Matthew 4:23-5:3
David A. Davis
February 2, 2020
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Before Jesus went up the mountain, before he gathered the disciples in a bit closer, before he sat down as a rabbi, as a teacher, in a Moses-like fashion of giving out the ways of God, before Jesus launched into the Beatitudes, “Jesus went throughout Galilee teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people….They brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains, demoniacs, epileptics, and paralytics, and he cured them.” The gospel writer seems to be telling us they brought it all to him. They brought all there was that tore at the fabric of humanity’s health and well-being; all there was that defined human suffering. From Galilee, Syria, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and beyond the Jordan. The crowds came from every direction. They came from everywhere. Humanity was surrounding Jesus and they brought with them more than enough evidence of their suffering in body and in soul.

“When Jesus saw the crowds” is how the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew starts. But the crowds would not have been a surprise to him, they were following him everywhere. It’s not a new crowd. It’s the same crowd. In the 9^th chapter, Matthew tells that “When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (9:36). In chapter 14 just before the feeding of the five thousand, Matthew reports that Jesus set out on the Sea of Galilee to find a deserted place for himself. But the crowds followed him along the shore. “When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick” (14:14). Here as Jesus heads up the mountain to begin the Sermon on the Mount, it must not be the size of the crowd that motivated him. No, when Jesus saw the crowds, when Jesus found himself full immersed not in the Jordan River but in the human condition, in humanity’s plight, when Jesus found himself up to his eyeballs in all that it meant to be human, when Jesus was so surrounded by the flesh, he went up the mountain and sat down. “His disciples came to him. Then he began to speak and taught them.
Blessed. Blessed. Jesus sat down with everything of what it means to be human spread at his feet and he said “blessed”. I have been thinking about “blessed” for a few weeks now. Last week during the Time with the Children, I borrowed the refrain from the children’s book “Guess How Much I Love You”. I shared with the kids that theses Beatitudes were like Jesus saying over and over again “I love you to the moon and back”. Jesus saying to the poor in spirit, to those who mourn, to the meek, to those who hunger and thirst for what is right, to the merciful, to the pure in heart, to those who work for peace, to those who get in trouble for doing the right thing, Jesus saying “I love you to the moon and back”. Jesus proclaiming a love that goes with them. A love that has a future. A never-ending love. But I started thinking about “blessed” back a few weeks ago when Toure Marshall preached his sermon from this pulpit on “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.” His sermon inspired me to preach each week in February on each of the first four Beatitudes.

Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. I found another preacher to be really helpful on the question of “blessed”. Nadia Bolz Weber puts it this way; “What if the beatitudes aren’t about a list of conditions we should try to meet to be blessed. What if these are not virtues we should aspire to. What if Jesus saying blessed are the meek is not instructive- what if it’s performative?… meaning the pronouncement of blessing is actually what confers the blessing itself? Maybe the sermon on the mount is all about Jesus ‘ seemingly lavishing blessing on the world around him especially that which society doesn’t seem to have much time for, people in pain, people who work for peace instead of profit, people who exercise mercy instead of vengeance. So maybe Jesus is actually just blessing people, especially the people who never seem to receive blessings otherwise. I mean, come on, doesn’t that sound like something Jesus would do?” the preacher asks. “Extravagantly throwing around blessings as though they grow on trees”

Blessed in the performative. Because in that very moment, the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, something of the presence of God poured out on humanity. The wind of the Spirit blew. The breath of God wafted over that crowd. Yes, the Sermon on the Mount is the Great Instruction. Yes, the new Moses is speaking the Law with all of that mountaintop authority that Matthew can muster. Yes, Matthew’s Jesus is the Rabbi who embodies the breadth and depth of the tradition of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob. But here is Jesus, God’s son, our Savior, as in “She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins”, as in “This is my beloved Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased”, as in “I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here for he has been raised.” Here is Jesus, God’s Son, our Savior being surrounded by the breadth of our humanity and the very depth of our humanity, and he breathes blessedness. He speaks grace.

There on the mountain above the sea with the timeless sea of humanity spread before him as far as any eye could see, Jesus speaks first of the poor in spirit. It is not a reference to those who lack the Holy Spirit. Nor is it intended to point to any who may be underperforming in the spiritual disciplines and practices of the faith. The poor in spirit. It is not about those who forget to fit prayer into the craziness of the day and the weariness of the night, or those who wear a false sense of piety that is as obvious as a fake suntan in February. The poor in spirit. It is also not Jesus in Matthew trying to help all of us who have so much feel better about Luke’s version of these blessings where Jesus just flat out says “blessed are the poor”, period.

Poor in spirit. You know when the Rabbi goes up the mountain, he is going to draw on the language of the law, the psalmist and the prophets. “For you have no delight in sacrifice, O God; if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God you will not despise.” (Psalm 51:17) The prophet Isaiah, the very last part of the reading offered in your hearing earlier, from the 66^th chapter: “But this is the one to whom I will look, to the humble and contrite in spirit, who trembles at my word.” (v2) A broken, humble, contrite spirit. Those who tremble at God’s word. Poor in spirit.

Poor in spirit. Far from being those who live in fear of the divine or who become obsessed with invoking God’s wrath or who pursue a major in God’s judgement or find themselves motivated by the avoidance of some concept of eternal damnation, the poor in spirit have come face to face with the frailty of life. They have no words to describe the overwhelming contrast between elected officials working so hard to show little more than their bitter partisanship, their loyalty to one another and themselves and the heartbreaking deaths of nine people including three children killed in a helicopter crash next to a Presbyterian Church in California.  All of them gone in what the Apostle Paul called “the twinkling of an eye”. The poor in spirit are those who have learned along the way to affirm with the psalmist that “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” (Ps. 46) They have found themselves praying along with the psalmist “For God alone my soul waits in silence… God alone is my rock and my salvation” (Ps. 62) Or “Hope in God; for I shall again praise God, my help and my God.” (Ps. 42).

          Poor in spirit. Yearning to hear again of God’s grace. Desperate for God’s comfort. Crying out for God’s strength. Watching one’s own visions of independence and strength and power be shattered over and over again. Learning to heave a heavy sigh when someone else tries to tell of pulling up your own bootstraps or brags about looking out for number one or goes on and on about being a self-made woman or man. Learning the hard way that when it comes to faith and purpose and meaning, you can’t buy it. You can’t earn it. You can’t acquire it. You can’t conquer it. And you certainly don’t deserve it. Discovering over and over again that salvation doesn’t come by birthright, or by might, or by the power of a nation, or the accumulation of wealth. It comes only by the hand of God.

