Category: Faith

Delievered at Advent Lutheran Church. Lessons and Carols. Isaiah 9:2-7; Luke 1:26-33,38; Luke 2:1-14; Luke 21-36; Matthew 2:1-11; John 1:1-14

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So ‚Äì here we are ‚Äì in an intermission of sorts ‚Äì halfway through our lessons and our carols. Each time we’ve encountered the words of God’s story ‚Äì words that were read and lovingly spoken out loud – and we responded in song. We started with Isaiah, and we sang; we then heard Gabriel’s greeting with Mary, and we sang; we heard of the census and Jesus’s birth; and we sang. And now we just heard of Jesus’s circumcision, his naming, and presentation, of Simeon and Anna, and the Temple ‚Äì and then there’s me ‚Äì before the song; before we all gather together, join our voices , and sing ‚Äì there’s this ‚Ķ this intermission ‚Äì but unlike a Broadway show ‚Äì the curtain is still up ‚Äì and….and there you all are ‚Äì staring at me ‚Äì in this moment before the song.

It’s a strange space, really, to be right here, right now ‚Äì and ‚Äì it’s a little intimidating. I wonder if it’s like how Mary felt ‚Äì right when the angel appeared ‚Äì before Gabriel spoke; before she heard the words of promise; before she sung her own song ‚Äì a song we heard during Advent. Or when Zechariah heard of the promise that was coming in John ‚Äì right before he disagreed with the words of the angel ‚Äì in that moment before the action; before something happened; before the words come. Or maybe this is kinda like how Jesus looks back on his life because ‚Äì the Christmas story, the story of Jesus’ youth ‚Äì it’s a story where Jesus doesn’t actually do anything. Sure, Luke has that story about Jesus running away to the Temple when he’s twelve ‚Äì but, other than that – we hear a lot about what happens either because of Jesus or what happens to Jesus. He’s born ‚Äì swaddled ‚Äì circumcised ‚Äì named ‚Äì carried ‚Äì put into the arms of people that he doesn’t know ‚Äì he’s blessed, prayed over, but there’s nothing about his cooing, crying, laughter ‚Äì or any of the baby things he did. Before his ministry ‚Äì his early life, to us, is a mystery ‚Äì a moment before his voice, before his action, before his obedience ‚Äì before the Cross ‚Äì before his song.

I grew up in Colorado ‚Äì and my high school, Arapahoe High School ‚Äì Go Warriors! – had a relationship with the Arapho tribe in Wyoming. Each year, the son of the chief would come down from Wyoming and give a scholarship to a member of the graduating class. So this son would stand up on the podium in our football stadium ‚Äì with his back to all our parents and guests, facing 500 suburban kids in rented gowns and hats ‚Äì and he just waited. Everyone’s eyes were fixated on him and he waited. And waited. In the space between his introduction and his speech ‚Äì in that moment before his song ‚Äì there’s this….energy ‚Äì the kind of energy that only silence can bring ‚Äì an energy that fills the air. Even nervous laughter, or the wisecracks from my friend, or a distant car honk couldn’t interrupt it. Nothing could cause that space to end ‚Äì nothing but his words ‚Äì his spoken words. And we all sat there ‚Äì and waited with him ‚Äì until he spoke.

I learned later that what finally caused him to close that open space was an eagle. Next to the football field, behind our backs, was a small creek with elms, oaks, and Aspens. And as he looked out over us ‚Äì after a few minutes ‚Äì he saw this eagle fly out ‚Äì and then he knew that it was time to speak. It’s funny, because I don’t actually remember anything that he said. But I do remember that pause.

The Christmas story ‚Äì as we see it expressed in our lessons today ‚Äì in the voice of Luke, the magi of Matthew, and the opening lines of John ‚Äì all were written decades after Jesus’s death and resurrection. Scholars will argue until the end of the time, how these authors put these writings together ‚Äì what their sources were, how accurate they were, the communities they wrote in, what their motivation were ‚Äì what was it that filled the space before their songs. And we, gathered here, will spend our time reading these stories ‚Äì God’s stories ‚Äì and spend our time with these stories in our own pauses ‚Äì in our own spaces before our completed songs. Because that’s the amazing thing about Christmas ‚Äì and why Christmas isn’t just one day long ‚Äì because God chose to be born ‚Äì to live ‚Äì in that pause before the song. So much of Jesus’ story ‚Äì his years as a child ‚Äì his years before his ministry ‚Äì it is a mystery. It’s unknown. And that unknown space ‚Äì it’s a space that wants to be desperately filled. Even in the early 2nd century ‚Äì people wanted that story filled. They wanted to hear about how God lived life on earth ‚Äì what wonders he did ‚Äì what powers Jesus showed ‚Äì what fame was won. They wanted to see the greatness of God living ‚Äì conquering ‚Äì overpowering ‚Äì the space where we live our lives – before the healing ‚Äì before the travels ‚Äì before the loaves and fishes ‚Äì before the eating with outsiders ‚Äì before…before the Passion and the Cross.

