of Christmas in our hearts this night and let us carry it forth into the world that the light may continue to grow and spread.  The light has come.  Our light has come.  May it truly banish the darkness and bring us hope.  Amen.

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year A
Matthew 1:18-25

In the gospel lesson this morning we are given a rare gift – a glimpse inside the thoughts and intentions of Joseph, Mary’s husband.  From what we can tell from the text, Joseph was a law-abiding citizen, willing to follow the customs and directions of both the religious and civil authorities.  But the text tells us specifically that Joseph was a righteous man.

What would a righteous man do when he discovered that the woman to whom he was betrothed was pregnant with another man’s child?  Joseph refuses to disgrace Mary, no matter what she has done.  In this way he proves himself both a loyal husband and a worthy father before the child is even born.

If you were to open a Bible and look at the 17 verses in Matthew that precede this, you would discover a list, a list of the ancestors of Joseph, all the way back to Abraham.  Joseph bears a great lineage, not only is he a son of Abraham, he is also a son of David.  Jewish men knew their pedigree.  It was a source of pride and of connection to their tribe and to the nation as a whole.

But the writer of Matthew doesn’t let this exercise in genealogy and pedigrees get in the way of the story of the birth of the Messiah.  After all of this preparation, listing generation after generation of men, and even two women (Rahab and Ruth), the gospel writer throws in a sudden surprised.  The messiah is begotten, not by Joseph, but by the Holy Spirit.

Some of the prophecies of the Messiah suggested that he would come through the line of David – a branch will come forth from the root of Jesse.  It would be from Bethlehem, the city of David that great things would come.

And now here, a righteous man, a descendent of David, is faced with a difficult decision.  An angel appears to him to allay his fears.  Angels only ever appeared in the Hebrew Scriptures at points when God was very close to the men and women of those stories, and these were usually turning points for everyone.

Joseph is participating in God’s plan for the world, just as so many of his ancestors before him.  Is this what prepared him for this moment – the story of the lives of his ancestors?  Might he have asked himself, “What would David do?”  Joseph’s heritage was considerable.  Perhaps it served as inspiration for his decision making, indeed his destiny.

An angel appears to Joseph and not only seeks to calm his fears but also to prophesy about this child.  This is no ordinary child.  Indeed this extraordinary lineage is only the beginning of the story.

This child will be called Jesus – the same root as the name for Joshua, meaning “Yahweh is Salvation.”  Again, God has come to the need of the children of Israel, including all those names in the genealogy.  God has broken in by means of the Holy Spirit, the same spirit that brooded over the deep at creation.  It is the same spirit that breathed life into the dry bones of Ezekiel’s vision.  God’s spirit is blowing again.

Joseph, himself a man of considerable pedigree, a worthy man indeed, is called upon to protect Mary and this child – this child who is also called Emmanuel, God with us.  Not only will this child save, but this child also represents something new – God has come among us.

This is the beautiful beginning of a long story, a story that stretches out before us this morning.  We will see this child grow into a man, a man of God who does great things.  We will hear of his miracles and listen to his teachings.   The writer of Matthew is carefully connecting the Messiah to the strongest branch of the tribes of Israel.  This Jesus would not be just any child, but a child born of the best pedigree.  Don’t forget this heritage as the story of Jesus as told by Matthew unfolds before us in the weeks and months to come.

But this morning we celebrate this other righteous man, this Joseph, son of Abraham, son of David.  May the courage and the example of righteous Joseph change our hearts this morning.  May we like Joseph listen for the voice of God even in the midst of great anxiety and doubt.  May we like Joseph choose to do the right thing, no matter what the cost may be of public scandal and ridicule.  Joseph shares in a great heritage, but none greater than his heritage as a son of God who listens and obeys.  Amen.

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12

The light is growing.  The Second candle in our advent wreath has been lit.  As the light grows brighter, so should our sense of expectation.  With Mary we are expecting.  The fullness of time is almost here.  Her days and ours are almost complete.  Soon, a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us.  But not yet…

This season of advent is filled with growing light, opened calendars, preparation.  Prepare the way, O Zion, your Christ is drawing near.  The readings for Advent are populated by an unlikely cast of characters and an unexpected set of readings.  Unlikely and unexpected, that is, if you don’t normally make it to church until Christmas Eve.  The readings in Advent aren’t sentimental, full of shepherds and angels and wisemen.  Instead, the readings in Advent are full of apocalypse and warning, at least in the Gospel readings.

