Matthew 2:1-12
Lauren J. McFeaters
January 1, 2017

Late last week, before Christmas, I left the office early one afternoon to sneak over to Cranbury to catch an evening worship service. In the blur and grief that has been a part of our season I really needed the quiet of a prayer and the calm of sacrament and song. I needed to catch my breath so I could be at my best for Christmas Eve and beyond.

I found a pew, snuggled in, and let the service wash over me. Candles were lit. The communion table laid with bread and cup. It was composed and meaningful, just the balm my soul needed.

The pastor rose to pulpit and offered words from Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

And before she could say another word, a brass band outside the church door broke into a lively rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” The pastor proclaimed, “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.” And the brass answered, “…had a very shiny nose.”

“And he shall be named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God… and if you ever saw it… Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…you would even say it glowed…”

I am not kidding. Do we laugh or cry? The scripture and Santa Carol were in perfect rhythm. And then silence. The brass band stopped and all was quiet. I thought, I just love small town life, someone had already rushed outside and alerted their friends in the band that worship had begun, so move farther down Main Street.

Again the pastor read Scripture: And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.” And as if on cue, right outside the door, the brass – which had gone NOWHERE – struck up a blaring rendition of “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas.”

“Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, lean your ear this way… And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them… Don’t you tell a single soul, what I’m going to say. Christmas Eve is coming soon, now you dear old man… Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people… Whisper what you’ll bring to me. Tell me if you can… For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”

I thought, we’re doomed! The preacher is next and he’ll get to the heights of the proclamation: “Christ is born for THIS!” and we’ll hear, “Children laughing, people passing, This is Santa’s big scene, and above all the bustle you hear – silver bells, silver bells…” Then the Lord’s Supper. The pastor will break the bread, pour the cup, and proclaim, “Do this in remembrance of me,” and we’ll be clobbered by “jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…”

I had been waiting all week to sit quietly in a sanctuary to sing and pray and listen, to tranquilly soak it all up, to cocoon myself in the warmth and goodness of it all. And instead, the outside world had come crashing in. Oh, brother!

And I sat there feeling mighty irritated and grumpy. God was giving me an Epiphany of my own. What an idiot I am, I thought. What a juxtaposition God has given, what a contrast. As if I could shut out such a festive and joyous brass band, as if I should want the world to remain outside the doors of the church (as if it could), as if worshiping God is a thing of quiet and calm, passively soaking it up rather than singing boldly of a birth in the stable that was filled brass and angel choirs, shepherds and animals, all noisily proclaiming “the great joy, which shall be to all people.”

What an epiphany God gives us! What a revealing God hands us when the world comes to church with treasures of trumpet and tuba and trombone colliding into carols and candlelight, reminding us that the world doesn’t come crashing in on Christmas, but Jesus Christ comes crashing into the world. It’s Epiphany: the jolting manifestation of the Word made flesh, the smashing revelation of a child come to save, the impact of discovery that the world belongs, not to ourselves, but to the Lord of the Manger.

All that we know of this certain star[i] that once hovered above the Christ Child is that God led us there by three wise men, traveling desert ambassadors, seekers and stargazers, gentile Magi, emissaries carrying gifts.^[ii] “And they were staggered with joy… they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage.”

 So who are these Wise Men? We know them as intelligent and discerning, persevering and adventurous. But it is oral tradition and not scripture that has given them the title of Three Kings, has chosen their number as three, and has given them names and kingdoms: Balthasar from Arabia, Caspar from India, and Melchior from Persia. We don’t even know that they were men. But whatever their number or identity, most important to our Gospel lesson is that the wise men are Gentiles. The first seekers and travelers to find the holy child are those outside of the covenant. All people shall see it together.

And yet for all their wisdom, they are of course not mind-readers. The wise men possess no special knowledge that allows them to travel directly to Bethlehem. And they’re naive. Dealing with stars and charts, their eyes on the world above them, they have not understood the likes of Herod – the very one who would use their plotting of the stars to plot a death.^[iii]

“Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

Gold – a gift for a King, precious and costly.
Frankincense – a gift for a priest to use in the temple, so sweet-smelling that it provides a sense of mystery and holiness.
Myrrh – a gift for one who is to die, a burial spice, a fragrance used to embalm.

And there it is, God’s gift, tucked into countess nativities and pageants. Right there, laid before us, as the Magi stretch out their gifts, lies the true gift himself: our King, our Priest, our Salvation. And like it or not, Christmas or not, he heads, even now, to Calvary. Due north, up the road, and over the hill.