But the space before that ‚Äì that space before Jesus’ song is very large and very quiet. The space between Christmas and Easter ‚Äì it is large. We don’t know about Jesus’ relationships. We don’t know his education. We don’t know if he spoke Greek, if he spoke Hebrew, if he had a favorite toy, a favorite friend, or if he ever got turned down when he asked someone out. We don’t know his hurts ‚Äì his joys ‚Äì his frustrations. We have this very large pause ‚Äì but I find it to be a very grateful pause ‚Äì because it is not static ‚Äì it’s active ‚Äì dynamic ‚Äì a space big enough to hold all our fears ‚Äì joys – loves ‚Äì loss ‚Äì and this space ‚Äì this space is held ‚Äì not by the baby Jesus, or the child Jesus, or the infant Jesus ‚Äì but the risen Jesus, the resurrected Jesus – the promised Jesus ‚Äì the Jesus who lived a human life ‚Äì a life filled with holes ‚Äì and secrets ‚Äì and stories that did not come down to us ‚Äì but stories that are our stories ‚Äì our true stories. And Jesus holds that space wide open ‚Äì because it is in in that space where God builds a space for us. The Christmas Story isn’t a story about us making space for God ‚Äì of letting go and letting God ‚Äì but is a story of God being God whether we wanted it or not; of God being big enough to have a space for all of us – and all of who we are ‚Äì not as we wish we were ‚Äì but as we truly are ‚Äì right now. That space ‚Äì that unknown space after Jesus’ birth and before his baptism ‚Äì is our space; it’s our pause; it’s our moment before our completed song ‚Äì and it is in that space where our song is joined with Jesus’ song. Emmanuel ‚Äì God-with-us, God-for-us, God-with-the-space-for-all-of-us ‚Äì that is the Christmas song. That is our song. And that is our daily gift ‚Äì a daily gift that, unlike Christmas Day, or 2012, or even the twelve days of Christmas ‚Äì does not end.

Amen.

Delievered at Advent Lutheran Church, Manhattan; December 24, 2012; 4 pm Family Service.

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Why start our Christmas story – about the birth of this little Jewish boy – born to a dad named Joseph, a young mother named Mary, in the small town of Bethlehem – why start it, a thousand miles away, in Rome?

Because that’s where Luke starts the story ‚Äì with a decree made by the Roman Emperor Augustus that the world should be registered. Scholars disagree on whether this actually happened ‚Äì but I think it’s more important to ask why Luke starts in Rome ‚Äì and not in Israel; or Jerusalem; or, well, anywhere near Bethlehem. We end up there ‚Äì but we start, first, in Rome. And, to be perfectly honest, this Christmas, I haven’t really thought much about the Roman Empire. Well…actually…that might not be true. I think I did order a Caesar salad recently. And I thought about ordering a pizza from Little Caesar’s ‚Äì you know ‚Äì one of those five dollar deals – but…that’s about it. For me, the Christmas story never stars in Rome ‚Äì-

But, for Luke, it does.

That Roman Empire ‚Äì it stretched from Europe, through the Middle East and Norther Africa ‚Äì we’ve seen the movies I bet ‚Äì with the huge shiny soldiers ‚Äì shinning golden bright ‚Äì with long red capes, huge biceps, sharp swords and spears ‚Äì and with that armor that gave them the allusion of chiseled and perfect six pack abs. And that helmet! With the large red plume ‚Äì like some kind of gold, bright, shiny, rooster ‚Äì if I was wearing that complete outfit right now ‚Äì I’d probably be twice as tall as I am. Or, at least, I’d look like I was. I’d look strong ‚Äì mighty ‚Äì tough ‚Äì maybe a little ridiculous ‚Äì but I’d look powerful; like a soldier; like a fighter ‚Äì like someone that can protect you. If I was standing up here, with my bright armor, sword, giant spear, and red helmet ‚Äì standing right next to baby Jesus in our Nativity set ‚Äì that scene would send a much different message that we see, right now, with that beautiful tree, right there.

