Chairs and Foolishness (Sermon)

Famously, pastors are trained to preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Even if we do not directly refer to the latter, the Spirit reminds us of what is happening in the world around us. The call to discipleship always has a context- a time, a place, and fruits of the Spirit that are needed in action. 

When the Civil War in the United States broke out, the Episcopal churches in the seceded states of the South formed the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America. While some historians argue that the split was pragmatic since it would be hard to govern a church across two warring nations, the reality is that the splinter denomination did support the institution of chattel slavery. They tolerated the perverted teaching of “Christian slavery”- claiming care and concern for the enslaved people who were legally, socially, and spiritually considered property. 

In 1862, the Episcopal General Convention met in New York City. The war was raging and the states and institutions of the Union were under immense pressure. The leadership of the Northern church made a radical decision to continue with their convention with an eye toward unity in Christ, even knowing that their Southern siblings had broken faith with that unity. 

During the roll call of the states, the Secretary of the Convention called out the names of the Southern dioceses (Alabama, Florida, Georgia, etc.) just as he did for the Northern ones. On the floor of the convention, empty chairs were placed for the Southern bishops and deputies. By refusing to remove the chairs, the Northern church was signaling that the South was not "gone" or "excommunicated"—they were simply "absent." The leadership of the 1862 convention held a radical, stubborn hope:: "We are not two churches; we are one church with some members who are currently unable to attend."

The real drama occurred in October 1865, just months after the war ended. The General Convention met in Philadelphia. The atmosphere in the country was toxic and vengeful, yet the Episcopal leadership sent word to the Southern bishops that their "seats were waiting." No one was sure what would happen. No one was entirely sure what should happen. 

Here is what did happen on the first day as recounted in a sermon by the Reverend Morgan Dix, delivered just weeks later: 

When the Convention assembled in St. Luke's Church, for the opening service, one of the southern Bishops was there. He came alone, and took a seat among the congregation: he looked like a stranger. That was a sight which his brethren in the Apostolic Episcopate could not bear. They saw him; they became uneasy. At last they sent a dignified messenger to tell him that he must come to them. Then he hesitated no longer; he arose, and just as he was, with no vestment or robe of office, passed up to the chancel and went to his brethren. I was told that there was not a dry eye in that august company at that moment. Men felt that GOD was giving answer to the question whether this Church could be one again. (https://anglicanhistory.org/usa/mdix/convention1865.html)

People remembered the passionate singing of hymns during that convention, giving God the glory. Did the moment of reunion and welcome fix everything? No, there remained historical pain, work to be done, changes to make, but the hope of unity kept the chairs out, kept the names on the rolls, kept the prayers going, kept the invitations ready to be sent. That moment of restoration could never have happened if at least one side had not remained attuned to the Spirit’s urging- even during the bleakest hours. 

In today’s reading from 1 Corinthians, Paul writes to a church that is obsessed with "branding." They are divided into fan clubs. "I belong to Paul," says one group. "I belong to Apollos," says another. "I belong to Cephas (Peter)." And then there’s the ultra-spiritual group that says, "I belong to Christ," which is always code for "I’m better than all of you."

Paul does not write a soft prayer for peace. He asks a pointed question: "Has Christ been divided?"

The Greek word Paul uses for "divisions" is schismata. It’s where we get our word schism. It literally means a tear or a rip in a garment. Paul looks at the church and sees people tearing the fabric apart because they want to claim the larger or better piece. This fractured faithlessness is not only harming the body of Christ, it is fundamentally damaging the witness of that body to a world that needs a message of liberation, wholeness, and hope. 

For Paul, the message of the cross is foolishness because its message seems useless to a world that needs to know who is on top, who has the most power, who has the best stuff. And if those are your priorities, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, then you might as well be dying. On the other hand, he writes, if we trust the message of the cross, we are saved by its power. That power is the outstretched arms of Christ, a message of forgiveness, a message of the not being forsaken. 

When Jesus invited people to follow him, he called fishermen and people who were mending nets, people who were single and lived with their parents, people who were married, a tax collector employed by the Roman occupation, and at least one zealot who wanted to overthrow the Roman occupation. He was followed by people with questions, women with money, and at least one boy with a hefty lunch.

Each of these people followed the Spirit’s urging, whether they recognized it as such or whether they knew it as curiosity or a desire to follow a crowd or just a need for something different. The choice to follow meant setting aside what was known and familiar for this new thing. It is easy for us to assume we would have done the same, but would you have left the family business or your good paying government job or the comforts of your home to follow an itinerant teacher and healer? 