It is, as Nadia Bolz Weber puts it, “being all too aware that it’s not your strength and virtue that qualify you to be called a saint, but your need for a God who makes beautiful things out of dust.” It is wrestling with the thought once shared by George Buttrick, “that if God stopped breathing, we would all vanish.” It is coming to understand what Paul Tillich meant by being “struck by grace” after the “longed for perfection of life does not appear.”  It is agreeing with Peter Gomes who once preached “every Pilgrim knows that our best days are ahead of us and not behind us…and it is indeed the case that the Lord has not brought us this far to abandon us in the wilderness of our despair and disappointment.” It is knowing in your heart that Reinhold Niebuhr was spot on when he wrote that “privilege and power tend to corrupt the simple Christian heart”.

The poor in spirit. It is those who have been knocked down a peg or two when it comes to what you know and what you think and that innate urge to be right all the time. It is those who have learned that term “surrender” speaks volumes when it comes to your place before God, your place there on that mountain, your place in that crowd, your place at the feet of the One who sits upon the throne and breathes grace into the world…still.

The poor in spirit have come to know they have a place at this table. They crave a place at this table. For on that night when Jesus found himself once again immersed in the mystery of our salvation, when he found himself up to his eyeballs in all that it means to be human, when he was so surrounded by the flesh and confronted by even his own humanity, Jesus took bread and he broke it and he gave it to them and he said, “Take, eat, this is my body broken for you.”

At table with the Word made flesh. The poor in spirit are those who sit at table in the kingdom of heaven surrounded by such a great cloud of witness, preparing to share in the body of Christ broken for you and the blood of Christ shed for you, and all you can say, all you can really say is “Lord have mercy on me”.

And all you can hear in the response of the Savior, all you can really hear is…

Blessed.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

 

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Matthew 4:12-23
Cynthia Jarvis
January 26, 2020
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While Matthew had messianic geography in mind when he prefaced the beginning of Jesus’ ministry with his own translation of Isaiah’s ninth chapter, on this third Sunday after Epiphany I am thinking about those who were sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death when Jesus began his ministry. In particular, I imagine Peter and Andrew literally sitting in dark all night long, casting nets from the shore. I imagine James and John and Zebedee in the middle of the night and the sea, dragging and then hauling nets up into their boats, six, seven, eight times between dusk and dawn. But I also I imagine these fishermen sitting in the shadow of death that was, according to First Isaiah, the Assyrian Empire, before it was the Babylonian Empire, before it was Rome. I imagine these men who resided in the region of death paying tithes, taxes, tolls, rents, and tribute to benefit Herod Antipas with little left for their families to live on. Fishing in the dark.

If you google “Fishing, First Century, Sea of Galilee,” you learn that in the light of day fish could see and so swim around linen nets. In the dark? The nets were invisible, the fish completely vulnerable. But to tell you the truth, it was not google that first caused me to assume these men in Matthew were fishing in the dark. It was Luke’s greatly expanded version of Mark’s and Matthew’s story. “Master, we have worked all night long and have caught nothing,” Peter said to Jesus when, at dawn, Jesus told Peter to “put out into the deep water” and let the nets down one more time. In spite of his well-founded doubts, Peter did. The haul was astonishing, even in the light of day. Why? Because Peter obeyed Jesus’ command, say most of the commentaries. But with Matthew’s translation of Isaiah’s ninth in the back of my mind, I hear Jesus’ command and think, even and especially in this present-darkness-that-we-mistake-for-the-light-of-day, I think that any fisher person worth her salt would do well to quit the shore, dare the depths, venture into the valley of the shadow of death, where those most vulnerable to being caught by love dwell. Fishing in the dark.

On any given Sunday, most of us who mount a pulpit are fishing in the dark for you, for ourselves, for God. Take this morning, for instance. Lost on the sea or in the sea after a week when the nation remembered a death camp’s liberation in Auschwitz as well as the birth of Martin Luther King, Jr., marched for women’s rights and against abortion, tried a President without witnesses and witnessed the trying divisions, the unbridgeable gulf between our divergent truths, you and I sit in the shadow of death no less than Peter and Andrew, James and John. “The nation is sick,” another preacher said to a congregation the night before he was shot and killed in Memphis. “Trouble is in the land. Confusion all around…But I know,” Dr. King insisted “I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.” Fishing in the dark.
And another preacher, I can hear his thick Brooklyn accent even now, Father Flynn said to a darkened theater audience become congregation in John Patrick Shanley’s Pulitzer Prize winning play Doubt, “I want to tell you a story. A cargo ship sank and all her crew was drowned. Only this one sailor survived. He made a raft of some spars and being of a nautical discipline, turned his eyes to the Heavens and read the stars [“only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars”]. He set a course for his home, and, exhausted, fell asleep. Clouds rolled in and blanketed the sky.

“For the next twenty nights, as he floated on the vast ocean, he could no longer see the stars. He thought he was on course but there was no way to be certain. As the days rolled on, and he wasted away with fevers, thirst and starvation, he began to have doubts. Had he set his course right? Was he still going on towards home? Or was he horribly lost and doomed to a terrible death? No way to know. The message of the constellations—had he imagined it because of his desperate circumstance? Or had he seen Truth once and now had to hold on to it without further reassurance?”

We are that sailor, Father Flynn means to tell us, adrift on the ocean beneath a cloud-covered sky, the course once set but now obscured. Be that course the Constitution by which we plotted our life as a nation, the Civil Rights Act by which we set out to repair the breach, the biblical narrative by which we once traced God’s purposes over our frantic days and fearful nights, now we are adrift beneath a cloud-covered sky. We sit in darkness. This is our human condition. “…away from God, in a far country…a pilgrim,” the old theologians say. Or as Father Flynn explains: we are “the lone man, the lone woman, stricken by a private calamity. ‘No one knows I’m sick. No one knows I’ve lost my last real friend. No one knows I’ve done something wrong.’ …Something has happened, you have to carry it, and it’s incommunicable. And when such a person, as they must, howls to the sky, to God: ‘Help me!’ What if no answer comes?” Immortal, invisible, God only wise. In light inaccessible, hid from our eyes. Fishing in the dark.