And that image ‚Äì of the Roman soldier ‚Äì that image is important to Luke. In Luke’s day, fifty years after Jesus died and was risen from the dead, Rome had just put down a rebellion in Israel, destroyed the temple, and its armies were spreading throughout Syria, Iraq, and Turkey. Rome wasn’t invincible ‚Äì but it carried itself like it was. As the armies marched forward, factories back in Italy were stamping out statues and paintings ‚Äì images of Rome and the Emperor ‚Äì and shipping them all over the world. These images were Rome’s advertisement ‚Äì delivering to everyone this idea that the Rome was strong ‚Äì powerful ‚Äì fantastic ‚Äì someone that deserves your respect, love, obedience, and hope. And all that hope centered in one person – the Emperor of Rome.

Our most famous image of Augustus ‚Äì the one you’ll see in books ‚Äì was made when he was older, partially blind, and sickly. But in that statue ‚Äì he’s wearing huge armor, he looks ultra strong, and young. He’s the model of what an Emperor should be ‚Äì able to conquer our enemies, feed those in need, and lead troops into battle and to win victory after victory. And this was another image stamped out in factories and delivered all over the Empire ‚Äì an image that was meant to be placed in homes, in marketplaces, in temples ‚Äì an image meant to be worshiped and glorified. This guy ‚Äì this manly man ‚Äì that was where we are to place our hope, our faith, our trust in. He is worthy of your love. He is the man you are suppose to listen to ‚Äì who will help you ‚Äì who will provide for you ‚Äì who will protect you. This guy is the hope of the entire world.

And Luke flat out says that isn’t true.

The hope of the world isn’t in the one with the biggest weapons, the most troops, or who has the most wealth and power ‚Äì the hope of the world isn’t in the one who can use a census to discover who to tax or where soldiers can come from. The hope of the world isn’t in the human being who is the best looking ‚Äì or who is able to photoshop themselves and use images to make themselves appear strong, powerful, and worthy of our love and adoration. No – the hope of the world is in that which, in comparison with the Emperor of Rome, is insignificant, helpless, and powerless ‚Äì a newborn baby ‚Äì a baby who isn’t in armor, but in cloth ‚Äì who has no army ‚Äì who has no power ‚Äì who is born not in the center of the world but outside of it ‚Äì and who, as a newborn baby, had a very high chance of dying before he was five. This baby was no Emperor ‚Äì and, according to the world, there was, and is, no hope in him.

The story of Jesus’s birth is never just about a baby; the story of Jesus’s birth is about our expectation of what Hope should be. We expect Hope to fit a certain image ‚Äì to be a certain way. The Emperor of Rome stamped and delivered images of that Hope all over the Empire ‚Äì a hope that was grounded in the power that money, weapons, and politics can bring. And everyone expected that this is who the savior should be. Of course the savior would be a soldier ‚Äì of course they would be able to raise troops and money and wage wars ‚Äì because how could a savior not do that? How could a savior not have the experience, the knowledge, the power to fight all the battles we need that savior to fight? To fight against those who oppresses us? Those who look down on us? Those who treat us with contempt and teach us to hate ourselves? The Savior has to come ‚Äì has to come ‚Äì with the strength, and power, that we don’t have ‚Äì to match power with power ‚Äì to defeat all of that. That’s the only type of person that could truly save us ‚Äì save all of us ‚Äì from the world and from ourselves. No newborn babe can do that.

[Insert an off-the-cuff sermon illustration about a little toddler who ran up to me during the sermon and baby Oliver, who was sitting in the back.]

I think…rather than having a fifteen foot tree overlooking Jesus – a fifteen foot Roman soldier might be a better image ‚Äì because that’s what is happening on this day. Our vision of salvation ‚Äì that which we build ‚Äì that which we believe gives us hope ‚Äì that which we think God wants us to believe ‚Äì that is being confronted, right here, by a newborn babe. The meeting of our world with the divine is not in war; not in weapons; not in money or power; but in a baby. On that day ‚Äì and on this day too ‚Äì this is our good news ‚Äì and our great joy ‚Äì that in the little town of Bethlehem, this town where no power resides, where no giant army is stationed, where no Emperor lives ‚Äì Jesus is born, right there. Glory to our God in the highest ‚Äì for coming not as an adult, or a giant, or a golden, armored soldier with a sharp sword, and a long spear. No ‚Äì Jesus came to us delievered in bands of cloth ‚Äì swaddled ‚Äì powerless ‚Äì weak ‚Äì in need of love, care, and parents who would protect him. The Savior comes into our midst ‚Äì a soldier and Emperor of a different sort ‚Äì an Emperor that we do not expect ‚Äì and for that, may all of God’s people say Amen.

