Lent 1B, And Now You Protest?

 Lent 1B, the appointed readings can be found here

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On Ash Wednesday, I told y’all about how we, as children, were assigned the task of watering down the driveway in order to tamp down the dust. The incessant, insistent, dust that would get everywhere—and the water that would drip, run, and puddle. The dust contained, for a moment.

 

A moment, that in my mother’s opinion was not long enough. For soon enough, the dust would return. Coating everything. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…all over everything. 

 

I spoke to this, and I spoke to how the cloud of dust that announced the impending arrival of someone come home—how that cloud served as a happy harbinger of return. A physical reminder of home and the truth of enduring love. 

 

What I didn’t speak to, was how, a good chunk of the time…we weren’t happy about the return so much as desperate to plead our case. Because, like many siblings, when my parents left the house, chaos reigned and fists would fly. My brother, would tack fire crackers to door frames so that when an unsuspecting little sister ran through the door, she’d be cowered by the noise and smoke. My sister, coming at me, clawing like a wild cat in response to some arrogance or insult. And, me. I was no innocent. I could fling words like daggers while remaining infuriatingly calm, and I was relatively secure in my position as the “good one”. 

 

So, when that cloud of dust rolled up—we would run. 

 

Run, to plead our personal case. Pretty sure, that whomever got to the door of the truck first, whomever, managed to corner a bewildered parent and plead their case first, whomever presented the most compelling accusations…that they, they alone, would escape unscathed from parental judgement. 

 

I can still picture my Dad’s look of exhaustion as he was confronted, yet again, by wailing self righteousness…

 

I say all this because, once again, I find myself troubled by the “rainbows make it all better” conclusion of the Flood narrative. I know I’ve spoken of this before, and perhaps you’ve tired of my critique—not specifically of our narrative, but of our neglect to mention that God just destroyed everything and we’re fine with that because Noah and his family were okay and since they were OUR ancestors, yeah, we’re cool with that…

 

I suspect I’ve now officially ruined any fond childhood memories you may have had about your Tupperware Ark floating about the bathtub and you will never again hear the song, “The Lord said to Noah there is going to be a floody floody” the same way again.

 

Because, seriously?! We’ve sanitized the flood narrative, just as we’ve sanitized the story of the first Thanksgiving, the pilgrim’s landing, the overthrow of the Hawai’ian monarchy and the spread of colonial Anglicanism. The triumph of our ancestors silencing the voices of the devastated remnant left behind in the mud. 

 

It’s tempting, isn’t it? It’s tempting to tune out from the hard truths and clean up the story to make it palatable to our sensibilities and our siblings. Siblings who may not wish to hear, or remember, the parts of our story that were about our cruelties. Sorry sibs, the truth of who we were wasn’t just about joyful returns heralded by a cloud of dust—it was also about impending vengeance, rubber slippers thwacked against our backsides, and slamming doors. 

 

To note—because these services and sermons are recorded, I may be hearing from a couple of my siblings later. So, Sara, Michael, William, we were AWFUL to each other and adult me is horrified. That said, I forgive you. I hope that each of you can forgive me as well…

 

Not, so that we can tell some happily ever after and make light of what was. Rather, so that we can continue to do better. Do better to each other, our children, and our children’s children (because, ahem, some of y’all have children’s children). 

 

We need to tell the ugly parts of the story, the hard parts of the story, the muddy, devastating, and wilderness parts of the story. These parts of the story matter and when we dig into our painful pasts we can find meaning. When we look around us and confront the suffering in this world we are gifted the opportunity to change the future’s stories. And, in this, the hard parts of the story and evils we renounce when we look beyond our own narratives, can help us grow into the full stature of Christ—not in spite of these stories but BECAUSE of these stories. 

 

So, lets go back to the ark and rewind the tape. 

 

Rewind to that moment when Noah is informed of the impending flood.

 

And, God said, “I am going to put an end to all people, for the earth is filled with violence because of them…

Go into the ark, you and your whole family, because I have found you righteous in this generation.”

 

And, Noah said, “okay.”

