All posts by Miranda Hassett

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Sermon, Feb. 13

Prepared by Father Thomas McAlpine. 

What might the Spirit be saying to us in these readings?

Let’s start with Paul’s discussion of Jesus’ resurrection in his letter to the Corinthians. “If Christ has not been raised…” What’s at issue here? Paul gives multiple answers to the question; one of his stronger answers occurs later in the chapter: “If the dead are not raised, ‘Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die’” (v. 32). If Christ has not been raised this [our presence in this Mass] requires a special kind of stupid. Another answer implicit in the text: If Christ has not been raised, then this world doesn’t matter. It’s disposable. But Christ raised—that’s God’s strongest statement that this world matters, that this world has a future.

For what that future looks like, let’s turn to the Gospel. Here we encounter Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. Jesus’ words are surprising, by many accounts nonsensical. No one wants to be poor, hungry, weeping, and those who are poor, hungry, etc. are not obviously blessed or happy. So the verb tenses are important: “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled.” The future is not a simple continuation of the present. And perhaps a better translation than ‘blessed’ or ‘happy’ is ‘fortunate’: as in you’ve got the winning lottery ticket.

But pulling back the camera, how can Jesus be pronouncing the poor etc. fortunate and the rich etc. unfortunate? How, for that matter, could his mother sing “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, / and lifted up the lowly; / he has filled the hungry with good things, / and sent the rich away empty” (Lk. 1:52-53)? Here we need to pull the camera back further, say, to Psalm 82. It’s short; I’ll read it.

1 God has taken his place in the divine council;
in the midst of the gods he holds judgment:
2 “How long will you judge unjustly
and show partiality to the wicked?
3 Give justice to the weak and the orphan;
maintain the right of the lowly and the destitute.
4 Rescue the weak and the needy;
deliver them from the hand of the wicked.”
5 They have neither knowledge nor understanding,
they walk around in darkness;
all the foundations of the earth are shaken.
6 I say, “You are gods,
children of the Most High, all of you;
7 nevertheless, you shall die like mortals,
and fall like any prince.”
8 Rise up, O God, judge the earth;
for all the nations belong to you!

Within Holy Scripture this vision is an uncontested portrait of our world. Our world is usually unjust. While there are exceptions, the wicked, sinners, and scornful of Psalm 1 usually play an outsized role in making and interpreting our laws. The Golden Rule: those with the gold rule. So Jesus, with only some hyperbole, declares the poor, hungry, etc. fortunate and the rich, full, etc. unfortunate, because usually the poor are poor because of injustice and the rich are rich because of injustice.

Within Holy Scripture the benchmark for justice is the law of Moses, that law that this morning’s psalm celebrated. And there it’s clear that justice is both about how wealth is acquired and how wealth is stewarded. Acquired: only one set of weights and measures in the marketplace. Stewarded: “my” wealth is finally held in trust for the community. Harvests are to be incomplete, so the poor have something to glean. In Deuteronomy all debts are cancelled every seven years. In Leviticus every forty-nine years there’s a Jubilee in which all return to their original tribal inheritance. Justice means nobody stays poor—or rich—indefinitely.

Of course other factors influence where wealth or poverty cluster. Proverbs has much to say about diligence and sloth, wise and foolish decisions. The larger environment plays a role, all those things over which we have no control: droughts, locusts, armies passing through. But when the Bible pulls back for the big picture (like Psalm 82, Mary’s Song, the Beatitudes), injustice is centerstage.

The poor, hungry, etc. of the Beatitudes are fortunate because God will respond to the prayer at Psalm 82’s end: “Rise up, O God, judge the earth; for all the nations belong to you!”

How do we respond to these texts? Before moving to our other readings, three immediate observations. First, between Psalm 82 and the Beatitudes, to the degree that I’m rich, full, etc. it’s sheer folly to assume that that’s simply the result of my virtue. On the personal level, that might be. On the corporate level, no way. So one of our confessions speaks of “the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.” We live on stolen land, our consumer goods are cheap because we’re happy to get them from countries that discourage unionization. Should we wish to move from confession to amendment of life, there’s plenty to keep us occupied.

Second, the two verses immediately following today’s Gospel reading: “But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” So understandable as it might be, our response to the Beatitudes is not to take up the sword, to set ourselves up as judges.

Third, the poor, the hungry, etc. need to wait until Jesus’ return? Absolutely not. Jesus’ vision is that his church be the sphere in which his words are experienced to be true. Recall Jesus’ words to Peter: “Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age– houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children, and fields with persecutions– and in the age to come eternal life” (Mk. 10:29-30). But from the start we’ve tended to downsize that vision, so Jesus’ brother James writes:

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,” and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead. (2:14-17)

What’s the church for? (What’s faith for?) The Beatitudes can do wonders for our imagination.

Turning to Jeremiah and Psalm 1 we might hear that image of the tree planted by water as a strategy for life in the world as described both by Psalm 82 and by Jesus’ Beatitudes. It’s an unjust world, and God’s addressing that, but it’s not a quick fix. God’s playing a long game, and the image of the tree planted by water urges us to likewise play a long game. That can be hard. The trust on which Jeremiah focuses is the trust that God’s timetable is preferable to ours. (And, parenthetically, like Jeremiah we’re free to repeatedly bend God’s ear about that—as long as we’re willing to listen to how God might respond.)

Did you notice the chorus in today’s readings? Jeremiah: How fortunate/blessed/happy those who trust in the Lord. The Psalm: How fortunate/blessed/happy those who delight in the law of the Lord. Jesus: How fortunate/blessed/happy the poor. Why (bottom line)? God raised Christ from the dead. God has plenty of skin in the game, and, shifting the image, God regularly invites us to share His Body and Blood so that we play that game well.

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man.” Blessed are we as we continue to examine ourselves and make the choices that position us to together hear Jesus’ words as good news, to together experience Jesus’ words as good news.

Rise up, O God, judge the earth;
for all the nations belong to you!

Our God is responding to that prayer today, and invites us to join in that response today:

For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field—all us trees of the field—shall clap their hands.” (Isa. 55:12).

 

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons

Sermon, Feb. 6

Our readings today are a messy hybrid of a couple of things. We read the Isaiah lesson and the Gospel for the fifth Sunday in Epiphany, but we also read the story of the presentation of Christ, the Gospel for the feast of Candlemas.

Candlemas falls on February 2nd, just like Groundhog Day. February 2nd falls not quite halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Both Groundhog Day and Candlemas are holidays of getting through the winter, in the parts of the world that are cold and dark right now. Groundhog Day celebrates the unlikely premise that signs of spring might start to show up, within the next six weeks! Candlemas is a festival of light; we bless candles in a custom that probably deep down has an element of sympathetic magic, of calling the Sun back. 

Candlemas is not celebrated on a Sunday in most churches, but there is a Candlemas story of our patronal saint, Dunstan. So we celebrate it here. Because something even a little bit special in early February can be welcome!… 

Let’s hear that story now, and then I’ll say a little more about the threads that tie all this together… 

It was wintertime in the year 910, over a thousand years ago. And it was a cold, stormy night, in the region around Glastonbury, in southwestern England. Still, the people of the town streamed into the church, because it was the holy feast of Candlemas. They brought candles to be blessed in the service, the candles that would light their homes in dark winter weeks ahead. 

Among the crowd that night was a young woman named Cynethrith. She was married and was expecting a child. She was a woman of great faith and piety, and she prayed daily that her child would help her country and her people. Because people were struggling not only with the long, hard winter, but also because they lived in a time of violence, poverty, sickness, corruption, and unjust rulers. 