In a world filled with the music of Rome, Rome’s power, idols to Rome’s gods, would you sing the song of Jesus? Would you embrace the foolishness of the cross? Would you set out the chairs and issue invitations to people who had cut themselves off from fellowship and unity and who rejected the full humanity of others? 

Things are going to get worse before they get better. 

For those of us who considered ourselves “being saved”, for those of us who call ourselves followers of Jesus, for those of us who want to continue to have hope...

We have to figure out how to keep some chairs out for those we disagree with.

We must be prepared to welcome those who wish to pursue unity, togetherness, and work in community for the sake of others.

We have to be ready to leave our nets—our safety, our tribe, our certainty—to follow a wandering teacher into a future we can't control. 

That is the discipleship, the baptism, the faithfulness that heals. And it is possible. 

Unity is not a feeling; it is an empty chair maintained in the middle of a war. It is the foolish, stubborn refusal to let the fabric stay torn. Isaiah says the people walked in darkness, but Matthew says they sat in darkness. By Matthew’s time, the sense of oppression, political and spiritual, made it almost impossible to move. 

It can feel that way, but in lives shaped by Christ’s cross, movement is always possible. Even in the sitting, there is a way forward.

I have a song to sing in the night, and so do you. I have a little light to shine, and so do you. I have chairs to set out. And so do you. Amen. 

 

 

Through the Door Into Something New

Text: John 1:29-42

The season of Epiphany, which we are in right now, can get a little lost in the church year. Coming between Christmas and Lent, it is a curious, transition space with John the Baptizer, the call of the disciples, and early teaching and miracles. In this season, we are asked to look at the same world we’ve always known and see something entirely different.

That need for epiphany- a new way of seeing happens for the people in today’s gospel. John, son of Zechariah, is standing by the Jordan, at the edge of the wilderness. He’s doing his thing: wearing odd clothes, eating strange food, preaching repentance, dunking people in the muddy water, challenging the status quo. People are coming to see him because he is interesting, but they know what to expect as they come. One day, John looks up and sees Jesus walking toward him.

John doesn’t just say, "Hey, there’s my cousin." He says something that would have greatly surprised his listeners: "Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world."

To understand why this was such a shock, and why it signaled a massive "something new" was happening, we must look backward. When John calls Jesus the "Lamb," he is invoking one of the deepest, oldest memories of the Jewish people: the Passover.

Recall the shape of the Exodus story. The Israelites were enslaved in Egypt. They were stuck in a cycle of generational trauma, forced labor, and hopelessness. Through Moses, God promised freedom. Freedom, liberation, a new beginning requires a marking—a boundary between the old life of slavery and the new life of the wilderness.

In that first Passover, the role of the lamb was specific and visceral:

Each family took a lamb, "without blemish." It was an asset, a sign of their livelihood. After killing the lamb, they were told to take the blood of that lamb and smear it on the doorposts of their homes. That blood was a sign. It identified who belonged to the God of life, to the covenant of life. When the plague of death passed over Egypt, those marked by the lamb were spared.

 

The lamb was the bridge. It was the price of the exit ramp from Egypt. Without the lamb, there was no exodus. Without the lamb, they remained slaves.

So, when John points at Jesus and says, "There is the Lamb," he is telling the crowd: The exit ramp is here. The time of enslavement to your old ways, your old habits, and your old systems is over. God is once again trying to lead you into freedom, into a new way of being, into a bondage of mercy and justice.

The hardest part of faith—and frankly, the hardest part of being human—is recognizing when one way has served its purpose and is no longer doing what it was meant to do.  In that time, we often cast about and resist change, even when we know in our heart that it is time to be open to something different and, even, new. 

The Baptizer is the ultimate model for this. John had a successful ministry! He had disciples. People were coming to him, and he was pointing them to a new way of living in and for God.  But the moment he sees Jesus, he points away from himself. He realizes his role was to prepare, not to possess.

How do we know when it’s time to do something new? How do we recognize our own "Lamb of God" moments?

In the text, two of John’s disciples hear him speak and they immediately start following Jesus. They don’t wait for a three-year strategic plan. They feel a tug. Usually, when God is calling us to something new, there is a holy restlessness. The old "Egypt", the old addiction, the old habit, the old way of relating to friends, family, or neighbors, starts to feel cramped. The space becomes tight because your capacity is bigger.