 

[pause]

 

Okay, so that’s not really what Noah said. The Bible simply says that Noah did everything the Lord commanded him. Noah doesn’t say anything! 

 

Moses pleads with God on behalf of his people. Abraham, pleads with God on behalf of his people. Noah?

 

Noah doesn’t say anything.

 

And, that’s the problem.

 

The wandering rabbis of the 13^th century who brought us the Zohar, a book of interpretations of biblical stories in the Jewish tradition, focus not on God’s destruction but rather, on Noah’s failure in pleading the case for creation. In the Zohar, before the rainbow there is a reckoning,

 

I lingered with you spoke to you at length so that you would ask for mercy for the world!  But as soon as you heard that you would be safe in the ark, the evil of the world did not touch your heart.  You built the ark and saved yourself.  Now that the world has been destroyed you open your mouth to utter questions and pleas? (with thanks to the Rev. Suzanne Guthrie for her work at Edge of the Enclosure)

 

Now that the word has been destroyed you open your mouth to utter questions and pleas. Now that you see the work that lies ahead. The work to restore all that you failed to intercede for. Now you are angry? 

 

Noah failed. He failed to plead the case for creation. Noah failed to intervene. Noah never asked God to cease and desist. Instead, Noah built the ark for his own family, loaded it with what was needed for their survival, and escaped the flood. Which leaves me to wonder, was God’s covenant with us made not because of God’s regret but because of God’s awareness that, left to our own devices, we will fail to keep covenant with each other? 

 

Because arguably, it is when we are comfortable and secure that it is easiest to acquiesce to evil. We say nothing because we are unwilling to risk our own security. As for me and my house…as if, me and my house are all that matters. Meanwhile, somewhere else, there are, quite literally, folks who face rising waters, freezing temperatures, collapsing infrastructure, and the destruction of all they have created for themselves and for their neighbors. 

 

As for me and my house…

 

And, this is our temptation—to plead only for ourselves, to care only for ourselves and to present our case for personal salvation to God. Our personal salvation without care for the salvation of the world entire. 

 

Let us learn from Noah, let us learn from the dusty road, let us learn from our stories—the beautiful and the terrible. Let us learn in this Lenten season, how to plead for the world. 

 

Amen.  

Ash Wednesday Sermon—Dust Everywhere

This year, an inadvertent ashes everywhere snafu was just what the Holy Spirit ordered!

Last Sunday after the Epiphany

 The appointed readings can be found here

That Tabor Light

Long ago and far away, at the beginning of the pandemic, we distributed lawn signs to the families with children in our community. 

 

“Cling to what is good.” A reference to Romans 12:9, meant as an encouragement to remember. To remember what is good in this world. To remember, that it is worth pursuing the good. To remember that, even now, the good is present.

 

As we have traversed this long wilderness and as we summit the mountain only to find more wilderness beyond, I am finding this encouragement to be absolutely essential as both joy and consolation. 

 

For as psychologists have pointed out that it in the course of this pandemic we are in a fragile time. The way has been long, we have worked so hard to cling to the good and work for the better, and now better presents itself—but, it’s not the better for which we hoped and pandemic fatigue sets it. And, at this point, exhausted by the cautions and limitations, we begin to take risks that endanger ourselves and our communities. 

 

This fragile place, reminds me of the cautions given to those of us who face mental health challenges or love those who do—it is when the lethargy of despair begins to lift that people are most likely to become actively suicidal. This is a dangerous place where despair is empowered and it is a time when we need to invest deeply in care for each other. We need to reach out, connect, and encourage each other in this fragile place. 

 

This fragile place, where the summit’s consolation give rise to our recognition that beyond this mountain, there are more mountains. The momentary joy of the summit’s pure light, dimmed by the prospect of the valley below and the mountains which remain. At this point in the journey, the resonance of the Haitian Proverb, “beyond the mountains, there are more mountains”, cannot be ignored.

 

So, is it any wonder that Jesus’ friends wanted to stay at the summit? Exhausted by the prospect of what lies ahead, they yearn to luxuriate in what Orthodox Christians call, “the Tabor light”. The Tabor light, drawing it’s name from Mount Tabor—the mountain assigned by  as the place of the Transfiguration. 