Cynethrith crowded into the dark and drafty church with everyone else, and joined in the prayers and the songs and the lighting of candles. Suddenly a great storm wind shook the church; it rushed among the people and put out all the candles, every one. Nobody had matches or lighters in those days! To re-light the fires, somebody would have to run through the storm to the nearest cottage, where there would be a fire burning in the hearth.

The church was in total darkness. Adults cried out. Children wept. The priest begged everyone to stay calm. But then, suddenly, there was light again. The light of a single candle – the candle held by Cynethrith. Everyone stared in wonder.  Cynethrith’s candle had kindled a flame, from nothing. She shared that holy and mysterious flame to her neighbors, and they to theirs,  and so the whole church was lit again, and all was well. 

The lighting of Cynethrith’s candle was a sign of what her child would become: Saint Dunstan, monk, friend of kings, founder of monasteries, and Archbishop of Canterbury, a leader who would share and spread Christ’s light in difficult times. It was a sign, too, of her own role, as the mother of a saint, kindling God’s light in her son’s heart. 

In all these texts and stories – Isaiah, the Presentation Gospel, the calling of Peter, Cynethrith’s candle – I notice a strong theme of vocation.

Vocation is word that has a regular meaning and a churchy meaning. In daily life, people might use it interchangeably with “career” – a thing somebody trained to do, and does for most of their life. In the church, when we use “vocation,” we try to remember that the word comes from the word “call.” Your vocation is what God calls you to do. The apostle Paul has been reminding us that there are lots of kinds of vocations, lots of ways God calls people to use their gifts and skills, time and their passion, for God’s purposes and the common good. 

Your vocation might or might not be the same as what you get paid to do; for most people it isn’t. It might look obviously like faith- or God-work or it might not; for most people it doesn’t. It might be a big part of your life, or it might be something that fits in around the edges. It might be the same for most of your life, or it might change in different chapters; you might have to do some prayerful discernment about it, now and then. 

Isaiah’s vocation was the big, obviously God-y kind. In this story of his call to prophetic ministry, he sees a vision of God upon the divine throne, surrounded by angels; and he cries out in dismay, feeling unworthy. Then he hears God saying, “Whom shall I send?” – and responds: “Here I am; send me!” 

The angel touching Isaiah’s lips with a burning coal is described an act of cleansing. But it also fits the character of Isaiah’s prophetic work. Isaiah’s vocation is to speak God’s words to God’s people – and his burning message is neither comforting nor welcome. 

In the next few verses, God more or less tells Isaiah that the leaders and people will not heed Isaiah’s words; they won’t repent and change their unjust and faithless ways; and all of this is going to end with death, destruction, and exile. 

But Isaiah’s call to prophetic ministry still matters. Like the climate scientists and public heath officials of our times, he’s called to proclaim what’s happening and why – and how it could be otherwise – even if the people seem unwilling or unable to collectively act for change. 

Even if those in power are too invested in things as they are to make courageous and costly changes. And eventually, Isaiah’s prophetic vocation will involve comfort and encouragement for those who survive that season of crisis, and become the renewed people of God. 

Simon Peter reacts to Jesus’ call much as Isaiah does: I’m not worthy! With an undertone, perhaps, of, Please let me just keep living my ordinary life!  Jesus tells him, Don’t be afraid – and invites him into a new vocation: catching people instead of fish, gathering people into fellowship in the way of Jesus. Peter follows this call, first as a disciple, one of Jesus’ inner circle of close friends, and then as an important leader in the early church. 

Peter’s impulse to stick with the fish is understandable – especially when we know the rest of his story. His time with Jesus is rich and beautiful and confusing and frightening – culminating in watching his friend be crucified, then the confusion of the empty tomb, then a renewal of call on a quiet morning beach. 

Texts from the early church indicate that Peter was executed for his faith in Jesus, probably in the year 64, by the emperor Nero.

In contrast with Isaiah and Peter, who were probably young men, our two Candlemas stories focus on the vocation of babies: Jesus, the Light of revelation to all nations, and Dunstan, still in the womb, but destined to share God’s light in his time and place as well. 

Let it be noted that both of these were challenging vocations! Jesus lives out his mission in the face of rising opposition that leads to his death.

Dunstan, in contrast, lives to be nearly 80 – quite an accomplishment in 10th century England. But he has some near misses along the way. His agenda of making life more fair and livable for ordinary people, and reforming the church so that faith was more accessible and meaningful instead of just another tool of power, – that work often put him at odds with other leaders. He had to flee the country or go into hiding on several occasions. 

Scripture and church practice tend to hold up the big dramatic stories of people whose whole lives were committed to following God’s ways  against stark opposition. People who were persecuted or even killed for speaking God’s words or doing God’s work. People like Isaiah and Jesus, Peter and Dunstan. 

But I notice some other vocations, in these stories. Some other people who are also following God’s holy call in their lives. Consider Simeon and Anna – holy elders. Simeon’s call was to wait and watch for the consolation of Israel. Such a beautiful phrase! Put another way: Simeon’s vocation was to hold hope. To keep on believing that however things might seem, God’s people were not abandoned or forgotten. 

Sometimes a community needs people like that. Bearers of hope. In seasons when it’s hard to be hopeful, we need someone among us who has the capacity to keep looking for the consolation of God’s people. Someone who can stubbornly believe that all is not lost. 

And then there’s Anna – named as a prophet. Perhaps hers was a vocation of prayer, of conversation with God, speaking and listening. I bet she watched the people coming into the Temple, day in and day out. I bet she prayed for them, holding them in God’s light in her heart. 

Simeon and Anna’s reaction to the infant Jesus – their recognition of hope and redemption in this six-week-old baby – is a sign of Jesus’ specialness. He is not like any other baby. 

But part of me secretly wants to believe that EVERY time a young couple brought their baby to the temple to dedicate them to God, Simeon would grab the child and says, THIS CHILD – God is going to work in the world through THIS CHILD! And Anna would start telling anyone who would listen about how beloved and beautiful and important THIS baby is. 

I love Simeon and Anna so much, and I see their faces in many of the faces of this congregation. Loving and faithful and prayerful, and eager to love and encourage our youngest members in their lives of faith. 

And let’s not forget Mary and Joseph, and Cynethrith too – and the ordinary, holy vocation of being one of a child’s faithful grownups, whether you’re a parent or not. Being one of the people who tries, in amongst the chaos and busy-ness and exhaustion and all the the other things that have to be taught and learned, to raise young people who love all that is true and noble, just and pure, lovable and gracious. 

There are so many vocations! That’s one reason why we’re doing these Epiphany Commissionings in this season – to hold up the varied ways we use our gifts and skills, time and passion for God’s purposes and the common good. So far we’ve prayed for all involved with education and the pursuit of knowledge; for those who are in transition, seeking or discerning; for those engaged in business and commerce. Today we’ll pray for those engaged in expressive and creative work, and in the weeks ahead we’ll pray for public servants, caregivers, and the retired. I hope that just about everybody finds themselves in there somewhere – maybe several times! 

Let these commissioning prayers today, and throughout this season, be our response to these holy stories… our affirmation of our own, and one another’s, rich variety of vocations. And may we really mean it when we pledge one another our prayers, encouragement, and support. 

Let’s continue with today’s Commissioning! … 

Saints, Sermons

Homily, January 30

Our Scripture drama today was based on Acts 9:1-21. 

We may know the main character of the story we just heard better by another name:  Paul. Saul was probably his Hebrew name – like Israel’s first king. Paul or Paulus was probably the name he used in Greco-Roman contexts – which was most of his ministry. So, Saul to Paul was probably not a name change, but a change in what he went by.