When Jesus realizes he’s being followed, he turns around and asks a question to anyone who would follow him: "What are you looking for?" 

He doesn’t ask, "What do you want to do?" or "Where do you want to be in five years?” He asks about the hunger of their hearts. To do something new, you have to be honest about what you are actually seeking. Are you seeking comfort? Or do you want to be in the company of the "Lamb" who changes everything?

The disciples answer with a question: "Where are you staying?" And Jesus gives them the only answer that matters: "Come and see." Newness rarely comes with a map. It comes with an invitation to walk. You don't get the clarity beforeyou start moving; you get the clarity while you are in motion. The disciples stayed with him that day. They sat in his space. They listened to his breath. They didn’t learn everything in the first day, but they gained enough wisdom and clarity to stay for a second day and so on. Learning the shape of something new takes time and trust.  

There is a beautiful, quiet detail at the end of this passage. Andrew, one of those two disciples, goes and finds his brother, Simon Peter. He tells him, "We have found the Messiah."

Think about the courage that took. Andrew had to leave John —his teacher, his mentor, his "safe" religious home—to follow a carpenter from Nazareth. Andrew had to trust that this Lamb was indeed a doorpost to pass through for life, for freedom, for God’s future of hope for the world.

We each must ask ourselves: what is my Egypt? What is the thing that is keeping you from the new place to which God is calling? Is it a grudge you’ve held for years? Is it your judgment of people whose lives do not look like yours? Is it the idea that the church or the town or the community should always be the same? Imagine what it would have meant for the enslaved Israelites to have been more afraid of the unknown than they were of Pharaoh or the horror of his rule.

John stood at the edge of the water and had the grace to say, "He must increase, but I must decrease." He recognized that the Lamb had arrived to take the sin of the world—including our corporate sin of resisting the call of the will of God.

The Lamb of the first Passover was about protection for a night in order to make the journey to freedom. The Lamb of God that John points to is about liberation for a lifetime. Jesus remains on the move, speaking to us and asking, "What are you looking for?"

If we indeed want to follow where he goes, if we indeed want to be like Jesus, then when he says, “Come and see”- like Andrew and Peter before us, we go. The blood is on the doorpost. The way is open. The new thing has already begun.

Amen

 

 

There Is No "I" in Baptism

When we read the story of Jesus standing in the Jordan River, we often focus on the divine "I." We hear that voice from the heavens breaking through the clouds like a thunderclap: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." It is a moment of profound, individual identity. It’s the ultimate "I see you."

And if we aren’t careful, we stop there. Baptism becomes our personal insurance, a moment between "me and my God," rather than the instant that changes and shapes our whole life. The water of the Jordan was what was known as “living water,” meaning it moved as opposed to being stagnant or still. It flows. It connects the mountaintop to the sea.

We are called to use fresh water, lots of it, and to pour it generously when we baptize to recall this living and moving water. The act and the call of baptism is never just about an "I"; it is the radical, difficult, and beautiful transition into a "we."

In our liturgies, we tend to use both singular and plural possessives interchangeably. In the creed, we say, “I believe in,” but we say it together and we mean it together. Even if we pray the Lord’s Prayer alone, we speak, “Our Father,” because we are praying in concert with all people, across time and space, who use those words to call upon the Divine.

We sing, “This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long,” when we know that we share the story of the mercy of God and the saving hope of Jesus with an uncountable number of people in the world today and throughout history. We sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, early in the morning our song shall rise to thee,” even when we sing alone.

Since we use the words and the concepts interchangeably, maybe it is not that important to emphasize that our baptisms make us a “we.” After all, it seems to be a thing we understand. Understanding only becomes evident, though, when we are living as baptized people, as the body of Christ, in the mission field of the world.

In the gospels, Jesus doesn’t just show up to the river alone for a private ceremony. He is standing in the mud with the tax collectors, the soldiers, the seekers, and the skeptics. Even when John, recognizing who Jesus is, would have refused, Jesus insists—the act of righteousness, or making things right, means he is where the people are and he does what the people do.

To be baptized "into Christ" is to be baptized into his body. And a body doesn’t function as a collection of isolated organs competing for resources. A body is the ultimate "we." When the hand is cold, the heart pumps harder. When the feet are tired, the rest of the frame leans in. Even when a limb is amputated, the rest of the body remembers, even as it compensates for what is lost.