It’s a sobering message, this epiphany. There seems to be no respite for the Christian, but:

• Always that constant foretaste of the passion;
• Always his sacrifice at the center of our belief;
• Always being his witness for those who need our compassion and care;
• Always holding the world to our hearts – and especially today for those in Istanbul, Baghdad, Syria, and South Sudan.
• Always recognizing that the Christian life is not birthed in sweet gentleness. It is exhilarating and stirring, yes. Sweet and mild, no.

And then we look at his table. And with the Wise Men we are staggered by joy. This is Christ’s treasure.

He lays before us gifts of hope and remembrance and gratitude.

That the body broken and the blood poured out announce, in the face of the Nativity, in the face of the world crashing in, in the face of any Herod the world can produce:

“For unto us a child is born,
unto us a son is given.”^[iv]

Come. His table is set.

[i] This line and the sermon title come from Robert Browning’s poem entitled “My Star.”

All that I know
Of a certain star,
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

[ii]. The New Oxford Annotated Bible: New Revised Standard Version. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001, 10NT.

[iii]. John Indermark. Setting the Christmas Stage: Readings for the Advent Season. Nashville: Upper Room Books, 2001, 68-70.

[iv]. Inspired and adapted from a poem by Ann Weems, “The Christmas Spirit,” in Kneeling in Bethlehem. Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1987, 51.

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

John 14:1-17
David A. Davis
December 11, 2016
Advent III

“Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you.” (KJV) Many mansions. “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” (NRSV) Dwelling places. “My Father’s house has many rooms.” (NIV) “My Father’s house has room to spare.” (CEB) “In my Father’s house there are many places to live in.” (NJB). Many mansions. Many dwelling places. Many rooms. Room to spare. Many places to live in.

Most who have heard John’s Jesus say it longer than they can remember have their preferred setting when it comes to these familiar verses from John 14. It’s like picking the favorite voice on your GPS. A soft spoken, female, British voice makes trying to find your way through an unknown city a bit less stressful. Hearing your translation of choice when it comes to John 14 is almost part of the promise. Mansions. Dwelling Places. Rooms. Eugene Peterson in his paraphrase goes for a chummy Jesus. “There’s plenty of room for you in my Father’s house.” (The Message) Sort of like Jesus is trying to convince the disciples to stay the weekend.

A week or so ago I was teaching a Presbyterian worship class over at the seminary and the topic for the day was funerals and memorial services. I shared with the class my thought that some verses of scripture pretty much have to be included, just have to be read. Psalm 23 and John 14. Not because there aren’t others appropriate to the occasion. And acknowledging that there may be times and seasons for the pastor when those selections might feel a bit tired and worn. And sure family members may ask specifically that they not be read. But Psalm 23 and John 14 function at such a profound, beyond meaning, words can’t quite express it, kind of level when it comes to the church’s witness to God’s promise at the time of death. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you.” Some things a pastor ought not to mess with.

Last summer Cathy and I were spending one last day in London before heading home after a long stay in the UK. We decided to head out from our hotel and walk until we got lost or tired and then check the GPS to find our way back. At one point we were somewhere on a crowded sidewalk in Soho, walking along at a pretty good clip, in the middle of a block when I thought I heard a voice say “Dave Davis?” It wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t a whisper. I’m not sure how I even heard it. It didn’t register right away. It was so jarring that I took a few more steps before I stopped. “Did I just hear my name?” And as we stopped, the voice came again, “Is that Dave Davis?” We turned around and sure enough, there was a retired Presbyterian minister and Princeton Seminary trustee John Galloway along with his wife on sidewalk in London. He probably didn’t raise his voice because he didn’t want to look foolish if it wasn’t me. It was a jarring juxtaposition; hearing my name on a London street.

I know I am going to be reading the opening verses of John 14 a few times from this pulpit this week and next. But to hear from Jesus, not at a memorial service, but on the Third Sunday of Advent, to hear these words from Jesus when we’re lighting the candles on the Advent Wreath and when we’re singing “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus”, it’s a bit of jarring juxtaposition. “Do not let your hearts be troubled, Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.”

I prepare a place for you. Prepare a place. Prepare. Prepare. That sounds like Advent to me. Advent: preparing for him, making room for him, “let every heart prepare him room.” We’re preparing for him. He’s already prepared for us. And you know from John, from the gospel of John, that his preparation started a long time ago. “He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people….In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” That’s John sort of giving a call out to Jesus on a crowded Advent street. Not a whisper. Not a shout. In the beginning was the Word.