Saul or Paul was an incredibly important figure in early Christianity! He indeed ends up suffering a lot for his faith in Jesus, too – and eventually dies for it. But first: He spends thirty years founding churches, traveling around preaching and teaching, and writing letters to remind those young churches how they’re supposed to be acting. At least seven of the Epistles – the letters of the early church – that are included in the Bible were written by Paul, including some that are really important for our understanding of what it means to be a Christian. 

That stuff about how the church is like a body?… That’s Paul! That stuff you hear at weddings about how true, holy love, is patient, and kind, and so on? That’s Paul! That passage about how neither death, or life, nor things present, nor things to come, etcetera, can separate us from the love of God in Christ? That’s Paul! I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me? That’s Paul!  Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, … think about these things? That’s Paul! Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind? That’s Paul! There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus? That’s Paul! I could go on, but you get the idea! 

Paul is so, so important for the growth and spread and identity of early Christianity. So this story of how Paul became a Christian is important, too.  As Paul himself says in his first letter to the church in Corinth, “I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and God’s grace towards me has not been in vain.” (1 Cor 15)

This month’s Skill for Faithful Living is Friendship. In StoryChurch, we’ve been reading some books about friends and friendship. Last Sunday we read two books about people who help their friends see things in a new way. 

A very hungry lion accepts a rabbit’s invitation to lunch, planning to eat the rabbit, and then discovers that he really likes carrot stew. Much to the relief of all the animals in the neighborhood! There’s a hint in the story that what the lion likes isn’t just the stew, but also having friends that welcome him… instead of running away from him! 

In another book, Michael Bird Boy teaches Boss Lady to use bees to make real honey in her factory and get rid of pollution that was hurting the countryside. 

There are lots of ways friendship can be a holy gift. One of them is that sometimes our friends help us change – in ways we need to change. They help us see things in a new light, or try a new way of being, that’s better for us and for those around us. Or sometimes we might be given the opportunity to help a friend change – lovingly, wisely, carefully. People can change. Even people we don’t expect – like Paul. 

When I look at this story through the lens of friendship, I really notice Ananias. Look: Presumably Jesus could have healed Paul’s blindness without help. But that’s not what happened. Instead Jesus asked Ananias to help complete the miracle. 

Does Ananias want to do that?… 

Ananias’ reluctance is very real. There are people we don’t want to help. People who have hurt us personally; or people who stand for things we hate or fear. Jesus was asking a lot, in asking Ananias to be kind to Paul. Ananias does it – not because he wants the best for Paul, but because he loves Jesus. 

The miracle that happens to Paul – 5hat makes him a Christian, and then such an important leader for the early church – that miracle really has two parts. First there’s the Road to Damascus moment – the blinding light and the voice. And then there’s the moment when Ananias lays his hands on Paul and prays over him, and his temporary blindness is healed. 

There were several days between those two events, and we don’t know exactly when Paul’s heart was really turned towards Jesus. But it could be that it was Ananias’ willingness to extend friendship that really fulfilled what was happening inside of Paul. Like the rabbits welcoming that lion into their home! 

Today I give thanks for the ministry of the apostle Paul. But I also give thanks for Ananias, who appears so briefly in the story, but who has such an important role, and who shows us the power and potential of holy friendship.

God, help us be holy friends, too. Amen. 

Coronavirus, Music, Newsletter, Worship

Music Ministry Annual Report

A photo of the church music loft, with piano, drums, small hand instruments, and tech equipment.

St. Dunstan’s music ministries includes the choirs (both the children’s and adult’s), and the musician’s collective, a loose conglomeration of musicians (both vocalists and instrumentalists) who do help us sing and play music for service; write special hymn lyrics; compose, transcribe, and engrave psalms, hymns, choral arrangements, and original music; provide special music on- and off-site in collaboration with wider church events; handle music library, technological, and licensing logistics; provide second-adult presences for children’s choir rehearsals; organize fellowship events; publicize off-site music events; and provide financial and material support.

2021 required continued adaptation of our musical activities to meet the challenges of covid-tide. Some highlights of what we accomplished include:

*facilitating psalm refrain and original Alleluia composition projects in Sunday School. (We did the original Alleluias in two parts: 1 and 2. They’re available here, at https://stdunstans.com/seeking-learning/what-does-your-alleluia-sound-like-part-1-noticing-some-alleluias/, and here, at https://stdunstans.com/seeking-learning/what-does-your-alleluia-sound-like-part-2-composing-your-alleluia/.)

*adapting musical offerings for 9am and 10am services

*piloting covid-safe musical activities at the 10 am service (e.g., an always-improvised, come-as-you-are, all-ages Orff bell ensemble; improvised congregational rhythm accompaniment on hymns; and a hybrid format approach to choral singing)

*continuing to offer and refine AuDivina, a listening practice using music not typically considered churchy to illuminate a theme. Check out our Courage-themed AuDivina list here, at https://stdunstans.com/category/audivina/.

*creating several virtual ensembles of varying configurations throughout the year

To all ensemble participants; guest musicians of all stripes; folks who manage the library and technology behind-the-scenes; donors; and the congregation: thank you for your continued support!

Submitted by Deanna Clement

Annual Meeting, Creation Care, Outreach, Sermons

Sermon, January 23

Today is Annual Meeting Sunday for St. Dunstan’s. Episcopal churches do this every year. Later today at 1PM people will gather on Zoom – we’ll get back to doing it in person one of these years! – and we’ll elect our vestry members and other positions, and receive this year’s budget, and some other updates on priorities, projects and finances.  Anyone who considers themself a member of St. Dunstan’s is welcome to join us – or even if you’re not sure you’re a member yet but are just interested in how we do business. 

On Annual Meeting Sunday I like to have my sermon be a reflection on where I think the church is and where we’re going. And I always hope that the readings assigned for that Sunday, on the calendar we share with many other churches, give me something to talk about. Well, this year, when I looked at the lessons assigned for today, there wasn’t just one or two that seemed to fit… they ALL did. So we’re hearing all the lessons today – it’s a lot of Scripture! And after each lesson I’ll say a little bit about what call or affirmation it bears for us.

I want to get one thing out of the way before we continue. When we get to talking about the finances, later today, you’ll hear that we’re starting this year with a deficit budget. Our best guess right now is our expenses might be about $11,000 more than our income, in 2022. 

The Finance Committee and Vestry didn’t try to squeeze our budget to narrow that gap any further, for a couple of reasons. For one thing, we had a $9000 budget deficit last year, which mostly worked itself out over the course of the year. For another thing, more than half our pledging households increased their pledges for this year. That feels like a mandate to keep doing what we’re doing. 

We do have some work to do on the longer-term financial stability of St. Dunstan’s. If you have an interest in that, whether it’s planned giving or creative uses of our facilities or new kinds of partnerships, let me know; that’s a team I’d like to start building, this year. But for the time being: Your Finance Committee and Vestry feel confident about moving forward with this budget, and the priorities it represents, in faith and hope. 

Let’s continue with the assigned readings for this Sunday – and let’s hear them as words from God to us, the people of St. Dunstan’s, for this day and this year. 

The First Reading: Nehemiah 8: 1-3, 5-6, 8-12 (Click to read!)

This is a text from a time of rebuilding. Judea and Jerusalem had been conquered, almost 150 years earlier. Many people had been killed; most of the rest of God’s people had been taken into exile in Babylon, among strangers and far from their homeland. After fifty years, a new emperor decided to let those who wanted return home, and provided resources for them to start rebuilding Jerusalem. 

The time of rebuilding was complicated. There were different priorities about what should be restored first. Should we rebuild the walls so we feel safe? Should we rebuild the Temple so we feel centered? The people who were left in the land resented the returnees. People wanted different things. People needed different things. It must have been a challenging time to be a leader. 