The shift from "I" to "we" is where justice begins. In a world that screams at us to "get yours," to "protect your own," and to view our success as a solo achievement, what we believe and teach about baptism is counter-cultural. The worst parts of history have happened when people divided into “us versus them.” Horrors happen when people, including and especially Christian people, have lost any sense of “we” with our neighbors who are also children of God.

If we are one body in Christ, then a "justice issue" isn't something that happens "over there" to "those people." It is a wound on our own skin; it is a wound to the body of Christ. In living as a "we," the question is no longer "How does this affect me?" The question becomes, "How does this affect us? The most vulnerable among us? The aching among us? The fearful and pushed aside among us?"

Baptismal justice says: I cannot be "well" if you are thirsty. Baptismal justice says: The God who claims me as a child also claims you. Baptismal justice says: The water that touched my forehead is the same water that quenches thirst, brings health, shapes communities, and is needed by all.

It is true that right after being baptized, the Spirit sent Jesus into the wilderness. Even there, though, he wasn’t alone. There were wild animals, angels, the Spirit, and the tempter. Even in our silent time, there is no "I"—there remains a “we” with the God who does not abandon us.

Our baptismal vows call us to a life that imitates Christ. We promise, in response to God’s grace, both to the individual acts of studying scripture and prayer, together with the communal acts of being at the Table together and supporting one another. We commit, again in response to God’s grace, to the mission work of being the body of Christ, pursuing divine justice and peace in the world.

Our baptisms are critical, memorable moments demonstrating how we belong to God. Part of the reason we also teach that baptism is a public act, not a private one, is because God has made us to belong to each other. We are the body of Christ. We are the ones called and equipped by God. We are the "we" that God is using to mend the world.

The waters of baptism do not dry up. They remain living water. They soak in and yet remain a flood that presses us forward, beyond any constraining banks we might try to construct. There is no “I” in baptism. Well, I guess technically there is, but you know exactly what I mean.

We are washed together. We are fed together. We are sent together. Not for some “them” or against some “they,” but for the fullness of the “we” that is God’s whole beloved creation. This is the day that the Lord has made. This is the way that the Lord has made. These are the Lord’s waters in which we wade. Let us rejoice and be glad in it and go forth to live in response to the grace we have received.

Amen.

There is Always Room Somewhere

Bethlehem means “House of Bread”. I am going to come back to this later, but it is a thing you need to know from the start. From the Hebrew, “Beit” (house) and “lehem” (bread), the little community had that name for more than a thousand years before Jesus. 

Next fun fact: when Luke tells us about the place where there was no room, he uses the Greek word kataluma. We have become used to the idea of “no room in the inn”, like a Motel 6 or the Lazy J putting out a “no vacancy” sign. A kataluma, however, was not a roadside inn or shelter. Luke had a different word for that kind of establishment, pandocheion, which is the word used in the story of the Samaritan who stopped. This is a place where you could pay someone for a room and board. 

Since we know Luke has a word for a commercial inn and he chooses not to use it here, we need to ask what a kataluma is. It is the same word used later when Jesus sends the disciples to find a "guest room" to celebrate the Passover.

Picture this: in the time of Jesus’ birth, most houses in Bethlehem were built into hillsides or over caves. The main room of the house was the heart of the home—the place where cooking, family activity, and sleeping happened. The cave portion or a slightly lower level was the space where the family animals were brought in for the night—maybe a milk cow or a few sheep or goats to keep them safe and provide warmth.

This type of house would have had a kataluma or guest room, usually attached to the side or prepared on the roof. In a culture that emphasized hospitality as a sacred duty, people naturally had space for travelers. The fact that there was no room in the kataluma means the houses all around were already full of family and other travelers who were there for the same reason as Mary and Joseph—the census.

Thus, when the time came for Mary to give birth, the only space available was the dugout space or cave area where the family animals would have normally stayed. Jesus was born into a crowded home. Mary likely had the support of other women for the birth. And there were probably other men around to give Joseph something to do or at least to help him through his own worries. 

Jesus born in this way moves us from imagining the Holy Family being turned away by a cold innkeeper. Instead, we see the Son of God coming into crowded lives. Full houses. Limited space. People already stretched thin by census demands, obligations, traditions, and expectations. And into that very relatable human fullness, God arrived in the flesh.

