YEAR C 2025 baptism of jesus

The Baptism of Our Lord
Isaiah 43:1-7
Psalm 29
Acts 8:14-17
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

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

Although I forgot to mention it last week, for those who are interested, there’s a basket of chalk in the parish hall, along with instructions for chalking your door for Epiphany.  Some people say that chalking the door brings good luck, or keeps evil spirits away.  But that’s not why we do it.  We put chalk on our doors to remind ourselves that God is with us, not to dispel demons.  As I remind us, over and over again, God does not save us from trouble; God saves us in our troubles.

We worship a God who specializes in resurrections, new beginnings, hope for the hopeless, love for the unloved.  All the miracles of Jesus are about setting things right: restoration of sight, healing of disease, raising the dead back to life.  Chalking our door reminds us that Jesus is with us; that’s why we do it, despite what troubles might come our way.

And speaking of Jesus' being with us, today we celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord.  It’s a big deal in the Christian Church; it gets its own Sunday every year.  And in today’s version of his baptism, from Luke, we have John the Baptist with his dramatic speech to set the stage.  He’s really building Jesus up to be a scary guy, baptizing with fire, a winnowing fork in his hand, with unquenchable fire!  The drama is off the charts here.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you JESUS!”

And then Luke writes, “when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also was baptized . . .”  That’s it.  That’s the entrance.  Jesus gets baptized right along with everyone else—a parenthetical thought on the Feast Day of Our Lord’s Baptism.  Luke doesn’t give us any details about the baptism.  Jesus is just . . . baptized along with everybody else.  Or, as Luke says, right along with “ALL the people.”  All the people were baptized, and Jesus also was baptized.  Kind of an understated entrance for the guy John the Baptist has been stumping for, isn’t it?  I mean, the set-up seems a little overblown.

But, of course, you know what happens next.  Jesus is praying, the heavens open up, the Holy Spirit descends in the form of a dove, and there is a voice from heaven saying, “You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  Whole theological careers have been built on this sentence.  And mine will not be among them.  There are too many questions about what this means for Jesus’ own sense of his Messianic identity for me to wade into.  But this voice from heaven sounds remarkably similar to what comes just prior to the reading we heard from Isaiah this morning.

In Isaiah 42 we read, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.”  Of course, we might conclude that Luke intends for it to sound remarkably similar, and that’s why it does.  But the echo is certainly there, and it would make the connection clear for anyone familiar with the writings of Isaiah.  

And just after that prophecy, in today’s reading from Isaiah, we have a series of promises.  I have called you by name and you are mine.  Do not fear; I am with you.  You are precious in my sight.  I am the Lord your God, your Savior.  These are promises to God’s people.  These are promises to you and me.  

And these texts from Isaiah parallel the announcement at Jesus’ baptism along with the people.  I mean, ALL the people.  Isaiah 43:2—When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.  When you pass through the water, God is with you.  You are God’s beloved child.  In you, God is well pleased.  And how do we know God is with us when we pass through the water?

Because as we heard, Jesus meets the people being baptized in the water, and God is well pleased.  Jesus joins with each of us in the waters of baptism, just as he meets us at this Altar in the sacrament.  When Jesus joins us in the baptismal water, the water overflows with promise--forgiveness, new life, God calling us by name, God proclaiming us beloved. Like Jesus, we are named precious, honored, and loved. God is with us always; we do not need to be afraid, because Jesus is the fulfillment and embodiment of God's promise.

And, after meeting us in the water, Jesus meets us in every circumstance, every season of life, even in the moment of death—especially there. From the water, Jesus walks with us on the journey of our lives, ending at the cross, and the empty tomb. Jesus has gone before us, and is always with us, whether or not we chalk our doors.

But there’s a sticky point in the Baptism of Jesus, and maybe it’s a thought you’ve had yourself, and it is this:  If Baptism is for the remission of sin (you know, forgiveness of sin), and since Jesus is without sin, then why does Jesus have to be baptized?  Why does Jesus get baptized along with ALL the people?  Well, two thoughts on that . . .

