Luke 6:17-26
February 16
David A. Davis
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Tradition calls it “The Sermon on the Plain”. This teaching from Jesus is here in Luke. “He came down with them and stood on a level place.” The Sermon on the Plain. If you keep reading the Sermon on the Plain beyond where I stopped this morning, you will come upon “love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return”. And “do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you.” As you heard, it all starts with the blessings and the woes. Jesus stood on a level place surrounded by a great crowd of his disciples and a great multitude of people and began to teach with….these blessings and woes.

Blessed are you who are poor….Blessed are you who are hungry now….Blessed are you who weep now…Blessed are you when people hate on account of me. Woe to you who are rich…Woe to you who are full….Woe to you who are laughing…Woe to you when all speak well of you. Jesus starts with the blessings and the woes. Then goes on to love your enemies and turn the other cheek. Give to anyone who begs. Do to others as you would have them do unto you. Jesus and the plain sense of the Sermon on the Plain.

In the first few weeks after I was ordained as a minister of Word and Sacrament, a retired pastor in the presbytery named Ed Shalk came to visit me. In that conversation of welcome, he gave me plenty of advice, most of it very helpful to me over the years. One thing he suggested to me was to make sure I understand the church budget and the monthly financials better than the church treasurer. It didn’t take me long to live into his advice. That church budget in the late 1980s was well under $75,000. There was very little in the line item for what we call around Nassau Church “Mission and Outreach”. Very little. I observed early on that the members of the Session sort of just took the church treasurer at his word and didn’t pay much attention. Of course, his word was that the church was barely getting by. One afternoon prior to a Session meeting I went back and read ten years of annual financial reports. I noticed that the balance in the church operating fund had grown every year. Even after a year of paying me as a full-time pastor.

As I prepared to take to session my rationale for increasing the congregation’s mission giving, I knew those financials front and back. I graphed the increasing balance of the operating fund with a pencil on graph paper. The treasurer was not a member of the Session. The Trustees were a separate board, and he reported to them monthly. I invited him to come to the Session meeting and told him we would be discussing the mission budget (or lack of it). That night I shared my research with the 9 members of the Session, including copies of my carefully prepared graph showing the increasing balance. Mind you I was 25 years old, and most the elders were my parents’ age or older. The discussion was not tense. It wasn’t an argument. But at one point, the treasurer said to me and the rest of the Session that the bible says “charity begins at home.”

No, that is not a verse from the bible. I hope I responded pastorally, but I don’t really remember. As Pope Francis reiterated this week a position he has offered in the past, “charity isn’t just a series of concentric circles extending from the individual to family, friends and fellow citizens and ultimately the world, but it is centered on human dignity with a special concern for the poorest.” Or as Jesus said, “blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” No conditional clauses when it comes to the plain sense of the Sermon on the Plain.

“Jesus came down with them and stood on a level place,” and he started with blessings and woes. We all know that in the beatitudes of the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew there are no woes. Comparing and contrasting the Sermon on the Plain in Luke with the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew is more than just content. In Matthew, “when Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain.” He sat down and began to speak. Matthew’s Jesus is the Teacher, the Rabbi, the one who embodies the tradition of Moses and Mt. Sinai and the Law. There is a sense in which Jesus went up the mountain as Moses went up Mt. Sinai. Instead of two tables with the Ten Commandments, Jesus offers to the disciples and the crowd listening his list of blessings and then a whole lot more. The beatitudes are from above, from on high, from the Great Teacher. Like a burning bush and a voice calling, pillar of fire by night, cloud by day. A theophany, a divine appearance there on the Mount of Beatitudes. According to Matthew, after Jesus calls the disciples, after he goes throughout Galilee proclaiming good news and healing the sick, with the great crowds now following him, Jesu goes up the mountain and begins to teach.  He says, “blessed….blessed…blessed…blessed.”

It is different in Luke when it comes to the gospel from a level place. Very different. In Luke, Jesus had gone out and up the mountain to pray. He prayed up there all night long. The next day he called his disciples, choosing the twelve of them. It was then that “he came down with them and stood on a level place.” As you heard and read, Jesus was surrounded by a great crowd of disciples and multitudes from all around. “They had come to hear him and to be healed by their diseases; and those who were troubled with unclean spirits were cured. And all in the crowd were trying to touch him for power came out from him and healed all of them.”

There, among the press of humanity near and far, Jesus looks to his disciples and says, “blessed…blessed…blessed…blessed” and “woe….woe….woe…..woe.” Not up on the mountain, not from on high, not like tablets of sone, but there smack in the middle of the crowd on a level place. Right there among the rich and the poor, among the hungry and the full, with the weepers and the laughers, surrounded by some who were hated and some who were praised. Jesus came down and stood among them. He stood on a level place surrounded by the disciples and a crowd from all around. Jesus stood on a level place surrounded by everyone then and ever since. Jesus looks at his disciples and offers the gospel from a level place.

The plain sense of the gospel from a level place. Jesus teaches the gospel, fully immersed in all that is human. A plain sense from a Jesus surrounded by the extremes of our experience: poor-rich, hungry-full, sorry-joy, hatred-praise. Here, so early in the Gospel of Luke, listeners of Jesus and John the Baptist before him have already heard him proclaim the kingdom: Every valley being filled. Every mountain and hill made low. The crooked made straight. The rough places smooth. All flesh seeing the salvation of God. The kingdom come. The reign of God. Good news to the poor. Release to the captives. The blind seeing. The oppressed going free. The year of the Lord’s favor. And surrounded by everything that it means to be human in the world, it is as if Jesus turns to his disciples and says, “This just isn’t it”. He stood there up to the eyeballs in the human condition, surrounded by the rich and the poor, the hungry and the poor. He saw the joy and the sorrow, the hatred and the praise. He looked over to his disciples, and with those blessings and woes, he was saying, “Yeah, this isn’t it.”