By the early 300s, Christians were already venerating a specific cave in Bethlehem as Jesus’ birthplace. When Emperor Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he built the Church of the Nativity directly over that cave, which is still there today. Eastern forms of Christianity have preserved this tradition, and their nativity sets show the birth of our Lord happening in a cave or grotto.

In the Christianity that grew in western and northern Europe, animals were usually kept in a separate building from the main house. This gave rise to the interpretation of Jesus being born in a stable. After all, we usually picture what we know. Since he was born in a place apart from the house, the space where there was no room was no longer imagined as a guest room, but rather as a commercial inn.

Why am I telling you all this? Even if you find it interesting, why does it matter? 

Stay with me. 

This fall, a Savior born in the House of Bread became a stumbling block for me. For the first time in my adult life, I was in a church service with other Lutherans and I couldn’t take communion. One of the discoveries of myriad medical tests I underwent this fall was that I have celiac disease. My body cannot process wheat, barley, or rye. It’s a bummer. 

In November, I was at a gathering with fellow Lutheran clergy. More than thirty of us were gathered for conversation and our time together closed with Holy Communion. I noticed there was only one type of wafer. When I quietly asked the hosting pastor if the bread was gluten-free, which is hard to request, he didn’t know for sure. We were also dipping, or intincting, the wafers into the chalice of wine, so I couldn’t drink that either. I stood in the circle as we prayed together, and everyone communed but me. 

I didn’t feel particularly left out because I knew what was happening and I have great trust in God’s inclusive love. I did think a lot, however, about people who would have felt left out or forgotten. For whom a failure to include would feel like specific exclusion. 

I thought about what it feels like to not be able to participate in the meal of the table of our Savior who was born in the “House of Bread”. 

And this is why the truth about the kataluma matters. 

Sometimes the space we’ve made as human beings just doesn’t have enough room for everyone. Even our best intentions go awry. And, let’s face it, sometimes we don’t even have the best intentions. The most faithful of us, the most knowledgeable, the most experienced in life can still come to a place where there is no room for us in the kataluma, in the space that we’re supposed to be able to count on. 

But God’s work goes beyond intention. God doesn’t intend to… God does. 

When Jesus is born in an unexpected place, surrounded by people who might have had other plans for the day, found by shepherds who were otherwise occupied, in an empire obsessed with its own power (like they all are) – when all of this occurs, God is at work.

God’s presence in our world doesn’t happen remotely or accidentally, apart from daily life. It doesn’t happen in a sterile place, perfectly set up. It rarely happens in the expected way or the planned for way. 

The birth of Jesus happens where there was no way, no space, and not even expectation for how it would happen. Yet, in spite of all that, God’s love is born into the world in the middle of all the things, everything all at once. It draws in and welcomes everyone, even the ones who hang back. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you shepherds, you unexpected parents, you with households full of chaos. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who feel left out, you with big questions, you with broken and grieving hearts. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who believe Jesus was born in a stable, you who celebrate a Savior born in a cave, you who have never given it that much thought. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who are aching in body, you with a divided family, you who no longer believe. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who must eat gluten free, you who are struggling with addiction, you who are still seeking a diagnosis. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you whose house is not perfect, you whose gift will come late, you who just want me to wrap this up and bring it all home. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. Born into a busy world of people full of their own concerns. Born to remove the fear of being separated from God. Born to love and show love, to grant mercy, to heal, and to give hope to all. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. In stable, in a cave, in the manger of our hearts. 

And where he is, there is the bread of life, born, broken, and given at a table with room for us all. 

Merry Christmas. 

 

In the Dark (Sermon, Advent 4)

Years ago, when I worked at a church with a preschool, I attended the Christmas program.  This was long enough ago that the Christmas story was told with a flannel board, a cloth covered board with little fabric cutouts. In this version of the Christmas story, there were the usual elements- Mary and Joseph, an outline of a stable, angels, and shepherds. There was also a cut-out of the night sky - a deeply colored piece of fabric with stars and a hint of the Milky Way. 

As we watched the story unfold in this particular year, the teacher would tell part of the story and each child would come and put up their piece on the flannel board. As she came to the part about the shepherds watching their flocks by night, one little boy leapt up and said, “I have the dark!” 

I have the dark. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about that incident this week, not just because today is the solstice. 

The little boy wasn’t bothered about what he had. The dark was as much a part of the story as everything else. The sheep, the star, the manger, the dark. 

Today’s readings take place mostly in the dark.