 

From the Reverend Suzanne Guthrie’s reflection on this light: 

 

“A high mountain. The cloud of Presence. The voice of the Most High. The disciples fall into ecstasy. They see time disassemble. They see Jesus, Moses, and Elijah - outside of time - talking about something that will happen in time, that is, Jesus' “exodus”. And the light! Orthodox Christians call it “Tabor Light.” This is the kind of light that transfigured Moses so that he had to wear a veil. It is this kind of light which blinded Paul on his way to Damascus. It is the light at the boundary of the soul, alluring us in meditation to continue deepening, and the remembrance of it helps us remain faithful when prayer is dark.”

 

Outside of time, talking about what will happen in time. A moment in which we step out of the stream of time and observe the stream itself. Like a historian who steps outside of the stream of this time, in order to view all things through the patterns, stories, rhythms, and reflections of the past—and in so doing, shines light upon the present and the breadth of the future possible. Stepping out of time. Stepping out of time in order to place the now within the context of all creation. The Tabor light illuminates the present with the meaning of the Creator.

 

The tabor light is a light that puts all things within the context of God’s pure light. It is “all the light we cannot see” experienced all at once. It is the light that takes the mirror through which we peer dimly and illuminates it with the beauty of seeing God face to face. It is the light we remember in the dark night of the soul. It is the light that leads us through the wilderness. It is the light that  brings peace out of our lamentation. The Tabor light at the boundary of the soul. 

 

Experienced once, this radiant light offers us unabashed joy. Joy that, remembered, will be a consolation in present sorrows.

 

Cling to what is good.

 

So that when peril and plight overwhelm us, we can remember the goodness that is real. The goodness that is intended. The goodness we know to be true—even now, especially now. 

 

I wonder if, in the days to come, the disciples, Peter, James and John turned to their memory of the light to make the present time bearable. If the recollection of that momentary joy allowed them to endure the suffering that was to come. If the echo of the timeless declaration of beloved-ness would fend off their fear on the dark nights to come. 

 

I wonder if in the days come, the disciples, each and every one of us, followers of Christ will be able to lean into that moment of fleeting glory. That moment of Tabor light. That moment, when an all encompassing joy filled us—a joy that proves sufficient for our sustenance in the wilderness.

 

For, it is not for the present sorrow that we live. We are instead to live in preparation for a greater glory to come.  A glory made manifest at Jordan’s stream, manifest in moments of healing that exceed any reasonable expectation, manifest in moments of celebration, manifest when evil is overcome by good. 

 

Manifest, incarnate in the real world of this present time, a light that perseveres. A light that promises more. A light that has the power to illuminate even the dark night of our soul. 

 

Think on this. Pray on this. And remember some moment, perhaps known to you alone, in which the Tabor light shone into your life and the glory of God was revealed. A glory that is enough to sustain you through this present time. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the Epiphany, 3B

Trying Again—Within the Leviathon

The scriptures appointed for today can be found at https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Epiphany/BEpi3_RCL.html 

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This is a story of second chances. Of turning around, not before it’s too late, but after the deed is done. It’s a story about us. 

 

It’s a story about God’s call to us. Not to perfect people in no need of redemption, but imperfect. 

 

Imperfect people, who have screwed up, who have screwed up time and time again, until now. Until today. 

 

We repent of the evil that enslaves us. The evil we have done. The evil done on our behalf. 

 

When we say those words, we do so collectively. But, it is the individual mouth of the confessor that puts breath into air and forms a public witness.

 

Breath into air, like the breath upon the water, new life born of a commitment to repentance. 

 

Because this is a story of second chances. This is a story of opportunity and invitation. 

