YEAR A 2025 christmas eve

Christmas Eve, 2025
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.

The “true meaning of Christmas.”  Have you heard that phrase before?  Of course you have.  I mean that question explains the existence of the Hallmark Channel, right?  What is the true meaning of Christmas?  It’s probably going to involve a high-functioning lawyer who meets a local handyman at a bed and breakfast in Vermont, if I’m not mistaken.

Sometimes the supposed true meaning of Christmas is pretty predictable.  The down and out get a break.  The poor family gets to celebrate.  The greedy boss get his comeuppance.  The losers win.  Good beats evil.  And so on and so on.  We all have some intuitive sense that Christmas has a true meaning, and we know it when we see it.

So why is that?  And why only Christmas?  Why does no one ask about the “true meaning” of Easter?  Or Pentecost?  Why doesn’t Hallmark have a series of movies dedicated to couples finding the Trinity Sunday spirit in the Berkshires together?  It seems to be accepted common knowledge that Christmas has a true meaning and a particular spirit, and it is universally recognized around the world.  Even by people who have never set foot inside a church.

If I asked you to tell me the true meaning of Christmas, chances are that you would mention words like gathering, helping, giving, family, togetherness, all of which lead us to one common theme: community.  Community.

And community reminds me of cats.  (Just stick with me for a minute here.)  Last February, our beloved cat Pippin died on a Sunday afternoon.  We took turns holding her until she breathed her last.  Within a week, both our kids went into “you need a new cat mode,” sending us pictures of cats from the APL website.  But we wanted to take our time before getting a new companion.  Toward the end of October, our friend Jay sent us pictures of a local stray named Henry, a little big-headed guy one of his neighbors trapped and took to the place that neuters such cats, and turns one of their triangle ears into a trapezoid, and releases them back onto the streets.  We went to meet Henry the cat on Halloween in Jay’s backyard, and now Henry is our chonky big-headed companion in our home.

People often refer to such cats as strays, or ferrel cats, or street cats.  But when I looked at the paperwork from the vet, they refer to them as “community cats.”  Not because of where they live, but because of how they live.  Henry was a community cat, because the community kept him alive, which led me to all sort of realizations.  Community cats don’t live by their street-smart stealth, but by the kindness of the community.  They don't belong to any one family.  But they survive because one person leaves fresh water for them, and another sets out food,  and another cracks their garage door in the winter.  They don't usually live to be 15, but they are loved while they do live.   They are not ferrel or stray or alone. They are community cats. They belong to everyone, because everyone cares for them.

And there are people living around us who are sort of like community cats.  Nearly every day, someone rings the bell at church looking for help.  Some have shelter; some do not.  Some have food; some do not.  They are not strays.  Or aliens.  Or lazy.  Or subhuman.  But they are alive because the community helps them.  And they die if the community doesn't.  They are not “the homeless.”  They are community people.  Like community cats.  If we can do it for cats, we can do it for people.  Cats may or may not be made in God's image, but people definitely are.  We know it from the very first book of the Bible.  Every single person is made in the image of God.  You would expect this point to end with some specific plea.  But it ends with just asking you to care.

And so, back to Christmas.  Our cards and paintings and images of the birth of Jesus tend to show an intimate nuclear family having quiet night. A silent night, if you will. But Jesus is more like a community cat.  Jesus only survived because of the community.  Joseph took Mary as his wife because the Angel told him not to be afraid. The Innkeeper provided shelter and a place to give birth away from the streets.  The Shepherds heard a message from the whole host of angels and then raced to the scene to carry the news of great joy for all the people.  The Wise men traveled great distances to offer gifts of support and to warn of the danger from Herod.  I mean, just look at how many people were involved, each doing their own part.  Sharing their time, talent, and treasure for Jesus, you could say.

When it comes right down to it, Jesus is a community baby. It took a whole community to make sure he was born safely.  It took a whole community to announce his birth.  It took a whole community to make sure he even survived.  Jesus is a community baby, and he lives to bring community.  Jesus draws us into community.  On this very night in fact.  A few hours ago this building was silent and empty, and just look at it now!  It worked!

If you’re searching for the true meaning of Christmas, that’s it: community.  And it was baked in from the start with the birth of Jesus, this community baby.  Chances are, all your favorite Christmas movies are about community, one way or another.  A town rallying around a tree and singing “Dahoo Dores.”  Neighbors racing to George Bailey’s house with donations to bail out the savings and loan.  Linus helping Charlie Brown see that Christmas is about love and togetherness, not soul-crushing capitalism.  They’re all about community.

We were not built to live life on our own.  And—spoiler alert—we can’t do it on our own.  It takes a neighborhood to care for a community cat.  And it takes a community to care for our neighbors, and especially those in need.  And—turns out—it takes a community for Jesus to be born.  And in the birth of Jesus, God is telling us that we are not alone.  We never were, and we never will be.