First, we kind of have the shoe on the wrong foot here.  It’s not that Jesus is baptized like us; it’s that we are baptized like Jesus.  Jesus isn’t doing what we do in baptism; rather, in our baptism, we are doing what Jesus does.  We are joining in the baptism of Jesus.

And secondly, baptism is not a requirement; baptism is a gift.  God doesn’t love us because we have been baptized.  Instead, we get to be baptized because God loves us.  And that’s particularly clear when we remember those words from Isaiah.  God says when you pass through the waters I will be with you.  Which is quite different from saying, after you have passed through the waters, I will consider loving you.

And as we saw in today’s gospel reading, when ALL the people were baptized, Jesus was with them.  Not just watching them from the shore, nodding in approval.  No, Jesus is baptized with them.  Not in some special, private, rock-star baptism, but right along with them.  
Which suggests that rather than looking up to heaven for God, maybe we should look around the room.  Because that’s where Jesus is.

In our own Baptismal Covenant, we promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves.  We renew that covenant every time we witness a baptism.  Every time we see someone get confirmed.  Every time the Bishop visits.  Every Easter.  And today as well, on the Baptism of our Lord.  And, as with all the promises we make in church, we make the promises along with the phrase, “with God’s help.”  We promise to do the impossible, with God’s help.  To seek and serve Christ in all persons, with God’s help.  Because God is with us.

I encourage you to hear these words again, because God says to you, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you . . . For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

God loves you.  Exactly as you are.  And whether or not there is chalk on your door, Jesus is always with you.

Amen.

The Burial of Wendy Little

Wendy Little, 1/10/25
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.

Wendy was always on the move.  She traveled the world because she wanted to see things, and learn things, and visit exotic places.  And then, when she got back, you would hear all the stories—some of them quite bizarre, I must add.  But Wendy was always on the move.

Later in life, when her doctor told her she needed exercise, Wendy took to walking.  Actually, I should call it power walking.  You’ve never seen someone with a walker move so fast!  Since we live around the corner from her house, we were on her route.  And any time I was out grilling in the driveway, I could count on hearing Wendy’s walker racing up the block.  Determined to get her steps in.  Always on the move that Wendy.

And not just physically.  Though Wendy was firm in her political positions, she was always willing to hear what others had to say.  More than once she called the office, or spoke to me after church and said, “You know, I’m a Republican, but I agree with what you said, and I’m glad you said it.”  To be clear, I am careful not to preach politics in church, but to Wendy it was important to start these sentences by telling me where she stood politically, even though it wasn’t a political sermon she was talking about.  But she was always willing to move . . . at least a little.

In the passage I read from John’s gospel a few minutes ago, Jesus says “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”  Everything and everyone will come to Jesus.  And Jesus promises that he will lose nothing the Father has given him, but will raise it up on the last day.  Jesus walks with us throughout our lives, no matter how fast we go or how much we are on the move.

Wendy was always on the move.  But in all her travels, she has not gone anywhere she has not already been all along, which is safely in the palm of God’s hands.  Jesus says he will lose nothing that has been given to him.  Not Wendy, not you, and not me.  No matter where we travel, no matter how much we move, Jesus is holding us throughout our entire lives.  And—more importantly—Jesus is also holding us in death, because Jesus does not lose what is his.

Wendy has traveled to a new place, and one day we will join her there.  And she will most certainly have even more interesting stories to tell as we walk together, if only we can keep up with her.  God bless Wendy Little, and God bless you.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 christmas 2

Christmas 2, 2025
Jeremiah 31:7-14
Psalm 84:1-8
Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a
Luke 2:41-52

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

So, here we are on the 12th Day of Christmas.  I hope you’re enjoying the 12 drummers drumming.  (It’s getting a little crowded in our house at this point.)  The Christmas season is almost over, we’ve just entered a new calendar year, and Epiphany starts when the sun sets tonight.  Things are changing . . . quickly, whether we’re ready or not.

