YEAR C 2024 christmas eve

Christmas Eve, 2024
Isaiah 9:2-7
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-20
Psalm 96

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Merry Christmas!  We made it!  We’ve got the lights on the trees, and the poinsettias on the Altars, and the red ribbons on the wreaths, and it smells like heaven in here.  (To those of us who love incense, at least.)  We’ve even made it past the darkest night of the year, and we are heading into the light.  You’ve survived the parties and the shopping and the holiday concerts and recitals and now here you sit, in St. Timothy’s Church in Massillon Ohio, surrounded by beautiful sounds and smells and colors.  Well done everyone.

So now let’s turn our attention to something that’s not the least bit colorful: the cover of our Christmas Eve bulletin.  It’s probably not a stretch to say that it’s different from every Christmas Eve bulletin you’ve ever seen.  Normally, a Christmas Eve bulletin will have lots of deep reds, and perhaps a close-up of a renaissance-style painting of white Europeans wearing lots of fabric while being lit from the side.  But this year, you’ve got a print of a woodcut from an artist named Eric Gill from the early 1900s.  Why?

Because I love Eric Gill’s work, that’s why.  If you see a woodcut print around these parts—like on both sides of my worship binder—you can rest assured that it’s by Eric Gill.  Back in 2016, before I started here at St. Tim’s, I convinced my previous parish to use his woodcuts for their Stations of the Cross.  And they went all out and made huge prints on giant canvasses that still adorn the walls of their sanctuary out on Long Island.

So, the print on the cover of your bulletin is called “Adeste Fideles,” and it’s from 1916.  It was made to accompany a woodblock printing of the words of the hymn we know as “O Come All Ye Faithful.”  So why did I choose this print by this artist for this important night?   Because of the people.  I mean, just look at it.  The faithful people in question are regular people who do regular things in a regular world.  

We would expect the “faithful” to be pious people with their hands folded and their heads bowed, while carrying nothing but their religious perfection as they approach the place where the Savior of the world is born.

But here, the faithful people are . . . people.  People carrying a baby and the tools of their trade.  I mean, you know, maybe Jesus needs someone to build a roof over his head, right?   Or maybe they need a ditch dug around the stable to catch all the rain from the renaissance painting they’re usually stuck in, somewhere in northern Europe.  But the point is, these are real people, faithful people, on their way to adore him, Christ the Lord.  No barriers, no rules and regulations, no social hierarchy, no prejudice and systems of oppression to prevent them.  All are welcome.  No exceptions.

Now, as long-time listeners already know, Luke is my favorite of the four gospels.  (But please don’t tell the other three I said that.)  And one of the reasons I love Luke’s gospel so much is the emphasis on the little people: the lost, the lonely, and the left out.  Only Luke tells us about the lowly shepherds—who are the FIRST to hear the good news.  Only Luke describes Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem—the least of cities, as the prophet Micah says.  Only Luke tells us about the prodigal son and the good Samaritan.  In Luke the lost are found; in Luke Jesus asks the Father to forgive us from the cross; in Luke people have thoughts in their heads and they ponder things in their hearts.  And, as I said on Sunday, only Luke passes the Bechdel test, where two women, with names, have a conversation, that is not about a man.  Luke is for the people.  Luke is for the Adeste Fideles, who bring their children and the tools of their trade to worship the new-born Christ child.

But back to the artist Eric Gill.  As I said in my Christmas letter last week, this amazing artist was a deeply flawed human being.  Indefensibly so.  And maybe that has something to do with why his woodcuts are so good at depicting regular, ordinary people.  Because no matter what you have done, no matter how you have lived, God is still here for you.  Jesus comes into this world for the holy and righteous, and Jesus also comes into this world for the broken and twisted.  Which means Jesus comes into this world for you and for me.  Because not one person is completely good or completely bad.  And Jesus is here for every single one of us.

So, does that mean . . . this baby is born for everyone?  Like everyone?  Yes.  As we heard from the angels tonight:  “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”  All the people.  ALL.  Jesus shows up for everyone.  Bishops and laypeople, presidents and the voters, obscenely wealthy CEOs and the working poor.  Everyone.  But most important of all, Jesus is here for you.  Whether you go to church every week or never go to church.  Whether you were dragged here tonight, or because your parents used to drag you here as a child.  

Why ever you are here, God meets you here.  Because God loves you.  Not because you deserve it, or have earned it.  God loves you even if you think you don’t deserve it, or think you have done something to lose God’s love.  God loves you because God created you, and Jesus is born to remind you of that love.  And there is nothing you can ever do that will change God’s mind, or in any way decrease God’s relentless love for you.  You are loved.  Like it or not.

So come, all ye faithful, Adeste Fideles, bring your children, and the tools of your trade, and the work of your hands, and the sound of your voice, and the pondering in your heart.  Come and let us adore the one who comes to proclaim good news to all the people.  All the people.  Christ the Lord is born this day.  So come, let us adore him!  Merry Christmas.

Amen.