The true meaning of Christmas is found in community.  The Christmas spirit is found in community.  Neighbors helping neighbors.  People joining together to care for those who are in need.  Even cats.  It took a community to make sure Jesus lived.  And Jesus lives to bring community, to draw us into community, because that’s where the magic happens.  

May the birth of this holy child remind us every day to look for how God is calling us to care.  Because it is in caring that we truly find community, and community brings life.  Merry Christmas!

Amen

YEAR A 2025 advent 4

Advent 4, 2025
Isaiah 7:10-16
Romans 1:1-7
Matthew 1:18-25
Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

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

So this gospel text we just heard, I’m sure you know it very well by now.  The angel comes to Joseph in a dream and tells him not to be afraid to take Mary as his wife, even though she is pregnant.  It’s kind of key to the story, right?  Or at least key to how Matthew tells the story.  And speaking of how Matthew tells the story, there are couple things we need to revisit in order to understand this story correctly.

Each gospel writer tailored their writing to a specific audience, based on their own time and place.  Broadly speaking, Mark wrote for the Romans (with his immediately this and immediately that); Luke wrote for the Gentiles (with his everybody is included, especially the ones who don’t feel included); and Matthew wrote for the Jews (always connecting Jesus to being the Messiah they were expecting).  And for this reason, Matthew is constantly emphasizing connections to the Hebrew scriptures, what we call the “Old Testament.”  In Matthew, we are likely to find phrases like, “This happened in order to fulfill the scriptures.”  So for Matthew it’s important to make these connections to the Jewish faith, so his audience might come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah.

That’s why in the first chapter of Matthew, we get the “The Genealogy.”  The first 17 verses of Matthew’s gospel never come up in the readings in church (thankfully), because it’s just a long list of names to you and me.  However, that long list of names is important to Matthew’s Jewish audience.  Because it ties Joseph all the way back to the beginning of the line of David, and further back to Abraham.  

On the other hand, this is an odd thing for Matthew to do.  Because although it proves that Joseph is descended from Abraham, Joseph is not the father of Jesus, as we just heard.  I have never understood this, and I’ve never seen a good explanation for it, so I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.  But I did.

But back to the reading we heard.  Mary is great with child, and “Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.”  That doesn’t seem too crazy to you and me, right?  It’s like, Joseph is a decent guy, and he’s just going to kind of do right by Mary, even though he is probably personally devastated to find his fiancé is pregnant.  Except here’s the thing . . .

A righteous man would not dismiss her quietly.  A truly righteous man would report Mary to the authorities, and she would then be publicly humiliated and stoned to death.  A righteous man does not ignore the religious codes in order to save a sinner, even a sinner whom he loves.  A righteous man follows the rules, even if that means a horrible outcome.  That’s what it means to be righteous.

Moses wrote down the rules for the children of Abraham to follow.  It is clear in the Torah exactly what is supposed to happen to a woman who has sexual relations before marriage.  And a righteous man would follow those rules.

So why do we hear that because Joseph was a righteous man, he is going to violate the religious laws?  Well, I think the answer is one that we have run into before.  God loves people more than rules.  Or, in the words of Jesus, the Sabbath was made for man, not the other way around.  Or to put it another way, because of Jesus, the very definition of righteousness has been fulfilled.  Compassion and sympathy are what is righteous.  No longer is strict adherence to the Law more important than saving human beings.  Joseph, in his righteousness, saves Mary from the righteous Law.  Crazy as it sounds: A righteous man saves her from righteousness.  Everything has changed, because Jesus has come to fulfill the law, not to replace the law.

And the angel tells Joseph not to be afraid to take Mary as his wife.  Because she will bear a son, and you will name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.  She will, you will, he will.  Isn’t that interesting?  In one sentence, she will, you will, he will.  She will bear a son, and you will name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.  Mary will give birth.  And Joseph will name him Jesus, because the name Jesus means “God saves,” and that’s what Jesus does: save.  She will, you will, he will.

And here’s where maybe there actually is a connection to that Genealogy I brought up earlier.  Joseph is descended from the House of David—from Abraham’s line.  In giving this child the name Jesus, Joseph is making the connection for us.  Joseph, a descendant of David, a child of Abraham, is announcing to the world that God saves, because of Mary’s son.  

But there’s another name we heard this morning as well.  We heard it in Isaiah’s prophecy to Ahaz, in the first reading.  Isaiah says, “Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”  And then in the Gospel reading, Matthew writes,  

All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,” which means, “God is with us.” 
To fulfill what had been spoken.  Which is a very Matthew thing to say, as I mentioned earlier.

So, today we hear that Jesus means, “God saves.”  And Emmanuel means, “God is with us.”  God is with us, and God saves, both promises coming together in the birth of this Messiah.  God is with us, and God saves. 

And here’s what I find truly important about Joseph’s situation here.  It is messy and confusing and by no means what we’d call “neat and tidy.”  And not coincidentally, the birth of a baby is also not neat and tidy.  And when it comes right down to it, life itself is not neat and tidy.  In our day to day lives, we never know what is coming, and when it arrives, it is rarely what we expected.