But according to Matthew, an answer has come. Jesus the Messiah. I imagine Matthew fishing in the dark as he writes of the light that shines in the darkness to a fledgling community of Christians. Matthew wrote his Gospel after the first Jewish revolt against Rome, and after the destruction of the temple–of God’s dwelling place on earth, when the question was God’s absence God’s silence. So he picks up the story where Isaiah left off, telling his Jewish Christians readers that God has joined them beneath the cloud-covered sky in the person of Jesus Christ. In him, Matthew says through the story he tells, God has come to accompany them as they walk in darkness, and to abide with them as they sit in the shadow of death. He reminds the nascent church that Jesus made his home, and so must they, among the lost, the most vulnerable, peasants and fishermen, the ruled and not the rulers, the powerless and not the politicians. In the land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan God in Christ came to seek those who are stuck in darkness, those who are resigned to living out their days in the region and shadow of death. Peter and Andrew, James and John follow, to be sure. But soon the diseased and the sick, the demoniacs, epileptics and paralytics are caught in the net of his love that was now theirs to cast as Christ’s church.

Twenty centuries later, we too are being fished for in the dark by Matthew’s Gospel and, as we hear God’s call in Christ to follow, we become the community of faith sent out to fish in the dark still: at the borders where children languish in cages, in prisons where brown and black citizens disproportionately dwell, down city streets where death keeps God’s children in the crosshairs of too many guns, on the battlefield where the young fight the battles of their elders.

But how beneath a cloud-covered sky do we know that the light is God’s light and the call God’s voice? I think we first hear of the light, not unlike Matthew first heard of the light in the words of the prophets. A parent, a teacher, a community of faith tells us the story that becomes the distant constellation by which we set the course of our life. On calm seas and under cloudless skies, the story and the constellation are enough. But then there are seasons when even sitting in a pew is like sitting in darkness given the downward turn of our personal life—a failure, a loss, a betrayal, an illness, a death; or given the shipwreck that our common life has become, stars hidden night after endless night by clouds of bigotry that make us fearful, clouds of pollution that leave us hopeless, clouds of injustice that strengthen death’s hold on us all. So we begin to doubt. “Have we set our course right? Are we still going on towards home? Or are we horribly lost and doomed to a terrible death? …The message of the constellations—have we imagined it because of our desperate circumstance? Or have we seen Truth once and now have only to hold on to it without further reassurance?” Fishing in the dark.

“As we now consider the Saviour’s coming into our own midst,” says another preacher to a congregation sitting in the dark that is the Prison of Basel on Christmas Eve, “What kind of a place in our life [does he come]? Do not suggest some presumably noble, beautiful or at least decent compartment of your life and work…Not so, my friends! The place where the Saviour enters in,” Karl Barth says, “…is the depth, even the abyss. Down below, we are, without exception…only poor beggars, lost sinners, moaning creatures on the threshold of death, only people who have lost their way….In this dark place he [comes to us].” Jesus, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, in the sanctuary at 61 Nassau Street. Jesus is fishing in the dark. For you. For me.

The light that he is, according to Matthew, is no longer the light of a distant constellation but the light that has come near, so that there will be no darkness, not even the darkness of the grave, where God is not with us. The first word he invariably speaks, with the authority only love can command, is “Repent.” That is, turn away from the shadows of death-dealing men who have destined you for the grave, and turn toward what can only be described as light enough to take the first step, a step that leads to the love for which you were made. We cannot manage the turn on our own, mostly because, even though it is killing us, we have come to prefer the darkness we know. Prefer fishing in the dark.

So maybe it is more truthful to say that now and again, when the light-that-Christ-is comes toward us, especially after a long night of fishing, when all that we have caught amounts to nothing much, something in us—perhaps God’s grace in the guise of indigestion or insomnia—something in us surrenders just enough to let ourselves be dragged out of bed and into the net of his love–along with poor beggars, lost sinners, moaning creatures on the threshold of death, people who have lost their way—all of us flip flopping together at dawn on the deck of this boat called the church that is momentarily headed out for another week, Christ’s light on the bow, to fish together for people who sit in darkness. Thanks be to God.

 

 

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Psalm 40
David A. Davis
January 19, 2020
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Here in Psalm 40, the psalmist echoes the teaching, the wisdom of Psalm 1. “Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked or take the path that sinners tread or sit in the seat of scoffers.” (Ps 1) “Happy are those who make the Lord their trust, who do not turn to the proud, to those who go astray after false gods.” (Ps 40). Here in Psalm 40, the psalmist sounds something like the prophet Amos. “Sacrifice and offering you do not desire but you have given me an open ear. Burnt offering and sin offering you have not required” (Ps 40). “I hate I despise your festivals and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies/ Even though you offer me your burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them.” (Amos 5).

Here in Psalm 40, the psalmist sounds a bit like the Apostle Paul. “[Christ] has strengthened me, because he judged me faithful and appointed me to his service, even though I was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost” (I Tim).  “Do not, O Lord, withhold your mercy from me; let your steadfast love and your faithfulness keep me safe forever. For evils have encompassed me without number; my iniquities have overtaken me until I cannot see; they are more the hairs on my head” (Ps 40).

            In Psalm 40, the psalmist almost sounds like a preacher.  “I have told the glad news of deliverance in the great congregation; see, I have not restrained my lips, as you know, O Lord. I have not hidden your saving help within my heart, I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation; I have not concealed your steadfast love and your faithfulness from the great congregation” (Ps 40).

            Teacher. Prophet. Sinner. Preacher. But the more you read it, Psalm 40, when you read it over and over again, Psalm 40, when you read it from start it finish? It sounds more and more like every one of us. At least everyone one of us, at some point in life.

“I have waited and waited and waited for God to hear my cry. For God to pay attention to my prayer. And God heard. God finally picked me up from the lowest of points, from what felt like a foggy chaos. God lifted me. God really lifted me. I could sing again. I could open my mouth when people around me were singing the hymns. More and more people, sensing the presence and mystery of God in their lives.

Blessed. Blessed are those who put their lives in the hands and heart of God rather than the allure of wealth and power and victory and all stuff. All the idols shaped by the world. The more I ponder your grace, God, the more wondrous your work, your love, your faithfulness for us becomes. It’s not science. It’s not math. It’s not argument. It’s life. And when it comes to life nothing compares to you. Actually, at the end of the day, trying to find the words, trying explain, trying shout from the rooftop about you, it’s never enough. Not enough words. Never enough.