YEAR C 2024 advent 4

Advent 4, 2024
Micah 5:2-5a
Psalm 80:1-7
Hebrews 10:5-10
Luke 1:39-55

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I have always loved this scene we call “The Visitation.”  And I am in good company here, as there are probably more paintings of this scene than most others from the Bible.  Many people seem to resonate with this story.  But the funny thing is, I don’t know exactly why people are drawn to it.  I don’t even know why I am drawn to it.   Interestingly though, it does pass the "Bechdel Test," which states that a work must feature at least two named female characters who have a conversation with each other about something other than a man.  Though I doubt that’s the appeal, unfortunately.  But here, at the very start of the story of Jesus’ life, two women get center stage, and the only man in the house, Zechariah, has been struck mute because of his lack of faith.  (I have to admit, I find that part hilarious.)  Bechdel Test secured.

And there’s that marvelous moment in the narrative when Elizabeth asks, “And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?”   Why, indeed?  Who is Elizabeth that Jesus would come to her?  We might rephrase her question for ourselves, “Who am I that my Lord comes to me?”  And that is a question we can ask along with Elizabeth.  Who am I that our Lord would come to me?  Who are you that our Lord would come to you?  The temptation of course is to say, well, we’re the ones who have been preparing, of course.  We’ve been waiting for him.

We’ve been getting ready for our Lord to come for some time now, and it’s about time he showed up, don’t you think?  Yes, we’re the ones who have prepared.  But what if we made all these preparations and Jesus doesn’t show up?  What if we have been decorating our houses, and buying those presents, and sending out Christmas cards, and on and on since the day after Thanksgiving, if not sooner . . . and what if it was all for nothing:  Jesus doesn’t show up?  And you’re thinking, well that’s just plain silly.  Of course Jesus is going to show up.  And you’re right.  Of course he will.

Whether we prepare or not, whether we are ready or not, Jesus is coming.  Whether we’re ready or not, this baby is coming.  That’s the nature of babies, isn’t it?  When it’s time to be born, the baby is coming: ready or not.

So, sure, we all agree that Jesus will be here on the morning of December 25th.  But the thing is—and it seems to surprise me every year—the thing is that after December 25th, we’re still going to be waiting for Jesus to come.  When we wake up on December 26th, there will still be wars around the world; there will still be systemic racism and economic inequality; there will still be those who go to bed hungry, and homeless, and forgotten.  Jesus isn’t here yet, but even after he gets here, nothing is going to change . . .

Unless, of course, everything already has changed.  What if this baby is not the one who will change everything but is, instead, the one who already has changed everything?  Hold that thought for a minute.

The ending of today’s gospel is usually called the “magnificat,” because that’s the first word in the Latin version.  As many people have noted, it is an intentional parallel of the Song of Hanna in the book of First Samuel.  And it’s interesting that in Hanna’s song, everything is in the present tense or future tense. She sings, the Lord will do this, and the Lord will do that.  The future is on Hanna’s mind as she rejoices in her child.  In Mary’s updated version, the verbs are all past tense:  God has already accomplished the deeds that she proclaims.  

Mary’s song points to the fact that God chooses “what is low and despised in this world,” as Paul says in first Corinthians.  Mary starts by saying her soul magnifies the Lord, for he has regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden.  Mary is not boasting in her humility here, and she is not gloating in being chosen to bring Christ into the world.  

Though some people get uncomfortable with too much praise for Mary--unlike me--there is a very real sense in which she is the first disciple of Jesus.  She is the first person who actually believes the promises about Jesus, the Word of God, when she hears them from Gabriel.  She trusts God, and the Word comes to her.  (And we have Zechariah as the first one not to believe, and we see that the word is literally withheld from him, since he cannot speak until he sees the one who prepares the way for the Word.)

As Martin Luther says, we do Mary an injustice when we say that she gloried in her humility or in being chosen by God.  Luther writes, “She gloried in neither one nor the other, but only in the gracious regard of God.  Hence the stress lies not in the ‘low estate’, but on the word ‘regarded’.  For not her humility but God’s regard is rather to be praised.”  In other words, God’s regard is what counts, whether she is lowly or not.  The emphasis is on God, not Mary.  And God consistently seems to choose the opposite of what you and I would choose.  We would pick Zechariah the priest and Herod the governor, rather than Mary and Elizabeth.  We would have Jesus born in a castle far away, not in a stable nearby.  After all, who are we that our Lord would come to us?

In spite of her “lowliness,” God has chosen Mary to bear this child.  And that is the nature of God, right?  Abraham, Moses, and Esther; David, Saul, and Mary; a baby born behind some hotel in Bethlehem (the least of towns as we heard from Micah), a whole host of absolute nobodies, chosen by God to save the people, to save the world. 

Who am I that my Lord would come to me?  Absolutely nobody.  And that’s the beauty of it.  Here in Mary’s song, this magnificat, we get the promises, like lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry with good things, sure.  But we also get what sound like curses:  scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts, brought down the powerful from their thrones, sent the rich away empty.  And what do the proud, powerful, and rich have in common?  Their false belief that they are going to stay that way forever.  The self-confidence of being rich, proud, and powerful does not lead to being lowly servants.  (We don’t usually think of Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos as God’s handmaidens.)  But maybe the reason God doesn’t pick the powerful, rich, and proud is because they cannot hear God’s voice.  They are too busy being . . . well . . . powerful, rich, and proud.  