Not the cozy, candlelit kind of dark.
But the kind where you don’t know what comes next.
The kind where God hasn’t explained the Divine actions yet.
The kind where you have to decide what to do before everything makes sense.

That’s where God seems to like to work.

Isaiah meets King Ahaz in a moment of fear. The Assyrian nation is threatening. The future feels fragile. And God says, Ask for a sign.
Ahaz refuses to ask, not because he is faithful, but because he is fearful. God gives a sign anyway:

A young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.

This is not a lightning bolt miracle.
It is not a military solution.
It is a pregnancy, a regular everyday nativity.

Something hidden.
Something slow.
Something that looks ordinary at first glance.

God’s promise does not arrive fully formed.
It grows in the dark.

The psalm picks up the cry of people still waiting:

Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved.

They are asking for light.
They are begging for clarity.
But consider: this prayer itself comes from the shadows, 
from a place of displacement and longing, 
From a place where the ending cannot be clearly seen.

Faith, here, is not confidence.
Faith is calling out when you cannot yet see.
Faith is not the absence of doubt, but action in spite of doubt.

Paul, writing to the Romans, speaks as though the promise is already fulfilled.
He talks about Jesus as both descended from David and declared Son of God with power.

But remember—when Paul writes this, the world has not changed much at all.
Rome is still Rome.
The church is small.
Suffering continues.
And Paul is under house arrest as he writes. 
He knows he’s not getting out of this alive for this life. 

He is not ignoring the darkness.
He is interpreting it.

God’s power, Paul insists, does not cancel human weakness.
God understands it. God accounts for it. 

God moves through the way humans are because this is how we are made and how we be..

And then there is Joseph.

Matthew tells us plainly: Joseph was a righteous man.
Which means he follows the law.
Which also means he has every reason to walk away.

Mary’s pregnancy puts him in a nearly impossible place.
Public shame.
Private heartbreak.
A future rewritten without his consent.

Joseph does not get a sermon.
He does not get an explanation.
He gets a dream.

And in that dream, God does not say, “Here is how everything will turn out.”
God says, Do not be afraid.

That is what God says when full clarity is not available.

Joseph wakes up still in the dark.
Still facing rumors.
Still without proof.

And Matthew says, He did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.

Joseph looked at what he had and said, “I have the dark”. And he acted accordingly with his part of the story.

Not with complete certainty.
Not with complete understanding.
But genuine obedience born of trust that God is present even when the light is dim.

Advent 4 reminds us that God’s greatest work begins unseen.

In a womb.
In a dream.
In a prison cell.
In a decision made quietly, without applause.

We often want God to work by fixing, solving, explaining.
But God works in the dark.

Slowly.
Patiently.
In the dark.

If you are waiting right now—
If you are holding questions you cannot answer—
If you are doing the next right thing without knowing where it leads—

You are not faithless.
You are in Advent.

Immanuel means God with us.
Not God after the confusion clears.
Not God once the fear is gone.

God with us when the wind blows.
God with us when the trees fall. 
God with us when death follows death, and grief seems not to end.

We can have the dark.
God is with us, right here.
In the shadows.
In the waiting.
In the waiting before Christmas dawns.

In the dark is where salvation begins.

Amen.

 

 

Love Has Come

Sermon for the First Sunday in Advent, Year A (2025) 

Written for the Montana Synod 

 

Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44

 

Greetings, siblings in Christ, from your faith family in Big Timber. May the grace and peace of our Lord and Savior be with you all on this day and in the time to come.

Happy New Years, friends! This Sunday marks the start of the season of Advent and the beginning of a new church year. For those of you who are interested, this is the beginning of Year A in the three-year church cycle, meaning most of the gospel readings for the year ahead will be from Matthew.

In the world around us, especially in commercial spaces, Advent is a season of anticipation and acquisition. It’s time to get ready for the celebration of Christmas and all that comes with it. In the church world, we are a little out of step with that. Yes, Advent is a season of anticipation, but less about Christmas and more about the promises of God’s judgment and reconciliation. Part of the reason we put the Christmas carols on hold in the church world is because the Advent themes of hope in frustration, faithfulness in division, and refining fire aren’t in sync with the oft glow of light around mother and child in the nativity scene.

When that thematic separation feels too great, we tend to default to Christmas mode because it feels easier. The judgment themes and the tensions of Advent can be frightening. The idea of still waiting for our long-expected Savior is frustrating and confusing for some. Advent as Christmas-lite seems easier.