 

The story of Jonah. Who dwelled in the darkness of a beast, a symbolic leviathan, mythic in nature, with the power to engulf one of us, yet created and subject to the creator. Jonah, who was unwilling to intervene on behalf of Nineveh but who, in the storm, spoke up as a willing sacrifice on behalf of those who sailed the ship. The ship that he had hoped would take him far from God’s call. A distance that God alone could span—for when Jonah was cast into the symbolic death, that death found its meaning within the context of God’s call. Jonah’s new life found its meaning in the unrelenting presence of the divine. Of God, who calls again and again. God who calls us as partners, collaborators, and co-creators, in the redemption of God’s people.

 

God partners with Jonah. God partners with us. Calling us to intervene on behalf of God’s people. God’s people—our siblings and friends, our neighbors and strangers, our children and our elders. 

 

And so, at last but just in time, Jonah speaks. 

 

It was not too late. 

 

It is never too late to repent of: the evil that enslaves us; the evil we have done; the evil done on our behalf. 

 

It is never too late to turn. To turn towards new life. 

 

If we were a tradition that invited altar calls, this would be the time. I would invite you to consider God’s call and to present yourself at the altar as an offering. To present yourselves, vulnerable, unto the Lord, and to commit publicly to a new life. 

 

If we were in person, you’d be squirming, wondering if I might just do that. Might just ask for your public witness. Would she dare? Do I? You might be casting your eyes around nervously, wondering if some neighbor would make a choice that would compel you to follow. To follow. To follow despite your own nervousness, despite your own hesitations. 

 

To follow and make a public commitment from which there is no turning back.

You would be changed. You would be seen differently. Seen, as one so bold as to do something unexpected and out of line. You’d make people nervous. What will they do next? Folks would talk. They would talk about you and about that time when you stumbled forward towards the altar and fell upon your knees. Head bowed, genuflecting without care for the hardness of the tile beneath your knees. 

 

Genuflecting while everyone stared and wondered, should I join in? Should my knee bend? Should my hand raise? 

 

And, if I do, what next?  

 

In May of 2019, I was invited to such an altar call. I stood with 1500 preachers (mostly Lutherans) at the Festival of Homiletics in Minneapolis, when the Reverend William Barber issued an invitation. An invitation to come forward to the altar and publicly commit ourselves to witness in the public square for God’s justice and love. To come forward to the altar as an offering of ourselves to the work of God in the world. To come forward to the altar, to recommit ourselves to the call we accepted in our baptism, and set our souls to the work of God’s mercy.  

 

I cast about nervously. Stay or go? I hesitated. Do I take my backpack with me? Well, he’s going, they’re going. Should I go too?

 

What’s the right answer? Yes or no? Because…what does it say about ME if I stay in my chair? What does it say about ME, if I join in the journey towards the altar? Am I willing to go public? Am I willing to publicly stay behind? What will this mean? What will this mean for ME? 

 

There is no half way with such a calling. A choice must be made. And, for those of us who have been content in a half way life…it’s a hard choice with which to be faced. But, the truth of the matter is that a half lived life won’t get us anywhere and a choice must be made. We can’t continue to exist in the belly of the whale. Eventually we must choose a way.

 

A way between life and death. A choice between creation and destruction. A choice between the evil and the good. A choice to follow Christ, or turn away.

 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in his book “The Cost of Discipleship”, wrote

 

“The followers of Christ have been called to peace. … And they must not only have peace but also make it. And to that end they renounce all violence and tumult. In the cause of Christ nothing is to be gained by such methods. … His disciples keep the peace by choosing to endure suffering themselves rather than inflict it on others.”

 

To endure suffering, rather than inflict it on others. That is the unimaginable truth, isn’t it? That Christ would rather endure suffering than inflict it on others. That God, that God would accept the pain of the cross and even then, even then forgive. What wondrous love is this, oh my soul, oh my soul, what wondrous love is this oh my soul…

 

To suffer, rather than inflict suffering upon another. It strikes me that this idea, that of accepting suffering in order to avoid inflicting it upon another, is wildly counter cultural. It would have been counter cultural then and it is most certainly counter cultural now. Counter cultural because suffering is so often understood to be a “logical or natural consequence” of some moral ineptitude. When we see suffering in the world, we tend to cast about for blame—as if the sick, the poor, and the oppressed are somehow at fault for their affliction. 