But notice how God meets Joseph where he is, in the midst of the not-neat-and-tidiness of his life.  The angel brings a message from God that there is another way.  That he need not be afraid to do what his heart tells him to do: to let Jesus be born into our messy world.  The story of Joseph and the angel and Mary and the baby are reminders to us, that God has not given up on this world.  God meets us in the not-neat-and-tidiness of our lives, in the messiness of this world, and reminds us that we are not alone.  God is with us, and Jesus saves.  

And this morning, as you stretch out your hands to receive the bread and wine, the body of Christ and the cup of salvation, may you hear that message again:  You are not alone, and God is with us, and Jesus saves.

Amen.

YEAR A 2025 advent 3

Advent 3, 2025
Isaiah 35:1-10
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11
Psalm 146:4-9

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

Jesus asked the crowd, “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at?”  That question cuts to the heart of the readings today.  Essentially, what were you expecting?  It fits perfectly with our journey through this Advent season.  We’re all waiting; but what are we waiting for?  Put another way, depending on our expectations, we might end up mightily disappointed.  But we’ll get to that.

The first reading, from the prophet Isaiah is just beautiful.  I love this reading so much!  Even though it’s from a completely different part of Isaiah, it fits perfectly with last week’s reading, where the lion and the lamb will lie down together and a little child shall lead them.  And in this section today, we hear all about the setting that will one day be.  The desert shall rejoice and blossom.  Water in the wilderness, burning sands will become pools.  A hostile environment shall become lush with greenery and growth.  

And the best part is right toward the beginning.  Like the crocus, the desert shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing.  That phrase, “like the crocus” really speaks to me, because where we live now, every spring those little guys just pop up all over our yard.  At first it’s just a few, and we treat them like little sacred beings.  Be careful not to step on those scarce fragile beautiful signs of springtime and renewal.  And then there’s a few more, and a few more.  And then one day, we come outside and they are everywhere!  Rejoicing and laughing and singing.  To say that the desert shall be like the crocus, well, finally there’s a metaphor that I get!

And speaking of metaphors I finally get, another line I love in this Isaiah reading is this:  A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way . . . and no traveler, not even fools, shall go astray.  Not even fools can miss it.  Not even fools can get lost.  As my wife well knows, after all those years of touring, I can easily find my way around Omaha, and Des Moines, and a hundred other random cities in America without a map.  But ask me how to get from our house to somewhere five miles away, and I’m hopeless.  But one day, there shall be a highway where no traveler, not even fools, can go astray.  Excellent news for me!

But back to flowers.  The reading we heard from James offers up this analogy about expectations:  "The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains.”  Though not many of us are planting actual crops around here, in our church there are many gardeners (if it were not so I would have told you).  And gardeners do the same thing: you put the seeds in the ground, and then you wait with patience for their arrival.  Sure, it’d be great to have flowers popping up out of the ground during the bleak midwinter, but that’s not how flowers work.  You plant the seeds and bulbs, and then you wait.  You let them do the thing that makes them into what they are meant to be.  And, hopefully, what you get is exactly what you were expecting.  You wait with expectation.

And Jesus asked the crowd, “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at?”  What were you expecting?  And his follow up questions tell you what they were expecting.  A frail reed.  Someone dressed in soft robes.  A prophet.  That’s what they were expecting.  And what did they get?  Well, you remember, we heard it last week.  A socialist who wears camel fur, eats grasshoppers, and yells at respectable people.  Not what they were expecting, to say the least.

But before that part, John the Baptist sends his disciples to talk to Jesus, to ask Jesus a straight-up question:  Are you the one we are expecting, or are we to wait for another?  It’s a bold question, but quite simple.  Either Jesus is the One they’ve been waiting for, or they will be waiting for another.  Simple as that.  Jesus should tell John’s disciples, yes or no.  A simple up-or-down vote, as the politicians like to say.  I mean, it really is a yes or no question.  Just answer the question Jesus; it’s just one question.

But Jesus gives them a completely different kind of answer.  He says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”  That’s his answer to their yes or no question.  So why does he say all that?  

Well, remember what Isaiah says in the first reading today?  When the Day of the Lord comes, “then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.”  Those are the clues that Jesus is the Messiah.  And those are the same things Jesus tells them to tell John. 

John was expecting a vengeful warrior on horseback who would overthrow the Romans while kicking things and taking names.  John was tough.  John expected the Messiah to be tough.  John was expecting the arrival of the ultimate fighting machine.  John is not expecting the arrival of  . . . a baby.

But Mary is.  Mary is expecting.  And—in fact—there’s probably a whole lot of stress in your life right now because Mary is expecting.  And we’re expecting a baby too.  Kind of.  I mean, we all know that Christmas is about a baby being born.  But it’s very easy to let that thought go on December 26th and start wondering, like John did, when we’re going to get the vengeful warrior on horseback who will overthrow the the forces of evil while kicking things and taking names.  