But as Mary’s song proclaims, it is already a given that the proud have been scattered in the imagination of their hearts; it is already a done deal that the powerful have been brought down from their thrones; it has already happened that the rich have been sent empty away.  These things have already happened to them; they just don’t know it yet.  But if that sounds like judgment to you, fear not.  Because you know what they’ll be then?  You know what we call the formerly rich, proud, and powerful?  

We call them lowly, hungry, servants.  Nobodies.  The kind of people who can ask, “Who am I that my Lord should come to me?”  The people who don’t expect God to take notice of them; and those are the people God seems to regard.  

And maybe now you’re thinking, uh, Mr. Priest, what if I am one of the rich and proud and so forth?  Will I be brought low, and sent hungry away?  Well . . . yes.  You definitely will.  Because the judgment is already put into place.  The rich and powerful are brought low.  Maybe not right now, but eventually yes.  One day we each will be lowly, penniless, and eventually forgotten, because . . . we’ll be dead.  But that is not bad news.

In fact, that’s actually the good news!  Because remember what God does for the lowly, oppressed, and broken hearted?  Remember whom God has regarded?  You will never be in better hands than when you are brought low.  And you can never be brought lower than in death itself.  We worship a God who specializes in resurrection.  No matter our current state, when we give up and are given up, then we will be raised up and lifted up.  We all end our lives where power and riches mean nothing.  God will raise the lowly.  And who can possibly be lower than dead? 

In the grave, the thoughts of the proud are scattered, the powerful are brought down from their thrones, and the rich are sent empty away.  And then, THEN God can do what God does best, which is to lift us up and fill us with good things.

And that is why we can live our lives with confidence, whether rich or poor, powerful or weak.  Whether we are Jeff Bezos counting our billions, or some overworked/underpaid/harassed striking worker in his Amazon warehouse, God meets all of us—whether we deserve it or not—in the child whose birth we await.

It is no coincidence that the one who sings the Magnificat is the one who is carrying the Christ child, the Word of God.  Mary knows the truth of God’s promises, because she is experiencing these promises firsthand.  God has regarded the lowliness of the servant; she has been filled with good things.  And Mary is not just filled with good things, she is filled with the best thing of all: the one who brings all good things and makes all things new.

And today we come to this Altar, trusting in those same promises.  God has lifted up the lowly, given us good things to eat, strengthened the weak, and sustained the brokenhearted, as together we await the birth of the Christ child.  Mary visits Elizabeth, and the one she carries within her comes to visit us in this place.  And you and I rightly ask, “Who am I that my Lord comes to visit me?”  And even though the correct answer is, “nobody,” here at this Altar, Jesus comes to us, that our souls might magnify the Lord, and our spirits might rejoice in God our savior.  For God has regarded us.  God has regarded every single one of us, no matter what.

Amen.

YEAR C 2024 advent 3

Advent 3, 2024
Zephaniah 3:14-20
Canticle 9
Philippians 4:4-7
Luke 3:7-18

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Brood of vipers.  Seriously, John?  Brood of vipers?  I’m guessing John the Baptist was not a hit at parties.  And he obviously didn’t have an ear for how to start a sermon.  On the other hand, the people definitely listened to him, so maybe we preachers should take a hint from his dramatic opening today.  He certainly got the people’s attention with that “brood of vipers” stuff.  And the people’s response to that is to ask, “What shall I do?”  What shall I do?

And then John has a prescription for each group.  To the general folks he says, share what you have with those less fortunate.  To the tax collectors he says, don’t cheat the people.  To the occupying forces he says, don’t use your power to oppress people or take advantage of them.  Despite John’s crazy radical opening, these are not crazy radical demands.  And they sit nicely with you and me because they honestly sound a lot like saying, take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.  When visiting a friend in Columbus, do not cheer for the University of Michigan.  Common sense rules of decency.

It almost seems like the people ask John, what must we do to be saved?  And John says, everything you need to know about being saved, you learned in kindergarten.  There’s nothing all that radical here.  Be nice, play fair, don’t cheat people just because you can.  If you do this, the world will be a better place.  And I hate to sound flippant, but . . . Duh!  If everyone was nicer to others, the world would by definition be a better place.  But, does it follow that if I am nicer to my neighbor then I too will be saved?  It seems to me, there’s no need for Jesus in this proclamation.  Everyone just needs to be a little nicer, okay?

In fact, if that is John’s point, then he’s really getting us ready for Santa Claus, not Jesus.  Making a list, checking it twice, gonna find out which tax collectors have been overcharging and which soldiers have been taking advantage of the weapons in their hands.  If you want candy instead of coal in your stocking, then by all means start being nice to people.  And there’s the rub . . .