 

We blame the poor for being poor, we shame the hungry for being hungry, we diagnose the sick with moral failings…”they brought it on themselves”, we sigh and shake our heads, “they brought it on themselves.” And, then we turn and walk away—they have been suitably punished.

 

Self righteousness and vindictiveness in the face of need? It is to America’s shame. Not all that long ago a man posted a play by play on social media of his child asking for food, food that he refused to give until the child figured out, on their own, how to work a can opener. He offered no support or guidance, he did not teach his child to learn how to use a can opener. Publicly shaming his child for their hunger and for their need. “Bean dad” did not see fault in his actions—and twitter users put him to task. “Who, when their child asks for a piece of bread, would give them a snake instead?” one said

 

But, how is this different from what we as a country do when we refuse to create structures that will provide the kind of support that the most vulnerable people in our communities need in order to open their metaphorical “can of beans”. Shame instead of help, dismissal instead of teaching, a snake instead of bread. 

 

Meanwhile, the churches argue about whether or not it’s “too political” to say that Black Lives Matter, or that everyone should have access to health care. Whether or not it’s too political to advocate for safe and affordable child care. Whether it’s too political to say that yes, there needs to be police reform; and yes, we need to eliminate gun violence. Is it too political to follow Christ? Is it too political to observe the Ten Commandments? Is it too political to love your neighbor as yourself? 

 

Clearly…I have some feelings about this. I think carefully before I speak, I reflect deeply on what I hear. My goal is never to offend and it is certainly not to shame. Instead, my goal is to point to the Gospel and ask the question, are we doing that?  Are we following Christ’s teachings? Are we sharing the good news? Are we honoring the dignity of every human being?  Are we seeking and serving Christ in all persons? Are we? 

 

Shhh…before you answer that. Before you go down some shame spiral of inadequacy, know that I see you. I see you striving to be good people in this world. I see you trying so hard to do what Christ would have you do. I see you showing up even when it’s uncomfortable. I see you wanting to do the right thing, even when you’re not quite sure what the right thing is. Left, right, in-between—I see how you care for each other. I see how you yearn to be cared for. You confess, you are absolved, you try again, and here we are. 

 

Here we are, and in just a few moments our service will continue with an altar call—an Episcopalian, heavy on the words, stay in place, kind of altar call, the renewal of our baptismal vows. We’ve been using these vows since the feast of the Baptism of Christ, as a reminder of what we’ve committed ourselves to. As a way of publicly answering God’s call to us. As a means of setting ourselves back on the way of love, the way of Christ, a way that has the power to transform the world entire if we are willing to follow.

 

So, how about it, dear ones, shall we try again? 

 

 

1st Sunday after the Epiphany

 For me, prayer is a surge of the heart; it is a simple look turned toward heaven, it is a cry of recognition and of love, embracing both trial and joy.

-Thérèse of Lisieux 1873-1897

 

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I have been a priest, now, for almost 15 years. Tempered, by death, by life, by hope, by joy, by grief. Striving, through it all, to create a space where others can feel safe. 

 

Navigating, sometimes at personal cost, the extremes of belief and sentiment. Quietly serving next to those who think I’m not fit to serve. Offering bread into every open hand, even as some have turned away. Not my priest. Not my church. 

 

I have stretched myself between sides, holding tight within my embrace, within my heart, within my prayers, anyone willing to step into this sacred circle—I will not meet hate with hate. I am your priest, until you tell me otherwise. This is your church until you tell me otherwise. You may turn your back, but I will not turn on you. I will not renounce you.

 

I will serve beside you. I will break the bread and share it with you. 

 

Proffering the very blessings that I was once denied. Standing before you in the fullness of my being—a priest of the Church, a woman, a mama, a wife, a lesbian. Standing before you. Just as you stand before me. Together, in this imperfect, human space. Hoping for a word. Hoping for some truth. Hoping for some comfort. Hoping…

 

That someday, we can live into the fullness of God’s dream for us. 

 

The fullness of the truth of belovedness.

 

Beloved. 