We look around and we don’t see God crushing our enemies underfoot (whatever that might mean), and we don’t see God fixing all the problems in our lives (whatever they might be).  Something is not living up to our expectations here.

We understand that a baby is coming in a couple weeks, sure, sure.  But I suspect that around mid-January or so, we’re all going to be a bit like John the Baptist.  We’ll look out from inside the contained space of our lives, and we’ll want to send our friends to ask Jesus that question:  Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?  Because right now, we’re not seeing a whole lot of kicking things and taking names on our behalf.  Of course, we don’t dare say that.  Aloud.  No, we just kind of press on, secretly waiting for the God who is going to clear the threshing floor and trample our problems underfoot.  But deep down inside, at some point or another, we’re each going to be asking: Is this the Savior who is to come, or should I wait for another?  What are we expecting to see?

And what does Jesus say to us?  Pray harder?  Be stronger?  Straighten up and fly right?  No.  Jesus sends the messengers back to us to proclaim the gospel:  the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.  And if that is true . . . if that is true, then there is hope for me and you.

Because if Jesus can heal the sick and cure the lame, then Jesus can heal us too.  If Jesus can rise from the dead, then Jesus can raise you from your grave as well.  We may not be literally blind, or lame, or deaf, but we have something like those things going on in our lives.  Something that needs the healing touch of Jesus.

We have our expectations.  But we never really know what to expect.  We have an idea of how we want God to show up.  Maybe in a big red suit, rewarding the good people, and punishing the bad ones.  That’s what we expect, but that’s not what we get . . . thank God.  Because God does not save you because you are good.  And God will never reject you because you are bad.  In all cases, God saves because of Jesus, whether the things you do are naughty or nice.  

And speaking of expectations . . . In a little while, you will come up to this altar, expecting to get some bread and wine.  And you’ll get those, when you hold out your hands.  But you’ll also get much more than that.  Because God is always giving us more than we expect.  More than we can think to ask.  God is always giving life, and forgiveness, and a chance to start again.  No matter what you’ve done or where you’ve been.  Jesus is the one who is to come.  You do not need to wait for another.

Go and tell the world what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.  No matter what we might have been expecting, Jesus is coming to save us.

Amen.

YEAR A 2025 advent 2

Advent 2, 2025
Isaiah 11:1-10
Romans 15:4-13
Matthew 3:1-12
Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19

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

Well, here we are in our second scary week of Advent.  I hope you’re enjoying our journey toward Christmas as much as I am preaching about it.  But let’s start here . . .

It’s important to keep in mind that the words of John the Baptist today are not on the same level as words spoken by Jesus.  In fact, at this point in the story, John has not even met Jesus, and does not know who Jesus is, so he’s definitely not speaking for Jesus.  Just a point to keep in mind when you hear him getting all feisty and cranky.

Now, that confrontation between John the Baptist and the Pharisees and Sadducees needs a little context.  As the historian Josephus tells us, there were three main political groups operating among the Jews in Jesus’ day.  You had The Pharisees, who had extra rules and believed in the resurrection.  And you had the Sadducees, who had fewer laws, and denied an afterlife.  But John, they say, belonged to a third major group, called the Essenes, who shared their possessions in common, and lived a separate life. Socialists, if you will.  The Pharisees and Sadducees “uni-party” would have been John’s political enemies.  

So, yes, this is a religious confrontation, but it is also a political confrontation.  It’s like a group of republicans and democrats walking into a Bernie Sanders rally.  “The Pharisees and the Sadducees are nothing but a brood of vipers!”  And it’s important to keep that in mind when we hear this encounter.  Like, these guys have history, as they say.

And then John the Baptist says, “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”  Now I’ve talked about this before, but I want to ask again: whose fault is it when a tree does not bear good fruit?  Sometimes it’s the gardener’s fault; sometimes it’s the soil’s fault; sometimes it’s the insects’ fault; but under no circumstances is it the tree’s fault.  There is nothing within a tree’s power to control the quality of fruit it produces.  If what you want is to change people’s behavior, this is just a bad metaphor John, because trees have absolutely no say in what kind of fruit they produce.  They are what they are; they produce the fruit they produce given their circumstances; just as God created them to do.

So let’s forget about the “brood of vipers” and the trees with bad fruit, and let’s look at what else John says here.  “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”  The word “repent” comes from the Greek word metanoia, which means “a change of mind,” or, “a change of heart.”  So John is saying, “change your minds, change your hearts, because the kingdom of heaven has come near.”  So what does that mean?  Well, first off, saying the kingdom of heaven has come near implies that it was not near before, right?  God’s kingdom coming near to us is a new thing.  And so, hearing that the kingdom is now near to us, how should we change?  What would be different from how things were in the past?

For this, we can helpfully turn to the other readings we heard this morning.  And I think all of these readings can best be viewed by looking at the distinction between hope and fear.  Who has hope, and who is afraid?