Accepting change is very hard.  The most recent example for you and me right now is probably the appearance of the number 5, since I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s had to cross out 2024 and write 2025 on something.  We say that change is good, and that we embrace change, and change is for the better and all that; but when it comes right down to it, change is hard.  Especially hard when we don’t want things to change.  Still, the change keeps coming.

But first things first, to change the subject . . . The question we’re all honestly asking ourselves right now:  Three days?  They were searching for Jesus for three days?  I have often lost track of my kids for three minutes, and in some settings three hours, but THREE DAYS???  And when they find Jesus, Mary says to him, “Your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.”  Well there’s an understatement, huh?  “Great anxiety” doesn’t begin to describe it I’m sure.  On the other hand, part of me expects Jesus to say, “Well you’re the ones who left me.”  And, of course, that’s why he’s Jesus, and I’m not.

And the next question is, how did that happen, anyway?  How do you just leave your eldest child behind and not even notice for a whole day?  In fact, I think that question is so distracting that we risk missing the rest of the story.  It’s especially strange because this is the only story we have from Jesus’ childhood.  Only Luke has any mention of the early years of Jesus’ life and this is it.  We get one childhood memory between his birth and the start of his ministry, and it’s: Hey, remember that time we left Jesus in the Temple for 3 days and didn’t notice?

But two things to point out here:  First, Mary and Joseph are traveling with a large group of people.  It’s not like they’re climbing into their hatchback with an empty carseat in the back, not noticing that their only child is missing.  As the text says, “they assumed he was within the group of travelers among the relatives and friends.”  I am only dwelling on this to try to get us past what is probably a glaring obstacle in our modern minds.  And, Mary’s reaction on finally seeing her boy sets the right tone.  She has been worried sick about him.  Searching “in great anxiety.”  Great anxiety is something we can all relate to I think.

And the second thing going on here has to do with the gospel of Luke.  When you read Luke’s Gospel, you’ll notice that everything points to the Temple.  Jesus is always heading for the Temple.  The Temple is the scene of all the big confrontations.  For Luke, Jesus’ destiny is always in the Temple.  It’s the most natural place for him to go; it’s sort of his default destination.  If you’re looking for Jesus in Luke’s gospel, you should probably start in the Temple.

Mary asks, “Why have you treated us like this?”  She’s not ready for this kind of change.  And so she makes it a story about Mary.  But, really, who wouldn’t?  At this point, she doesn’t really know the full truth about Jesus.  And, personally, I’m willing to consider that Jesus doesn’t know the full truth about Jesus, either.  To Jesus, it seems only natural that he would be in the Temple.  And when I was 12 years old, it seemed only natural to me that I would be at the candy store.  Jesus responds to his mother (and it’s worth noting, this is the first time Jesus ever speaks in the gospels), he asks “Why were you searching for me?  Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”  It’s almost as if Jesus hasn’t noticed the change of focus either.

Then Luke adds, “But they did not understand what he said to them.”  Well of course they didn’t!  They don’t know that when Jesus says “My Father’s house,” he’s not talking about Joseph’s place.  To Jesus (and Luke), it’s only natural for Jesus to be in the Temple.  

So Jesus disappeared, his parents found him, he seems surprised that it took them so long, and then the gospel reading today closes with this:  “And Jesus increased in wisdom and years, and in divine and human favor.”  That seems like an odd phrase, doesn’t it?  It kind of sounds to me like, “And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph lived happily ever after.” And Jesus increased in wisdom and years, and in divine and human favor.  Or actually, it sounds more like it’s the beginning of a story, rather than the end of one.  Maybe even like the end of an introduction to a story.

Just before that, we see Mary doing what Mary does in Luke’s gospel:  Pondering these things in her heart.  Well, our translation today uses “treasured these things.”  Mary treasures these things in her heart, because she does not understand, but she also ponders them, and turns them over to try to understand.  Pondering is a good word for this, since it implies an activity, an action on her part.  These are not precious little memories of Jesus’ childhood to store away in a scrapbook and bring out to show friends at parties.  She ponders, trying to understand.