Here’s the wonder…it’s never about what I do for you. It’s not about how religious or pious I can be. You just have me in the book. You have me in the book of life. You have me by name. You have me. Here I am Lord! That’s all. That simple. And you become the purpose of my life. My heart is full of the wonders of your love.

I tell the good news. I live the good news. I tell of what you mean to me to whoever wants to hear, to hear more. I don’t hold back. I don’t hide what you have done for me, what you mean to me. I don’t hide the goodness of your love nor the power of your faithfulness with my words or with how I live my life.

But don’t stop loving me God. Don’t hold back your mercy, God. Oh no! Your love and steadfast presence in my life is what I depend on; what I hold onto. It’s what grounds me. For the sinfulness of my life never stops. I never get it right. My own worldliness, my own frailties, my own shortcomings. They’re all me. That’s me. It’s me. And sometimes I am just plain blind to it. Blind to my sinfulness, my selfishness, and how far I have wandered from your ways. It feels like the bad far outweighs the good in me. And the guilt and shame add up to a number greater than the hairs on my head. The weight of my unworthiness takes the zip out of my step, the joy out of my heart.

And right about then, O Lord. Just then God, come and help me. Come help me right away. Let those who try to eat at my soul bit by bit and take it down the dark pit of hatred be ashamed. Those who actually enjoy seeing me miserable, those who with a smile on their face wouldn’t mind stepping on mine, those who think this life is a game of everyone just for themselves, them be shouted down, embarrassed, turned away.

But may all who seek you, who turn to you, may they know joy and have a reason to sing. May those who know you in their lives, who know you are all of life, who experience you and the fullness of life the same breath, may they say in one voice over and over again, “Great is our God!

But as for me, Lord? When it comes to me? Well Lord, I’m still just me. I’m a hot mess. But God is God. The Lord is the Lord. I am is I am. And you are still my God. My help. My deliverer. My life. And I my life is at its lowest, when my days are the toughest and my nights the longest, when my heart is broken, you are still my God. My help. My deliver. My life. And in those moments, at those times, my life still reveals your love. Some days it feels like you are all I have, Lord.

Don’t wait to long. Don’t take you time. Don’t delay.

O my God! Help me, now. Right now.

Lift me up. Lift me up again. Lift me up again and again and again.

 

 

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Matthew 5:8
Touré Marshall
January 12, 2020
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Matthew 2:1-12
Lauren J. McFeaters
January 5, 2020
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In some ways it’s not fair.

It’s not fair for the Wise Men to arrive early.

It’s not fair for them to arrive on Christmas Eve. The Wise Men travel farther than anyone, so when they finally arrive on the scene, scripture tells us they completely miss the angels and shepherds, the straw and manger.

But like every Christmas Pageant that ever was, they can’t be kept out. They get to make their dramatic entrance as they float down the aisle: walking like brides with that step and a half, step and a half; wearing Pageant finery, sporting lopsided crowns, carrying in outstretched hands, presents for the baby Jesus; presents in glass bottles that once contained aftershave and perfume, or an old cigar box covered in gold paper.

And in every single Christmas season we await their arrival, so the tableau is complete. Christmas is here. Bethlehem can rest. Final pause, long beat, and cut! That’s a wrap!

But just when the Wise Men have been reduced to pointy hats and empty bottles of cologne; just when the church is ready to pack up the candles and the Advent Wreath, we receive a this story from Matthew for the 12^th Day of Christmas.

Who are these Wise Men? Magi is the Greek word used to identify Babylonian and Zoroastrian astrologers. And only in Matthew’s Gospel do these stargazers play a role. We know them as traveling ambassadors, literate political figures, emissaries from the courts of the East.^[i] But so much of it we get wrong.

Scripture never calls them Kings. Scripture doesn’t say there are three. It’s only from oral tradition, and not scripture, that we associate their names and countries: Balthasar from Arabia, Caspar from India, and Melchior from Persia.

We don’t even know that they were men. Because, come on, you know the old joke – I just have to say it again: “Three Wise Women would have asked directions, arrived on time, helped deliver the baby, swept the stable, made a casserole, and brought practical gifts.”

Whatever their number or identity, most important to our Gospel lesson is that the Wise Ones are Gentiles. The very first seekers to find Jesus are those outside of the covenant; from countries across the border and outside the Empire. All people will see it together.

Yet for all their wisdom, they’re not mind readers. They 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’ve not understood the likes of Herod.^[ii]

In his poem, “Journey of the Magi,” T.S. Eliot paints for us a picture of the Wise Men, very unlike the ones we’ve come to know through our pageants and nativities. Eliot writes this in the voice of a Magi:

‘A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of year for a journey,

and such a long journey:

the ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.’

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down,

This set down. This: 

 

Were we led all that way for Birth or Death?

There was Birth, certainly, we had evidence and no doubt.

I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different… ^[iii]

 

I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different…

 

Eliot has it right. There is perhaps no other biblical narrative that sets before us both the joys of birth and the terrors of death; the delights of a new hope and the despair of the crucifixion to come.

 

“Birth or Death? I had seen birth and death

but had thought they were different.”

 

A harsh reality for the Christmas season when what we want most is to surround ourselves with family and friends, to keep our children safe; to keep our loved ones healthy, to keep those lights up, at least one more week.

But if we pay attention and look closely, tucked into countess nativities and pageants; right there, laid before us, as the Magi stretch out their gifts, lies the true present himself: that baby is our Priest and our Salvation.

And like it or not, Christmas or not, he takes our hand, won’t let us stay at the stable, leads us into a very grown-up world where faith is tested, and injustice must be faced down with a maturity, and the corruption of the humankind must not be allowed to corrupt our souls.

And so we follow. Due north, up the road, over the hill to where he demands our trust, our faithfulness, our devotion, and our honor.

It’s a sobering message, this Epiphany. There’s no respite for the Christian. There never is. There never will be. Because the Christian life is not birthed in sweet gentleness. It’s exhilarating and stirring – Yes. Absolutely. Sweet and mild – No. Never.

And then I look at this table.

And I don’t know what to say.

Because sometimes it’s too much. Too much Taste; Too much Goodness; Too much Truth; Too much Love. God’s Gift spread out before us. The body broken. The blood poured out.