Blessings and woes. One really can’t avoid that for many of us, it is more the woes that apply. But maybe with Jesus’ rhetorical flare, it is more than promise and threat. Jesus is trying to communicate how the ways of this world will be so turned upside down when the simplest parts of the gospel prevail and the level-headed faithful let their light shine. How the first will be last and the last first, how the valleys will be lifted and the mountains made low. Blessings and woes. It is a way for Jesus to proclaim that the kingdom of God is something other than getting all the praise while some are so hated. The kingdom of God is something other than some dancing with joy as others live like the psalmist describes “my tears have been my food day and night.” In the reign of God, you can’t have it where some are so rich and others so poor. Jesus looked at the disciples and the crowds and the multitude and the world and said, “This isn’t it!”

To those who listen, those that ears to hear, that see, that look around and yearn to live the level-headed plain sense of the gospel, Jesus says  “Turn the other check. Give to anyone who begs. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Give. Do good. Be merciful. Forgive. Don’t be judgey. Don’t condemn. Love”.  So when we find ourselves confronted, surrounded, up to our eyeballs in something other than the kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven, when we know “this isn’t it”, then as followers of Jesus there ought to be certain plain sense of the gospel that kicks in; that takes over, that guides, that inspires, that defines us.

My father-in-law, Hank Cook, lived at Stonebridge during the last years of his life. One afternoon, a few weeks before he died, he and my wife  Cathy were remembering Friday night pizza in the Cook house. Apparently, up in Millburn, NJ, there were two pizza shops side by side owned by feuding brothers. In the clouds of his faded memory, Hank knew the name of the favored pizza shop. It wasn’t an every Friday night thing, Cathy said. More like once a month. Cathy, her older brother, her younger sister, and her parents. Five eaters. One pie. That didn’t sound like enough pizza for five people. So I said, “Hank, didn’t you ever consider getting two pizzas?” He looked at me rather incredulously, shook his head, and said, “Dave, Dave, Dave”.

That’s sort of how I hear the blessings and woes from Jesus’ sermon from the level place of our humanity. Jesus looking around at the timeless tableau of humanity and then turning to the disciples, the church, you and me and saying all our names all at once. “Dave, Dave, Dave… this isn’t it.”  His call, his invitation, his plea to you and to me for this time and place, is to lean into the plain sense of his gospel. As I said in a sermon a few weeks ago, in the most challenging of seasons, the simplest parts of the gospel become all the more compelling.  Inspired by the he level-headed faithful let their light shine. “Turn the other cheek. Give to anyone who begs. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Give. Do good. Be merciful. Forgive. Don’t be judgey. Don’t condemn. Love”.

Jesus and his gospel from a level place inspiring level-headed followers of the Savior to so let their light shine.

1 Corinthians 15:51-58
February 23
David A. Davis
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“Behold, I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.” I have read these verses from the end of I Corinthians 15 more times than I could ever count. I have read them a few times from here at this pulpit. Mostly, I read them down there at Princeton Cemetery next to an open grave. “In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound and the dead shall be raised imperishable, and we shall all be changed.” I had been here at Nassau Church for more than fifteen years before I learned an interesting fact about our cemetery. When a visit to the cemetery includes a casket burial, the pastor leads the procession. I was taught in seminary that when standing at the grave, the appropriate and respectful place for the pastor to stand is at the head of the casket rather than the foot. In Princeton Cemetery, all the caskets are interred in the same direction. The head of the casket, the head of the person in the casket, is closest to Witherspoon Street. That means all those buried in Princeton Cemetery for hundreds of years are facing east. Those who have been to an Easter morning sunrise service at the cemetery know that the congregation stands with backs to Witherspoon Street, facing east to the rising sun.

The tradition of burying the dead goes all the way back to the ancient church and the practices of the earliest Christians. When the trumpet sounds, on that day of resurrection, when Christ comes again, on that “great getting up morning”, at the dawn of that day, at the first sight of the rising sun, the dead will be raised. The dead are buried facing east so they can be ready. For that day “when this perishable nature must put on the imperishable, and this mortal nature must put on immortality.”

            I have told you before about a conversation I had a long time ago when Zorba’s restaurant was still across the street.  It was a conversation with Duke Divinity School New Testament professor Richard Hayes. You may have seen his obituary last month in the NYT. Dr. Hayes spent a full year on sabbatical here in Princeton shortly after he published his commentary in the Interpretation series on I Corinthians. Most Sundays he worshipped with us. That day at lunch in Zorbas, I was looking to offer a pastoral welcome to a well-known visiting scholar. What I didn’t expect was a conversation that year that changed how I thought about preaching resurrection hope. One of our casual conversations turned challenging and intriguing for me as I listened to the scholar’s stinging critique of the church’s proclamation on Easter and at most, funerals. The gist of Richard’s argument was that preaching resurrection should not sound like the content of a Hallmark card. Examples he gave ranged from preaching that denies the reality of death to sermons full of kitschy illustrations that promote the concept of the immortality of the soul. Something along the lines of “he is not dead; he’s just gone to the other side of the lake to fish” is what comes to mind.

Professor Hayes was leaning into I Corinthians 15 and arguing that the resurrection doesn’t happen until that trumpet sounds. I said to him, “So if I am standing next to a hospital bed, and a loved one says that ‘at least now their family member is in a better place’ I should say ‘well, not yet.’? The New Testament scholar looked at me across the table and said, “yes”. “Richard,” I responded, “that’s why you are a professor, and I am a pastor. I also quoted Jesus’ words to the thief next to him on the cross. “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Despite our disagreement about the mysteries of the resurrection, when I sit in my study typing a sermon for a memorial service or for an Easter sermon, the professor’s concluding remark in that conversation both inspires and haunts me a bit. Richard Hayes said to me, “Well, resurrection hope has to be about more than whether you and I get to heaven.”  His reference was to a resurrection hope for the here and now.

