Acts 8:14-17
Rev. Karen Hernandez-Granzen
January 10, 2016
Baptism of the Lord

© 2016 Karen Hernandez-Granzen

Micah 5:2–5a
David A. Davis
December 20, 2015
Advent IV

Unlike our encounter with Zephaniah last week, there are few parts of the Book of Micah that are familiar to the ear.

For out of Zion shall go forth instruction and
the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between many peoples
and shall arbitrate between strong nations far away;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more. (4:2-3)

That sounds like Isaiah’s peaceable kingdom. It’s in Isaiah too. But also Micah.

With what shall I come before the Lord
and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before the Lord with burnt offerings,
with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
with then thousands of rivers of oil?
Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God. (6:6-8)

Ah, Micah! And, of course, the lesson for today. It’s what the Magi quoted to King Herod.

You, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who is to shepherd my people Israel. (MT 2:6, Micah 5:2)

One evening a long time ago, I opened our refrigerator with the intent of setting out some cheese and crackers. I opened the little door on the shelf where we always keep the cheese and grabbed a few different kinds. When I reached for the brie I made a rather shocking discovery. Someone had been eating the brie. But that’s not the surprising part. The family member who was scarfing the brie ate the cheese between the skin, the rind of the brie. The cheese on the pie-shaped slice of brie was mostly gone and the rind was hanging there like the ear flaps on a winter hat. I figure not everyone eats that part of the brie but it was an impressive, delicate operation to go for the cheese and leave the rind. It required a kind of surgical precision.

You and I have been listening to the church read the prophet Micah during Advent and Christmas forever — fourth Sunday of Advent, Lessons and Carols, a pageant here and there. Not just here at Nassau, but everywhere. Micah 5:2-5a. Notice the surgical precision in how the tradition reads Micah at Christmas. God’s promise delicately lifted out and then romanticized by the season. Like all the other minor prophets, Micah isn’t lacking when it comes to judgment and wrath. Some have called Micah the angriest of the prophets. But not at Christmas. “You, O Bethlehem… he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God… and he shall be the one of peace” (Micah 5:2-5a).

The liturgical editing of Micah is more than simply cherry-picking the messianic promise. If there is a “scroogie” listener among us this morning, or even a careful listener who likes to follow along in the pew Bible when the lesson is being read, or maybe just a typical worshiper gifted this morning with some extra curiosity, a basic question ought to arise. If the bulletin lists the end of the reading or if the lector announces the end of the reading as “5a,” inquiring minds ought to be wondering about “b.” For that matter, if a lesson like this is as expected and familiar as “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” and it starts at verse 2, just once, some time, some year, someone may want to ask about verse 1.

Sometimes this sort of snipping of a scripture lesson is because of transitions, or a rethinking of how the ancient counsels number chapter and verse. It’s not always a Thomas Jefferson-esque omitting of parts you don’t like. But here in Micah it smells of a Christmas tradition that takes the cheese and leaves the rind, opting for the messianic promise and leaving behind the bleak image of a nation and a king under siege.

Now you are walled around with a wall;
siege is laid against us;
with a rod they strike the ruler of Israel upon the cheek. (5:1)

If the Assyrians come into our land
and tread upon our soil,
we will raise against them seven shepherds
and eight installed as rulers.
They shall rule the land of Assyria with the sword
and the land of Nimrod with the drawn sword;
they shall rescue us from the Assyrians
if they come into our land
or tread within our border. (5b-6)

A people surrounded on all sides by the forces of destruction. A king who has been slapped in the face. And an acknowledgment that the most brutal and violent of enemies are on the doorstep and must be turned back by might. And in between is the promise of a great shepherd rising up who will nurture the people rather than exert power over them. A ruler who will bring security to the land and will be great to the ends of the earth. This shepherd, this ruler, shall be the one of peace. In Hebrew, shalom. Peace. Wholeness. Completeness. Prosperity. Safety. The prophet Micah: the bold promise of the one of peace smack in the middle of the very real threat of defeat, destruction, and death.