But here’s the thing. Here’s the Taste of it; the Goodness of it; the Truth of it; the Love and Sacrament of it: In the face of death and all the dark nights of our souls; in the face of any Herod the world can produce; ^[iv] we belong, not to ourselves, but to the Present, the Gift.

In the face of death and all the dark nights of our souls; in the face of any Herod the world can produce; we belong, not to ourselves, but to Him.

 

ENDNOTES

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

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

[iii] T. S. Eliot. The Complete Poems and Plays: 1909-1950. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1971, 68-69.

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

 

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Luke 2:22-32
Lauren J. McFeaters
December 29, 2019
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Salvation dawns at the darnest times.

Thirty-five years ago I was standing in the in the Laughlin Funeral Home on Washington Road in Mt. Lebanon, Pennsylvania. I was trying to look grown up; trying to look, at 23 years old, that I was handling my grief; trying to be calm by talking in hushed tones with family and friends; trying not to faint at the considerable scent of roses.

The most overwhelming presence at the funeral home was my dad who was laid out in a casket, surrounded by flowers and dressed in the gray suit and red tie I had delivered to the funeral home the day before.

It was surreal; only three months before we had celebrated Advent and Christmas. He had been sick with cancer of the pancreas for only a number of weeks and here we were at the family funeral home. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.

And it was exactly at that instant; that very moment that my friend Melanie walked through the door. Melanie Brown. My dear, dear friend who I knew was traveling during a break from medical school, had turned around from her trip, driven to Pittsburgh, and walked straight into that funeral home, arms outstretched, tears on her cheeks; wrapping me in her compassion.

And the darndest thing happened. I was wrapped, through her arms, in God’s salvation. As she threw her arms around me I was rescued, saved, recovered.

Have you felt it too?  In a time of great need to be drawn in by a friend. It’s an experience of the holy. “Surely God is my salvation.”

I have got to believe that this is, in part, how God saves us. God comes. God incarnates. God steps out and stands with us in awkward places at awful times. God answers our song of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” in ways so utterly unexpected.[i]

 Salvation dawns at the darnest times.

At the center of our lesson from Luke stands Simeon and Anna:  faithful, constant, trustworthy; their advent preparation was decades long. So when Mary and Joseph bring their tiny infant to the temple, can’t you see them giving them a double take? I find it hard to believe Simeon and Anna were expecting salvation to come in the form of two parents and an infant.

Do you see the elderly faithful cradling a baby in their arms? They are giddy and chortling; rummy eyes spill over with tears; achy bones creak out a blissful beat. The Messiah is here, and they can’t stand still.[ii]

It’s not as if Simeon and Anna were waiting passively to see God’s salvation. It’s not as if the Temple was a darkened theater, and they waited casually for the movie to begin.

 

Their waiting for God is a preparation for an honored guest and there is much to be done:  every sweep of the broom, every pressing of the dough, every stirring of the pot; every setting of the table is in anticipation of the God’s salvation.^[iii]

Arms outstretched, cheeks warm, Simeon and Anna take turns holding that baby; burying their noses in the crook of Jesus neck; taking in the aroma of life; the scent of hope. Who knew salvation would smell like a baby.

In ways we can hardly understand we have persons of all ages entrusted to our arms. When we stand with a child, a youth, and adult to the font, we are holding salvation’s promises from the One who holds us. Whether we are parents or not, grandparents or not, aunts, uncles, cousins or not, each time someone comes to this font we make promises, all of us, to hold this child, to raise this youth, to guide this adult – in the love of God and with the stories of Jesus. Our prayer is that they grow strong; that they live in wisdom; that they will serve God all their days. [iv]

It’s Christmas and God puts Jesus in our arms.

Arms outstretched we lift him close and inhale the sweet, sweet scent of salvation. We kiss him with carols. We cradle him with prayers. We hold him with trembles.

 Salvation dawns at the darnest times.

Ninety-one years ago Dietrich Bonhoeffer preached an Advent sermon. It was still years before his arrest and death at the hands of Nazi soldiers, but in the Advent of 1928 he preached this:

“It is very remarkable, that we face the thought, that God is coming so calmly at Christmas. Whereas previous peoples trembled at the day of God, we have become so accustomed to the idea of God’s coming so peacefully that we no longer feel the shiver of fear that God’s coming should arouse in us.

We are indifferent to the message, taking only the pleasant and agreeable out of it and forgetting the serious aspect that the God of the world draws near to the people of our little earth and lays claim to us.

The coming of God is truly not only glad tidings, but first of all, frightening news for everyone who has a conscience.

Only when we have felt the terror of the matter, can we recognize the incomparable kindness: God comes into the very midst of evil and death, war and malevolence, and judges the evil in us and in the world. And by judging us, God cleanses and sanctifies us, comes to us with grace and love.” [v]

Beverly Gaventa puts it this way; at Advent something is afoot in God’s world. There is a terrible, hopeful newness about life: terrible because it promises to overthrow all our old, comfortable, sinful ways; and hopeful for the very same reason. [vi]

Simeon and Anna knew this; that the coming of God is truly not only glad tidings, but first of all frightening news and so they worked and worshipped in the temple; performing acts of justice and prayer.

And while they waited they defied the darkness by serving God. In their waiting they are surprised to find salvation in the form of two parents and a baby. [vii]

Salvation dawns at the darnest times and like Simeon and Anna we are often surprised by our Saving Lord.

As we wait by the bedside of a friend who is ill, we suddenly hear with new ears, “Christ was born for this.”

As we try to keep calm at news of, yet another wave of tragedy and violence, we unexpectedly hear with new ears, “Christ was born to save.”

As we try with all our might to keep our children out of harm’s way and healthy in mind and spirit we surprisingly hear “Christ is born today.”

As we are subsumed by grief and sorrow, heartache and sadness, our Lord comes to us with arms outstretched, tears on his cheeks; wrapping us in his compassion.

Our hearts say in response, “Surely you are my salvation. Surely you are – my salvation.

Thanks be to God.

 

 

ENDNOTES

[i]  My thanks to Scott Black Johnson and his sermon that reminded me of this moment from April 1985. “Save Us” (Mark 11). Day 1, Atlanta, Georgia:  The Alliance for Christian Media, April 5, 2009.