 

As I looked through sermons past, I was struck that what these texts have inspired me to is love. Love beyond the self, love that defies hate, love that is stubborn in standing fast, love that can see behind the rage and into the pain. Love.

 

Love. That has been there at first breath and last. Loving with the hope of what might be and all the grief of what’s been lost. I cannot hate the created without learning to hate the creator and so I cannot hate. I cannot hate the baby at its birth nor the dying at their death. And, I know, I know that this can be infuriating…hate what I hate, fear what I fear, love what I love. There is evil enough in the world to hate, there are people aplenty who have succumbed to the devil’s invitations. And, so I hate the evil and the devils’ works. 

 

Works which stand apart from the infant’s first breath and the dyings last gasp. I will renounce evil. I will never renounce you.

 

And, so as I watched the mob and saw the rage…I turned deep into my own faith. Deep into the truth that has defined my life. 

 

The truth that death is not the end of the story, that destruction is not our calling and that, who we are? Who we are was made to be good. 

 

Dying you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life, Christ Jesus come in glory!!

 

Restore us. 

 

Restore us to who we were made to be, so that we might become what you intended.

 

In the beginning, every aspect of creation was declared good. In the beginning, the day and the night, the sun and the moon, the fish and the fowl, you and me, declared good. 

 

Made good. 

 

And, ever since our making, we’ve fallen from what was intended and have striven to make sense of the evil that surrounds us. From the first blood shed to the last, we’ve wrestled with the question of what has happened to us.

 

What happened? How did our ideals give way to the desecration of secular and sacred sanctuaries? How did parents, elders, kin and kindred, colleagues, and Christians, fall? How have WE fallen?

 

I say we, because this is all of us. I say we, because we must confront the truth that we are part of this world and those things done on our behalf, those times when we’ve stood by, the pains we’ve passively permitted…they are ours to confess, they are ours to renounce, they are ours for which to seek forgiveness. We know full well that when the histories will be written our descendants will wonder—why didn’t they see this coming? Why didn’t they root out evil before it took root? They is we. We are they. And we are in this, for better for worse, together.

 

As the crowd gathered, as the cross was raised, as cries of crucify rang out…the markets stalls were open, meals were being cooked, lives were being lived. How could they? How could we?

 

Father forgive us, for we know not what we do. We have forgotten who we were made to be. We do not know your love, even though it is your love that has brought us this far. 

 

Father forgive us. Mothering God, forgive us. Generative breath, forgive us. 

 

Forgive us. Forgive us. 

 

Because this is who we are. This is what our nation has become. This is the ground we have spoiled, the rivers we’ve polluted, the creation we’ve destroyed. And yet, God stands fast. And yet, there is hope. And yet, there is love. 

 

Because this is not all we are, nor is it who were were made to be. There is still time for salvation. There is still time to renounce evil. There is still time to turn. 

 

Time to turn and follow you, O God. 

 

Because, who we are today is not the beginning of our story—nor is it the end of our story. Who we are today, in all our sin and shame, in our hurt and our confusion, is not what God intended. And so, in the midst of our doom scrolling, nay saying, and our tears, and our fear, help us. 

 

Help us. 

 

This sermon is not a sermon. It is a prayer. It is a petition. It is hope for the living. It is hope for our future. It is love. 

 

Love, that believes that even now, God declares us beloved. 

 

Even now, as blood still stains and reconciliation awaits repentance. Even now, God declares us beloved.

 

This is who we are. 

 

It is not who we were made to be.

 

Beloved. It is not who we were made to be.

 

And, so turning from this to what comes next, let us affirm not just our faith but our calling. 

 

Our calling, as beloved children of God, through creed and covenant. Our calling

 

To return. 

 

Dying you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life, Christ Jesus come in glory! 

 

Return. 

 

Return. 

 

Again and again, return. 

 

Amen. 

 

Christmas, the Pandemic Year

Christmas At My Tutu’s House

I cannot separate out my memories of childhood Christmases from my memories of Tutu, my grandmother. And, to this day, I can easily recall the taste of the papaya that took center stage on the Christmas fruit plate. I can remember how the potato spuds poured from the box as we helped make the mashed potatoes. I can feel the cool air coming through the open lanai doors and how we would all gradually make our way from the koa wood table to the comfortable old pune’e that served as a couch. 