Mary ponders these changes in the boy Jesus, just as we ponder the changes we continue to go through.  We want the baby that we had just twelve days ago.  Safely tucked in his crib, no crying he makes in the silent holy night.  A baby, we know how to handle.  Change the diapers; feed the baby; wrap the baby in warm clothes.  Babies we understand.

I think that’s one of the reasons Christmas is so comfortable for us, and for everyone, really.  We embrace the “little 8 lb 6 ounce newborn baby Jesus, don’t even know a word yet, infant cuddly, but still omnipotent.”  Because that’s how we like Jesus to be.  We don’t want him to change into an adult.  And it’s tempting to think that the Christmas story is the biggest part of the life of Jesus—given how our society treats Christmas—like it’s all just details after December 25th.  But, honestly?  It’s not.  Christmas is just the way to start the story.

And the fact that we moved from his birth 12 days ago, to his circumcision on Wednesday, to his first words in the temple at the age of twelve today kind of drives home the point.  Christmas is important because it is the start of our redemption story.  And for that reason, on some level the whole Christmas story is like the phrase, “Once Upon A Time.”  It starts the story, but it sure isn’t the point.  I mean, it’s a big deal that God walks among us, don’t get me wrong.  But the point of the story is yet to come.

Things have changed quickly these past 12 days.  Jesus is out of the crib and taking on the world.  Suddenly he’s twelve years old and giving us clues as to where this story is going.  And, like Mary, we’re already confused.  We’re already wishing he’d just stay put, surrounded by animals and shepherds and wise men.  Stay right there in that manger and don’t ever change, little Christmas Jesus.

But that Christmas Jesus has moved on.  The crib is empty.  And now we follow him on this journey that takes him to the cross and leads us to the empty tomb.  It’s one, long, wondrous story that begins with his birth, and takes us to our rebirth.  From the empty crib to the empty tomb, a lot is going to change for us in the next few months.

And here’s the thing:  Jesus is not confined to a manger scene.  And Jesus is not confined to this building.  As we heard, Jesus is out in the world now too, busy doing the work that the Father sent him to do: bringing restoration to the people, and restoration to our relationships.  Jesus has come, and God walks among us.  And you and I will continue to ponder all these things in our hearts, knowing that the salvation story is just getting started.

May God continue to remind us that Jesus is out in the world with us, among us, wherever we may be.  Yes, we have anxiety, and yes we are all a little bit confused, but Jesus is with us here in God’s house, and also with us out in the world.  Emmanuel: God is with us.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 feast of the holy name

Holy Name, 2025
Numbers 6:22-27
Psalm 8
Philippians 2:5-11
Luke 2:15-21

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

Well, on this Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus, January 1st, New Year's Day, I am going to read to you the same sermon that I read every year on this day, because I need to hear it, even if you don't.  

Every year, on January 1st, our secular society celebrates New Year’s Day, while on the same day the Church is celebrating the Feast of the Holy Name, Jesus.  As we heard on the Sundays leading up to Christmas, the name Jesus literally means, “God saves.”  So we lift up the name of Jesus on this day, not because the word itself is special, but because it is a constant reminder of the promise: God saves.  Jesus means, God saves.

But I want to talk about a different name for a moment today: Janus.  Janus was the Roman god of beginnings and endings, gates, transitions, time, doorways, and passages.  Our month of January gets its name from Janus, and you can see why.  When the odometer of the calendar rolls over, it’s a beginning, and an ending, and a doorway, and a gate, and so on.

The god Janus is always depicted as having two heads: one facing forward, and one facing backward.  Seeing the future, and looking at the past.  And how fitting this is for how we view the start of the new year.  We look back at the past year, and we also give some thought to how things will be in the new year.  And, every year, we look back in judgement, and make resolutions about how things will be better, how we will be better.  And that’s why so many people feel dispirited at the turn of the calendar: because when we look backwards, we can be disappointed in ourselves and others.  And thanks to the Romans, we have Janus, who is always looking backward, always judging, always disappointed.  Just the kind of god human beings would make up, when you think about it.