This text echoes another scene that took place not quite 200 years earlier, before the Exile. Rummaging around in the Great Temple, the High Priest Hilkiah finds the book of the Law of God – the Torah – and brings it to the young king Josiah. When Josiah hears the words of the book of the Law, he realizes how far his people have fallen from God’s plan for them. He calls an assembly of all the people, and reads them the Torah. And Josiah recommits himself to the covenant relationship between God and God’s people.  

The text tells us that “all the people join in the covenant,” but Josiah’s reform seems to be largely top-down. Josiah orders that images of other gods and their places of worship be destroyed. Josiah commands people to observe the holy feast of Passover. Maybe that’s why Josiah’s changes didn’t really change things. 

What happens in Nehemiah’s time is the same – and different. Nehemiah the governor, and Ezra the priest, call the people together and read them the book of the Law of God. It’s not clear why they do it at this particular time. Maybe it’s just that the walls and the Temple are both rebuilt, and enough people have returned to sort of have a nation again, and it’s just time to remind everyone of who and whose they are. 

This time, the people seem to matter as much as the leaders. Notice some of the details from the text. Those reading from the book gave interpretation, so that the people could understand what was being read. The people listened attentively, and wept at what they heard – grieving at the long years they’ve spent away from their calling as God’s holy nation. I love how Nehemiah and Ezra respond: Don’t grieve! This day, when we remember who we are – this day is holy. Celebrate! Feast! The joy of the Lord is your strength! And the people eat and drink, and share, and rejoice, because they had understood the words that were declared to them. 

What call or affirmation might we hear in this text? Studying this text felt really joyful for me this week. I felt a lot of recognition and resonance. We too are in a time of rebuilding – and will be for a while. Experimenting our way into ways of worshipping and gathering and living out God’s call together that are flexible and resilient and hopeful enough to work, in this new season. The contrast between Josiah and Nehemiah reaffirms my conviction that we’re all in this together. That whatever new ways of being we find our way into will work because we listen to each other, and seek understanding, and weep and rejoice together. 

Let me say one more thing before we continue. In response to the remaining texts, I’m going to talk about some possible projects and ministry directions that I think God is inviting us further into, this year and beyond. I want to say that I know that what some folks need right now is just the reliability of a holy space (virtual or otherwise), a loving set of people, a place to ask questions, a place where it’s OK to let people know when you hurt. For those folks, the most important work of the next year might be our continued rebuilding and regathering. And that’s OK. It’s better than OK.

There are people who are drawn to church partly because they’re seeking a community to work on mending the world with.  And that’s one of church’s most important jobs. But SO IS being a place of consolation and kindness and connection and rest. Nobody should feel any shame if bold new ministry initiatives make you feel like pulling the covers up over your head, right now. OK? OK. 

Let’s receive our Psalm.

Psalm 19 – click to read! 

Did anybody notice the jump in this ancient sacred poem? The place where it seems to suddenly change gears? … Verses 1 through 6 are a reflection on creation – and specifically, on the wonders of the heavens. I get a strong sense of somebody sitting on a hillside and watching the sun set and the stars come out, and just thinking about how amazing it all is. Feeling awe and gratitude at the beauty and reliability of nightfall and dawn, sunrise and sunset. 

The poet – maybe David, maybe somebody else – is thinking about how God did a really good job creating the universe. Creating these patterns and systems that make life possible and delight the eye and mind and heart. And it’s that mindset of wonder that makes sense of the pivot at verse 7. God’s perfect law revives the soul! God’s stable rule guides the simple!

Beholding Creation, with loving attention, moves the poet first to praise God, Creator, Source, and Sustainer of all things; and then to prayer – deeply personal prayer. Asking God to help them stay aligned with God’s ways. The poet has a particular concern: they know they’re prone to pride, to thinking themself better or wiser or more important than they are. So they ask God to help them avoid that pitfall… and then commend themself to God’s care. 

What call or affirmation might we hear in this text? Care of creation is important to us, here at St. Dunstan’s. We try to learn about God by learning about the natural world. We try to love God by loving the natural world. This ancient poem anchors and encourages us. 

Gazing at a sunset, dipping your toes in big water, studying an interesting bug – all of this can be part of our spiritual life, our walk with God. Our delight, wonder, awe, fascination – our concern and our grief –  when we contemplate creation can move us to worship. To praise; to conviction; to repentance and amendment of life.  To remembering how small we really are, and yet how important our call to tend with love. 

This year, let’s do more of that. Let’s feed the birds and tap our walnut trees and cut our carbon emissions and call our elected officials and keep becoming a church that loves God by loving the world. Let’s seek ways to build the community of hope and grief and solidarity and possibility that many of us need, as we face deepening climate crisis. 

1 Corinthians 12:12 -31a

Paul’s metaphor of the church as a human body is truly inspired. We can immediately see the foolishness of a foot saying, “I’m not part of the body because I’m not a hand.” Or the head saying to the feet, “I don’t need you.” We understand that it takes different parts that are good at different things to make a functioning whole, in our bodies. And that some of the parts that we don’t think are very pleasant or presentable – or that we don’t really think about at all, like, say, the spleen – are actually pretty important. 

And Paul tells us: Churches are like that too. You are the body of Christ and parts of each other! And just as in a body, if one part suffers, the whole body suffers, so within a church; we should be guided by mutual concern. 

Then he returns to the theme we heard earlier in this chapter: that within the church, there are lots of important roles. Prophets, teachers, helpers and healers, leaders, speakers in tongues and interpreters. Earlier he mentioned some others: People of wisdom; people of knowledge; people of deep faith; people of discernment; people of prophetic insight and passion. Paul doesn’t mention some roles that seem pretty central to me – music leader, coffee maker, website maintenance, youth group leader, and such. But we always can add to his list! And all of those capacities are gifts of the Holy Spirit, given by God to help the church be a community where people can find welcome and grace, healing and direction, and ways to do good together. 

What call or affirmation might we hear in this text? I think that at St. Dunstan’s we do a pretty good job of making space for people to share their gifts and skills and interests – and trusting that we can be the church God means us to be by doing the things that people are good at and like to do. Speaking as a leader, your interests and energy are one of the top things that I look to for guidance about what we should be doing, where we should be leaning in or pulling back. I believe that God shapes and guides and cares for our church through the people God sends to be part of the church. 

When we finished our renovation in late 2019, I figured we’d take a few months to get settled and do normal things, and then put some attention into asking each other: Now what? Where are our interests and energies leading us next? And then Covid hit, and survival and mutual care became our priorities for… two years and counting. 

But I think it’s time to stop postponing that shared wondering. We have new members who have joined us in the past few years. We have new skills, interests and passions among our longer-term members, too.  

This week the E-News had a link to a Gift and Skill Inventory, a simple online form. I would love for everyone hearing my voice to fill it out. Kids and adults, new and long-term members; friends of the parish, too. If multiple people share a computer, you should be able to fill it out as many times as you need to. We’ll keep sending out the link and reminding you about it for the next few weeks. 

Let’s take stock of what we care about, what we’re good at, what we like to do. At the very least, we might find some fun opportunities for skill and knowledge sharing. At the most, we might discover a constellation of interests and commitments and skills among us that we didn’t know was there, and that points towards new ministry possibilities. 

Luke 4:14-21 – click to read! 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus begins his mission. He reads from chapter 61 of the book of the prophet Isaiah, one of the great prophetic texts of God’s people.  And he declares: This is it. The year of the Lord’s favor. Look for liberation, and healing, and hope. Because big stuff is about to start happening. 