 

From the pune’e we would watch as my Tutu would begin her annual Christmas Day ritual of calling the relations—the older cousins and siblings who’d moved away to the mainland, all of whom knew to expect their Christmas phone call. So, when I moved away, I knew to expect the the Christmas call. 

And, when she called, I knew exactly where she was in her house—standing at the counter next to the phone with it’s coiled cord, swaying to her own music, wearing her robe against the chill of morning. On the counter there was a notepad for taking messages, a basket of Christmas cards, a cup of pencils and a ring of family photos, slowly yellowing with time. The Christmas call, that instantly invoked a yearning for the Christmas of my childhood. 

 

I would pick up the phone. And before I could say “hello”, she’d begin to sing,

 

Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say…

 

On a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day.

 

That’s the island greeting that I send to you, from the land where palm trees sway!

 

I would laugh as she sang out the notes of the Bing Crosby gem —notable only for the nostalgia it invoked for old Hawai’i and Christmases long past. 

 

Needless to say, this Christmas bears little resemblance to my childhood Christmas. The weather, of course, but also the losses and gains that mean that the table I sit at now, looks nothing like the table of my childhood. This year, many of us are sitting at tables with empty spaces, and just as I yearn for my grandmother’s voice and the comforts of childhood Christmases—many of us yearn for the long ago and far away of a be-storied past. 

 

Long ago, and far away. Already, but not yet. Here and there and what might be. Is it any wonder that so many struggle in this season? But in the midst of the struggle, I find it helpful to explore the yearnings for the past—because in my explorations, I can appreciate more deeply, the why of our traditions and our expectations. 

 

What I have discovered, for myself is that at Christmastime I long to revisit that sense of care. The sense that I had in my Tutu’s home that everything was taken care of, but more importantly I was taken care of. As I consider the plates and silver that accompanied our menu, the same menu every year, I developed a sense of being connected to a lineage beyond myself. Then, in the feasting and the carefully wrapped gifts, came a sense of abundance. A sense that someone cared about what I wanted and wanted to please me. I remember as well that sense, of wonder and excitement, of anticipation for what might be and the impossibility of Santa Claus’ journey. Then, less wonderful but perhaps even more important, I think of the sense of urgency that Christmas can bring. Of the need to get ready for the inevitable arrival of a day that no tragedy, grief, pain, anguish, or despair, can forestall. No matter how many times your heart or your body has broken, Christmas will come. 

 

Christmas has come, Christmas is here. In the midst of our messy, upside down, lives, regardless of what we can or cannot do in this particular year, Jesus is born into this world. And, that brings an amazing sense of comfort to me. A sense that no matter what we do, or fail to do. No matter what evil is in the world. No matter how far we have fallen. No matter. God’s love for us remains unhindered. God’s love for us shows up. God’s love draws near. 

 

Not through an unobtainable figure of greatness, but in the incarnate, in the flesh, form of a baby. The word that bespoke creation, the word that brings good news, the word become a new creation of flesh. 

 

The word, across thousands of miles and thousands of years, that rings out to tell us that we are loved. 

 

As we are, wherever we are, no matter where we’ve gone or where we’re going, we are loved. 

 

There is no returning to the Christmas’ of my childhood. But, the flavor of them remains on my tongue and I cherish the image of the coiled phone cord, my Tutu’s robes, and the sound of her voice as it brought me the word I needed to hear. 

 

Now, take a moment, who has spoken the words that you need to hear?

 

 

 

Advent 4B

 Obedience, courage, and defiance.

 

One of my favorite games to play in the car is one in which I offer a word, and one of my kids responds with the first word that comes to mind. In fact, we played last night. “Mary”, I offered; “Christmas”, Peter replied; “presents”, I shot back; “Christmas tree” came next; then woods, wolves, wild, animals…so on and so forth. 