[ii]  John Stendahl. “Holding Promise” (Luke 2:22-40). The Christian Century, December 4, 2002, 17. Copyright by the Christian Century Foundation, 2002.

[iii]  Thomas G. Long, Something Is About to Happen: Sermons for Advent and Christmas. Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 1996, 48.

[iv] John Stendahl. 17.

[v]  Dietrich Bonheoffer, Geffrey B. Kelly, F. Burton Nelson. A Testament to Freedom:  The Essential Writings of Dietrich Bonheoffer. New York:  Harper Collins, 1995, 185-186. Thanks to the Rev. Christy Waltersdorff for this reference.

[vi]  Beverly Gaventa, B.C. Cousar, J.C. McCann, and J. D. Newsome. Texts for Preaching:  A Lectionary Commentary Based on the NRSV – Year C. Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 1994, 10.

[vii]  Thomas G. Long, 51.

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Luke 2:8-20
David A. Davis
December 15, 2019
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The tendency is to rush to the song. The song usually overwhelms the reading, dominates the scene, steals the show. Like the signature song of the Broadway play. Or the familiar hymn tune that finally comes in the Bach chorale in the cantata. Or when Billy Joel plays “Piano Man” at the concert. In the faith tradition, it’s the song that gets all the attention. Mary’s Song. The Magnificat. The tradition and the preaching and even more than a bit of the scholarship rush in Luke to the song. John leaps in Elizabeth’s womb as the tradition so easily leaps from “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word”  to “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

          To be fair, the account of Mary’s visit with Elizabeth is not Luke’s best storytelling. Zechariah’s visit from Gabriel has all kinds of details. Here in Luke, Gabriel is downright wordy for an angel in the visit with Mary. If there was an award for best pageant-like telling of the birth of Jesus in the gospels, Luke would win every time. But by Luke’s own standard, the account of Mary setting out and going with haste to visit her cousin is more than lacking in detail. It’s kind of frustrating for the reader. The reader has to work to figure out the time frame. The angel announced Elizabeth was in her sixth month of pregnancy. After the Magnificat, Luke reports that Mary remained about three months with Elizabeth. Other than that, Luke just drops his old “In those days” to establish a “when”. As to the setting, while Nazareth and Bethlehem have a place forever in history, Elizabeth’s home is in an unnamed Judean town in the hill country. The reader doesn’t know how long or how far the young pregnant woman walked to get there. While at the end of this gospel, after the resurrection, Luke tells the reader that Emmaus was about seven miles from Jerusalem. Luke is mum on the reason for Mary’s visit and leaves a preacher to only speculate the possibilities which could be many. None of them, of course, having any biblical support from Luke. Zechariah is not only speechless, he is now nowhere to be found. One commentator puts it this way. “Luke is not interested in answering [your questions]…Luke’s focus has already shifted from the mothers and fathers to the awaited babies.”

          When she arrived at the house, Mary greeted Elizabeth. At the sound of Mary’s voice, Luke tells that the child in Elizabeth’s womb “leaped”.  The same Holy Spirit that Gabriel promised would come upon Mary now filled Elizabeth. She exclaims, shouts, cries out in a loud voice. “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”  You can’t skip over Elizabeth’s proclamation to get to Mary’s song. Maybe Luke disappoints as a storyteller here. Or maybe Luke just doesn’t want you to miss what Elizabeth said. Forget the details. Pay attention to this!  Luke’s focus, Luke’s emphasis just before Mary’s song is how Elizabeth and baby John knew they were in the presence of holiness. How they sensed holiness.

Now for anyone here in the room who has ever been pregnant, I would like you to do me a favor. If you ever hear a preacher like me, if you ever hear a preacher who cannot possibly have any idea of what they are talking about when it comes to being pregnant, when you hear one of those preachers try to describe what that leap felt like for Elizabeth, please shout out right then and there in the middle of the sermon, “No, no, no. Oh no, you don’t.” A male preacher should never participate in, and way too many do, the ageless, unending practice of men trying to control and define a woman’s body.

The Greek word for “leaped” here in the text is not very common in the Bible. I don’t know if it was a common term used in Greek beyond the scripture in antiquity for the kick of a baby inside a mother’s womb. So, I texted a New Testament scholar. To give you a glimpse into how unique it is to be the pastor of this church next to Princeton Seminary: I texted yesterday morning. This time the scholar is Shane Berg. Within a half-hour or so, I had Shane’s response. The word is not used for a baby kicking in the ancient language. It more commonly refers to an animal leaping. I discovered the only other time Luke uses the word is in chapter 6 in the Sermon on the Plain. “Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is in heaven.” (6:22-23) Elizabeth told Mary that her baby leaped for joy within her at the sound of her voice. Not just a leap. A leap for joy. Luke doesn’t want you to miss what Elizabeth said to Mary. Pay attention to this!

“And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” My Lord. Elizabeth is the first one in Luke’s gospel to acknowledge the child’s authority. The first to express faith when it comes to the child, the first to make a confession of belief. A simple one; “My Lord”. But for Elizabeth, the holiness, being in the presence of holiness, was about more than the child. Luke’s focus might have shifted from the mothers and fathers to the awaited babies, but Elizabeth’s focus hasn’t. “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb… And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” Elizabeth still has a focus on Mary. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed is she who believed. Blessed is the fruit of your womb and Blessed are you who believed. Holiness comes as well in she who believed. Probably like everyone else, I have always assumed John’s leap was a kind of divinely inspired acknowledgment of the other baby. Of the child Jesus in Mary’s womb. A sort of high five from one womb to another. But the leap came in response to Mary’s voice. Maybe John was leaping for joy in Mary’s presence too, not just her child. Elizabeth and John’s mother-child fully embodied reaction and proclamation of joy in response to “My Lord” in Mary’s womb and to Mary herself; “she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”

Elizabeth and John sensing holiness. Elizabeth and John and the holy presence of God. Yes, in the child Jesus. Yes, in John’s leap of joy. Yes, in Mary’s extraordinary belief. Yes, in Elizabeth filled with the Holy Spirit. When it comes to the holiness of the presence of God you don’t always have to wait for the song, for the highlight, for the mountaintop, for the most memorable, for the most expected, for a moving Christmas Eve, for a joy-filled Easter morning. Many can give testimony to the presence of God in an extraordinary experience of life. Others have eyes to experience God’s presence in everyday encounters, unnamed places, and the beautifully ordinary belief of people like you.