John’s Jesus never met an “I” he didn’t’ like. As in I am the bread of life and I am the light of the world and I am the good shepherd and I am the gate and I am the resurrection and I am life and I am the vine. So many in John that the tradition calls them “The I am’s”. When Jesus met the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4, he said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” A bit later the Samaritan woman said to Jesus, “I know that the Messiah is coming. His response; “I am he”.

Jesus and his “I, I, I, I”. “If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am , there you may be also….I am the way, and the truth, and the life…The words that I say to you I do not speak on my; but the Father who dwells in me does his works…Very truly I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. I will do whatever you ask in my name…I will do it…I will ask the Father and he will give you another Advocate to be with you forever.” I go. I am. I say. I tell. I do. I ask. I. I. I.

You get the Johanine trajectory here, right? John and the “I am’s” Jesus and the life and the light and the water and the bread. He is the dwelling place. Christ is our dwelling place. “Abide in me as I abide in you” Jesus said to the disciples, “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.” Mansions. Dwelling places yet to come. A dwelling place now. God’s promise for then. God’s promise for now. Just that side of glory. Just this side of glory. Our dwelling place. Christ is our dwelling place. That’s the Advent promise.

When I meet with couples in my office to talk about their wedding plans, often I hear reports about the tasting. I have never been but it sounds like you go to the venue or to the caterer and they provide samples of various menu items so you can plan and prepare and imagine with your mouth and taste and experience and know. Notice they don’t call it a foretasting. They call it a tasting. Maybe Fanny Crosby wasn’t quite right. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine, O what a foretaste of glory divine.” According to Jesus in John, it’s not just a foretaste, it’s a taste! Prepare. Imagine. Experience. Know. The very glory of God. The very love of God. The very promise of God. “Do not let your hearts be troubled, Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” With just a dash of Advent.

In the Greek, the word for “hearts” here in John 14:1 is actually singular. Did you hear that in the King James? “Let not your heart be troubled”. Interestingly, the “your”, the possessive of “you” is plural. “Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God.” I have no idea where the “ye” in the King James is plural or not. Let not your (plural) heart (singular) be troubled. When Jesus repeats the phrase later in the chapter, the Greek is the same. One commentator points out that here at the beginning of this long speech from Jesus in John, the beginning of his “final discourse” with his disciples, Jesus has shifted from a personal conversation with Peter at the end of chapter 13 to now addressing the whole group. Thus, the “you’ plural. But, in the scholar’s words, they only have “one heart.” In the flow of John’s gospel, Jesus is addressing his departure, his death and resurrection. He is addressing how in his absence, their collective heart should not be heavy, not be broken, not be troubled. There is the comfort of the Holy Spirit, of course. But there will also be work to do, and belief to do, and love to do. And when it comes to belief, and when it comes to acts of faith, and when it comes to what Jesus calls “greater works”, and when it comes to love, you can’t do it alone. We can’t do it alone. The promise is to you… plural. The ministry is for you… plural. Giving a shout out to Jesus on a crowded Advent street. That’s you… plural. Proclaiming the love of God in word and deed on the edge of campus, in the heart of town. That’s you… plural.

This whole Advent season, and actually since we started thinking and planning for the Advent season as a church staff way earlier in the fall, I’ve been trying to figure out why Advent is like the comfort food of the liturgical year. Yes, there is a rhythm to a congregation’s life that is familiar. The opportunities, the sights, the sounds, the hymns, the candles, the flowers. The church has a homey feel this time of year. But its more than that. When the feverish pace of life never stops, when the chaos of the world continues to rage, when family dynamics inevitably come with a capital “F” and a capital “D” this time of year, when your routine of following the news and current events is no longer tenable, when the needle of loneliness is pinned, when the reality of death just won’t stop, when the pace of the social calendar runs you down, when faith hitting a dry spell doesn’t even begin to describe, when the days get shorter and the nights get longer, when its Advent, you and I get to come here together and feast on the promise of the Christ Child as if for the very first time. Prepare. Imagine. Experience. Know. The very glory of God. The very love of God. It is as wonderful, as life giving, as filling, as the very first time you tasted it.

You and I get to come here together, look toward Bethlehem, look toward that little child who will lead them, look toward the one who will be the sign, Immanuel, God with us, look toward the one Mary named Jesus, you and I get to come here together and hear him say, “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you.”