Look, I know I say this a lot, but:  Things were not great in first-century Judea. (Remembering that our faith-ancestors have survived hard times before can help us face hard times today. )

Back then, God’s people lived under the rule of strangers. There were armed terrorist groups running around. The wealthy were comfortable, but most people lived in poverty. There was very little effective health care, and lots of people died, all the time, from endemic disease, accidents, childbirth. (There’s a reason people kept mobbing Jesus seeking healing.) Many people felt helpless and hopeless. There was no real reason to think things would get better anytime soon. As Bishop Lee put it in a meeting this week: God’s wholesale remaking of the world was not evident, then, as it is not now.

Jesus’ proclamation – that God’s healing and justice were about to dawn – was no easier to receive then than it is today. In fact, the audience gets kind of mad about it. Who does this guy think he is?? This scene ends with people trying to throw Jesus off a cliff.

What call or affirmation might we hear in this text?

I hope I’m not taking my life in my hands by saying this, but: God’s liberation, and healing, and hope are still dawning. Even here, even now. And we can be part of that, as a church. 

One of our priorities this year is to start discerning, together, how to use our Community Project Fund: $70,000 that we set aside as part of our capital campaign, to do something for the wider community. It might be our project or it might be a partnership; it might be a one-time thing or seed money to start something bigger. We hope it’ll be something that gives interested St. Dunstan’s folk a way to be involved – to offer our time and energy, for the good of our neighbors, as well as our financial resources. 

I already felt pretty sure that this was the year to begin that work – to start talking and learning and praying together about what this project might be. This Gospel, on our Annual Meeting Sunday, feels like it seals the deal, to me. Jesus says: This is the time for people to be healed and freed from all that binds and burdens them. If we begin to seek the ways that we, as a church, can be part of that healing and unbinding, then maybe even 2022 could be the year of the Lord’s favor.  

Today’s readings offer us, almost, a charge for the year ahead. Return and rebuild, together. Welcome one another, deepen our relationships, share our gifts. Love and serve God through creation. And seek out new ways to join God’s work in the world. 

May it be so. Amen.

scripture, Sermons

Sermon, January 9

I want to notice the first sentence of today’s Gospel. 

“As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah…”

Let’s back up: what else do we know about this crowd? 

The third chapter of Luke’s Gospel begins: In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, [and some other historical details] …the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. 

Back in Luke chapter 1 we heard about John’s parents and his birth, including Zechariah’s song of hope over his infant son:  “You, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.”

Well, now it’s Go Time for John to fulfill that mission. So: He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins… And crowds came out to be baptized by him. 

Baptized: dipped or dunked into the waters of the Jordan River, as an outward and physical sign of their inward desire to turn their hearts and lives towards God. 

John seems to be re-interpreting Jewish practices of immersion for purification and re-integration into community. He’s making those ritual baths into something messy and muddy and spontaneous. Not a response to specific circumstances or causes of ritual impurity – but a physical acting-out of your recognition that your life is fundamentally askew, and your desire to turn towards the path of holiness and mercy. 

This crowd asks John what that renewed life would look like: “What then should we do?” We had this part of the text back in Advent. And John says things like, Share your extra food and your extra clothing with people who don’t have enough. Don’t use your position to take. Do your work honestly and kindly. 

And that brings us to the first verse of today’s text: As the people were filled with expectation… 

So what do we know about this crowd? There were undoubtedly some folks there who were just curious – or suspicious – or hostile, there to heckle this weirdo preacher. But probably most of them were there because of something they heard, or hoped to hear, from John. People who felt like the existing order wasn’t serving them very well. People who felt disconnected or marginalized by institutional religion. People who felt hopeless; people who felt incongruously hopeful. Maybe people who felt a deep need for change in their own lives, that nothing else spoke to.

In short: They were people who were looking for something. That’s what that word means – the word translated as “filled with expectation.” Prosdokao in Greek. Waiting for, looking for, expecting. 

It’s a very Lucan word. We’re in Luke’s Gospel here – one of the four accounts of the life of Jesus. Unlike the others, Luke has a sequel – the book of Acts. We started our walk through Luke at the beginning of Advent, and we’ll mostly be in Luke for the rest of this year. 

There are two related words here – Prosdokao, and Prosdechomai, meaning to look for, wait for, receive, or accept.  Together they show up 18 times in Luke and Acts. They are used twelve times in the **entire** rest of the New Testament – the other Gospels, epistles and writings. So I think it’s safe to say that Luke likes this word – these twinned words. That it’s part of his focal vocabulary. (The way that “immediately” is for Mark.)

In this specific verse in Luke 3, the crowd’s sense of expectation is explicitly eschatological. Eschatology is a fine big 50 cent word. It means relating to the Eschaton, which means, The Last Days. The time when God will turn things upside down and right side up. When there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and God will wipe away all tears. When the lion will lie down with the lamb, and nobody will study war any more. 

This crowd is wondering whether John is the Messiah, the divine chosen one sent by God to save and restore God’s people, and bring about that new time of peace and prosperity. 

When Luke uses these waiting-and-expecting words, it’s not always with a sense of eschatological anticipation. Sometimes it’s more mundane. People waiting for Zechariah to come out of the temple; somebody expecting to be given a coin.

But by my count, a little over half the time, the words are used with that sense – of not just casual, but cosmic, waiting.  We’re not talking about waiting for the bus. We’re talking about waiting for the consolation of God’s people. We’re talking about waiting for God. 

Things were not great, in early first century Judea. There were lots of reasons to feel fearful and hopeless and disconnected. People were waiting for signs that God was still out there. That they hadn’t been abandoned or forgotten.That God was still acting in the world, in human lives and human hearts; that God still had a plan, despite how fundamentally askew everything seemed. 

Prosdokao. Expecting, waiting, looking for. Why might this be such a central word and concept for Luke?

One of my favorite things about Luke is Acts. The other Gospels end soon after Jesus rises from the dead. Luke tells the next several chapters of the story. He tells us how people’s lives were transformed – not just by meeting Jesus, but by meeting people who had met Jesus, and by meeting people who had met people who had met Jesus. And by hearing the story of his life and death and rising, and the things he said and did… 

Our Acts lesson today is part of that longer narrative. A period of persecution in Jerusalem drives many out to preach elsewhere. A young man named Philip goes to the city of Samaria to proclaim the Messiah to them; people listen eagerly.  

Then Peter and John – Jesus’ close friends, leaders in the Jerusalem church – come to Samaria to fulfill Philip’s mission by baptizing the new believers there.

There’s some stuff in here about the baptism in the name of Jesus versus the baptism of the Holy Spirit; we understand the church’s baptism as encompassing both of those, but apparently they were separate for a while early on in the church’s story. 

The point is: These early Christians, Philip and the others – they’ve lost so much. They lost Jesus – twice. They’ve probably lost family, friends, social standing, by being part of this controversial new movement. They’ve had to flee persecution, at risk of their lives. And they’re still so excited about what God is doing through Jesus Christ that when they talk about it, people can’t help but listen. 

This is why I think Acts matters to us.  It shows us how our earliest faith ancestors carried on, after Easter, after Ascension. 

In many ways those closest to Jesus did not see the fulfillment they longed for. Jesus didn’t become the God-King of a restored Israel. Instead he died a degrading and painful death.  And when he rose from the dead, it wasn’t to kick butt and take names, or even just to keep hanging out with them. Instead, he gave them some assignments, and left. Again. 

They could have been bitterly disappointed. But instead, they seem really joyful. And more: They seem – expectant. 

Luke may have been part of some of the events of Acts. He uses “we” in some parts of the narrative. Or that may just be a literary device, to add immediacy to stories he’s heard about from others. Either way he’s clearly close to these events, to the highs and lows of the first couple of decades of Christianity. 

And there are both highs and lows. Successes and failures. There’s persecution and disappointment and conflict and loss. Acts ends with the implied death of the apostle Paul, one of the central figures of both the book of Acts and of early Christianity. 