A funeral service in witness to the resurrection, or an Easter morning service for that matter, is not dependent upon our ability to figure it all out or to work out the timeline or to even understand what earth “resurrection of the body” is referring to in the Apostles’ Creed.  For when the followers of Jesus are confronted by everything that death has to offer, the Church rises to proclaim the power of God to bring life out of death, the power of God to transform the dark shadows of despair into the rising light of a bright morning star, the power of God to anoint the sufferings of this life with a hope-filled balm of the kingdom yet to come. To read the Apostle Paul standing around an open grace is a bold and courageous affirmation of God’s resurrection power when death has the loudest voice. These verses from Paul offer a shout of resurrection promise and hope not just for the eternal life to come but for life here and now. It’s more than just Paul, it is all of creation standing to sing and to stomp. “Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”  

Some years, some months, some weeks, some days, it becomes glaringly obvious that the psalmist’s reference to “the valley of the shadow of death” isn’t only about cemeteries. It is not death that has the loudest voice, but the voices of this world. When the followers of Jesus find themselves trying to shout and sing and stomp resurrection hope while “wrestling” as the Apostle Paul writes in the Book of Ephesians “not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world’s rulers of the darkness of this age” Living into resurrection hope when our experience is like that of Mary Magdalene that first Easter morning described by John. She headed to the empty tomb when it was still dark. On a morning filled with brilliant sunshine under a cloudless sky, we gather to live into resurrection hope while it is still dark. To cling to a daring, defiant word of resurrection hope unleashed on a world that seems increasingly to look like anything but “thy kingdom come on earth as it is heaven.”  Maybe an even bolder and more courageous affirmation of resurrection is required today as compared to when you and I gathered around an open grave.  “The sting of death is sin and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. When the darkness in the day-to-day of life all around us is so magnified, the Easter acclamation comes with a louder shout. Remember, our tradition affirms that every Sunday is an Easter Sunday. Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!

One ought not to miss, should not miss, cannot miss, that at the conclusion of the Apostle Paul’s resurrection argument that runs the entire 15^th chapter of I First Corinthians, after the soaring, ethereal rhetoric of the verses we read this morning, after all the words about the mystery of the resurrection, don’t miss maybe the most important part of the chapter. “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.” Back in the cemetery, as I read these verses, after I focus on not slipping up on all “the immortality and imperishability” words, when I get to Paul’s “therefore”, I have done it enough that I can lower my pastor’s book. “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”  For me, it is the most meaningful, powerful, and moving moment is at the cemetery committal service. To look directly in the faces of those who grieve, leaning into the resurrection promise of God and say, “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”  It is what the people of the resurrection do. In the face of the harsh reality of death and the world’s ever-present darkness, we speak of life, we live life, we yearn to be faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ in life. Still.

Years ago I sat in my office with a person whose spouse had died about a year prior. They were still struggling and struggling to understand why they were still struggling. The person said to me “if you tell me to just take it a day at a time, I will punch you right in the face.” So I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t have said that. I don’t remember what I said. But I could have said, “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.” When death’s voice rage, when the world’s voices of darkness rage, Paul offers us a refrain that has to stand right up there with Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed! “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”

You can take this tip from Dave for no charge. When reading the Apostle Paul, there are a lot of “therefore’s”. Sometimes what comes next is really important.  “Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ”(Rom 5). “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Rom 8). “Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.” (Rom 15) “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” (Rom 12) Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, (Phi 2:9 NRS) “Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness.” (Eph 6:14) And yes, Paul’s exclamation point on resurrection hope. “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”

Paul’s exhortation to the faithful is that in the face of death, the people of God dare to sing and speak about life. It is who we are as resurrection people.  Paul’s encouragement when grief and lament are real. “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”  The people of God know that here in the world it is “still so dark”. Yet, we keep marching in the light of God. The one whose goodness shines on us. The one whose grace has pardoned us. The one whose love has set us free. Paul and his “therefore” when the fear and anxiety are real. “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”  

When the world’s challenges seem so vast and you and I feel so small. When the strategic press of change and disruption in the land isn’t just dizzying, it’s intentionally paralyzing. God is still calling us to live each day to God’s glory and to never forget one of the Apostle’s other exhortations. Never forget to “press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Phil 3) Pressing on while the empires rage and compassion is lost, all the while remembering, repeating, living the exclamation point of resurrection hope for the here and now.  “Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”

Luke 9:28-36
March 2
Lauren J. McFeaters
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Many years ago, during the Cold War, I traveled with my family on an extended trip to the Soviet Union. My father was teaching.  And when we returned home, I found it was difficult to share about the experience.

School friends would ask, “How was your trip?” And I didn’t know where to begin. The trip was so formative and unexpected; so shaping and strange, I didn’t know how to form the words.

Moscow was astounding and daunting. And Leningrad. Leningrad was filled with light and mystery, sadness and bitter cold, like something out of Doctor Zhivago. I was thirteen years old, and this was the Russia of the 1970s. I was overwhelmed.

In Leningrad, if it was a sunny day, even with piles of snow on the ground, Russians would strip off their clothes to help the sun touch their skin. On a sunlit day, everyone walked with their faces to the sky so as not to miss one drop of sunshine. People stood for hours, 50 deep to buy bread or vegetables. Teenagers would trade us pictures of Lenin for chewing gum, or offer us 50 rubles to mail back Levi jeans.

And then there were the maps. On our search for the Church of the Blessed Trinity, my family thought we were lost, because my father’s maps didn’t match what we were seeing. We knew the church was built on the banks of the Neva but we could not find the church, no trace and no address.