 

It is always fascinating to me what comes to mind. I say “Church”; Peter says, “Saint Clement’s”; I picture our pine and respond with “tree”; Peter adds a “forest”…

 

And, I find myself thinking of the cathedral of trees of John Muir and the redwoods. I consider the sacred we have found outside of our beloved church building and the yearning we share for a return. 

 

And, I think of the hope. The hope that has accompanied us through Advent and brought us here. To the now of Mary and her words. Words enriched by the lectionaries pairing…annunciation and magnificat

 

A courageous “yes” and defiant song. The ode of Theotokos, the God bearer, a powerful reclamation of a woman’s power. 

 

A woman’s ability to speak truth to power, a woman’s ability to do hard things, a woman’s ability to change the world. 

 

Through a yes that becomes embodied power.

 

My soul magnifies the Lord! 

 

My soul, a woman’s soul, magnifies the Lord. 

 

My soul magnifies the Lord, she cries out. 

 

And I meet the word with another. 

 

Magnificat.

 

Magnify.

 

Magnifies.

 

And, the word becomes a story…

 

I remember playing with a magnifying glass when I was little. Using it to look more closely at objects that interested me. A blade of grass, a flower, an insect, even the dirt—brought closer, made larger, and clarified through a simple lens. A simple lens, magnifying a simple object. Magnifying it so that I could appreciate its complexity and its beauty in a way that I could not have seen on my own. 

 

It is her body that magnified the Lord. It is her lungs that leant power to her words. Her yes. Her courage. 

 

And through her magnification, she shows us something new. Something, that  we might never have seen without her vision. Something that we might never have uttered without her breath. 

 

An apocalyptic vision of a world upended by the might of God. God who will tear down the mighty and send the rich away empty. God who will destroy the systems and structures that oppress in favor of a new life that liberates. These are radical words, these are occupy Wall Street sentiments, these are raised fists and peaceful protest, and these are the words that scripture has given us. Words from the mouth of a poor, young, woman, who knew full well the power of a woman’s song—Miriam, Ruth, Esther, Judith. One name prompts another and then another, a powerful and prophetic lineage for the Theotokos, God bearer, we call Mary. These were her ancestors in the faith and in this moment she assumes their mantle. Assumes the mantle of women who spoke truth to power, prophesied greatly, and served God from outside the traditional structures of power. 

 

The forces Mary confronted were formidable. Roman rule, temple abuses, and the peasants of Palestine could expect more than 55% of their income to be taken in tithe and tax. In Mary’s time it is estimated that 2-3% of the population possessed the vast majority of the wealth. Mary was not part of this elite and her ode, this Magnificat, comes from the mouth of a peasant girl, a girl like hundreds of others, who lived in a society in which the rich had gotten richer and trickle down economics could more accurately be described as trickle up—as the Roman Empire leaned on the provinces for steady revenue. In fact, “the census that appears prominently in the Gospels during the reign of Augustus is fundamentally a tool of taxation: tying people to their land and counting them for purposes of tax collection.” https://www.elca.org/JLE/Articles/605 

How do her words preach now? How do they preach now, during the reign of the current president, in the midst of a pandemic, when the top 1% of Minnesotans account for 16.3% of all income in the state? (USA Today, “How much do you need to be in the top 1% in every state?”, July 1^st, 2020) How do her words preach now? When 8 months rent comes due, a years’ worth of student loan interest, suspended payroll taxes are collected, and those whose doubts led to deaths are first in line for vaccination. 

 

What do you hear in the Magnificat? Is it ominous warning or liberation from death, debt and despair? What do you hear in these words? Pastoral romanticism or the first steps towards a new creation?

 

During the reign of Emperor Quirinius…

 

Joseph harnesses the donkey.

 

And step by step, they make their way towards Bethlehem. 

 

Annunciation, Magnificat, magnify, see, apocalypse, liberation, women, empowerment, economy, Palestine, taxes, injustice, Mary, birth, hope, Christmas…

 

What word comes next? 

 

I invite you to reflect on this question as you listen to Dan Forrest’s choral setting of the Howard Thurman poem, “The Work of Christmas”. 

 

Mark, will you take us there?