But then we have Jesus, who is always looking forward.  When we confess our sins together, we hear in the Absolution that God forgives all our sins through our Lord, Jesus Christ.  ALL our sins.  But we still see them, don’t we?  We still lie awake at night with regrets over something we said to someone in third grade, or whatever.  We can see all our mistakes and failures and disappointments clear as day, because just like Janus, we are always looking backward.

And we also look backwards to define ourselves and others.  We explain our identities by looking to the past.  Here’s my degree; here’s where I served in the military; here’s my Eagle Scout badge.  Obituaries and resume’s are by definition an accounting of the past.  They look backward.  We naturally look to the past to tell who someone is.  We want to know, “How did you get here?”

But God always looks forward, not backward.  And the promises we make in church are always forward, never backward.  The priest asks a couple about to be married, Will you love, comfort honor and keep each other?  Before a person is Baptized, the priest asks Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons?  And the candidate says, I will, with God’s help.  We always ask “will you.”  We never ask “have you.”  It doesn’t matter how you got here.  It matters that you are here.  Again, God always looks forward, not backward.

Because when God looks backward, God sees nothing: all your sins have been erased.  They’re not there.  When God looks back there is nothing but Jesus: God saves.  Your sins, your mistakes, your regrets, those are no longer known to God.  They are only known to you.  God’s hindsight sees nothing but goodness and forgiveness and Jesus.  Because God saves.

May God give us all the grace to see our lives as God sees them, always looking forward, because of the Holy Name of Jesus: God saves.

Amen.

YEAR C 2024 christmas 1

Christmas 1, 2024
Isaiah 61:10-62:3
Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7
John 1:1-18
Psalm 147

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

Merry Christmas!  I hope you’re enjoying those five golden rings today.  In these 12 days of Christmas, we celebrate the birth of The Word made flesh, Jesus our Lord.  As we heard from John, the Word has been here from before the beginning of creation.  “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”  All things.  And in case it isn’t obvious, “all things” includes you!  The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit work together in creating everything that is.  Including you.

So, this means the Word has always been here.  But the Word made flesh is what’s new and different.  Jesus is the spoken Word of God in human form.  We often call the Bible the word of God.  But the Bible is the written word of God, developed over the ages.  The Bible testifies to the Word of God, but it was not here at the beginning of creation.  The Bible is not the same as the spoken Word.  Jesus is the spoken Word.  And you’ll remember that all of creation was spoken into existence.  The spoken Word has always been here, from before the very beginning.  That Word is not going anywhere, and that Word is never far from you.  That same spoken Word is the light that we heard about in John.  In the beginning was the Word.  Before there was anything.

Which brings us to the light, shining in the darkness.  I believe that the times when we feel farthest from God might just be the very times we are the closest to God. Because in tragedy and pain, all the frivolous distracting diversions of life are taken away. Because the light shines in the darkness. When everything is bright and cheery and 60 degrees on a winter day, we might not notice a candle flickering in a corner.  But when times are darkest, when we are searching, when we need hope, that is when we notice a little candle, because the light shines in the darkness.  And the darkness does not overcome it.  Does the darkness try to overcome the light?  Well, just take a look around you.  The darkness is always trying.  Always trying.

And we have a vivid example of that in the way the Church year is laid out.  In the days right after Christmas, the Church observes three Holy days, which we rarely notice, because they are not allowed to replace a Sunday.  (Church nerds can turn to pages 16 and 17 of our BCP for an explanation.)  These three Major Feasts honor St. Stephen, St. John, and the Holy Innocents.  St. John is credited with giving us the Gospel of John, from which we heard the opening verses a few minutes ago.  But the other two feasts are very different.  St. Stephen was the first Christian martyr.  He was stoned to death, while Saul (who later became St. Paul) stood there dutifully holding the robes of the ones who killed Stephen.