We passed the Church of Saints Simeon and Anna, it was right there, huge and glowing, but it was missing from our map. We passed ancient onion domed basilicas, majestic historical cathedrals, but still no notation on our maps.

Finally we stopped to ask why churches were not listed and the woman said, “We don’t show churches on our maps because they don’t exist.”

“Well,” my father said. “What about this church – the one we’re standing in front of?”

“Oh, that is not a tserkov (or House of God). That is what we call a museum. There are no churches here.

So to return to the States and say to my friends and family that the trip “was so interesting,” “remarkable,” or “unlike anything else,” was completely mediocre in the face of the beautiful, the fantastic, and incredible.

Have you ever been unable to speak of an experience because of your inability to communicate the depth and height of something so remarkable and astonishing? Times when we want to reach someone and get others to see what we saw and felt, but making that connection feels impossible – because capturing the sublime feels unachievable.

This is the Transfiguration. A mystery so profound there ae hardly any words to describe the experience. A transcendence so extreme that three disciples become lost in glory and in wonder.

It begins with Jesus wanting a place to pray. A private place. A still and calm place. He and the disciples have been traveling and healing, teaching and feeding thousands. It is time for a rest. And so Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain to pray, to reflect, to breathe.

But still calmness was never in the cards, because as prayer begins, so does the unbelievable – Jesus is amazingly changed, transfigured before them; he begins to shine and glow – he becomes an illumination – dazzling, blinding, stunning.

And there next to him, as clear as day, appear the very prophets who had come closest to knowing God – Moses and Elijah – and they too begin to gleam, shine, and glitter.

It was stunning, transcendent, and absolutely mind-blowing.

And then Peter, being Peter, does a very Peter thing. And he does what most of us would do. He wants to pause and take a picture.

Everyone stay right there. I’m going to build little houses, so this never ends. Don’t move. Stay still. And on three … one, two …

But before a picture can be snapped, a selfie taken:

A cloud came and overshadowed them;

and they were terrified as they entered the cloud.

Then from the cloud came a voice that said,

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” [ii]

Luke is a Gospel of Voices.

Three months ago, we began hearing heavenly voices. First, it was the angel Gabriel saying, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard.”

Again Gabriel to Mary, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.”

And another angel, this time to shepherds, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”

At Jesus’ baptism, a voice from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved Treasure; with you I am well pleased.” And now on a mountain peak, with a voice announcing to all have ears to hear that this is indeed the very Son of God and that it would be in our best interest to listen to him. Listen.

Christ is in his glory. His holiness shining through his humanness, his face so incandescent, that it’s almost beyond bearing. ^[iii]

How do we respond?

Do we say, “that is so interesting,” “remarkable,” or “unlike anything else.” No. Because that’s a completely mediocre way to tell of the amazing and incredible.

How do we, standing on this side of the resurrection, and in the midst of a nation full of folly and recklessness; madness making itself known every day, how do we hold onto the wonder of faith?

And when we are panicked. Are you panicked? And when we are frightened. Are you frightened? And when we are horrified. Are you horrified? How do we hold onto the joy of faith?

How, in a society filled with idiocy, how do we hear the voice of God directing and guiding us?

Well, it’s not through the explosion, boom, or din of a tantrum, but in the Voice of the Upside-Down Kingdom, where God’s power is in the tender and loving words:

“This is my Son, my Cherished,

my Beloved, my Adored –

I give you a Savior –

attend to him, hear him, listen to him.”

It’s Gospel Medicine my friends, Gospel Medicine.

On the edge of Lent, our incandescent Lord gives you his hand and walks you off the mountain top and back into the valley – to assure you that God’s glory is alive and shines in every drop of our humanity and works for the good and worthy; the faithful and the valuable.

And holding his hand, back down the mountain we go, where we in turn, hold His hand back, squeezing tightly, to show that we will stay beside him as he heads to all that is waiting for him in the hills and valleys of Jerusalem and Calvery.

But this time, having lived through such an experience, this time, rather than not knowing what to say; not having the words, we know the words:

In life and in death we belong to God.

In a broken and fearful world
the Spirit gives us courage
to pray without ceasing,
to witness among all peoples,

to Christ as Lord and Savior,
to unmask idolatries in Church and culture,
to hear the voices of peoples long silenced,
and to work with others for justice, freedom, and peace.
In gratitude to God,

we strive to live holy and joyful lives,
even as we watch for God’s

new heaven and new earth,

praying, “Come, Lord Jesus!” [iv]

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come, Lord Jesus.

 

 

ENDNOTES

[ii]  Adam H. Fronczek. “Transfiguration – Luke 9:28–36,” February 14, 2010, fourthchurch.org.

 

[iii] Frederick Buechner. Whistling in the Dark:  A Doubters Dictionary. New York:  Harper Collins,1993.

 

[iv] “A Brief Statement of Faith.” Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), Office of the General Assembly,   1990.

Genesis 1:1-2:3
March 9
David A. Davis
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When I was on sabbatical in 2008, I traveled to South Africa and stayed with my dear friends Malan and Marlese Nel. The Nels are worshipping with us for a month or two as they once again are in town for a study visit. A highlight of that trip to South Africa was a visit to Kruger National Park. The goal of a visitor to the park hoping to see wildlife is to find the Big 5: lion, leopard, rhinoceros, elephant, and buffalo. The Nels made a booking for me for a nighttime guided ride out into the park with a dozen or so other tourists in an open-air jeep kind of thing. It lasted a couple of hours as darkness fell. Two guides, flashlights, headlights, slowly driving on dirt roads far from the paved public access roads. Two hours. Beautiful moonlight. No animals. We didn’t see one animal.