Let’s start with today’s Psalm, from Psalm 72.  You may remember last week I said that peace and justice must go hand in hand.  In an unjust society, there can be no peace, since inequality causes violence and unrest.  And today, in Psalm 72 we hear, “Give your King your justice, O God, that he may rule your people righteously and the poor with justice.”  And it goes on . . . rescue the poor, crush their oppressor . . . the righteous will flourish and there will be peace until the moon shall be no more.  So, who’s got the hope here?  Well, the poor and the oppressed of course.  The poor and oppressed have hope.

And the fearful ones would be the oppressors and the wealthy.  Their fear would come from losing their power and wealth; and the hope would be for a just and peaceful society.  You see how the goal of hope is NOT to become the oppressor?  Hope wants equality and justice; fear wants the status quo, where some people are oppressed—as long as I’m not one of them.  Hope and Fear stand opposed to one another, and they have different wants.

In the first reading, from Isaiah, it’s even more pronounced.  From the opening verse, we have a stump (which we might consider dead) and we have a shoot growing out of it (miraculous life, in the midst of death).  The “stump of Jesse” here refers to King David’s father, Jesse; so this is a new and surprising branch growing out of the line of David.  And, as with any family in power, fear is what kept David’s line going.  All sorts of scandalous things along the way, but David’s line continued all the way to Joseph.  Fear kept the family line limping along until it was all but dead, but Hope appears in this little shoot growing out of a stump.  

The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him.  The spirit of wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge.  But I find it fascinating that he will judge not by what his eyes see, nor by what his ears hear.  How would it affect our judgment not to use our eyes and ears?  Not to accept society’s standards of value, and judgment, and justice?  Not to judge with eyes and ears, but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth.  The spirit of the Lord rests upon him, and he will judge the people with righteousness.

And then what?  What difference would that make in the world?  Well, just look at that list!  The wolf lives with the lamb, the leopard with the kid, the lion and the calf, and the little child shall lead them.  But it gets worse!  The cow and the bear will graze together?  The lion will eat straw beside the ox?  Children playing with poisonous snakes?  What kind of crazy world is this?  I imagine this is a world that scares us, to be honest.  This is not the way the world is, according to our eyes and our ears.  It’s not the world we expect, and maybe it’s a world we have some fear about seeing.  But imagine this for a minute . . .

What if that crazy world—the one where the wolf and the lamb are at peace, and where lions and bears eat grass—what if that world IS the normal world?  What if that’s the way things are supposed to be?  What if the way things are is the wrong way?  What if in order to truly judge with equity we had to close our eyes and ears?

We can’t imagine a world where the lion and the lamb lie down together, because the images burned into our heads are the ones from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.  We think of lions taking down gazelles, not lying down next to them.  But this impossible branch from the stump of Jesse sees the world differently than we do.  “On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious.”  Hope and fear.  Do we hope for that day?  Or do we fear that day?  

Which brings us back to John the Baptist.  Repenting: changing our minds, changing our hearts.  Knowing that this kingdom has come near, this world where lambs and wolves live peacefully together, where the lion and the calf are friends, where a little child shall lead them.  Knowing that kingdom has come near, how does that change our minds?  How does that change our hearts?  

Maybe you felt a jolt of fear when John the Baptist says, “His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”  Scary stuff!  But maybe that’s because we are worried about the chaff.  The extra.  The shells.  Jesus saves the wheat and gathers it into his granary.  It’s the other stuff, the useless stuff that is carried away and burned.

We are the grain in this imagery.  All that extra stuff that gets burned away is what keeps the world from being what it is meant to be.  Our fears and our prejudice and our selfishness, those are the chaff.  And when those are burned away, there will be nothing left but good fruit, in a world where the lion and the lamb lie down together. 

The little child who will lead them is on his way.  And as we anticipate his birth, we are reminded that a different world is possible, because the kingdom of heaven has come near.  And together, we are filled with hope for a better world.  A world of peace, and justice, and righteousness.  Where a little child will lead us.  Come quickly, Lord Jesus, and lead us into that world.

Amen

YEAR A 2025 advent 1

Advent 1, 2025
Isaiah 2:1-5
Romans 13:11-14
Matthew 24:36-44
Psalm 122

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

So . . . as I remind you every year, the church and the society around us are not in sync when it comes to Christmas.  Five seconds after Halloween was over, people started putting up Christmas decorations.  Stores started selling inflatable lawn displays.  And, best of all, the breweries started releasing their Christmas ales.  

HOWEVER, in the life of the church, we don’t celebrate a thing until it happens.  Easter begins at sundown on Holy Saturday, and goes for 50 days.  Christmas begins after sundown on Christmas Eve and goes for the 12 days of Christmas.  (If only there were a song to remind us of that.)  Point being, in the church, we are now waiting for Christmas, no matter what the piped-in music in the stores might be telling you.

We get to soak up four weeks of blue before Jesus gets here.  (Well, plus also a little bit of rose two weeks from now, thanks to our awesome sewing guild.)  Nonetheless, I think you’ll agree that the contrast between the early Christmas cheer we see happening all around us and the Gospel reading we just heard is pretty stark.