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Psalm 90
David A. Davis
November 27, 2016
Advent I

Our kids are in their twenties now. Yesterday they were just babes in my arms. When I hold a baby here at the fount during a baptism, I have been told that I rock back and forth the way I did with my own children when they were infants. Some have heard this from me before but back then when I was trying to calm Hannah or Ben, trying to get them to sleep, in addition to that rock and a bit of bounce, I would sing to them. You would think the minister would be singing hymns, right? Well, there was some of that. But I also sang college fight songs, a lot of college fight songs! “‘Ray Bucknell, ‘Ray Bucknell…” “10,000 men of Harvard seek victory today…” “Fight on, State…” [Hums “Notre Dame Victory March.”] To this day, I wonder if my kids get sleepy when they hear college fight songs.

Another trick of mine was to offer a more guttural, basso profundo, vibrating sound to give comfort, sort of grunt from deep within the chest like this (aah, aah, aah, aah, aah). It was exactly like that. It was always the same. The same cadence, the same tone, the same number of aahs. And to be honest, it worked pretty well most of the time. There wasn’t much thought to it, not a lot of planning or rationale, probably more tired desperation at first. Me, trying to do my part. Hannah was a few weeks old before my parents made it from Pittsburgh for that first visit. The college fight songs and the “aah, aahs” had already started. It was sometime in the first moments of their visit when Grandma was eager to take a turn, I heard my mother with Hannah in her arms, and she sounded like this “aah, aah, aah, aah, aah.”  I guess there was more to it than I thought. Me with a child in arms passing forward a sense of comfort, safety, and rest that had been offered to me. That kind of refuge has to rest deep within.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.” Our dwelling place. Our refuge. Our help. Finding refuge, finding a dwelling place in the one who is from everlasting to everlasting. “A thousand years in your sight are like yesterday when it is past, or like watch in the night.” Nestling in and finding a place, a dwelling place in the divine expanse of God. The one whose wrath could overwhelm us. The one whose countenance illumines all our sins. The one who draws us in to that magnitude with mercy and compassion. “Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love so that we may rejoice and be glad all of our days.” “You have been our dwelling place in all generations.” Dwelling place. A kind of refuge that is deep within.

I officiated at a memorial service here just the day before Thanksgiving. During worship, three granddaughters shared memories of their grandfather from up here at the pulpit. Right before the service, I invited the various speakers to gather for a sound check. It wasn’t much of a sound check. Folks were already in the pews for the service so the family members felt a bit awkward. As one of the granddaughters stepped back down from the microphone, she said “It’ll be okay… just like when I sat here for the Christmas pageant,” and she pointed to a spot right there on the steps. It was just a few years ago that she stood there on the floor as I officiated at her wedding. And she is expecting her first child next month. In every generation. In every season of life. Here. Here. Here. It doesn’t sound like the most profound of faith statements, does it? “It’ll be okay.” Sometimes abiding in God is less about sounding religious and more about something deep within. God our help, our refuge. Our dwelling place in all generations.

This coming Wednesday afternoon is our annual Advent/Christmas gathering of the youngest among us and their families, two-, three-, and four-year-olds. You can find it in the bulletin there in the calendar for the week. We descriptively and lovingly call it “Wee Christmas.” It could easily and perhaps more appropriately be named “The Unquestionably Hardest Work Dave Davis Does All Year.” You can picture it. I tell the story, all the children have a part. It’s a flash-mob, pop-up pageant for twos, threes, and fours. Six Marys. Four Josephs. Eight or so Magi. Shepherds. Sheep. Angels. By the end I will be huffing and puffing and sweating. Long after the families are in the Assembly Room having dinner, I will be here in the Sanctuary all by myself, taking deep breaths and recovering.

Let me offer one more title for Wee Christmas. How about “Arguably the Most Important Ministry Dave Davis Does All Year.” Sharing the story of the birth of Jesus in a way those children can take with them and maybe never forget? Creating a memory, shaping an experience that will find a place way down deep. Telling a story about God’s love and the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph, planting a seed that God will nurture. Joining hands with Church School teachers and youth group advisors and grown-ups in church, so that a few generations from now one of those kids here on Wednesday can stand up at her grandfather’s memorial service and say, “It’s going be okay.” Sharing with families in the priceless responsibility of helping their children know and feel and grow in the love of God, nesting within them somewhere deep, instilling something that is far beyond words. That, for them, for all of their days, God is their dwelling place. “Hark! The herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king!”