The next day we piled into Malan’s car, for what we used to describe to our kids as “a car hike”. Driving all through the park along with other cars weaving through the park. By the end of that several-hour car hike, we saw all of the Big 5 and a whole lot more of the animals of God’s creation. The truth is that Malan and Marlese always, always saw the animals before I did. Well, other than the elephant herd crossing the road that was hard to miss. The stunning birds up in a tree, the lion to see through the trees, the rhino in the water with nothing showing but his snout. The baby elephant is being hidden and protected by the grown-ups. They had the eyes, the expectation, the experience of being a witness to the beauty of God’s creation. And they helped me to see, hear, and experience that beauty. They gifted me with a glimpse of the awe and wonder of God’s creation.

That’s how we ought to read Genesis 1. Side by side with those who have the eyes, the expectation, the experience, even the longing for the beauty of God’s creation. Reading the seven days of creation in a community of God’s people longing for the awe and wonder of the very goodness of all that God has done.

Genesis 1:1-2:3

            Reading Genesis 1 together with awe and wonder. Reading Genesis 1 together, as Jesus would say, with the ears to hear. Folks read Genesis 1 in all kinds of ways, for all kinds of reasons. But what if you and I read Genesis 1 together to sort of press the reset button on the awe and wonder place in your soul. The awe and wonder for all that God has done. Like our forebearers in faith, who wanted to turn from the worship of many Gods and the plethora of idols, and offer a witness to the one God of all creation, the One God who made heaven and earth, that same God who gives breath to all humankind. Genesis 1; it’s a kind of palette cleanser. Allowing you to rinse after drinking from the world’s firehose of idolatry and chaos and darkness and destruction. A bit of refreshment for the sacred imagine. Taking in the beauty of God’s creation where the light arose out of the darkness. Once again ponder all the good of God’s creation and receive with awe and wonder the promise and the knowledge that you have been created in the image of God. And that, like all of creation, you belong to God, and you are precious in God’s sight. “God saw everything that God had made, and indeed, it was very good.” 

            Years ago, I invited Professor Paul Rorem to give about 20 of my colleagues from around the country a tour of some of the religious art in the Princeton University Museum.  A frequent leader of adults here at Nassau Church, Dr. Rorem is a retired professor of European church history. Looking at a piece of stunning artwork with Paul Rorem is sort of like driving through the Kruger Park with the Nels. He would point out details in the art that the unexpected, inexperienced eye could so easily miss. Sometimes, with a laser pointer directed a large work up on the wall. Other times with his pinky finger pointing out the smallest of detail. After several of these experiences with Dr. Rorem over the years, I have observed his practice of allowing and inviting, the community of observers gathered around him to take time with a piece of art and not rush.  Paul always asks the group to look not just at the beauty of the art but to search for the theological takeaways of the art. He would step away from the piece and allow the group standing together to search for the theological symbolism, to note the smallest of details, and ponder what the artist was trying to say about God, God’s promise, and the place of God’s people in that promise.

Reading Genesis 1 together and pondering what it says about God, God’s promise and the place of God’s people in that promise. God the artist, sculpting a creation that reflects God’s own goodness. Humankind was created in God’s image, in God’s likeness, blessed by God to fill and rule the earth. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Even before God stepped back to rest on the seventh day, “God saw everything that God had made and indeed, it was very good.”  Very good. Indeed.

I made a rookie mistake this week at lunch with Dr. Nate Stucky. I told him my sermon title for this morning was “Very Good”.  He asked me what was “very good.” I knew right away it was a trap question, and I was going to blow it. “Well, it comes after God created humankind.” Nate rose up in his chair but across the table. His face was equal parts shock, dismay, and then disappointment in his pastor. “That’s the big mistake everyone makes”, he said. Very good is not just a reference to humankind.  God saw everything, everything, EVERYTHING God made and indeed, it was very good.” That is one mistake I won’t repeat again. I promise.

Here is where we take a few steps back from the work of art and ponder. Everything God made was very good. Everything. Very good. Humankind was created in God’s image, God’s likeness. On day 6, God brings the children of God into the family business. Humankind is blessed by God and entrusted with creation, to be god-like in relationship to the very goodness of creation. To be in relationship to creation in a way that reflects the Creator and the Creator’s goodness. To somehow rule the very good earth in a god-like way. Rule like God rules.

As we stand here together a few steps back, however, those words still leap off the canvas of the text. Subdue. Dominion. Perhaps the frailty of language is what also comes into view as well. Words that seem inconsistent with our theological learnings. Because words like subdue and dominion cannot be softened or explained away in the Hebrew. Scholars point out in Hebrew, the connotations are even stronger and not very nice. Perhaps the words fail us in trying to ponder not just the artistry and beauty of God, the very good of God. But also fail us as we try to ponder humankind in relationship to God and to that god-like relationship to creation. Words not just coming up short in terms of theological imagination. But words foreshadowing and perhaps in the history of interpretation even contributing in some way to the harm humankind has done and continues to do to God’s “very good” creation. Words that land more like scars in the artwork. Or better said, a lasting echo that ought to sound like a trumpet’s call to humankind to be more god-like when it comes to God’s creation.

Reading Genesis 1 together not just in awe and wonder but in lament as well. Pondering the theological takeaways of the art that tells of God creating, of humankind being created in the image of God, of humanity’s relationship to all that God has created. Very good. Indeed. Reading Genesis 1 together and sparking our collective sacred imagination. Push the reset button for your soul when it comes to awe and wonder and lament. Awe and wonder and lament. While it sounds a bit like a title of a book by Anne Lamont. It also sounds a lot like what it means to be a child of God living in the in-between of death and resurrection. It sounds like what it means to be a disciple of Jesus Christ pretty much every day. Awe, wonder, and lament all mashed up. And still morning comes after the evening. Light still shines in the dark. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Very good. And you and I, we cling to, proclaim, and dare to believe the impossible. The resurrection promise that darkness shall never, ever, conquer the light of God.