On this Sunday in particular we find our stage populated by prophets, namely Isaiah and John the Baptist.  It is hard to think of two more diverse approaches to prophecy.  Isaiah’s vision is of a peaceable kingdom, wolves and lambs lying down together, and children playing over the holes of snakes.  Snakes make an appearance in John’s prophecy as well, but it isn’t good news.  Rather than peaceable, the coming kingdom John is describing seems rather violent, with axes, winnowing forks and fires.

This is the two-fold nature of prophecy in scripture – good news and bad news.  Walter Brueggemann makes this distinction a bit more clearly when he points to examples of “prophetic criticizing” and “prophetic energizing.”  It’s not hard to affix labels this morning to which prophecy energizes and which one criticizes.

Prophets were seen as mouthpieces for God.  Hence we are familiar with the line, “Thus saith the Lord.”  Prophets arose in the midst of the people of Israel much like the Judges did.  Prophets typically arose in times of trouble, whether it be under a wicked king or while the children of Israel were in exile.  They spoke out about injustice and infidelity, calling the people to repent and remember God.   They pointed to how things should be, but also how the people had fallen short of God’s ideal – again this two-fold nature of prophecy – energizing and criticizing.

Marcus Borg describes them this way, “I see [the Prophets] as God-intoxicated, filled with the passion of God.  I speak of them as God-intoxicated voices of radical social criticism and God-intoxicated advocates of an alternative social vision. Their dream is God’s dream.”

The prophets were an interesting hodge-podge of characters.  Some lead relatively sheltered lives full of vision and proclamation.  Others spent their lives on the run like Elijah or on the margins of society as we see this morning with John the Baptist.

In Matthew’s Gospel, this John the Baptist, or more accurately John the Baptizer, suddenly appears on the scene.  In Luke’s Gospel we get his back story – this cousin of Jesus who is also the product of a miraculous birth, John leaping in his mother’s womb when Mary arrives.  But not in Matthew – John simply bursts onto the stage sounding very much like one of the prophets of old.

John’s tone may be a bit different that the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures.  John seems convinced that God’s coming kingdom and God’s coming messiah are here – now!  But this coming kingdom, this kingdom that is now on their threshold is not good news for all of them.

John was in the wilderness, calling people to repentance and baptizing them as a sign of that repentance.  But not everyone who came to him was welcomed.  The Pharisees and Sadducees came too, but John turns them away, and not lightly.  He calls them, in the words of the Cottonpatch Gospel, “You sons of snakes!”

Why would John turn them away?

Perhaps because by baptizing them, John felt he would be too closely identifying with the religious parties they represented.  Perhaps it was that he wanted no religious leaders coming down into the waters of baptism until the messiah was on the scene.

The text seems to imply it had something to do with a sense of entitlement.  The religious leaders were coming to get baptized, not because they had shown signs of repentance but because they believed they were entitled because of their status.  This scene sets the tone for Matthew’s gospel, the source we will become very familiar with over the next year as our companion on the journey.   The writer of Matthew both highlights and criticizes the deep roots of Judaism that were a reality for that original audience.

The axe is lying at the root of the tree.  The messiah is coming with a winnowing fork in his hand to separate the wheat from the chaff.  These are images of change, of upsetting the status quo.  John is the premier example of prophetic criticizing.

The passage from First Isaiah, however, is markedly different.  Rather than cutting down a tree – new life is springing up.  This messiah comes with both power and righteousness.  Yes, the wicked will be judged, but that isn’t the focus of the prophecy.  Instead we hear in great detail this vision of peace.  God’s ultimate plan for the human race will be fulfilled – this is prophetic energizing at its finest.

Hearing this I think of someone like Dr. King who looked beyond the turmoil that faced his people to a day in the future when all the struggling and violence would be over – the Promised Land.  This may be Isaiah’s version of “Keep your eyes on the prize.”  Former enemies will not just live in peace, but they will prosper together.  There will be plenty to eat and no reason to lose sleep.  The messiah will judge the poor with equity and righteousness.  There will be no violence or murder.  The knowledge of the Lord will cover the earth like the waters cover the sea.  And this peaceable kingdom will draw all nations to the Lord.