I was back in Princeton Cemetery this week standing with a family around an open grave. It is always colder in the cemetery and that day the wind was whipping at my back as I stood at the head of the casket looking across that open grave at a grieving husband and children and grandchildren. I read the Scripture that I pretty much always read: “Behold I tell you a mystery, we shall not all die but we will all be changed… Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O grave, is your sting?” The Apostle Paul, First Corinthians. It is one thing to read those verses here from this pulpit on Easter morning when there is no seat to be found and the trumpet sound is still bouncing off the wall. It’s quite another to read it to a handful of brokenhearted folks as the cold wind of death blows right in their face and they have to decide if they can believe it.

Micah’s promise of the coming one of peace. It’s one thing to read it up here on Christmas Eve about 30 minutes before “Silent Night.” It’s quite another to read it when you know someone, more than one, feels the world pressing in on all sides and is wondering if peace, this peace, the peace that passes all understanding, whether that peace is real. Micah’s promise. It is more than a perfectly read sound bite clipped and made tidy as all eyes look to a manger artfully placed in an array of Christmas flowers under a spotlight up in the front of the sanctuary. It is a bold declaration of hope best received when surrounded by the world’s darkness or life’s gloom or a wilderness despair. An audacious claim of wholeness best heard when relationships have been broken or when the body has been wearing out or when important parts of life seem to be falling into pieces all around.

This promised one of peace stands among us to feed our soul with the word of salvation and to calm our spirits with the assurance of his love. The one of peace guides us toward a kingdom of compassion and justice and calls us to a life of servanthood. The one of peace invites us to experience a security the world can never give and marks us with a grace that the world can never take. To be overwhelmed by humanity’s lust for violence and still have hope in a peace that can blanket the earth. To be upset by the rejections, the anxieties, the stress of the day, and still go to bed assured of the peace that will greet you in the morning. To be battered by the torrential messages that meaning is to be found in the perfect gift or that a new car speaks to the truth of the season or that the design of a Starbucks coffee cup is an insult to Jesus himself and still dare to believe in a peace that comes in doing justice and loving kindness and walking humbly with your God. Micah’s Advent promise. Micah 5:1-6

Fiddler on the Roof is back on Broadway. An article in the newspaper described how the current production begins and ends in a new way. The actor playing Tevye opens and closes the show in contemporary clothes, a person of today. The article called it a framing device; the familiar, traditional musical framed by two very brief contemporary scenes. Apparently the director had to work at convincing the original lyricist, who is still alive, about the framing. In explaining the framing device, the director said, “I’m not trying to change it. I’m just trying to heighten the experience. I can’t imagine starting in the traditional way — it never occurred to me. We have to ask questions about where we are now.”

Imagine how Micah might explain how his messianic promise is framed by the very real threat of defeat, destruction, and death. “I’m not trying to change the promise, just heighten the experience of it.” Then the whole chorus of the minor prophets turns to us and says in one voice, “You have to ask questions about where we are now.” Where you are now. Because whether you climb to the highest spot you can find and look out at the world or you retreat to the innermost part of your soul and examine your life, it can feel like you’re being surrounded on all sides by something other, everything other, than peace. It’s in those moments, on those days, during those nights, in that wilderness that that you have to cling to the promise of the Christ Child. Emmanuel. God with us. I am with you until the close of the age. My peace I give unto you. Not as the world gives, give I to you.

He shall be the one of peace.

© 2015, Property of Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Zephaniah 3:9-20
David A. Davis
December 13, 2015
Advent III

We can safely assume that with a few notable exceptions here among us this morning, most of us (including me) are not all that familiar with the Book of Zephaniah and its three chapters. I read to you the last twelve verses, the concluding verses. But let me share a few other quotes with you. Quotes from Zephaniah.