If salvation were simply a matter of our decision and effort to treat people better, we’d have no need for Jesus.  If it were within our power to make the world into the kingdom of God, then we would not need a Savior.  

I know it’s tempting to turn this Gospel reading into a be nice to others kind of message.  And I know many priests and pastors will be doing just that with this text.  Which is not to say that’s wrong, but—well, I’ll just remind you—I grew up Lutheran, and my catechism teacher would never forgive me if I told you that the point of Christianity is to be nice.  If I told you that being nice would save you, then I would forever be haunted by the Ghost of Catechism Past.  There simply has to be more to this text than, be nice and play fair.

And, of course, there is.  But before we get there . . . You might have noticed that the readings this month are a little on the scary side.  One of the points of this time we call “Advent” is to remind us why we need a Savior.  To remind us that we cannot do it alone.  Why it is that we welcome the birth of the long-awaited Messiah of God.

From the very start of our Scriptures, God lays out what people need to do to be reconciled to God and one another.  Way back with Cain and Abel it’s as simple as, “don’t kill the only other child on the planet.”  And before that it was, “don’t eat the fruit off this one tree over here.”  Whether you view these stories as factual historical episodes, or as mythical plot points, the resulting message is the same: We can’t seem to follow the most simple instructions.  Oh, sure, we think we can.  The ten commandments seem pretty straight forward . . . until we really dwell on the meaning of the word “covet” . . . or until we consider what gods we put ahead of our Creator.  Not to mention that Jesus goes and ups the ante by saying that thoughts are as good as deeds when it comes to following these simple rules.

So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.

That’s how today’s gospel reading ended.  Remember that?  Did it strike you as almost funny in the context of what John tells this brood of vipers?  Like he lays out all this scary stuff about a winnowing fork and unquenchable fire and then we get, and in many other ways,  “he proclaimed the good news to the people.”

That’s the good news, John?  Really?  Please don’t say you’ve got any bad news, right?  But let’s follow the arc of this overall story here . . .

The people come to John to be baptized.  A few verses before today’s gospel text, he has been walking up and down the Jordan River, on both sides, telling the people they need to repent and be baptized.  And when the people come to John, he calls them a brood of vipers and asks, “who told you that you could flee the wrath that is to come?”  And I picture them saying, “Uh, you did John.  Remember how you were just walking up and down the river on both sides telling us to repent and be baptized?”  And now you ask, who told us to come to you?!?

And this is a sticky little point we have to look at:  John tells them to repent and be baptized, but he never says that it will save them from the wrath that is to come.  It seems as if John is saying they need to repent and be cleansed, but the wrath that is to come is a completely different animal.  And that’s because, well, He is.

As John says, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming. . . . He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.”  Water cleanses; fire purifies.  John baptizes with water; Jesus baptizes with fire.  What does this mean?  

Well, if your car is broken down and also dirty, John will come along with a bucket and a sponge and clean the outside.  But your car still will not run.  If your house needs painting and the foundation is crumbling, John can slap a new coat of paint on it.  If you’re lying on your deathbed and your hair is messy, John has a comb.

But on your deathbed, you need more than a cosmetic makeover.  You need someone who will save you.  You need someone who will purify your soul.  You need someone with a “winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; who will burn the chaff with unquenchable fire."

You need Jesus.

In the here and now, you need to be baptized with water, yes.  And if you ask the preacher how you should live, the answer is to be nice to your neighbor, and share with those less fortunate, and not take advantage of people less powerful than you.  But those answers do not save us from the wrath that is to come, silly brood of vipers that we are.  What saves us from the wrath that is to come is one thing and one thing only: The baptism by fire of the little baby whose birth we are eagerly awaiting.  Only Jesus can purify our hearts.  

The winnowing and the threshing floor and the unquenchable fire are not the wrath.  They are the purification.  The sanctification.  Turning us into what we were meant to be.  What is burned away is not what we are, even though that is what we think we are.  What is burned away is the rust that has accumulated.  The barnacles on the boat.  The stuff that distorts our true nature as redeemed children of God.  The wrath comes by not trusting the one who can make us whole.  The only wrath we face is the self-imposed one of not opening our hands to let go of the chaff and receive the gift of life.  

And today, at this altar, we have yet another opportunity to unclench our fists, let go of that chaff, and receive the gift of life, in the body and blood of the One who is coming to save us.  We need not fear his coming, because he is coming to cleanse us with a purifying fire, to become what we were always meant to be.  And at the very last day, this brood of vipers—this messy thing we call the Church on Earth—will join with all the saints, of every time and every place, in the joy of God’s eternal kingdom.  Jesus is coming to save us, and we need not be afraid.  Open your hands and welcome him.

Amen.

YEAR C 2024 advent 2

Advent 2, 2024
Malachi 3:1-4
Canticle 16
Philippians 1:3-11
Luke 3:1-6

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I figure it never hurts to remind us all that every Advent, the Church begins a new year.  And when we begin a new year, we make the move from one gospel book to another.  And starting last week, we switched the spotlight from Mark to Luke.  Luke is my favorite of the four gospels (but please don’t tell the other gospels I said that).  And using the phrase “switch the spotlight” is perfectly appropriate for Luke’s gospel, because the first three chapters are chock full of songs, like a little musical.  And I know our Choirmaster Andrew will love to hear me admit that!