Who doesn’t prefer this kind of prophecy to John’s tirade?

And yet, we have both.  Advent is a time of preparation.  We know the good news of Christmas morning, and with Mary we wait for the birth of this child, this child that shall lead us all in the peaceable kingdom.  And yet, this kingdom, this commonwealth of God is not to be had in passivity.  That, if anything, is John’s word to us.

Bear fruit worthy of repentance.  The kingdom has come near.

Prepare the way.

His rule is peace and freedom, and justice, truth and love.

We prepare not just by lighting candles or opening calendars.  We prepare for the coming kingdom by living like that kingdom was a reality already – working for justice and righteousness, treating the poor with equity.  When we live like the kingdom is a reality, something already in our midst, it has consequences for our lives and our actions.

Where do we need to repent?  How can we make a level path, a road in this wilderness?  These are questions to be pondered as we wait with Mary.

Speak ye to Jerusalem of the peace that waits for them; tell her that her sins I cover and her warfare now is over.  Amen.

A sermon for the 24th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
Luke 20:27-38

I’m not surprised anymore.  The shock has worn off.  I dropped by one of the home center stores in Christiansburg this past week for a quick purchase.  I walked around a corner and found myself in a Christmas wonderland.

Long gone are the days of my childhood when no self-respecting retailer would have put up Christmas decorations until after Thanksgiving.  In 1937 in an effort to help the struggling economy by lengthening the Christmas shopping season, then president, Franklin Roosevelt, moved the observance of Thanksgiving up one week.  The outrage was palpable, so he moved it back.  Hard to believe.

Now, Thanksgiving is little more than a super-sized, calorie-filled excuse to gorge oneself halfway between Halloween and Christmas.  It’s a day to rest up before the shopping bonanza begins in earnest the next morning.  When was the last time you saw a real, honest –to-goodness Thanksgiving display anywhere outside a grocery store?  Halloween has been cleared away for Christmas.

Well, we here in the Episcopal Church are a little funny in comparison to the consumer culture around us.  It will be weeks before you get a hint of holiday greenery in this space and over a month before you’ll hear your first Christmas carol.  And you know what?  We like it that way.

We aren’t finished with Pentecost yet!  But this morning, we are one step closer to Advent.  Need I remind you that Advent is not a time in the church of just lighting candles and opening calendars?  When we get to the readings for Advent, people often scratch their heads, especially visitors.  The readings are full of prophecy and apocalyptic visions.  Advent prepares us not just for the first coming of Christ at Christmas, but the second coming of Christ, a belief we reaffirm each week in the Creed and the Eucharistic prayers.

In the meantime, in these last few weeks of the season after Pentecost, before Advent begins, you may notice the readings taking on a more ominous tone, especially the Gospel readings, setting the stage for what is to come in Advent.  We may yet even encounter Calvary before we can find our way back to Bethlehem.

The Gospel reading this morning is a great example of this sobering mood.  It is from the latter half of Luke’s Gospel and tension is growing between Jesus and the religious establishment in Jerusalem.  More often than any other group, Luke’s Jesus has conflicts with the Pharisees, but there are other religious sects and authorities that butt up against his ministry and teachings.  This morning we encounter the Sadducees.

This is the one and only appearance of Sadducees in Luke’s Gospel, while they play a much more visible role in both Matthew’s Gospel and Acts.  The Sadducees were a sect among the Jews of Jesus’ day that probably more resembled a political party than a religious club.  They were named after Zadok one of the high priests from the time of Solomon.  For our purposes here, we need to consider two of their core teachings: they believed that the only the Torah, the Law as laid out in the first Five books of their scriptures, held authority, and it was a literal authority.  They did not value the role of Rabbis to teach and interpret the scriptures.  Secondly, as a result of this strict adherence to the Torah, and because there is no explicit mention of the resurrection or the after-life in those first books, they rejected any belief in such teachings held by the Pharisees and Jesus’ followers.