“I will utterly sweep away everything from the face of the earth, says the Lord.
I will sweep away humans and animals;
I will sweep away the birds of the air and the fish of the sea.
I will make the wicked stumble.
I will cut off humanity from the face of the earth, says the Lord.” (1:2-3)

“The great day of the Lord is near, near and hastening fast;
the sound of the day of the Lord is bitter,
the warrior cries aloud there,
That day will be a day of wrath,
a day of distress and anguish,
a day of ruin and devastation,
a day of darkness and gloom,
a day of clouds and thick darkness.” (1:14-15)

“Gather together, gather O shameless nation,
before you are driven away like the drifting chaff,
before there comes upon you the fierce anger of the Lord’s wrath.
Seek the Lord, all you humble of the land
who do the Lord’s commands;
seek righteousness, seek humility;
perhaps you may be hidden on the day of the Lord’s wrath.” (2:1-3)

“Therefore wait for me, says the Lord,
for the day when I arise as a witness.
For my decision is to gather nations, to assemble kingdoms,
to pour out upon them my indignation,
all the heat of my anger;
for in the fire of my passion all the earth shall be consumed.” (3:8)

And right about now, somewhere in the kingdom of heaven, a voice can be heard responding to the prophet Zephaniah: “Well, Merry Christmas to you too Uncle Zeph!” The cranky old prophet of gloom and doom who feasts on judgement and doles out God’s wrath not with a fine-tooth comb but with a fire hose. Like the family member at the Christmas gathering who just gets meaner every year and always seems to find a new way to express the same old vitriol based on what’s going on in the world or in the family this year. Like that friend of yours who quotes scripture all the time and never has a good thing to say about anybody, including you. Like that person in the office who purposely stirs the current event pot of tension over lunch while claiming to have studied all the world religions so you are expected to accept those harsh conclusions and stereotyped indictments of the faith groups you really know nothing about. Like that thread, that thick cord, that huge log that runs through the Christian tradition, and Christian preaching, and Christian teaching, and Christian attitude, and Christian practice that always seems more drawn to God’s anger than God’s love.

“You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath that is to come?” That’s John the Baptist with two feet firmly planted in the wilderness tradition that includes a whole lot of God’s wrath. “I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” (Mt 3:7, 11-12) Wrath. Fork. Chaff. Burn. Unquenchable fire. John the Baptist upholding the tradition of hellfire and brimstone while a gaggle of prophet followers who went before and a whole multitude of judgment by fire hose people who came after can’t hold back on their applause.

The remarkable part of Zephaniah, though, the remarkable part is that there is this turn. In just three chapters. An unexpected, breathtaking turn. Zephaniah’s turn. The turn is so surprising that you’re a few verses past it, a few verses into it, before you even realize. You have to do one of those reader backups. “Whoa, what just happened?!”

On that day you shall not be put to shame
because of all the deeds by which you have rebelled against me…

For I will leave in the midst of you a people humble and lowly.
They shall seek refuge in the name of the Lord….
they will pasture and lie down
and no one shall make them afraid.

The Lord has taken away the judgments against you.
Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak.
The Lord your God is in your midst…
The Lord will rejoice over you with gladness,
The Lord will renew you in God’s love
The Lord will exult over you with loud singing.

I will save the lame and gather the outcast,
and I will change their shame into praise and renown in the earth.

At that time I will bring you home.

When you read the little known minor prophet straight through, all of a sudden things change. Here on the playing field of God’s judgement and grace, here in that same wilderness tradition that includes a whole lot of God’s wrath, here in the annuls of salvation history, here in the prophet Zephaniah, as with all the Hebrew prophets, there’s a change, things change. Everything changes. It all changes. It’s a breathtaking, unexpected turn toward God’s mercy, God’s promise, God’s love.

Imagine a parent escorting a “skootchy” 4-year-old through a crowded parking lot out along Route 1 somewhere. The child has done the best she could, held it all together in the store for longer than anyone wants to ever be there anyway. And there in the parking lot, with a cart piled high and darkness falling in the sky, the child sees the family car and for no apparent reason breaks free of the grip and races ahead to a win a race that no one started. Thankfully the other car stopped. The other driver saw but — the honk and the stop and the headlights and the near miss — it was all so frightening for parent and for child. Words of correction with a strong tone would be warranted so that it never happened again. But as it was, both parent and child were in tears. No words came. Just an embrace of love and relief.