Luke’s gospel just moves along, and here comes a dramatic moment, and the characters are beside themselves with excitement, and this calls for a song!  Early on, two pregnant women, Elizabeth and Mary get together and they’re so thrilled that Mary breaks into what we now call the Magnificat, “My soul magnifies the Lord.”  And then, Elizabeth’s son, John the Baptist is born, and his father is so happy (and since he can finally speak again) he breaks into the Song of Zechariah—which today’s bulletin insert calls “Canticle 16.”  “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel.”  And then, the Spirit of God tells Simeon that he would not die before seeing the Messiah, and when he sees the baby Jesus in the Temple he breaks into Simeon’s Song, “Lord, let your servant depart in peace.”  Luke’s gospel has just got started, and we’ve already got three absolute bangers—arguably the three most popular songs in the history of the Church.

So, that’s one reason I love Luke so much: because of all the songs.  But let me interrupt myself here to complain about what the church year does to Luke’s narrative flow.  In the section of Luke that we just heard, John the Baptist is, you know, somewhere around 30 years old, and he’s out in the desert this second week of Advent.  And soon, Jesus is going to come to him to be baptized, because Jesus will also be around 30 years old.  (Six months younger than John, by tradition at least.)  But the Canticle we just heard is the song of Zechariah, which happens right after John was born.  And, since this is the Second Sunday of Advent, that means Jesus himself won’t even be born for another 17 days.  So, time is a construct in our church year, and you’ve just got to go with the lectionary flow, disjointed though it might be.

Okay, but here is what I most want to focus on: the opening sentence of today’s gospel reading.  See if you hear an active verb here:  In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas . . .”  And now I’ll answer my own question: No, you did not hear an active verb.  ALL of that stuff is what we call a dependent clause.  (And by that I don’t mean Santa’s children.  Hey, Dads gotta Dad Joke.)

All of those names and places are dependent on the action part of the sentence, which is, “a word from God came to John.”  That’s the point of the sentence: a word from God came to John.  All those other names and stuff are like Luke adding the phrase, “One day,” before the action part.  The beginning of the sentence doesn’t really do anything.  Which raises the question, why is it there?  Why tell us which leaders were ruling which things, and who led the Priesthood, and all that?

Well, two things.  First, has it ever struck you as odd that the name Pontius Pilate comes up in the Nicene Creed?  Like we’re just going along with all this really ethereal language and these theological concepts and suddenly there’s this guy, whose name we only know because he put Jesus to death.  Why is he in there?  Well, one reason we say his name in the Creed is to anchor the life and death of Jesus to a specific point in human history.  Historians will always be able to tell us what years Pilate was in charge, which means we know when all this happened, like in actual human years.  When you look at Greek and Roman mythology (other than maybe the Fall of Troy) there are no anchor points tying them to real history.  And that’s why we call it mythology.  Could have happened last week, or a billion years ago, or not at all.  But Jesus was put to death on a specific day at a specific time and in a specific place.  And Pilate’s name tells us when and where.

So, one of the reasons Luke names all those people in today’s reading is to tell us when and where we are in human history.  John the Baptist was in the wilderness when Tiberius was Emperor, and etc etc.  Tiberius is in the history books, so we know John lived at a particular time and place, and later on, Jesus will come to be baptized by him.  (You know, 30 years after he’s born . . . later this month.)

But as I said earlier, all those names and titles are a dependent clause to “a word from God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness,” so linguistically speaking they’re not important.  And that's why I love Luke so much!  Because at that time those other guys are important . . . to the important people.  Luke turns everything upside down.  The beauty of that sentence focusing on the nobody John out in the wilderness is that those other people are important in society’s eyes.  In fact, they’re the only people who are important!  That list is a who’s who of everyone of importance that you need to know in first century Palestine.  And yet . . . a word from God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.  Who is Zechariah?  Nobody.  Who is John?  Nobody.  Where is the wilderness?  Nowhere.  A word from God came to John . . . son of Zechariah . . . in the wilderness.

We would expect a word from God to come to the Emperor, the governor, the ruler of Galilee, the high priests.  All the people John mentions first.  But a word from God comes to John.  In Luke’s Gospel, God always comes to the lowly, the outcasts, the unimportant.  To Mary, to shepherds, to Bethlehem, to the wilderness.  God is at work where nobody expects to see God working.  Lifting up the lowly while casting down the proud.  Raising up the valleys and leveling the mountains.  God bypasses the rich and powerful, living in their important cities, doing their important things, getting their names listed in important history books, and God seeks out John, a nobody, in the wilderness.

And, quite frankly, that is the best news you and I are going to get.  Because in the 24th year of the 21st century, when Joe Biden was President of the United States, and Mike DeWine was Governor of Ohio, and Jamie Slutz was Mayor of Massillon, and when Sean Rowe was Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, and Anne B. Jolly was Bishop of the Diocese of Ohio, a word from God came  . . . to the people of St. Timothy’s Church, in Massillon, Ohio.