But the two things I want to talk about this morning are promises and hope.  Promises and hope are tied together, and especially in today’s readings.  When we go back to the text we heard from Isaiah, we hear a promise that, “in days to come, the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains.”  It is a promise for the future, though we are not told when it will come to pass.  And here’s a tricky thing about promises and the future:  God can already see that future.  It is not a thing that might happen, if everything goes according to plan.  It is not a promise that will occur if we all behave, or whatever.  No, from God’s vantage point, it is a done deal.  We just can’t see it, because we are constrained by time.  But, in days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains.  Shall be.  Period.

Which leads us to hope. If God has promised something will happen, and we trust in that promise, then we hope for the future.  Our hope roots our focus in the future, you could say.  We’re not there yet, but when we have hope, we have a stake in that future promise.  Hope keeps us in two places at once, confident that a thing will happen in the future, and living in the present, before that thing takes place.  You can maybe see how that is different from wishing a thing might happen.  Hope anchors us in the future, a lifeline to the time when the promises shall be fulfilled.

But, of course, we want to know when these promises will be fulfilled.  In fact, a few verses before today’s gospel reading from Matthew, the disciples come to Jesus asking him when the end will come.  And then Jesus says that he will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.  "But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father."  Salvation will come.  But we don’t know when.  And the angels don’t know when.  And Jesus doesn’t know when.  So we live in the sure hope that it shall happen, because God’s promises are true.  Our salvation is already accomplished, but it is not yet here.

Which makes it like Advent, right?  As you and I move through the Church year together, we always know what is coming before it gets here.  We know there’s a baby coming, but he is not yet born.  We know who his mother is, and we know he will grow up and gather his disciples, and be arrested, executed, and rise from the grave, telling his disciples to tell the world that we too shall rise from the grave and  . . .

But, right now, he is not yet born.  We know what is coming, but it is not yet here.  The cycles of our church year get us in the habit of trusting that a thing is coming, even though it is not yet here.  Which is the whole point of these annual repeating cycles of the church year.  They are practice for the longer view we hold.  They keep repeating so we don’t forget the story.  We know what will happen, even though we still wait for it.  And that, my friends, is Advent.

I also want to briefly touch on the Psalm we read together a few minutes ago.  “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord’. . . Pray for the peace of Jerusalem . . . For the sake of my relatives and friends I will say, ‘Peace be within you’.  For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”

There is a theme throughout the scriptures that peace is always accompanied by justice.  I don’t mean 21st century legal punitive justice.  I mean a just society, where the naked are clothed, and the hungry are fed.  And if you give it some thought, you’ll see this is not just a biblical concept.  There really can be no peace where there is no justice.  Even if you take compassion and love out of the equation, if some people have nothing while others have everything, no one will ever really have peace.  Without justice, there is no peace.  There will always be anger and bloodshed and violence.  And look at what the psalmist says in that closing line:  “For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”  

If I truly seek what is best for you, when we truly love our neighbors as ourselves, there will be peace on earth.  From Isaiah today, we heard “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks.”  And here we see, it’s not just that war stops, or that the need for war stops.  There’s a second step, a constructive step.  A step where we stop turning the tools of violence toward our neighbor, and instead turn them into a means of helping our neighbors.  Swords into plowshares.  Hands of violence into hands of help.  Peace and justice are yoked together.

And so, back to waiting for Jesus . . . 
The sudden and unexpected return of Jesus we heard about means . . . what?  Well, clearly that will vary according to what you’re expecting, and what you feel is expected from you.  But the Spirit of God convicts each one of us to do something to get ready.  And the reason we want someone to tell us the exact date is because deep down we’re each afraid we’re not doing enough to get ready.  

Sure, the Spirit convinced Noah to build an ark.  But remember the other examples:  two people working in a field, two women grinding grain.  We are not all called to build arks.  (If we were, the world would be awfully crowded, and there would be no trees.)  We’re also not all called to work in the fields or grind grain.  We also need fresh water, and cars, and books.  But in our baptismal covenant, we do all promise to work for justice and peace.  We can’t all clothe the naked, or feed the hungry, or do whatever.  But you are uniquely called and equipped to do something to bring about God’s Kingdom.  

There is some part of preparing for Jesus’ return that you alone can do, because of who you are, and where you are, and because of what you are:  a claimed and redeemed child of God, a living witness in the world, proclaiming the hope of the one we are longing to welcome.  That same one who offers himself to us this day, at this altar. 

We do not know the hour that Jesus will return, but we do know that in this hour he is present among us.  We know that when we gather together in his name, he is already here.  So, as we wait for God’s promises to be revealed, I invite you to come to this altar, and welcome Jesus into your life once more, in the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.  As we strive together for justice, so that there will be peace.

Amen.