Or think of the two siblings who have been at it for years. They haven’t talked for so long they each forget what started the hard feelings and the finger pointing and cold hearts. It was their children, the cousins who planned the family reunion and insisted. When the two embraced at the picnic, words would have been too dangerous. Just some tears and an embrace of love and relief. Or the parent of the teenager driver who comes home after the first ticket or the first accident. The parent fully expects to launch in with a high volume lecture to end all lectures. But that face and the fear still on that face and the heart-sick reality of what could have happened. So no words, no lecture. Just the firmest of embrace of love and relief.

Expecting judgment and receiving only an embrace. Kind of like when Jesus told about that son who came home after eating with the pigs and squandering all the money his father gave him. His father offered an embrace not a reprimand, and there was a big party too. What a twist that was. Nobody expected it, especially the elder brother. A twist. A change. A turn. Zephaniah’s turn. The prophet’s breathtaking, unexpected turn toward God’s mercy, God’s promise, God’s love.

Old Testament professor Bill Brown puts it this way, “The words of the prophet Zephaniah both plumb the depths of judgment and climb the heights of grace. In fact, the overall movement of the book is defined by judgment giving way to salvation.” Judgment giving way to salvation. “No one shall make them afraid. The Lord will rejoice over you with gladness. The Lord will renew you in love. The Lord will exult over you with loud singing. I will save the lame and gather the outcast. The Lord your God is in your midst. I will bring you home.” Judgement giving way to salvation. What an incredible turn. It’s an Advent turn. A turn toward God’s mercy, God’s grace, God’s love. The Advent turn. Things change. Everything changes, As the Catholic priest and writer and spiritual director Richard Rohr said on Thursday night down at St. Paul’s Church, “When you fall into the ocean of mercy, the counting stops.” The counting of sins and the pointing of fingers and the keeping score and the demonizing the other and the fire hose of fear and judgement. Even in the wilderness tradition so full of God’s wrath, there comes this unexpected turn, and the counting stops. A turn toward the ocean of God’s mercy.

Just a few weeks ago I was on a panel over at the seminary in the class for first-year students on the Old Testament. The discussion was about preaching the Old Testament. I have been a part of that classroom discussion many times now. Each year the professors invite the students to submit questions ahead of time and then they forward them on to the panel members ahead of time. Over the years the students change but the questions are about the same. They can all be grouped into the same four, five, or six questions. One group of questions every year has to do with this wilderness wrath, the prophets that are so full of judgment, this God of the Old Testament.

Next year if I am invited back, my response is going to be, “God of the Old Testament? Have you listened to John the Baptist lately?” Wrath. Fork. Chaff. Burn. Unquenchable fire. When it comes to John the Baptist in Matthew’s gospel, there is no turn. You listened to it. In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea proclaiming… and what comes next is pretty much a fire hose of wrath. After John’s sermon, after he finishes, after he ends at “unquenchable fire,” Matthew writes, “then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan.” Then Jesus came. Then Jesus came. That’s it. There it is. The turn. Then Jesus came. The unexpected, breathtaking turn. The Advent turn toward God’s mercy, God’s promise, God’s love. Then Jesus came. In the wilderness tradition so full of God’s wrath, there comes this unexpected turn, and the counting stops. A turn toward the ocean of God’s mercy.

The Lord your God is in your midst… The Lord will rejoice over you with gladness. The Lord will renew you in love. The Lord will exult over you with loud singing. I will save the lame and gather the outcast. I will bring you home… And no one shall make them afraid.

Then Jesus came. And before you sing over him this Christmas, before you welcome him and wrap him and gather around him and love on him, long before any of that, you know he is waiting to rejoice over you and renew you. He is waiting to welcome you home to the cradle of God’s love where nothing and no one shall make you afraid.

Then Jesus came.

© 2015, Property of Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.