I wish I could write a blog post about everything I learn but, really, sometimes, only a dozen words are needed. Like, I now know that I’m much more of a “what-God-does-for-us” kind of preacher, rather than the other way around. Also, it seems that Sunday School aged kids are much better at grasping Empire-Critical theology than middle school kids. And I’m proud to report that, at least on the Upper West Side, middle school aged kids know the proper distinction between gender and sex. I didn’t know that until college. Progress.

Somehow, we got almost twenty kids up there. For some, this was the first time they saw the lyrics on the script. And even in the part where everyone went off script, they held together, moved on, and nailed it. I’m so proud of them. They did a fantastic, fantastic job.

First song was written by Joshua Coyne, entitled “Greatness is Great”. Second is “Silent Night.” Third is “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” with the second and third verses written by Joshua Covyne as well.

Video by the talented Danae Hudson.

There’s no words to describe what happened in Newton, CT today. Really, there are none. Even writing “what a terrible tragedy” doesn’t seem to be enough. The whys and hows and gun-control and whatnot are spreading all over the blogosphere. My facebook is covered with my liberal friends being thoughtful and sometimes unhelpful. And I just…I hurt – and I didn’t even know any of the victims involved. I can’t imagine having to say goodbye to Oliver if this happened to him. I just can’t imagine.

Today was a confirmation class day at my church. We gathered in front of the sanctuary and I…I didn’t know what to do. We were suppose to talk about the 3rd article of the Apostles creed but I didn’t know if we’d get that far. I assembled twelve chairs in a semi, and incomplete, circle, with the free standing altar included. I put our processional cross behind the altar, facing outwards, over the kids. I assembled us in a symbolic fashion. I wondered if we’d get to the communion of saints – if we’d talk about death – if we’d talk about what everlasting life is. And I wanted to at least be in a symbol of eternal life, a symbol of faith, a symbol of what our Christian faith says about death. I was ready to talk about it – but we never did get to it. Instead, it remained unsaid. We gathered together and sat – sat in this semi-circle. And then we talked.

I didn’t know what to say. I brought out the Occasional Service book, thinking a short service might be appropriate it. But that just didn’t seem…complete. So I, instead, opened us up to conversation. Most had heard what happened. We talked about the rumors. I gave everyone the most up-to-date information that I had (which, five hours later, is now wrong), and I opened a space for the kids to share their thoughts and feelings. There was anger, concern, sadness – all normal things. I encouraged the children to not be afraid to talk to people. I encouraged them to ask questions. And I encouraged them to pray and not give up on loving other people.

None of this, really, surprised me – but there was something that did. As the conversation grew, a common theme came out. Every child brought up other shootings – including Columbine. Most were born in 1999 – the year Columbine happened – and are now watching documentaries on Columbine as history lessons in their schools. I was four years older than they are now when Columbine happened. It wasn’t the first school shooting – but it seems to have become the first school shooting that normalized the event. Shootings stopped being seen as an “inner city problem,” but was now a wider issue. It didn’t open the door to new shootings (or maybe it did) but it did standardize how we talk about them.

And these kids – they weren’t even born when Columbine happened.

I told them about my experience of growing up near Columbine and being in high school, nearby, when it happened. But they didn’t want to hear much about my story. What they wanted to tell me, I think, is how these horrific events have been normalized in their lives. They see them. They hear them. They know they happen. And they are living knowing that it’s tragic but strangely normal for mass shootings to happen. They are kids who are use to distant wars, terrible economies, living without the World Trade Center towers, and where everyone gets a cellphone in fifth grade. And mass shootings are part of their DNA. They aren’t desensitized to it. It just…is. It just is how things are to them. And they are living through it, not worried or scared – but just living through it because, well, they don’t know how it could be any different. They don’t dismiss the events and they don’t wish for them to continue to happen. But they aren’t surprised about these shootings because they’re normal. They happen. And these kids live through it, always.

I never like to pray for the past. I don’t believe in doing that because it’s a mere romanticization of an imperfect reality that typically doesn’t want me to be a part of it. I don’t believe that the kids today should be living in a pre-2000 world. But I do pray – really pray – and try to work for a world where these mass shootings aren’t normalized and are not, truly are not, just how everything is. I want them to stop. I pray that they will. And my heart, soul, and prayers, go out to the families of the victims – and all who suffer this night.