God does not need for you to be strong and good and rich and powerful in order to come to you.  God does not need you to be popular and worthy and upstanding to seek you out.  In fact—at least the way Luke tells the story—you’re better off not being any of those things!  Because a word of God came to John, son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.  And the word of God comes to you, right here, today.

And as I never tire of reminding you, we all receive the bread of heaven just as a beggar receives bread, or a child receives a gift:  with our hands stretched out in front of us, expecting nothing, but hoping for everything.  Deserving nothing, but trusting in a miracle.  And God bypasses the rich and powerful and so-called important people of this world to come directly to you, because you are loved, more than you could ever ask or imagine.

A word from God came to John, son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.  And a word from God comes to you.  To you!  Thanks be to God.

Amen.

The Burial of Sally Gumpp Miller

Sally Gumpp Miller, 12/5/24
Isaiah 25:6-9
Psalm 23
Revelation 21:2-7
John 6:37-40

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Unlike probably everyone else in this room, I did not really know Sally Gumpp Miller.  I’m sure you all have lots of stories and memories to share, (as we heard from Chad and Hillary) and I hope you will continue to do so in the months and years ahead.

It’s never easy to lose someone we love.  A sister, a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother.  Someone who has been there our entire lives is no longer with us.  No longer seen or heard from.  And the emptiness can be overwhelming.  And, when someone who was always with us is no longer here, it might make everything in life seem fleeting.  Temporary.  But that isn’t true.  Not for God, and not for those who live their lives as part of the Church of God on earth, because we find our continuity in the changelessness of God.

So many members of St. Timothy’s have fond memories of their time with Sally.  But those memories were all formed before I got here, before my time.  For so many others, Sally has always been a part of their time in this world.  But their time is not my time.  And so our sense of time is different, because of course, it is.   And the difference between our different senses of time and God’s perspective of time can really help sometimes.

And here is what I mean by that:  There are things that we are waiting for that are already accomplished for God.  As we heard from the prophet Isaiah, “God will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever.”  And then as we heard from the Revelation to St. John, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.”  And because Jesus is the beginning, and the end, everything that happens to us happens within the outstretched arms of Jesus.  Between the beginning and the end, that’s where everything is; it is all within the arms of Jesus.

You and I are still waiting for the day when God will wipe away every tear from our eyes and will swallow up death forever.  But for Sally, that day has already arrived.  She is safely within the arms of God, which is where she has always been.  

As we heard Jesus say, “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away . . . This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day."

Jesus will lose nothing and no one.  Ever.  Once you belong to Jesus, you always belong to Jesus.  And in Sally’s baptism, she was claimed as God’s own forever.  And nothing can ever take that away from her.  It all happens within the embrace of Jesus.  Sally is with God, and God is you.  And one day, you will be together again. 

Amen.

YEAR C 2024 advent 1

Advent 1, 2024
Jeremiah 33:14-16
1 Thessalonians 3:9-13
Luke 21:25-36
Psalm 25:1-9

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

There was a big push a few years back to return to a six-week Advent season.  That’s because—back in the day—Advent was a parallel penitential season to Lent, and lasted about the same length of time.  Lent and Advent were both times of preparation.  And the readings we’ve had lately still match that six-week timeline.  If you look at the gospel readings the last two weeks, you can see that they share a similar theme with today’s apocalyptic chaos and fear.  

Two weeks ago we had the entropy-rules reading with the Temple’s destruction predicted, when I said we were living in a slow-motion apocalypse.  And last week, for Christ the King Sunday, we saw Jesus on trial before Pilate just before he would be crucified at the hands of the Roman Empire.  And now today we have this description of still more apocalyptic chaos and fear.  So you can see how the previous two weeks fit right in with the start of Advent, which could give you the six-week Advent plan, if you were so inclined.  Which I'm not.

And while outside these doors we think of Advent as a time of Christmas cheer and jolly parties, that’s not how it works in the church.  The point of Advent is to remind us that we need a savior.  If everything were great, we wouldn’t need a Savior.  But it isn’t great.  So we do need a Savior.

And so what is our takeaway from the readings the past two weeks coupled with this morning?  Are we comforted?  Are we encouraged?  Or are we worried and living in fear?  How we respond to all this doom and gloom is important.  Because, as I say, it’s intended to remind us that we need a Savior.  But if it makes us fall into despair, or stick our heads in the sand, then the readings haven’t done their job.  So let’s start with fear.

You’re familiar with the words of Franklin Roosevelt in his first inaugural address: The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.  The idea of being afraid of fear is an interesting concept, isn't it?  Afraid of . . . being afraid?  But he was definitely on to something there.  Because fear is one of the main motivators for nearly every problem in the world.  Fear of those who are different is what leads us to violence, and bloodshed, and war.  Fear of scarcity leads us to hoarding and selfishness and greedy consumption.  Fear of harm leads us to mistrust our neighbor and turns us inward.  And fear makes us divide the world into us and them, either or, insiders and outsiders.  Fear takes away our ability to see nuance and find compromise.  Fear is indeed something to be feared.