A long time ago I was in a group of pastors attending a retreat kind of thing about clergy spiritual health and balance and developing skills for the long haul of ministry. At one point we were being led in a guided mediation. The leader was talking us through a time of reflection with questions and images and inviting us to see things in our imaginations. It’s not the kind of practice that comes easy for me, but I was trying. At one point, after a few deep breathes and with our eyes closed, the leader invited us to return to an actual place where we had been, a place where we had experienced a moment of rejuvenation and peace, a spot that was life-giving. “See it and hear it and smell it,” the leader said. “Everyone needs a way to hit the refresh button even when you can’t leave the office.” The takeaway was to find a place where we could imaginatively return in moments of prayer and meditation to draw on some of that healing and wholeness. We were specifically told it didn’t have to be ministry related or even religious. My spot was a chair at the shore, late on a summer afternoon with my feet in the water. The rest of the family already called it a day. The beach has started to empty and nothing is between me and the vast ocean, the lowering sun to my back, and only a good book to keep me company for just a few moments. Maybe it wasn’t my kind of process but I can’t tell you how many times I have been back to that spot over the years, been to that spot that’s now deep within.

Everybody needs a way to hit the refresh button. That sounds like Advent to me. Telling that old, old story. Singing songs from way back. Lighting candles on a wreath and proclaiming faith, hope, joy, love, light. Creating memories. Shaping experiences. Remembering other seasons of life. And settling in, nestling in with the sure and well-worn knowledge that the Lord is our dwelling place. Our refuge. Our help. See it. Hear it. Smell it. Reach down deep. A sense of comfort, assurance, and rest. “Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.”

Our dwelling place. The Lord is our dwelling place. The promise rests deep within. Part of what that means is that the promise is beyond words, or it comes without words, or it is pre-verbal. (Aah, Aah, Aah, Aah Aah). The writer Kathleen Norris in an article in Christian Century once lamented how many preachers and worship leaders never met a word they didn’t like. After going to worship at a particular church for several weeks, she wrote, “what struck me most forcibly… was the sheer quantity of verbiage. It felt like a word bombardment, and I often needed a three-hour nap to recover.”

This Advent promise, the Advent refresh, starts without words. The kind of reassurance that comes in the embrace of two life-long friends who had been apart for far too long. Words can’t express, just tears. The kind of reassurance that comes when you sit next to your mom’s hospital bed holding your father’s hand. “It’ll be okay,” is all you can say. The kind of reassurance that comes when that young child sits in your lap while you hold a lit candle and wish the singing of “Silent Night” would never end. The kind of reassurance that has to come when you draw way down deep and honor the Thanksgiving dinner host’s request to not talk about the election. Deep breaths, no words. The Lord is our dwelling place. The Lord is our dwelling place. The kind of reassurance that comes when a season of life, maybe this season of life, seems overwhelming or fraught with challenge or just plain new and different and you find yourself searching for those moments and places of rejuvenation and peace, needing to claim God’s life-giving, life-saving promise. The Lord is our dwelling place. The kind of reassurance that comes when you sit at the table, the Lord’s Table, and the words you hear are “Body of Christ broken for you… Blood of Christ shed for you.”

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.”

It’s the first Sunday of Advent. How about hitting that refresh button.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Luke 1:68-79
Lauren J. McFeaters
November 20, 2016

Anne Lamott tells a story about taking her two-year-old son Sam to Lake Tahoe where they could have some time away together. And when he napped she could do short bouts of writing. They stayed in a condominium beside the lake.

And one day Anne Lamott put her baby to sleep in his Pack-n-Play in a totally darkened bedroom and in the next room she went to work on her writing.

A few moments later she heard her toddler knocking on the door from inside. She got up to put him back to bed with a kiss and then — as in every parent’s nightmare — found the door had locked behind her.

Somehow she had managed to push the lock button on the doorknob. And when Sam awoke and cried, “Mommy, Mommy,” she tried to stay calm and said, “It’s OK, Sam. Just jiggle the doorknob, honey, push the button again. Just jiggle. Mommy’s right here.” Of course, because the room was very dark he couldn’t see the doorknob.

When it became clear to Sam that his mother couldn’t open the door, panic set in. She could hear Sam sobbing and she did everything she could think of: trying the door again and again; calling the rental agency; contacting the manager; leaving frantic messages on answering machines; running back and forth to comfort her son there in the dark, locked room, terrified.