But through it all, Luke has seen and heard and experienced enough to believe that God’s people are NOT abandoned.That God IS at work in the world and in human lives and hearts. I think that sense of holy waiting is a hallmark of Luke because that’s how Luke felt. He’d seen strange, wonderful, holy stuff happen – and despite everything, he expected strange, wonderful, holy stuff would keep happening, long after he laid down his pen.  

All the expectant people of Luke and Acts, crowds and individuals who are waiting and looking for something… Zechariah and Elizabeth, Simeon and Anna who greet the infant Jesus in the temple, the crowds gathered to hear John, and others… They don’t get to see Rome overthrown, Israel restored, Creation renewed. What they receive is much more partial and fragmentary. Signs and promises, glimpses and glimmers that tell them that God is still out there. That all is not lost. That there’s still meaning, and possibility, and promise. 

What happens in Luke and Acts isn’t that people see all that their dreams come to pass. What happens is that they are formed more and more deeply as people of faithful expectation. People who’ve been shown enough – whether in concrete signs in the world, or in God’s quiet revelation deep in their hearts – that they’re able to continue on in hope. And even choose to step into the baptismal waters and seek to become part of the slow unfolding of God’s purposes.  

May these faith-ancestors encourage us in our own heavy times. May we, too, be formed to live as the expectant people of God. 

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons

Christmas Day sermon

Prepared by the Rev.’d Thomas McAlpine. 

Readings here.

Good morning, and merry Christmas!

Our readings present us with an intriguing collage; let’s take a few minutes to ponder it.

The first reading, written when Jerusalem was under the heel of the Persian (Iranian) Empire, calls on the Lord to do something. The psalm, probably written when the Lord’s kingship was mirrored by the Davidic king in Jerusalem, but continuing in use when the Davidides were a distant memory, sounds the same notes: “Zion hears and is glad, and the cities of Judah rejoice, / because of your judgments, O Lord.” And the psalm imagines all this playing out in terms of the familiar contrast between the righteous and wicked: “The Lord loves those who hate evil; / he preserves the lives of his saints / and delivers them from the hand of the wicked.”

The Gospel. I love the scene of the angel and heavenly military appearing to the shepherds: it’s the Good Lord handing out cigars scene. And the angel’s announcement promises the fulfillment of all the hopes voiced in Isaiah and the psalm: “to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” However: Jerusalem is now under the even heavier Roman heel, so that we might wonder whether what Jerusalem needs is this baby or Arnold Schwarzenegger making a Terminator-style entrance into our space-time coordinates. Some years later Jerusalem wondered this too, and opted for Barabbas for the now-grown Jesus who kept spouting nonsense like “love your enemies.” And with the events of Holy Week any self-serving understanding of the psalm’s “righteous/wicked” contrast went out the window, as the religious authorities handed Jesus over to the Romans and the disciples fled. And Jerusalem, who had for so long pleaded for the Lord’s intervention said, when the Lord showed up, no thank you. Now what?

All that’s the backstory for Paul’s words in Titus: “When the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of any works of righteousness that we had done, but according to his mercy.” Not because we got it right back then, or because we can be counted on to get it right now.

The Persian heel, the Roman heel, the many institutional and systemic heels today that grind down too many: the Lord responds not with Arnold, but with this baby. What does that tell us about how God understands power, about how God goes about getting things done?

Here’s the thing. Our culture treats the Christmas story as a sort of Rorschach, onto which we project all our assumptions and hopes. But the Christmas story is too specific for that: it affirms some of our hopes and overwrites most of our assumptions. To whom should the angel and heavenly military appear? To Caesar? To Herod? To the High Priest? God opts for the shepherds. Or, from Matthew’s account, Matthew describes Joseph as being a “righteous man,” and Joseph qua righteous man responds to Mary’s pregnancy with a plan to dismiss her quietly. So the first order of business is for an angel to have a quiet conversation with Joseph about what being righteous means. God would use the Christmas story, I think, to breathe life into our hopes and shake up our assumptions.

Luke tells us that “Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” We might do the same.

Merry Christmas!

 

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons

Sermon, Dec. 19

O Wisdom,  coming forth from the Most High, 

filling all creation and reigning to the ends of the earth; 

come and teach us the way of truth!
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

It’s the fourth Sunday in Advent. This coming Friday is Christmas Eve. Which means it’s almost the end of my favorite church season.

Christmas – the Feast of the Incarnation – has a profound theological significance for God’s people. The eternal Word of God becomes flesh and dwells among us – and not in pomp and power but as a child born to a poor family. Whether you find yourself able to believe the story as it comes to us, or whether you receive it as a parable about God’s yearning to be as close to us as an infant at the breast… there is power and beauty and hope in the Christmas Gospel. 

And yet… Advent is my favorite. Christmas is always just the littlest bit of a let-down. 

O Lord of Lords, and ruler of the House of Israel, 

you appeared to Moses in the fire of the burning bush, and gave him the law on Mount Sinai: 

come with your outstretched arm and ransom us.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

Christmas is about the fulfillment of prophecy, of hope. Ancient promises come to birth.  Angels proclaim that God is doing a new thing. Shepherds and wizards honor the baby King, the Messiah, the Christ – which are Hebrew and Greek versions of the same word: The Anointed One, the one marked with oil as a sign of being set apart for God’s purposes. 

In Advent we turn back the clock, and wait. In our readings and hymns and prayers we remember the long yearning of God’s people for that Messiah, who would lead them and call them back to God’s ways. We remember John the Baptist and his lifelong vocation to call people to repentance and amendment of life, to prepare the way for Jesus.

We remember Mary, invited by God to become God’s mother, and her courageous Yes, and her song of fierce hope for a better world, one that reflects God’s priorities instead of humanity’s. 

Don’t let anybody tell you that Mary was meek and mild! She had a vision for a world transformed, and was willing to put herself, her body, her future on the line, to help fulfill God’s plans. She reminds me of the passionate hope and courage of some of the young folks I know today. 

Today’s readings invite us to stand with millennia of God’s people, crying out, Restore us, God! Gather your strength, come, and save us! Scatter the arrogant! Feed the hungry! Let your children around the world live in safety, in peace! 

O root of Jesse, standing as a sign among the nations; 

kings will keep silence before you for whom the nations long; 

come and save us and delay no longer!

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

The verses punctuating this sermon are called the O Antiphons. You might notice that they overlap with the Advent hymn “O come, O come, Emmanuel” – or you might not, because the wording is somewhat different. The hymn is based on these texts, which were probably written in Italy about 1500 years ago – they’re very old! 

There are seven O Antiphons, and by tradition they’re used for the seven days leading up to Christmas Eve. A sort of second countdown towards Christmas on top of Advent itself. 

Each O Antiphon names Jesus in a different way. O Sapientia, Wisdom! Evoking Old Testament texts that describe Wisdom as a breath of God, a feminine personification of God’s power, who befriends and guides humanity. 

O Adonai, Lord of Lords! – using an ancient name for God, recalling God’s self-revelation to Moses, as a Power greater than Pharaoh and his army. 

O radix Jesse and O Clavis David! – Root of Jesse, Key of David! David was Israel’s great king, a thousand years before Jesus. We met David this summer and we know he was far from perfect. But his name stands for a time of freedom, prosperity, unity, and peace for God’s people. For a thousand years Israel hoped for a new king like David – perhaps even a descendant of David, and of David’s father Jesse. 

O key of David and scepter of the House of Israel; 

you open and none can shut; you shut and none can open: 

come and free the captives from prison, and break down the walls of death.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

The key of David is my favorite image from the Antiphons; it comes from Isaiah, chapter 22. There’s a prophecy against an evil finance minister named Shebna? – the text says, and I quote, “The Lord is about to hurl you away violently, my man.”