There’s a great couplet in a Bruce Springsteen song where he sings,
“On his right hand Billy tattooed the word love and on his left hand the word fear. And in which hand he held his fate was never clear.”  Love and fear.  The opposite of fear is not confidence.  The opposite of fear is love.  We can see the dichotomy of fear and love by looking at their fruits.  Rejection or acceptance.  Selfishness or generosity.  Suspicion or hospitality.  Fear or love.

In the reading we just heard, Jesus says “People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world.”  People will faint from fear of what is coming upon the world.  So what is coming upon the world?  What is coming that is causing people to faint from fear?  The answer is: “The Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.”  That is what will cause people to faint from fear.  Jesus coming into the world.

So what does it mean for Jesus to come into the world?  Well, we have loads and loads of answers to that in the scriptures.  It means the blind will regain their sight.  It means the lame will walk.  It means the lepers will be healed and the deaf will hear.  It means the prisoners will be set free and widows and orphans will have a home.  It means the lowly will be lifted up and the mighty cast down from their thrones.  It means the hungry will be fed with good things and the rich will be sent empty away.  Jesus is coming to set the world right.  The way God intended for it to be.  The way it was before fear took hold of our hearts, and set us on these paths of self destruction.

Jesus is coming back to set the world right, and “People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world.”  The world will be set right, and some people will be afraid.  You know who fears that the world would be set right?  The people who benefit from the world being broken, that’s who.  Jesus is coming back to unplug the world and plug it back in.  He’s coming back to do a hard reset on a world that has been twisted through fear into something it was never meant to be.  Because God loves this created world, and God has no intention of handing it over to the powers of darkness and fear.  And the only ones who are afraid of the world being made right are the ones who profit from the world being wrong.  I leave it to you to fill in the blanks on that.

Jesus says, There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.  Wow!  So what are we to do in the face of all that?  Tell us, Jesus, what do you want us to do when there is distress among the nations and people are fainting with fear and foreboding and powers of heaven will be shaken?  What do you want us to do?

And Jesus tells us: “Stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”  That’s it.  Stand up and look.  Watch and wait.  We do not usher in the return of Jesus.  And we cannot prevent the return of Jesus.  He is coming back to make the world right, and our job is to watch and wait.  Watch and wait without fear.

More than 120 times in the scriptures, some angel or priest or prophet or totally ordinary person says, “Do not fear!”  Do not fear.  120 times.  It sure seems like it’s a message God wants us to take to heart.  Do.  Not.  Fear.  And I’m back to that Springsteen lyric, “On his right hand Billy tattooed the word love and on his left hand the word fear. And in which hand he held his fate was never clear.”  Love and fear.

As we begin our Advent journey together—or enter the third week, if you’re on the six week plan—we watch and we wait together.  And my prayer for all of us is that we would choose love over fear.  Generosity over selfishness.  Acceptance over rejection.  And that we would choose the world as it can be over the world as it is.  Jesus is coming back.  And that is good news.  So let us watch and wait together, without fear.

Amen

YEAR B 2024 christ the king

Christ the King, 2024
Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14
Psalm 93
Revelation 1:4b-8
John 18:33-37

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

What we see in today’s gospel reading is a confrontation between power and truth.  And when power and truth collide, we want to choose carefully which side of that divide we land on.  There is power.  And there is truth.  And they are not necessarily the same thing.

The court chaplain of Louis XIV—the Sun King of France—was Jean-Baptiste Massillon, after whom our city of Massillon is named.  Louis the Great instructed Massillon that upon his death, the King was to lie in state in a golden coffin at Notre Dame cathedral in Paris.  As the writer Dave Dishman describes it:

At his funeral service the entire cathedral was to be completely dark, lit dimly by only a single candle positioned above the coffin. Louis the Great wanted to be held in awe by all in attendance and the candle was to remind them of his singular greatness.

When Louis the Great died in 1715, Massillon did exactly as the King had instructed. At the funeral thousands waited in silence as they peered at the elegant casket that held the mortal remains of their monarch, illuminated by the single flickering candle.

Massillon rose to eulogize the king. But before he spoke, Massillon reached out and snuffed out the candle representing the late king’s greatness. Then in the darkness of Notre Dame he proclaimed to all, "Only God is Great.”  

More than 200 years later, in 1925, Pope Pius XI decreed that the last Sunday before Advent would be called Christ the King Sunday.  Fans of history will note that 1925 is the same year that Benito Mussolini officially became the fascist dictator of Italy and was then called il Duce—or, The Leader—by the Italian people.  Against that backdrop, by initiating Christ the King Sunday, Pope Pius XI was putting a stake in the ground for Christians: earthly rulers are not supreme, Jesus Christ is.  Or, in the words of Jean-Baptiste Massillon 200 years earlier, only God is great.