YEAR C christ the king

Christ the King, 2025
Jeremiah 23:1-6
Psalm 46
Colossians 1:11-20
Luke 23:33-43

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

So, this is the last Sunday before Advent starts.  No more green . . . for a minute.  And it’s the end of our year spent hearing from the Gospel of Luke.  We call this day Christ the King Sunday, and it signals the close of the church year.  And knowing that it’s Christ the King Sunday might lead you to ask the obvious question:  Why is our king hanging on a cross?  Why don’t we hear instead about Jesus’ resurrection?  Or, you know, some part of the story that looks a little more like reigning victorious rather than dying beside a couple two-bit thieves?

Well, since we’re right on the verge of Advent, it will probably help to start with how God arrives on the scene in the beginning.  The Jewish people were waiting since forever for the Messiah, the anointed one.  Someone to knock the oppressors off their perch and throw off the yoke of oppression.  You know, someone riding in on a white horse with a blazing sword who could set things right.  A king of restoration, when it comes right down to it.

But let’s take our minds back to what we remember from the Hebrew scriptures.  God told Moses, if the people would serve God as King, they would have no need for kings. They needed a leader, yes, but not a king.  (And Moses, you’ll remember, was a shepherd, not a king.)  So God says, I the Lord shall be your king.  And Israel was led by prophets and judges—not kings—for generations.  (I’m paraphrasing whole books here, so bear with me.) 

After 400 years of being led by those prophets and judges, the people approached the Prophet Samuel, clamoring for a king “like all the other nations.”  This desire to be like other nations is the root of the problem for them.  God didn’t want them to be like other nations; God’s ways were not their ways.  And having a king (as they would soon find out) would lead them right down that same path as their neighbors.  Then we get Saul, and David, and a whole list of kings who do what is evil in God’s sight.  The kingdom splits in two:  Judah and Israel.  The people are taken away to foreign lands in captivity, and the Jewish people start coming back five hundred years before the birth of Jesus

(Almost done.)  Then Alexander the Great takes over Palestine in 331 BC; then the Jewish people revolt and take it back (which you’ll find in the books of Maccabees); then the Romans take over, the Parthians invade, and Herod gets the Romans to support him in taking it all back.  Herod dies, and his three sons take over (two of whom also named Herod, because he was so darn creative), and this leads us right up to what we could call year zero.  Or, maybe more accurately, 4 AD, but who’s counting?

After all this violence and oppression, God’s chosen people again want a mighty warrior king who will overthrow the Romans and restore them to their land and heritage as a free people.  And what do we get?  A baby.  Born to an unwed mother.  In a feeding trough, behind a sold-out hotel.  This Jesus cannot possibly be the Messiah they’ve been waiting for.  He’s a defenseless baby.  He is no king.  But that’s for next month.

Now . . . fast forward 2,000 years and here we are.  Gathered on a Sunday morning, and looking for a king.  It’s Christ the King Sunday.  And what do we get?  Not a king lifted up in glory, but a man on the verge of death, hung between two thieves.  One who is beaten and mocked and disgraced.  God’s people wanted a king, and instead they got a baby.  We want a king, and instead we get a man about to die.

You know what we have in common with God’s people across the ages?  We don’t understand kingship the way God shows kingship.  We associate being kingly with being powerful and getting our way.  We expect a ruler to force their will on others, for better or worse.  In fact, we have come to expect a leader to act like the people all around Jesus in this gospel reading.  Mocking, taunting, humiliating, full of arrogance and spite.  We expect the king to be the one who sentences someone to death. 

But, turns out, the King is the one on the cross.  The King is the one who is willing to suffer, and willing to lay down his life for others.  Not what we would expect.  And that leads us to the disconnect in this gospel we just heard.  

Notice how everyone is setting up these if/then scenarios for him.  
The people say, If he is the Messiah of God, let him save himself.  The soldiers say, If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself.  One of the criminals says, Are you not the Messiah? Then save yourself and us.  And we might also say, if you are a king, come and save us too!  Come and make things better.  Come and save us from the senseless violence and creeping despair.  Come and save us from the pain and darkness in our world.  If you are the Messiah, come and save your people!

You see where that puts us, of course.  If we are expecting that Jesus, the Christ the King who will squash our enemies and stamp out evil . . . well . . . we kind of end up sounding like the people mocking Jesus, don’t we?  Jesus has to prove himself to us through his mighty deeds.  And we end up speaking the words of the angry crowd, the mocking soldiers, the taunting thief on the cross.  And that’s the natural reaction to this scene, isn’t it?  Jesus never claimed to be a king.  But the people wanted a king, like the Israelites wanted a king, and so they made him a king.  And when the king can’t defend even himself . . . well, what kind of king is that?  Off with his head!

But today we see God offering us a different way.  We see that victory is through surrender.  We see that serving is winning.  If our way of life requires others losing, others dying, others suffering, then it is not the way of God.  Because here we see that God loses, God suffers, God dies.  God sacrifices for us.  This is kingship.  This is royalty.  Christianity turns everything on its head, every time, and God’s ways are not our ways.