Once God has yeeted Shebna into the desert, it continues, God will put another man, Eliakim, in his place – including putting him in charge of the keys of the palace. It’s an odd little passage – but the key symbolizes holy and righteous authority. 

Then there’s O Oriens! – O Morning Star, Star of the East! In Scripture and tradition, East is the direction of expectation and hope – probably, deep down, because east is the direction of sunrise. Churches generally have their altars pointing east – ours does. 

O Rex Gentium, King of the Nations! O Emmanuel, God with us! From Isaiah again: “Look, a young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”

The O Antiphons point back in time, bringing forward the imagery of millennia of struggle, hope, and yearning. And they point forward, with urgent anticipation, giving us words for our struggle, hope, and yearning. 

O Morning Star, splendor of the light eternal 

and bright sun of righteousness: 

come and bring light to those who dwell in darkness and walk in the shadow of death.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus! 

This is, fundamentally, why Advent is my favorite, why I find it so real and so resonant. For this four weeks, the season in the church feels aligned with the season of the world, and the season of my heart. In Advent we cry out to God to mend what is broken and heal what is wounded, to overthrow the unjust and free those in bondage. 

We dare to shout: Restore us, God of hosts! Gather your power! Come and save! 

At the end of the Prayers of the People this season, we pray, “You have set before us the great hope that your kingdom shall come on earth;… Give us grace to discern the signs of its dawning.” And I do, I do; I can see glimpses of God at work in human hearts and human history. I have hope. 

At the same time, we remain deeply mired in callousness and cruelty, nihilism and violence – and the fundamentally flawed idea that there are kinds of people and that some matter more than others. 

We’re often exhausted and overwhelmed, angry or despairing. 

Christmas – certainly cultural Christmas, and sometimes church Christmas – says, Shhhh, can’t we just be happy for a minute? 

Advent says, Come stand next to me. Let’s holler together. 

O king of the nations, you alone can fulfil their desires;

cornerstone, binding all together: 

come and save the creatures you fashioned from the dust of the earth.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

Advent is a season of double anticipation. I said that the first week, I say it every year. We anticipate Christmas, our annual celebration of the feast of the Incarnation; AND we anticipate – impatiently! – the fulfillment of God’s purposes for the world. Rescue, and restoration, and renewal. 

Theologians talk about how we live in the already/not yet – this in-between time, two thousand years and counting.  Christ’s birth and death and rising shifted something fundamental in reality, and yet, and yet…. We still struggle, suffer, yearn. We still wait.

Advent names and sacralizes that yearning, makes it holy. It doesn’t pretend that Christmas – or Easter for that matter – fixed everything. That it’s all joy and peace now.  Instead we can join our voices with Micah: May fearful and disconnected people live in safety and peace! With Mary: May the arrogant be brought down, and those trampled down be lifted up! With Zephaniah, last week: May corrupt and predatory leaders lose their power, and ordinary folks live in safety, with no one to make them afraid! 

What yearnings do we want to name before God, right now?…

Restore us, God! 

Gather your strength, come, and help us!

O Emmanuel, our King and Lawgiver, 

hope of the nations and their savior: 

come and save us, O Lord our God.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

Church Seasons & Holy Days, scripture, Sermons

Homily, Dec. 5

This sermon followed a Scripture drama based on Luke 1: 5-25, 39-80; 3:1-6. 

I wonder what was your favorite part of this story? 

I wonder what was most important in this story? 

I wonder if you had a favorite character? … 

I want to talk a little bit about the neighbors. 

The Nosy Neighbors are a kind of comedic archetype or trope. 

Our household is most familiar with Fred and Ethel Mertz of I Love Lucy fame, but there are lots of examples in media and fiction.  In our Scripture drama today, we expanded the role of the Nosy Neighbors, but they’re really there in the text of Luke’s Gospel. 

They’re implied in Elizabeth’s long silence about her pregnancy. She doesn’t want to be the subject of gossip or speculation – or to know people are talking about her if something goes wrong. 

And the Nosy Neighbors are right there on the spot when it’s time to name the baby.  Elizabeth and Zechariah’s neighbors and relatives are there to celebrate, at the special party on the eighth day after his birth, the time to circumcise him and name him.  And they are all ready to NAME THAT BABY – Zechariah, after his father, of course. 

And they’re scandalized when Elizabeth – and then Zechariah – have other ideas! 

Then, after Zechariah sings his prophetic prayer over his baby son, the neighbors have SO MUCH to talk about.  That’s all right there in Luke’s text!

When some of the actors and I read over the story together, a couple of weeks ago, we talked a little about those neighbors and what they represent. 

The Nosy Neighbors have expectations about how people should act. About what’s NORMAL and RESPECTABLE. 

It’s not NORMAL for Elizabeth to be pregnant – at her age!

It’s not RESPECTABLE for these people to give their baby a name that nobody in their family has ever had! 

It’s not NORMAL or RESPECTABLE for somebody to expect their son to grow up to be a prophet of the Most High God, and prepare the way for God’s Messiah. 

I mean, everybody thinks their kid is special, but seriously…

But all these things – these are God at work in the world. God acts in human lives in ways that scandalize the neighbors. 

Our drama today includes most of the first chapter of Luke’s Gospel. We skipped the part where Gabriel appears to Mary and asks her to be the mother of Jesus, who is God among us, because we get that story every Advent; we’ll have it in a couple of weeks. And then after that we’ll have Luke’s story about the birth of Jesus – which is the Christmas Gospel you know, if you know a Christmas Gospel: in the time of Caesar Augustus, the manger, the shepherds and the angels, all that. 

The first Sunday in Advent is the church’s New Year’s Day, so here on the second Sunday we’re still at the very beginning of a new church year. And Luke is our Gospel for this year – the version of the story of Jesus that we’ll mostly hear and dwell with in the months ahead. 

And what we see in today’s story, this theme of holiness unfolding in people’s lives in ways that do not fit normality or respectability – it’s true across all the Gospels, but it’s something that was particularly important for Luke. 

He tells Jesus’ story in a way that emphasizes that aspect of his life and his teaching. 

So that’s something to look out for in our year of Luke! Where does God show up, outside the normal and respectable? 

Church Seasons & Holy Days, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, November 21

Let’s pause to imagine the scene from today’s Gospel. 

Here’s Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea. His hair is neatly cut and combed. He’s clean-shaven. His clothing is simple but sumptuous – finely-woven cloth bleached bright white, edged with gold. 

The room in which they stand, a meeting room at the Roman headquarters, is probably simply furnished, not lavish – a desk and chair of finely-carved exotic woods – materials for writing letters and decrees – guards in the doorway, clad in the fierce beauty of Roman armor, shield on one arm, short sword at hip, spear in hand. 

Somewhere, perhaps on a pole beside the door, a gold standard bearing the letters that stood for the dominion of Rome: SPQR. Simple physical signs of overwhelming military and political power.  

Pilate is not a king. He’s a provincial governor in a rather backward province of a sprawling and fractious empire.

Rome was supposed to be a republic, founded on the Greek principles of democratic rule, like the United States. But as Rome’s power had grown and spread, so too had the power of her rulers.  

Maybe some of you also read Shakespeare’s play, Julius Caesar, in high school English class? Julius was a statesman and general who was assassinated in 44 BC by a group of Roman senators who feared that he was turning the Roman republic towards tyranny. 

But killing Julius didn’t save Roman democracy. Instead, Caesar Augustus avenged his killers and turned Rome into a de facto monarchy, ruling for 41 years until his death. Augustus was the first Roman emperor to be worshiped as a god. (An idea which led to the persecution of Christians, decades later, when they refused to make sacrifices at the temples of the Emperor.) 