I have probably told you before about the year my first congregation entered a “float” in the town’s Fireman’s Christmas Parade. That’s the parade where I said an opening prayer at the firehouse using a megaphone. The church youth group wanted to make a float with a live nativity on it. A church member had a flatbed trailer he was going to pull behind his big old pick up truck. We had a great time putting it all together on the Friday night before in the church parking lot. Great fellowship. All ages. Hot apple cider. Singing carols while we worked. Lots of joy and laughter to go around.  Sharing the story. Sharing the faith. A sign was made for the grill on the front of the truck that said, “A Blessed Christmas from the First Presbyterian Church”. An artificial tree was decorated in the bed of the truck with lights running off a small generator. The float on the flatbed was covered in some type of material intended to look like snow (which of course is so geographically accurate to Bethlehem). A cardboard barn that had been used as the set in a prior year’s children’s Christmas chancel drama was placed on the float. The expected characters were outfitted in costumes and practiced where they would stand or sit, piously arranged around a manger with a small baby doll Jesus asleep on the hay.

On Saturday night we all met in the IGA parking lot on the other side of town where the parade was to begin. It felt like 15 degrees outside and the wind was gusting. Our truck and float were all cued up and parents all arrived with animals, angels, the magi, and Mary and Joseph. In hindsight, it was not my best example of congregational risk management. Though there was an undecorated minivan with a few more adults from the church right in line traveling the parade route behind the Nativity. The parade launched and the rest of us made our way back to the church, as the bible says, by another way so we could wait and celebrate the floats arrival near the end of the parade.

About 30 minutes later when I first saw the First Presbyterian Church Float coming, I noticed that sign on the grill had fallen off. Then I could see that the Christmas Tree had blown down and was lying down still lit. At it all came closer, we could see that the cardboard barn was nowhere to found and the little baby doll Jesus lay in the manger all alone.  The entire cast of costumed children was in the minivan and in the cab of the truck. They were just too cold. The truck driver had this great big smile as he shared his cab with what looked like a great multitude of angels in there having a great time and happy to be warming up.

All of the parents tried not to laugh too hard. The scene looked far from holy. Someone said to me, “But Last night was great, wasn’t it?” Or in other words, the real live nativity of holiness and the presence of God was the night before in the church parking lot. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. Great fellowship. All ages. Hot apple cider. Singing carols while we worked. Lots of joy and laughter and belief to go around. Sharing the story. Sharing the faith. God’s presence in everyday encounters, unnamed places, and the beautifully ordinary belief of people like you.

Over the last few weeks, I have visited three of our church members who were each in a hospital bed at home in hospice care.  I looked in our database and added up the number of years they have been a part of this congregation’s life. 3 people. 195 years in this church. The three all sat on this side of the sanctuary.195 years of fellowship, discipleship, servanthood, worship, belief. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. At one point, I said the same thing to each one. “Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift his countenance upon you and give you peace.”  Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. As Jesus said to Thomas in the Gospel of John, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” God’s presence in ordinary experiences, the ordinary unnamed places, and the beautifully ordinary belief of people like you.

Almost every Sunday when we celebrate the Lord’s Supper here in the sanctuary, when we pray with the servers in my office prior to the service, I say “Holy God, in the power of your Holy Spirit and by Your grace, help us to know ourselves to be the hands and feet of Christ looking in the face of Christ in the face of those we serve.”  On the first Sunday of Advent, under the leadership of Lauren McFeaters and our deacons, we launched our new home communion ministry. Deacons and elders sent out to serve folks at home, in care facilities.  “Holy God, in the power of your Holy Spirit and by Your grace, help us to know ourselves to be the hands and feet of Christ looking in the face of Christ in the face of those we serve.” Last Tuesday, Nassau took communion to Stonebridge. This week to the Windrows. The hands and feet of Christ looking in the face of Christ in the face of those served.” Blessed. Blessed. Blessed.

Many can give testimony to the presence of God in an extraordinary experience of life. Others have eyes to experience God’s presence in everyday encounters, unnamed places, and the beautifully ordinary belief of people like you.

In the power of the Holy Spirit and by God’s grace, it is the gift of sensing holiness. The extraordinary presence of God in the ordinary places of our lives. Elizabeth and Mary and those two babies. You can’t skip over it.

You can’t skip over when it comes to sensing holiness.

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Luke 1:26-38
David A. Davis
December 8, 2019
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Listen to what the angel Gabriel says to Mary. Listen as if you are hearing one side of a phone conversation. Gabriel to Mary without Mary’s responses; without the narrators comments. “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you… Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end….The Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, you relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.”

            “You will name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end… The child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God…For nothing will be impossible with God.”  Jesus. Son of the Most High. Son of God. Throne of David. House of Jacob forever. And his kingdom will last forever. “For nothing will be impossible with God.”

            Just Tuesday night last, my wife Cathy and I went to Lincoln Center to hear a performance of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. As we waited for the artist to take the stage, we were a bit confused when, in addition to an absolutely stunning concert grand piano there were chairs arranged for what looked like a traditional string quartet. We knew that the piece was a work for piano. Sure enough, after the announcement about recordings and cell phones, the pianist and four string players came on. As it turned out there was a lecture on Bach’s Goldberg Variations prior to the playing of the Variations. The pianist gave the lecture and the strings were there to play particular melodies, demonstrate the base line which is the foundation of all 30 variations, and give examples of the intricacies of the canons that Bach wrote throughout. An early intermission came after the 30 minute lecture. The strings left the stage. When the pianist returned, he played for the next 70 minutes; all 30 variations and the two arias that come at the beginning and at the end.

I don’t think I have ever been better prepared and therefore better enjoyed a concert. The lecture was intended to help us to know how to listen, what to listen for. From what I learned, I could recognize the musical progressions of the base line throughout. It was as if one could better behold the wonder of Bach with having the ears to hear; having the ears just a tad tuned in. At the end of the brief lecture, the pianist used the first lines of the William Blake poem “To See A World” to describe the experience of listening to the Goldberg Variations.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

 

About an hour later, with the help of that lecture, I could hear his point.