So here we are: Christ the King Sunday.  And today we see our Lord Jesus called into the headquarters of Pontius Pilate and being questioned about his kingship.  On Christ the King Sunday, we would expect to get an example of Jesus’ authority, and his power, and his rule over all creation.  Instead, we get a portion of John’s gospel that is usually read on Good Friday.  That doesn’t sound like Jesus is doing a good job of being Christ the King.  So what gives?

Well, it’s because we have a distorted view of what authority and ruling looks like.  This confrontation with Pilate is one of power versus truth.  And it’s a reminder that power is not what we think it is, or where we think it is.

For me, this encounter with Pilate brought to mind the Oval Office meeting last week.  In American tradition, the outgoing President invites the incoming President-elect to the White House.  (Usually.)  And the point of that meeting is to show that power does not belong to one person in America.  In our country, power belongs to the people.  And presidents are only there because we sent them there.  And that is why outgoing presidents also attend the inauguration of their successor.  (Usually.)  Because it is not about them.  It’s about us: we the people, not you the president.

Similarly, earlier this month, we watched the investiture of the new Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church.  And there again, the outgoing Presiding Bishop was present as the new Presiding Bishop was installed, because the power belongs to the people, not the Presiding Bishop.  Our Presiding Bishop is not a Pope.  All those bishops only wear pointy hats because we elect them to lead us, and then they elect one of their own to be Presiding Bishop to lead their meetings.  But it all starts with the people.  Sean Rowe is called “The Most Reverend,” but he not our Pope.

Contrasted with all of that, the Roman Empire of Jesus’ day was not a democracy.  It was an autocracy, or even a dictatorship.  One Emperor ruled over all the people.  One person was right.  Caesar Tiberius was always right, even when he was wrong.  Pontius Pilate and every other underling would be constantly looking over their shoulder.  The Emperor might have you beheaded, or might make his horse a senator: his choice.  In the Roman Empire, power did not belong to the people.  OR to Pilate.  If the Emperor said jump 3 feet high and scratch your head, that’s what people did.  If Caesar declared some people good and others vermin, then that’s what people were, and that would tell you how to treat them.

So Pilate is essentially a bureaucrat who is constantly looking over his shoulder.  There is no real power for anyone other than The Leader in an autocracy.  Pontius Pilate has the same power as a government leader in today’s Russia.  And if he crosses The Leader, well you better stay away from any open windows Pontius.

So into Pilate’s headquarters steps the prisoner named Jesus.  Pilate wants to have a confrontation about power and kingship and authority.  Jesus wants to have a conversation about truth.  The power-hungry but powerless Pilate wants to know if Jesus also seeks power.  He asks him, “So you are a king?”  And Jesus responds, “You say that I am a king.”  You say it.  Under Pilate’s rules, in the world in which Pilate lives, Jesus is a wanna-be king.  But Jesus does not claim to be a king.  In fact, in the 6th chapter of John’s gospel, Jesus escapes into the mountains because he knew that the people wanted to make him a king by force.  Everybody wants Jesus to be a king.  Everybody except Jesus.

We cannot help but think of making powerful people into our rulers.  Or, making our rulers into powerful people.  When Massillon extinguished that candle at Louis XIV’s funeral, the people were shocked!  How dare he do that?  How dare he say that “only God is great” at the funeral of Louis the Great, the Sun King himself?

And yes, Pope Pius XI initiated Christ the King Sunday, but then he spent the next decade cooperating with Mussolini for financial gain for the clergy, along with the fascists’ promising that the catholic faith would be taught to all children enrolled in public schools.  Only after the fascists began earnestly persecuting Jews did Pope Pius finally retreat from his compromise.  And then . . . it was too late.  Earthly power is a dangerous thing, because human beings are a fickle people.  Always in danger of giving in to those we put in power.  Always in danger of making compromises when we should be taking stands.

But that is not what Jesus seeks.  The one who ran off into the woods to avoid becoming a king does not seek earthly power.  In the confrontation in today’s gospel, Pilate wants Jesus to define himself as a king.  Because Pilate understands kings, just as Pope Pius understood dictators.  Pilate wants to talk power; Jesus wants to talk truth.  Jesus says, “I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”  And though it wasn’t part of today’s reading, in the next verse we get Pilate’s response, “What is truth?”  As Francis Bacon wrote, “'What is truth?’ asked jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.”  Pilate asks for a definition of truth, but he does not want to know the answer.

So here we are celebrating Christ the King Sunday.  And we run the risk of making Jesus into the earthly king he never wanted to be.  Because Jesus never sought earthly power.  In fact, he spent his entire life rejecting earthly power, surrendering rather than ruling.  Born in a stable rather than a palace.  Living as a guest with others, instead of in a mansion.  Choosing to eat with the weak and the outcasts, and not with the rich and the powerful.

And that is the good news for you and me.  Because Jesus does not look for those in control.  He does not seek out those in power who have everything together.  The Jesus we worship on Christ the King Sunday comes to eat with sinners.  With those who have lost hope.  With those who seek after truth, rather than power.  Jesus said, “I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”  The Holy Spirit has called us to the truth, and so we belong to the truth.  And we listen to his voice.  Because only God is Great.

Amen