So that’s the vision of kingship Pilate brings into the room – whether he personally likes it or not: the King as god, emperor, untouchable tyrant. Kingship that spreads like a cancer, distorting and devouring.  

And what about Jesus? Look at him: he’s not clean-shaven or tidy. He’s a mess, dirty and bloody from being roughed up by the guards. His clothes weren’t that nice to begin with, and they’re torn and filthy now. His hands are bound. He’s not a king, either – at least, not in any of the ways Pilate means. 

What image of kingship does Jesus carry?  A thousand years earlier, Israel begged God for a king, so they could be like the other nations around them. And the prophet Samuel, speaking for God, warned them: Kings take. They take your sons as guards and warriors. They take your daughters as cooks and concubines. They take your wealth to arm their troops, decorate their palaces. They take the best of your crops and your flocks and your land. You will become no better than slaves to the power, ambition, and greed of the King you want so badly. 

But the people wanted a king. So first Saul, then David, become the Kings of Israel. Our Old Testament lesson today brings us an excerpt from David’s last words: “God has made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and secure.” David’s vision of kingship has a lot to do with wealth and wellbeing – and the hope that his sons and grandsons will sit on his throne when he is gone. And he appeals to God as the Power who will make it so. After all, David hates the godless so much that he wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole – so surely God will continue to favor David’s lineage – says David! 

In fact… all has not gone well during David’s kingship, and all does not go well after his death. His son Solomon is kinda faithful to the God of Israel, but more than his father, he fulfills Samuel’s prediction: He takes. His lavish tastes build resentment among his people. 

After Solomon, the Israelite kingship begins a rapid decline. David’s kingdom breaks in two. There are kings who are too weak and kings who become tyrants. There are wars, coups and assassinations. The Northern kingdom, Israel, is conquered, then, a generation later, the Southern kingdom, Judea, where David’s capital city Jerusalem stands. There is exile, and, eventually, return – return to homeland, but not to independence. Now Judea’s kings are allowed to rule only so long as they serve the interests of the latest great empire. 

In Jesus’ lifetime that empire is Rome, which conquered Judea sixty years before his birth. Rome placed the criminally insane Herod the Great as Judea’s king. He was still king when Jesus was born; another Herod, Herod Antipas, was king when Jesus was killed. Both were vassal kings, holding power only because Rome gave it to them, and expected to serve Rome. 

That’s the image of kingship Jesus brings into the room, as a Jew, a member of God’s people Israel. Israel’s kingship was a story of hubris, war, greed, and loss. Kingship failed for Israel, over and over.  

Pilate asks Jesus, I’ve been told that you’re the King of the Jews. Are you a king? And Jesus answers,,  If I were a king, don’t you think I’d have some followers fighting for me, instead of standing before you, bound and utterly alone?  

All those meanings of kingship – power, greed, violence, hubris, authority, glory – they’re thick in the air between these two men. I think Pilate fully intends the irony of his question. I think Jesus fully hears it, and responds in kind. 

The Godly Play stories we use with our younger children say, “Jesus was a king, but not the kind of king people were expecting.” 

A King who sought to change human systems, not by decree or force, but through radical nonviolence. A King sought to change human minds, not by silencing or dominating, but through questions and stories that break open old habits of thought, and let new light shine in. A King who sought to change human hearts, not with manipulation, shame, or fear, but by living a life of radiant generosity and grace.  A King who loves us so much that They will never coerce us or violate our wills. 

I like to remind us each year that the feast of Christ the King, which we observe today, is very new, in church terms:  not yet quite 100 years old. The observance of Christ the King Sunday, on the last Sunday before Advent, was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925. The Pope was concerned about rising nationalism in Europe, in the wake of World War I. He saw Christians falling into nationalistic ideologies that too readily identified human power with divine power. People equated my nation’s prosperity with God’s favor, my nation’s interests with God’s righteousness. Pope Pius wanted to remind Christians that that our first loyalty is to a kingdom not of this earth – and that God’s rule is very different from human rule. 

What does the kingship of Christ – and the difference between human and divine ideas about power – have to say to us today, 96 years later? Pondering that question this week, I found myself thinking about comfort and discomfort. Some of the movements of this moment seem to have a lot to do with avoiding discomfort. The war on transgender people – legislative and cultural – is based on people’s discomfort with changing gender norms; and – maybe more importantly – with a strategic effort to try to turn people’s discomfort into a political weapon against the vulnerable. The new wave of pressure on teachers is another example – this idea that students shouldn’t have to learn anything that might make them uncomfortable. Some white parents are saying: I don’t want my child to have to read or hear anything that makes them feel bad about what people who look like them have done in the past – or how they benefit from that past. 

Let’s spend a minute with that word uncomfortable. Notice that it’s a metaphor: when we’re talking about mental or emotional or spiritual discomfort, we’re making an analogy from the experience of physical discomfort. There are lots of kinds of physical discomfort, right? Maybe your shoulder is a little achey because you raked the lawn yesterday. Maybe your bad hip is twinging. Maybe you’re too warm or too cold. Maybe you’re not sitting comfortably in your chair. Maybe you’re wearing shoes that pinch your toes. All those discomfort are invitations to change something. To move to a different space or put on a sweater or take an ibuprofen. To adjust how you’re sitting. To take those too-tight shoes to the thrift store! 

Comfort is static.  Discomfort is an invitation to adjust, move, make a change. That’s an interesting way to think about emotional, mental, or spiritual discomfort too. Those discomforts are also messages that we need to make some kind of adjustment. Move into a new frame of mind, or set aside something that doesn’t fit anymore. 

Now, to be clear, there is good and bad discomfort. A classroom, a church, a community at its best should always be fundamentally safe, even if it’s sometimes uncomfortable. Safe means your boundaries are respected; no one will try to hurt you or use you; the people around us are trustworthy. Safe is really important. 

But if we seek to avoid all discomfort, we’re almost definitionally saying that we don’t want to change or grow, to have any new thoughts or experiences.

Churches so often imagine Jesus as if he were an earthly king, the kind with a throne, a crown, a treasury, and an army. Our hymns, our prayers, our art are full of examples. Part of what’s wrong with that is that we are trying to make Jesus comfortable. 

Comfortable for him – how about a nice velvet robe and a silk cushion? – and comfortable for US, because we understand that kind of power, the kind that’s about security, wealth, and control. 

But when God chose to come among us as Jesus, God did not choose comfort. To see Jesus Christ in poverty, poorly dressed, dirty, footsore, going hungry, without a stable place of residence, at constant risk of being harassed by the authorities… to see him arrested, beaten, executed as a criminal… to see God choose discomfort is a reminder that we, too, may be called to tolerate some discomfort, and seeing where it leads us. 

So many kings, so many kingships, haunt this brief conversation between Pilate and Jesus. Julius, Augustus and Tiberius, David and Solomon and Herod. Strong or weak, bold or craven, ambitious, self-indulgent, cruel. And there’s one more concept of kingship in the room – so different that it almost can’t wear the same name. 

It’s the image of kingship that lives in the part of Jesus that is God and not human. 

It’s the idea of kingship that carries him to this bitter hour, and beyond – to his death under that sign Pilate has made, that reads, “Jesus Christ, King of the Jews.” 

It’s the image of a king without army, palace, or crown. 

A king who invites instead of commanding.  

Who rules through persuasion, love, and grace, instead of rule of law backed by force. 

A king who chooses discomfort, the better to share the fulness of human life and human struggle. 

A king who frees instead of binding. 

A king who gives instead of taking. 

It is nonsensical, in terms of human understandings of power. 

And it is the holy kingship of Jesus.