For the reader of Luke’s gospel, the angel Gabriel’s words to Mary ought to serve as a whole lot more than the announcement of her conception. Because Luke is providing tips for what to listen for in the gospel that is to come. To isolate the voice of Gabriel is to hear a whole lot more than an annunciation of the birth of the baby Jesus. Luke, through the voice of the angel, gives a pre-concert lecture on how to read his gospel. It is the Angel Gabriel on how to listen to, better understand, and experience the birth, the life, the teaching, the suffering, the death, and the resurrection of Jesus. The Angel Gabriel tuning the ear of Luke’s reader. Trying to give a follower of Jesus an ear to hear. Enabling a disciple to be better prepared to experience the child Jesus, the Son of God.

Son of the Most High. Son of God. Throne of David. House of Jacob forever. And his kingdom will last forever. “For nothing will be impossible with God.”  Nothing will be impossible. Here’s a hot take for you: virgin birth is not nearly the most impossible part of the angel promise. Virgin birth, whether you believe in it or not, is not nearly the most striking and compelling part of this angel lecture on the promise and call of the coming Son of God.

It is the notion, the promise, that this child to be born of Mary would embody, give flesh to, fulfill the ultimate in the relationship between God and humanity. This child to be born of Mary would embody, give flesh to, fulfill God’s love. God’s love come all the way down in a way that could be seen and heard and touched and shown. This child to be born of Mary would embody, give flesh to, fulfill life on earth as God intends. A life defined by forgiveness, peacemaking, serving others, challenging the powerful, touching the outcast, and proclaiming, teaching, witness to the gospel way in the here and now. This child to be born of Mary would embody, give flesh to, fulfill God’s covenant with God’s people, God’s love for the world, God’s steadfast, saving grace. Nothing will be impossible. Son of the Most High. Son of God. Throne of David. House of Jacob forever. And his kingdom will last forever. Son of the Most High. Son of God. Throne of David. House of Jacob forever. And his kingdom will last forever. “For nothing will be impossible with God.”

A salvation made known not just in the ark of Mary’s womb but in the arc of the child’s  life. In this child’s mission to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and to proclaim release to the captives. This child’s example of a mountain top, all night long, garden of Gethsemane kind of prayer life. This child’s charge to go and do likewise when it comes to showing mercy. This child’s lesson about the joy that comes when the lost son comes home. This child’s eternal promise to the two next to him as they brutally hung on the cross to die; “Today, you will be with me in Paradise.”  The impossible part in the angel’s words?  It is the notion, the promise that this child to be born of Mary would embody, give flesh to, fulfill life as the Son of God. Mary’s holy encounter with the angel Gabriel; it’s not just an annunciation of a virgin birth. It’s the annunciation of God’s incarnation. With deepest apologies to William Blake. Not eternity in an hour but eternity in him. “You will name him Jesus”.

Over the years in pastoral ministry I have never kept count or catalogued the genuine theological questions I have been asked. By genuine I refer to the questions born out of a desire to grow in faith, a struggle to pair the complexities of life with faith, or the inevitable clash of  childhood faith and the challenge of finding God in the grown up world. Or to use a popular expression these days, questions that come with the necessity of an “adulting theology”.  Keeping track of those kind of questions as opposed to the questions intended to test me, or questions that reflect some sort of litmus test, or the questions intended to belittle faith or my life’s work. I never kept count of the genuine theological questions but if I did, my strong hunch is that questions about the bodily resurrection, “he descended into hell” in the Apostle’s Creed, and the Virgin birth would lead the way.

It has struck me this week that the tradition of the church, not just the Roman Catholic Church, but the tradition of the universal church; the theology, the preaching, the piety, the teaching of the church has so underlined, highlighted and been preoccupied with virgin birth here in these early verses in Luke that we miss Gabriel telling Mary so much more. So incredibly much more about the child Jesus! Gabriel telling Mary such mysterious, powerful, impossible things about her son. There is no way that Gabriel is talking just about his birth. He’s talking about his life and then some!

I began asking you to hear one side of the conversation. Here’s the other. Here’s Mary’s very brief side of the conversation. “How can this be, since I am a virgin?…. Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”  Just a few words from Mary. Not a whole lot more when you include the narrator. Right there, after the angel appeared and first called out to her. Luke tells “She was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort greeting this might be”.  Perplexed and pondered. Just like Mary’s response to the message of the shepherd’s message after the baby was born. Mary treasured all that the shepherds told her and pondered them in her heart. Perplexed. Pondered. But notice? See what’s missing. What’s not there for Mary? No fear. No fear! For goodness sakes, when the angel Gabriel appeared to the old man Zechariah, as some will remember from last week, he was terrified, and fear overwhelmed him. Yes, Gabriel says to the very young woman Mary, “Do not be afraid”. That’s how he was taught in angel school. That’s what angels always say.  A strict reading of Luke reveals no fear when it comes to Mary’s holy encounter with the angel. No fear with the greeting. No fear when told about conception. No fear with Son of the Most High. Son of God. Throne of David. House of Jacob. Kingdom forever.  To sense fear, to assume fear, to read in fear…. may be more about our fear than hers.

You have heard me say from this pulpit before, the opposite of faith is not doubt. It is fear. The opposite of faith is not doubt. It is fear. Way too many of those theological questioners over the years were drawing near to the conclusion that their doubts about the historicity of the virgin birth would get them voted off the island. But the angel’s brief lecture on how to read the Gospel that tells of the life and identity of the child Jesus is about such an impossible hope and promise of God’s unending love for humanity, for you, and for me. Such an impossible hope and promise of God’s intent for a kingdom of justice and righteousness and peace. Such an impossible hope and promise that one day, one day, one day, the wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and they will not hurt or destroy on all of God’s holy mountain, and the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord, and a little child shall lead them. Such an impossible hope and promise. “For nothing will be impossible with God.”

Therefore, my beloved, when it comes to the things of God, when it comes to the child Jesus, when it comes to the gospel that tells of his life and identity, when it comes to your life in God, when it comes to God’s love for you, when it comes to your wonders and your doubts about God and Jesus and the bible, when it comes to the hope and promise of you and me nestled forever in the heart of God, do not fear. And when you read about, hear about, watch a pastor/preacher/public Christian figure whose loud voice gives them a pulpit a whole lot bigger than this one, when you see someone try to invoke God and stoke fear at the same time, when you hear someone preying on fear and using God, when you come upon a message of God and fear all wrapped up, just stop, take a deep breath, and remember Mary. She was perplexed. She pondered. But she didn’t fear.

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