Come to the Table this morning. It is the Risen Christ who invites. We take this bread, this juice. We take the elements of God’s creation and we feast on Christ and his life, death, and resurrection. We are nurtured here at this table by the impossible. For the God of creation is the the same God who authored salvation in and through Jesus Christ and by God’s grace and in God’s love, claimed us as God’s own beloved children. God’s new creation. “If anyone who is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see everything has become new! All this is from God, who reconciled us to Godself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation….So we are ambassadors for Christ. God making God’s appeal through us.” (II Cor 5)

God is blessing humankind and entrusting us to reflect God’s very goodness, by God’s grace and in the power of the Spirit, to dare to be god-like in our relationship with all that God has done. Yes, impossible. But remember what Gabriel said to Mary. “Nothing will be impossible with God.”  Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Very Good, Indeed.

 

Luke 24:13-35
January 26
Kimberly Wagner
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Luke 4:16-24
January 19
Eric D. Barreto
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Isaiah 43:1-7
January 12
Joseph Chu
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Matthew 2:1-23
January 5
Jess Winderweedle
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John 1:1-16
December 24
David A. Davis
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I have told you before, and some may remember my description of the manger scene outside the Methodist Church a few miles from where we lived in south jersey. I drove past the Chews United Methodist Church almost every day for 14 years. Every Advent and Christmas the creche was staged right next to the church sign just off an intersection that had a stoplight. It was simple manger scene. A sort of barn-like back drop, some hay strewn around, with a manger that looked a bit like a fireplace grate. The only characters were Mary and Joseph and the Babe lying in the manger. No animals. No shepherds. No Magi. Stopped at the red light in December year after year, I sort of watched Mary and Joseph age before my eyes. Their bright clothes started to fade. Their faces started to chip. Their pious gaze started to look tired. They looked weathered in more ways than one. To be honest, they looked more like big lawn ornaments. I assumed since they were about waist-high, they were meant to be kneeling. But then during one red light, I realized they had no legs. Interestingly, over the years the Baby Jesus never got older or any bigger; never seemed to fade for that matter. He was always tucked in that manger.

One morning after a stormy, windy, snowy, night, I sat at the light and saw Mary and Joseph knocked over. It was a sorry sight. Mary and Joseph like turtles turned on their backs who couldn’t get up. The hay was all blown away. Part of the barn top was flapping just a bit, waving at the morning commuters. But Jesus, Jesus was there in the manger oblivious to the chaos of the night or the absence of his adoring, watchful parents. It was when my inspecting eyes turned to the Infant Holy, Infant lowly asleep but not on the hay. I made an unfortunate discovery. I found out why Jesus had not been disturbed from sleep by the storm. The baby was secured to that fireplace grate with a chain wrapped around his ankle. Chained and padlocked the baby was.  That baby wasn’t going anywhere. That Jesus was never going to leave the manger.

You know, and as you heard, there is no Baby Jesus in the manger here in the Gospel of John.  No “Do not be Afraid; for behold, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.” No “let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place.” Here in John, all the pageant stuff is nowhere to be found. No angels. No shepherds. No Star. Not even a Mary, or a Joseph.  No babe wrapped in swaddling clothes.

            Instead of “Mary gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger”  in John “The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” Instead of “So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying the manger” in John it is “He was in the world”.  John’s version of the babe swaddled in the manger is this: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.” The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. The Word became flesh. The Word that was with God and was God sheltered among us. God took sanctuary in the flesh. The Word became flesh. Flesh as in flesh and blood. Flesh as in what it means to be human. Flesh as in humankind. “We have seen God’s glory…God’s only son, full of grace and full of truth”.  God’s glory is not in the heavenly host. Not a glory shone all around. No, the light of God’s glory is revealed in the grace and truth of Christ Jesus.

If you have not read David Brooks’s recent essay in the New York Times, you should find it and read it this Christmas. The title is “The Shock of Faith: It is Nothing Like I Thought it Would Be”. Brooks tells his own story of coming to faith as an adult and only in the last 10 or 15 years. He writes in a refreshingly personal and honest way. As he tries to find the words to describe both his faith and his journey to faith, he drops in quotes from scholars and theologians. But it was his own words at the very end of the piece I found most compelling. Brooks comes to the conclusion that for him,  “faith” just isn’t the right word. He writes, “The word “faith” implies possession of something, whereas I experience faith as a yearning for something beautiful that I can sense but not fully grasp. For me faith is more about longing and thirsting than knowing and possessing.” Brooks continues “Sometimes I feel pulled by a goodness that seems grand and far-off, a divine luminosity that hovers over the far horizon. Sometimes I feel pulled by concrete moments of holy delight that I witness right in front of my face — the sight of a rabbi laughing uproariously as his children pile over him during a Shabbat meal, the sight of a Catholic priest at a poor church looking radiantly to heaven as he holds the bread of Christ above his head. I’ve found that the most compelling proofs of God’s love come in moments of radical delight or radical goodness — in the example of those who serve the marginalized with postures of self-emptying love. Some days this longing for God feels like loneliness, separation from the thing desired. But mostly it feels like a venture toward something unbelievably worth wanting, some ultimate concern.”

Yearning for something beautiful that can’t be fully grasped. Longing for a goodness that is not just on some far horizon but a goodness revealed in concrete moments of holy delight right in front of our face. Compelling proof of God’s love in the example of those who serve the marginalized with postures of self-emptying love. Postures of self-emptying love. Use the word faith or not but it sounds a whole lot like a life of following the gospel that comes from the lips of the Christ Child lying in the manger tonight.