The other piece of background information we need to is place this Gospel reading in the course of Luke.  This is the third encounter in Chapter 20 between Jesus and religious authorities trying to trap him with questions.  First the scribes and the chief priests demanded to know by what authority he was teaching – God authority or human authority.  Jesus stumped them by pointing back to John the Baptist as a prophet they revered and didn’t dare question.   Then immediately preceding today’s text, we are told that the same chief priests and scribes send spies in order to trap Jesus by asking him the question about rendering unto Caesar.  Jesus again is too smart for them, by leaving them with a question.  Just as an aside, these three encounters actually occur in the same order in Matthew, Mark and Luke and in roughly the same place in the narrative. It seems that these words were among the most retold of Jesus’ sayings.

And so into this already tense scene appear the Sadducees.  Unlike the Pharisees, these men had many profound differences with Jesus that separated them.  Indeed it is doubtful that they even respected his opinion.  They aren’t coming to him for an answer to their question – they are posing an impossible and absurd scenario in order to both embarrass and discredit Jesus.  Try hearing derisive laughter underneath this question.  They find the idea of the resurrection as both foolish and false, and they are out to ridicule anyone who believes in it.

Their attempt to stump Jesus falls flat, not because Jesus debates them based on the scenario they have presented, but because Jesus redirects both them and the crowd listening to the exchange.  Jesus points to the very nature of God and returns to first principles.  The Sadducees didn’t see the scriptures as a living document, but rather a source of ammunition for their arguments.  They quoted scripture in order to support their position.  Jesus, on the other hand, seems to value something greater in the scriptures – the life within it that brings life to those who read it and hear it.

They are asking Jesus a ridiculous and impossible question, and he, in turn, gives them a radical answer, just as he did in other similar situations when asked loaded questions.  Jesus won’t play their game of case law – who’s wife will the woman be? 

The very question should remind us of the nature of marriage at this time – women were less equal partners in a marriage than they were property to be exchanged and claimed.  To me this question is offensive in more ways than just one, but Jesus doesn’t address this view of women.  He refuses to be trapped by their question.  They want a simple answer so they can refute and embarrass Jesus and then spread the word around in order to discredit him.

Jesus instead answers with words that still shock and confuse us.  The unfortunate tendency for many Christians over the centuries is to take this teaching of Jesus out of this context, forgetting who is asking him and why.  Instead Christians will quote this passage verbatim, leading to all kinds of confused doctrine.

Indeed, Christian sects like the Shakers read this passage literally and, therefore, believed in absolute celibacy – there would be NO marriage in their communities because that’s what Jesus taught – right?

Well, as the Shakers have dwindled down to a handful of elderly practitioners and occasional converts, one must ask, is Jesus really telling us that the only worthy people are those who haven’t married?

Hardly.  Why would Jesus have gone to the wedding at Cana if he believed marriage to be only for the unworthy?

I can guarantee you this much – this passage is NOT about marriage.  It is about the nature of the children of God.

Jesus takes them back to the ground before the burning bush – a ground very familiar to the Sadducees.  How does God address Moses – as the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  God speaks of them as if they were still alive, the Lord is still their God.  Jesus places the question not on the issue of marriage, but on how the Sadducees view God’s children.

By saying “those who are considered worthy of a place in that age,” Jesus is directly confronting their authority, implying that they were the unworthy ones.  For many in that society, marriage was an issue of status, of identity.  Jesus is yet again turning the tables – why be so focused on marriage, Jesus challenges them.  What difference will it make in the life to come – God’s children live on, they do not die.

God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.  Jesus said.  The woman they use as an example has more infinite worth to Jesus and to God, not based on who she is married to, not based on who owns her, but based on God’s nature as the God of the living.  The question for them, then, is not whose wife will this woman be, but why can you not see her value in God’s eyes.

I would be remiss this morning if I did not acknowledge Veteran’s Day – commemorating the day 89 years ago that the guns of World War I fell silent at the 11^th hour on the 11^th day of the 11^th month of 1918.  Ever since then we have used this same day to remember all those who have served their country in military service.  The God of Jesus, as we have seen this morning, is the God of the living not of the dead.  This is a fact that we celebrate every cold Easter morning when we find the tomb empty and shout out Alleluia.  This is a fact we remember at every funeral service, pointing to the hope of the resurrection.  This is a fact that we commemorate every time we share in the Lord’s Supper – God is a God of the living, to God all of those who have gone before us are alive, sharing in the life eternal.  Thanks be to God, the God of the living, that it is not death but life that awaits us.  Amen.