Finally she did the only thing she could think of, which was to lie down next to the door, and slide her fingers underneath where there was a little bit of space, fingers between carpet and door, just enough space to wiggle a few fingers under the door. She told Sam over and over to do the same: to find the door and find her fingers, to hold on tight. And somehow he did. He held on tight, he calmed, he quieted, and she did too.

They stayed like that for what seemed like a long time, until help came, him holding her fingers in the dark, feeling her presence, her comfort, her love. (1)(2)

Sometimes, you and I,
are like that two-year-old in the dark,
and God is that mother,
present in the darkness,
offering compassion,
embracing fear,
holding out mercy. (3)

I don’t know about you but I have been in more need of God’s presence in the dark, God’s hand of compassion, God’s embrace of fear, God’s depth of mercy – more than ever before. In these twelve days since the Election I have been weepy, and fearful, and short-tempered, agitated, and it has been very hard to sleep.

The only balm that seems to work is the Balm of Carbohydrates. Of course that only helps for ten minutes and does no good whatsoever. But after that (beside the balm of my family and the love of my congregation) are the songs of faith. A balm for me is found in singing. I keep a hymnal in my car, next to my side of the bed, on my phone. The songs of faith are my prayers when I have few words to pray.

They are the only things that settle me enough to think straight so that I might listen for the voice of God in the midst of the chaos, and as Zechariah says, that I “might serve the Lord without fear.” So as not become maudlin and self-absorbed. So I don’t get stuck in dread. So I don’t become a problem rather than a solution.

Here’s the short list I go to, the Gospel Balm in the form of Hymns:

• Ain’t Got Time to Die
• Gather Us In
• Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee
• My Song is Love Unknown
• My Soul Cries Out with a Joyful Shout
• Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing
• What Wondrous Love is This
• The Haitian Alleluia.

And about 300 more. I want to know yours.

You know there’s always a good story behind a song of faith. That’s why hymns carry the weight of our sorrow and joy, our distress and our pleasure.

When you understand the story leading up to it, a song means that much more. The song we just heard, Zechariah’s Song, is one example. His is a hymn for the Canon of Faith.

• He sung and chanted it after being mute for nine months.
• He thundered and shouted it so the people of God might be ready “to serve the Lord without fear.”
• He prophesied and cried it because after 400 years of God’s silence; four centuries of muteness; God spoke to Israel that the Messiah was indeed coming to give light to the darkness and to guide the people’s feet in the way of peace.
• Like a two-year-old in the darkness, God offered a hand in the darkness; provided compassion; held out mercy.

Can you imagine?

It’s as if Zechariah has been pregnant too. Nothing can contain him. Nothing gets in the way of his sheer exuberance. Nine months of being quiet. Nine months of listening. Nine months of learning a new song.

And what’s birthed is Zechariah’s unleashed joy.

It’s a wild thing.
It’s a thing of beauty.
It’s a heart thing.
It’s a merciful thing.
A Savior thing.
It’s a Marvin Gaye thing: O Mercy, Mercy Me!
Things aren’t what they used to be.

Through this hymn our stage is now set for Advent.

It’s Advent’s Advent. The players are in place: an elderly priest, his spouse Elizabeth, her cousin Mary – a teenager, two babies, the one born is John the Baptist; the other baby – well the other we’ll have to wait and see.

But John, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
And he will go before the Lord to prepare the Lord’s ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to the Lord’s people
by the forgiveness of their sins.

The poet Wendell Berry says it best:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. (4)

You see this is where Zechariah’s boy will take us.
John is born for the place of wild things.

With a deep breath,
and with his mother’s faith,
and his father’s song,
John walks us into the wild things.
He prepares us for God’s mercy.

And you know what I mean about God’s mercy.
Because sometimes, you and I,
are like that two-year-old in the dark,
and God is our mother,
present in the darkness,
enfolding us in compassion,
swaddling our fear,
enveloping us in mercy.

Thanks be to God.

(1) Anne Lamott. Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year. New York: Anchor Books, 1993.
(2) John Buchanan. Sermon, “Keep Calm and Carry On. December 6, 2009, Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago, fourthchurch.org.
(3) John Buchanan gives thanks to Mark Ramsey for this story, which he quotes in “Belonging,” Journal for Preachers, Advent 2009.
(4) Wendell Berry, “The Peace of Wild Things” from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry. Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint Press, 1998.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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