When we skip ahead, however, we miss important things about the waiting and the preparation. Not only that, but we specifically cannot skip ahead because Jesus told us not to. As we do not know the day or the hour, we are called to be in a state of preparation, not a state of already celebrating or a position of despair because we think it will never happen. What it means to be a follower of Jesus and to be one who trusts His word is to be one who keeps moving in hopeful expectation, no matter how long it takes.

Here is a story to illustrate what I mean:

In November 2007, I was waiting for my husband to return home from a deployment to Iraq with the Army. He had left in March. We missed many milestones in the nine months apart, including our first wedding anniversary. Our communication had been intermittent. We, along with all the other families in our company, were anticipating the reunion.

Some of you will know this and some of you are about to learn that military returns are not always smooth affairs. Due to security and moving parts in theatre, the dates of returns are not set until very close when they will happen. Many things can cause delays. They may leave the war zone, but be held up in another location for hours or days.

Once we kind of had a date. I began to clean the house. I ordered new sheets. I refreshed the pantry with foods I knew my husband liked and stocked the fridge with beverages. I got a haircut. I filled his truck with gas and got the oil changed.

Finally, on the day before, we were given an estimated return around midday. The next morning it changed to late afternoon. In the waiting, I vacuumed again and did another random load of laundry. I made cookies and talked on the phone with a friend.

In the mid-afternoon, we were told that it would be closer to 10 pm. I made another batch of cookies and ran to the grocery store for some additional food I thought might be good the next day.

At 9 pm, we were told that it would probably be around 2 am.

Families with kids were trying to decide whether to put the kids to bed or just let them stay up. Partners without kids, like me, continued to stretch out our activities- cleaning pantries, playing with pets, vacuuming long forgotten corners of the house. We filled our time with things that needed doing, but that we just usually didn’t get to.

Finally, at 1:30 am, most of us gathered at the Armory building on the post to wait together. A movie was on for the kids. We talked and laughed together. We held each other up.

At 3 am, the reunion came.

When you see pictures or videos of reunions, they’re often in public or maybe they’re surprises. The majority of reunions, however, do happen on bases, posts, or installations. With family members who had filled their weeks, days, and hours of waiting with all kinds of activity.

This is the kind of waiting that Jesus is talking about. This is the waiting of Advent.


This is waiting for one who is loved and who loves.


When Isaiah speaks of the day of the Lord, when the people shall learn war no more…


When the psalmist says, “For the sake of my kindred | and companions, pray for your well-being”...


When Paul says to the Roman Christians, “For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers”...

These are statements of anticipation and hope, the kind of anticipation and action-filled waiting that Jesus expected of his followers- then and now.

While we may feel like the promised time of return continues to be delayed, there are still many things we can do. We are called and equipped for tasks of love and service to all those people around us.

The alertness to which we have been called, by Christ himself, is not a flurry of activity right before the event, like cleaning the house before guests. It is on-going, paced responsiveness to the grace that has always been with us, is in us now, and will sustain us in the life to come. This is Advent. And we are Advent people.

At the start of our own new year, in a season of waiting, out of step with the culture around us, we know that a reunion is coming. With the help of the Spirit, we remain awake and active.

And we know the love that will meet us has been with us all along. Amen.

 

 

Here's What I'd Say

“Here is what I would say to you if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.” This is a popular construct right now in social media posts and in short-form publishing. The set-up is usually a specialist from a medical field or an expert in a given research field, appealing to the viewer to consider an idea or ideas in a different light. “Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.” The posts are an effort to counteract “general wisdom” or “accepted knowledge” and to present additional information and research that may lead to a better health outcomes or improved quality of life.

Each time I see it, I consider what my video would be. How would I complete the premise, “Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.” Contrary to popular belief, I do try to be gentle in teaching and, most of the time, in preaching. Harshness gains no ground for the gospel. I do pull some punches.

So, should I do it? Should I say the thing that I desperately want you to hear? To understand? To ponder in your heart, turning it over and over until it becomes a smooth touchstone?

Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings: we don’t have enough imagination about God.

We don’t think big enough. We don’t let enough things be awesome and mysterious. We don’t sit in our questions long enough. We do not imagine a great enough mercy, an amazing enough grace, a broad enough welcome, a long enough table with more than enough seats.

We sing about it, but then let it go, fading with the music. We dream about it but then make the shape of our church life what it has always been, instead of trying something new- rooted in the dream. We pray for it but then do not act- as though prayers are only about words and not equally about deeds.

Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings: we don’t have enough imagination about God.

What do I mean by that?

In today’s gospel reading, we have one of the “seven last words of Christ”. These are the phrases that Jesus says from the cross, recorded across the four gospels.

All seven are: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do”, “Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother”, “I thirst”, “Why have you forsaken me”, “Today you will be with me in paradise”, “Into your hands, I commit my spirit”, and “It is finished”.

Why would any of these be chosen for Christ the King Sunday? How do any of these fit in with the broad understanding of the Reign of Christ, particularly in the face of nationalism and secularism, which are why this day was established in 1925? Why, especially, would the chosen “word” be the ones said to a criminal, deemed worthy of the death penalty by an occupying army?

And what does this have to do with having more imagination about God?

You ask good questions.

Of the seven last words, “Today you will be with me in paradise” are the only ones that can actually be said by the Son of God. I am not saying these are the only words of Jesus. What I am saying is that the other six could be said by anyone, anywhere, including any king or ruler.

“I thirst”, “Woman, behold your son”, and “Why have you forsaken me” are all very human statements in the face of torture and death. To be worried about the care of a survivor or to experience bodily need when in pain can happen to anyone. They both do all the time. Feeling a separation from God, despite knowing the closeness of the Divine, is a reality we all know. This is why we resonate with Jesus’ anguish in that cry.

“Into your hands, I commit my spirit” and “It is finished” are the utterances of any person, regardless of power, who has come to peace with the end of their life in this plane and who is accepting of what is to come. Sometimes these words are said with the lips and sometimes they are spoken in the heart.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” This one feels more specific to Jesus. Yet, anyone who hopes for another person to experience the grace of God can pray this. A benevolent leader can pray this. A suffering martyr can pray this. We can pray this while watching or reading the news. Jesus gives us the words and permission to refer to Infinite Love as our Holy Parent.

The only word from the cross that could only come from the Son of God is “Today you will be with me in paradise”. This word of consolation and hope can only be uttered by One who absolutely knows where He will be and where the other person will be as well.

In the middle of great suffering, while experiencing pain and humiliation, Jesus has the capacity to see and perceive the deepest need of the man next to him, a man who undergoing the same pain and humiliation. And it is Jesus alone who has the authority to declare what will happen next. “Today you will be with me in paradise” is not a statement of faith from his lips; it is statement of fact.

This is why we have this reading today for the observance of Christ the King. We can be easily distracted by the way human beings throw around their earthly power. We can be razzle dazzled and misled. We can also be fooled by how leaders can manipulate us with pockets of awareness or humility, while calculating political points.

King Jesus, hanging on a cross, does many human things, but also does a thing only God can. Jesus alone moves us from life to life.

Today you will be with me in paradise. Not after your confirmation. Not after a sinner’s prayer. Not after a specific ritual. Not after you agonize over your worthiness and confess again and again and wonder if you’re really forgiven.

Today you will be with me in paradise.

And this brings me back to what I would say to you if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.

We need to have a bigger imagination about God.

We need to think bigger. We need to let more things be awesome and mysterious. We need to sit in our questions long enough. We need to imagine a great enough mercy, an amazing enough grace, a broad enough welcome, a long enough table with more than enough seats. And we need to let that expansion fuel our life together and our life in the world.

When we nail God down to being about the success of our team- whether sports, political, or otherwise… When we box God in by our traditions and “the way it’s always been”… When we go through the motions of habits as though they are sufficient for spiritual practice…

When we confine the meaning of our faith in Jesus to being our “get out of hell free” card, he is not our king. He becomes no more than a token and our faith is nothing more than magical thinking.

But when we allow ourselves to truly be in awe of the majesty and might of God, when we permit ourselves to believe in One who could definitively say, without preconditions, “Today you will be with me in paradise”, when we perceive the fire of the Spirit still burning in the world, still bringing order out of chaos, still causing scales to fall from eyes…

When we realize that we do not hold God, but that we are being held by God…

Then we will understand the reign of Christ:

we will know what it means to serve a king with joy and devotion,

we will no longer ask “who is my neighbor” because we will see all people as neighbor and sibling.

I don’t want to hurt your feelings. We don’t have enough imagination about God.

And the world that God so loves needs us to grasp that God’s facts- facts of justice, mercy, peace, inclusion, hope, and promises made and kept – God’s facts are bigger than anyone’s imagination.

When we realize that… that day will be paradise.