Another preacher once suggested that many seem to prefer the Jesus of the manger because he hasn’t said anything yet. Cute and cuddly is always safer than touching a leper or serving the poor or taking on the religious or forgiving a sinner or turning the other cheek or announcing a kingdom or dying and rising. Cute and cuddly is always safer than allowing your flesh to be transformed by his and knowing deep within his love for you is forever and seeing the world through his eyes and not yours. Cute and cuddly is always safer than holding the light of his glory up to the world’s darkness and then bearing witness in how you live to the wonders of his love. His love yearns to make of this old world, a new own in and through those who are his hands and feet.

Many seem to prefer a Jesus bound to the manger. When the earth aches for peace and people in far too many places in the world can’t remember a silent night, you can’t keep Jesus in the manger. When a heart somewhere near you is broken or forgiveness has become a lost art in a family or a lost soul is longing for home, you can’t just leave Jesus in the manger. When grief among those you love is real and raw, when the frailty of our humanity hits you like a truck, when death’s shout threatens to drown out resurrection hope and promise, you can’t leave Jesus in the manger. When people you love are afraid, when strangers around you live in fear, when so many aren’t sure who or what to trust, you can’t leave Jesus in the manger. When the shadows of hatred lengthen and blinding fear is stoked and the darkness of bitterness once again threatens the light, you can’t settle for a Jesus bound to the manger. When the empires of this world have run amok on power, serving the richest and most privileged while trampling on the weak and most vulnerable, those in power would of course prefer that Jesus and his gospel teaching be left shackled and drawn there in the manger. The powers and principalities of this world prefer a Baby Jesus in the manger who hasn’t said anything……yet.

But Jesus can’t be kept in the manger. Yes, the call of the light of God’s glory at Christmas is to stand and look into the manger and be overwhelmed, forever changed, by the Child’s fullness. Full of grace. Full of truth.  And to be forever moved and transformed by his enduring love that will not let you go. Full of his grace. Full of his truth. Full of his love. Kneeling at the manger tonight, earning for something beautiful that can’t be fully grasped. Longing for a goodness that is not just on some far horizon but a goodness revealed in concrete moments of holy delight right in front of our face, crazing postures of self-emptying love. As you kneel at the manger tonight, never forget that God’s call on our lives is the call to unbind Jesus from the manger and turn to change the world with the shine of his love, the glory of his love.

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Luke 2:8-20
December 22
David A. Davis
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Last week as I watched the Christmas Pageant on livestream, I was struck by how our young people sort of matriculate through the pageant to different roles as they grow older. Mary and Joseph (Adeline and Pierre) were both high school seniors. They were likely angels and shepherds years ago. I had a similar thought after we finished our Wee Christmas flash mob pop up pageant a few weeks ago. The last few years of Wee Christmas, members of the youth group help out with the littlest ones as they transform into Josephs and Marys and angels and shepherds and animals and wise ones. Wee Christmas has been around long enough that many of those youth group members would have been participants back in the day. I wish I remembered the kids who were shepherds several years ago. Actually, it was 2018. Some of you were there. Some of you have heard about what happened to the shepherds that day.

In 2018, I thought it would be a good idea to shake things up for Wee Christmas; to try something different. Of course, the script can’t really change. I thought we could introduce a bright shining star. I asked Edie Estrada if he could dig out one of his work lights that he uses for various projects around here and help me with Wee Christmas. As I led the shepherds around sanctuary with their stuffed sheep under their arms, we stopped here at the top of the aisle and I pointed to Ed who was standing on a small step ladder over near the piano. As I said  “a angel of the Lord stood before them and the glory of the Lord shone around them”,  Ed flipped the switch on the small work light that he was holding up high. Well, I should have checked how bright the small work light was going to be. I think we temporary blinded the shepherds. I didn’t get to the part in the pageant describing the shepherds in fear covering their eyes because the poor shepherds had already hit the ground and covered their eyes. I guess I gave the angel line, “for see, I am bringing you good news of a great joy for all people.” That was unfortunate because the angels couldn’t see anything. It was likely the best year for the shepherds being terrified.

“The glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for behold, I am bringing you good news of a great joy for all people”.  As the choir will sing in just a few minutes:

Glory to God in the highest,

and peace on earth 

to those of good will.

Rejoice in God, all the earth;

serve the Lord with gladness.

Glory to God in the highest…

Come into God’s presence with joy.

Daniel Pinkham is the composer of this morning’s Christmas Cantata. “Glory to God in the highest. Come into God’s presence with joy. Glory and joy

This is a bit of an awkward thing to say on the fourth Sunday of Advent, but there is not as much “great joy” in the gospels as we would tend to think. I mean the phrase “great joy”. It only occurs three times in all four gospels. Here with the angel and the shepherds. In Matthew, it’s Easter morning when the women run from the empty tomb with “fear and great joy”. And then the only other occurrence of the words “great joy” comes again in Luke. It’s all the way at the end. After the empty tomb, after the Emmaus Road, just after the Risen Christ ascends into heaven, Luke records that the disciples “worshipped him and returned to Jerusalem with great joy.” That’s sort of it when it comes to “great joy”. The birth of Jesus, the resurrection of Jesus, the ascension of Jesus…..and a whole lot of gospel in between.

As for “Glory of the Lord”, well, that’s pretty much an expression in the Hebrew bible Exodus, Moses, Mt  Sinai, and the pillar of fire, the cloud. Exodus is full of “the glory of the Lord”. The “glory of the Lord” is pretty much the prophet Isaiah’s go to. “Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed”. (Is 40) “The glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard” (Is 58). “The glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (Is. 60). The glory of the Lord and the Old Testament, like hand and glove. “the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea”. (Habakkuk 2:14)

When it comes to the New Testament and the “glory of the Lord”, not so much. To be sure there are plenty of examples of praise and adoration being offered to the glory of the Lord. An act of praise, a doxology offered to the glory of God, the glory of the Lord. But that’s a bit different than “the glory of the Lord shone all around”. The Apostle Paul asserts that “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” But that’s not the same as blinding eyeful of the God’s glory.