And this is the point where you say, okay Father Preacher man, that’s all well and good.  But it sure doesn’t sound like . . . you know . . . good news.  We get that Jesus came to serve, and we get that Jesus is willing to lay down his life, but . . . well . . . so what?  But maybe we ask those questions because we’re still thinking like the crowd, and the soldiers, and the mocking thief.  So let’s look at the other person in this story.

Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."  Jesus replied, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

When we set aside our natural drive to get Jesus to prove himself, when we set aside our quid pro quo of “if you really are who I say you are,” when we step back and focus on what we really need from a savior rather than from a king, then we can say to Jesus what we really need to say.  And it is just this:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

That’s the one request that matters.  That is the true sign of faith in the midst of turmoil and despair.  If we ask one thing of Jesus, it should be this:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

And it is interesting, to me, that this other thief on the cross should word it this way.  The others are saying, if you are a king, then save yourself.  And if you are a king, then save us.  But the thief on the cross is saying, when you are a king.  When you come into your kingdom.  When you come into your kingdom, remember me.  When you are seated at the right hand of God, remember me.  When the angels and archangels and all the company of heaven forever sing this hymn . . . remember me.

Which brings us to this Altar.  That hymn, that song, is going on at this very moment.  You and I are remembered in that kingdom, a kingdom that is not of this world.  And in a few minutes, you and I will once again join in the timeless stream of that eternal hymn.  It is not a song sung to a leader on earth, as though we were just paying homage to some temporary ruler.  No, it is a song that goes on forever, to a Savior who rules our hearts forever.  It is a song that unites us with people of every time and every place.  A song of praise to the King of heaven, and the Savior of the world.  Christ the King, who rules this Sunday, and all the days to come.  Lord Jesus, ruler of our hearts, remember us in your kingdom.  Remember us all in your kingdom.

Amen.

Elizabeth of Hungary

Elizabeth of Hungary, Princess, 1231

Wartburg Castle, in Eisenach, sits in the Thuringia region of Germany.  I have visited this castle several times.  To Lutherans, it is something of a Mecca, being the place where Martin Luther hid out from the Pope after he was excommunicated.  While there, Luther translated the New Testament into German for the first time.  So it’s kind of a big deal for Lutherans.  On my many visits, I have always been taken aback by the mosaics that cover the walls and ceiling of what was once Elizabeth’s bedroom in the castle.  Dating from 1904, they really are quite stunning, as befits the bedroom of a princess.

But as one looks closer at the details of the mosaics, you see that they do not depict the life of most princesses, riding horses and doing cross stitch.  Rather, they show poverty and disease, and Elizabeth doing her best to tend to those in need.  They are beautiful, and colorful, and tragic, and surprising.  In short: they depict a life well lived.

As we heard in her hagiography, Elizabeth was a literal princess, being the daughter of the King of Hungary.  And yet she showed concern for the poor at an early age.  She married the Landgrave of Thuringia, which only elevated her position, and moved into Wartburg Castle where she could have lived a lavish life of luxury.  Instead, she began giving away her dowry and possessions to feed and nurse the desperate peasants living around her.

Her generous acts were deemed “extravagances” by those at the Wartburg, and she was forced to leave the castle.  Extravagances.  When you and I hear that word, we probably think of a bedroom needlessly covered in mosaics.  We might say it is extravagant to buy expensive jewelry, not sell it to build a hospital for the poor.  We think of extravagance as wasteful spending, not overwhelming generosity.

Is it extravagant to save hungry children, or to care for the needs of the dying?  Before we answer “NO!” we should consider where our money actually goes: as a nation, as a congregation, as individuals.
Is it extravagant to feed children and build hospitals?  The court at Wartburg thought so.  Do we?  Does our parish?  Does our government?  It’s an uncomfortable thing to ponder.  What at first seems obvious isn’t necessarily the case on closer inspection.

Which brings us back to those mosaics covering the walls and ceilings of Elizabeth’s bedroom in Germany.  Though they seem extravagant—maybe even wasteful—on closer inspection, they show a life of intentional poverty, giving up riches in order to save the lives of the poor and outcast.  
And maybe that’s the key to seeing God at work in the life of Elizabeth and those like her.  Beautiful mosaics created to show us true selfless giving.  A woman born into the lap of luxury pouring out her life to serve her neighbors.  Are these wasteful or extravagant?  Certainly not, especially if they inspire us to go and do the same.

Which in a way points to our Eucharistic meal.  Beautiful precious chalices pouring out the blood of the crucified Jesus.  Gorgeous architecture dedicated to proclaiming the unconditional love of One who gave up his life for us.  

From a distance, these extravagant beautiful things might seem wasteful.  But if they inspire us to serve our neighbors as Elizabeth did, then they are no extravagance at all.  They almost seem too humble, given what they offer to the world.  May Elizabeth’s life inspire us all toward extravagant, selfless giving: of ourselves, of our time, and of our possessions.