And the feast of Holy Innocents is in remembrance of Matthew’s account of what happened after the Magi tricked Herod by not returning.  Then Herod in his rage had his soldiers go and kill every male child under the age of two.  Every year, on December 28th, the Church honors those innocent victims of Herod’s cruel injustice.  These Holy Innocents do get a day. But hardly anyone actually observes it because, you know, happy holidays and all that.

But listen to the Collect for their feast day:  We remember today, O God, the slaughter of the holy innocents of Bethlehem by King Herod. Receive, we pray, into the arms of your mercy all innocent victims; and by your great might frustrate the designs of evil tyrants and establish your rule of justice, love, and peace.

When justice, love, and peace are afoot, there’s a reaction!  The Holy Innocents’ day is placed right after Christmas, which reminds us of this connection . . . while we’re busy celebrating.  This Christmas season we rejoice at the light shining in the darkness, yes.  But the days set aside for St. Stephen and for the Holy Innocents stand as stark reminders that there is still darkness.  We welcome the light, we welcome the salvation, but there is still darkness.

It’s tempting to say, well, those other children had to die so that Jesus could live—so that the salvation of all could be accomplished.  I mean, that’s how we humans operate, right?  We’re willing to sacrifice a few people for the benefit of the larger society.  All governments around the world have some version of a cost-benefit analysis:  “How many innocent deaths can we tolerate before we put up that stop sign?”  And when we put it in terms like that, well the death of those innocent children at the hands of Herod gives us the benefit of salvation for all human beings.  I mean, it’s definitely how wars work.  We must have victory, even if it means bombing hospitals and schools.  We must occupy this land, no matter how many innocent people are killed on the way.  People made in the image of God, by the Word of God who spoke all things into existence, get dismissed as “collateral damage."

But that transactional way of thinking is not how God works. As I said on Christmas Eve, God values every person.  Every.  Created.  Person.  Trading one person for many is a human concept, yes, but it is not a Godly concept.  (And I will gladly argue with Paul about his writing on that topic.)  We would sacrifice one person to save 99.  But Jesus leaves the 99 to find the one lost sheep.  So in fact, God works the other way around.  Jesus stands our thinking on its head.  And for that reason, we dare not think of the slaughter of Holy Innocents as just needing to break a few eggs in order to make an omelet.

But back to the text we just heard.  Note that the light shines in darkness. This is not the same as saying there is darkness or there is light.  The presence of salvation does not remove evil.  Our redemption shines in the midst of the evil.  It does not remove it or prevent it.  Knowing how the story ends does not remove the suffering on the way.  But now, there is hope within the suffering, there is redemption within the evil, and there is light within the darkness.  

In this Christmas season, we would like for everything to be okay, because now we have Jesus. But we know that’s not how life works.  People woke up on December 26th—the feast of St. Stephen—still divorced, still grieving, still unemployed, still shunned and rejected by family and friends, still painfully aware of whatever darkness might surround you today.  Christmas does not wipe away the darkness.  In fact, you could say it illuminates it.  Because the light shines within the darkness.

Christmas reminds us that a light shines in the darkness.  Christmas lights a candle in the darkness.  At the darkest time of the year, we surround ourselves with lights, and candles, and singing, and decorations, as signs of hope.  We always have hope because of Jesus.  Because we know how the story ends.

Back in the late 1300’s, Julian of Norwich wrote her “Revelations of Divine Love,” which—as I like to point out—is the earliest surviving manuscript written in English by a woman.  Listen to what she says . . .
In my folly, before this time I often wondered why, by the great foreseeing wisdom of God, the onset of sin was not prevented: for then, I thought, all should have been well. . . . But Jesus . . . answered with these words and said: “It was necessary that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”  These words were said most tenderly, showing no manner of blame to me nor to any who shall be saved.

As we heard today from John—whose feast day sits right between St. Stephen the first martyr and the Holy Innocents—the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.  May God give us all the grace to always look for the light.  Because the light is there.  The light is always there.  And the darkness will never overcome it.

Amen.

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.