Luke front loads the glory of the Lord and the great joy. The glory of the Lord and great joy bundled together. It comes here with some lowly, vulnerable shepherds in the middle of the night. Glory and great joy hovering in the sky over a birthing room that had to have been a life and death moment for both mother and child. On night when sheep, shepherds, mother, child were all at risk. Glory and great joy there at his first breath, the first cry. Glory and great joy paired not at the end but at the beginning. And the accent on glory forever shifted. The definition of glory shone forever changed. The gaze of on glory forever turned. “You will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” It is as if Luke is standing there with baby in hand, rocking the child, pointing with his head because his hands are full, cradling glory. As the choir will sing,

What a great mystery

and wondrous sacrament,

that the animals should behold 

the new-born Lord

lying in a manger.

Glory. Joy. Mystery. And Wonder.

The glory of God come all the way down. The mystery and wonder of the Incarnation is the fancy way to say it. From the hosts of angels that served as a tent to those shepherds living in the field, a tent of God’s glory, to the child Jesus nursing at his mother’s breast. The glory of the Lord came down. Not just in the Child there in the manger, but God’s love made known in the flesh, in his life….in this life…..in this blasted life of ours. In his life, his teaching, his tears, his suffering, his death, his resurrection. Witnessing glory in his touch of sinners, welcoming strangers, caring for the sick, raising the dead, challenging power. Forgiveness unrestrained. Boundary lines crossed. The hungry fed. The oppressed lifted. The rich challenged. Widows and orphans tended to. Lepers touched. In the mystery and wonder, glory shines.

I checked in with New Testament Professor Eric Barreto about glory and great joy in Luke. Dr. Baretto pointed out to me that glory and great joy might not flow all through Luke but one theme that does is fear. Those terrified shepherds aren’t the only ones in fear in Luke. Fear is not only to angel appearances but to healings and miracles all through the gospel. For the shepherds here in chapter two, the angel of the Lord speaks of great joy smack in the midst of their fear. As the shepherds witness the glory of God made known not just in the heavenly host but in the Child Jesus there when they get to the manger, the light of God’s mystery and wonder leads them from fear to glorifying and praising God for ALL they had heard and seen. The shepherds own experience of joy in the mystery and wonder never that far from their fear. Terrified there in the field and still joy comes.

Think of the disciples at the end of the gospel when great joy comes back. They dropped their nets to follow Jesus and by any earthly measure, it didn’t go so well. Hollywood and Hallmark and call it the greatest story ever told. That’s not how to describe the storied lives of those 12 disciples. That’s not how to describe all that they witnessed along the way with Jesus. There was very real-world stuff along the way where the darkness was pulling ahead. They stood by as the crowds gathered for his torture and his murder. What Luke describes as a “spectacle”. You remember the two walking along the Emmaus Road trying to process it all before the Risen Christ comes alongside. They were walking along full of a grief most of us can understand. Amid all the fear of Luke’s gospel, still joy comes. Amid all that the darkness had to bring, still joy comes. Basking in the light of the mystery and wonder of his resurrection and ascension, great joy makes a comeback in Luke. A joy that is resistant to the word’s darkness.

I don’t need to remind you that we don’t live in a Hollywood/Hallmark world either. Amid all the real-world stuff of our lives, when darkness seems to be pulling ahead again and again, when the world shakes, when all that we witness and experience seems so very distant from the world God intends and the gospel we have learned from the lips of Jesus, still great joy comes in the resurrection hope and promise of God. God’s gift to us  at Christmas, is that like the shepherds,  we get to go to the manger and bask in the mystery and wonder of God’s love come all the way down. But as we stand here, by God’s grace and in the power of the Holy Spirit, we can see all the way to the great joy that comes on the gospel’s far side as well. Amid all the real life stuff that comes in between, the mystery and wonder of the Christ Child, the one who is Risen indeed, is that great joy still comes in the here and now. Or as the choir will sing

Glory to God in the highest….

Know that the Lord is God:

it is God who made us and not we ourselves.

Glory to God in the highest…

Alleluia!

Cathy and I have a Christmas tradition of attending a performance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto’s each year. Every year the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center offers a performance through McCarter Theater behind me at Richardson Auditorium. We attended the performance last Monday night. We have been to the Brandenburg’s a lot, more than I can count including one year at Lincoln Center. I also listen to classical music when I write my sermons. What comes first on my play list is the Brandenburg Concerto’s. I sat there on listening on Monday night realizing the beauty of the music has been the soundtrack of my sermon writing for twenty years. I think Monday was the most beautiful performance. The rather long performance of all the concertos seemed to pass so quickly. The exuberance of the musicians touched me in a fresh way. The connection of the incredible work of art to the weekly grind of sermon writing. It warmed my heart. What I am describing is that Monday night was an experience of joy.

I am guessing that technically, musically, aesthetically, these particular musicians didn’t play Bach any better or any different than all those other performances we have heard. But when darkness seems to be pulling ahead again and again, when the world shakes, when all that we witness and experience seems so very distant from the world God intends and the gospel we have learned from the lips of Jesus, finding just a bit of the mystery and wonder, the beauty and goodness in life, well, it brings such great joy. God’s gift of joy to a weathered pastor on just a Monday night. Looking for the light of joy in the world’s darkness. A bit of joy and a taste of resistance amid the real-stuff of life.

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