Jesus in Storage

In the Wake of Christmas

Luke 2: 41-52

December 27, 2009-- Christmas 1B

Focus: We’d like to hold onto Baby Jesus like Mary and Joseph, but that’s not our job.

Function: 

1. Intro

The Sunday after Christmas is such a weird Sunday.  On the one hand, folks have, in essence, been doing Christmas since the day after thanksgiving.  We’ve shopped, and planned, and cooked, and had our fill of Christmas songs.  But on the other hand, the church tells us that Christmas really starts on Christmas day, and goes for the twelve days afterward.   That’s lovely.  We can put on a brave face on Sundays, and sing Christmas songs just a few more times-- though most of us will take down our trees and decorations this week.  So we can be ready for the New Year, of course. 

Whether or not we realize it, most of us are already done with this year.  We’ve already moved on to 2010, even though we won’t officially welcome it in until Friday.  I’ve already flipped my calendar over, and am furiously filling up another year.  I’ve already decided what things I wish for the New Year-- the things I loved about this one, and what I hope to never repeat. 

Even though the church says Christmas is a season, we’re so past that.  On to bigger and better things, as our society decrees.  

And then here the lectionary makes a really interesting choice--even as we’re being told to celebrate Christmas and to revel in the babe in the manger, suddenly we’re thrown into a different world. 

Gone is the babe. New parents Mary and Joseph have exited the stage.  There is no miracle and wonder. 

No, none of that.  Instead, we’re thrust into Jesus’ teenage years-- which just isn’t a pretty picture.  Having both been a teenager, and spent a few years working with them, I’ve come to realize that nobody is at their peak of niceness in their teenage years.  Just yesterday at breakfast, my dear parents and aunt were discussing what a foul creature I was as a 15 year old.  (Which was a surprise to me, as I’m sure it is to you! ;-p) 

Part of that whole “fully human” thing we proclaim we believe is that Jesus is an obnoxious teenager-- just as all of us were.  

1. Jesus, the obnoxious teenager

It’s funny.  The scriptures don’t bother giving us any “in between time”.  It’s almost like we blink our eyes and Jesus is taken from being a sweet baby to being a surly teenager. 

I guess that’s how I hear it works.  Parents are always saying things like “I just can’t believe how fast they grow up... it seems like it was just yesterday that he spoke his first words, and now he’s got his driver’s license.”

And as I understand it, parents’ first instinct usually seems to be to hold on tighter and tighter, and pray to high heaven that their holding on keeps the child small and safe for that much longer.   It’s like foot binding in China:  women’s feet were wrapped so tightly that their feet will not grow very much.  Most parents I know wouldn’t ever admit that they were trying to bind their kids, but I wonder if it’s something that’s so natural that people don’t even realize they’re doing it.  

As I understand, one of the most commonly used phrases in any given house that has teenagers is, “You’re grounded!”  Usually this means the young person isn’t allowed to watch TV or go out with their friends or whatever.

But, I think, in addition to saying that phrase, every parent prays that their child is indeed grounded.  Grounded in what the family stands for and believes, grounded in a love that knows no bounds, grounded in the knowledge of the words “remember who you are.”

We don’t ever see Mary and Joseph tell Jesus he is grounded, though if I had ever made my parents look for me for three days, and then have the audacity to answer them in the same tone that Jesus takes with his parents, it wouldn’t have been pretty.   But like all parents everywhere, Mary and Joseph must’ve prayed that all that they taught him would take root. 

[In this passage, we see Jesus for the first time as beginning to have his own identity-- one that is completely separate from his parents’. ]

1. Jesus, the almost man

Psychologists use a fancy sounding word: self-differentiation.  Basically, what that means is one’s ability one's ability to separate one's own intellectual and emotional functioning from that of the family.To have a well-differentiated "self" is an ideal that no one realizes perfectly. They recognize that they need others, but they depend less on other's acceptance and approval. They do not merely adopt the attitude of those around them but acquire their principles thoughtfully. These help them decide important family and social issues, and resist the feelings of the moment. Thus, despite conflict, criticism, and rejection they can stay calm and clear headed enough to distinguish thinking rooted in a careful assessment of the facts from thinking clouded by emotion.

And that’s exactly what’s going on here.  Jesus is realizing that he has things he is supposed to do that don’t line up with his parents’ expectations.  Perhaps, if his parents had their way, he’d be a carpenter-- like his dad.  That’s the way things worked after all-- there was a lot to be said for learning the “family business”. 

We can give Jesus the benefit of the doubt here, I think.  Maybe Jesus wasn’t really trying to tax his parents patience or to give them the scare of their lives.  Perhaps he was simply doing the thing that had been laid out for him to do. 

But put yourself in Mary and Joseph’s shoes for a few minutes.  How do you respond when a young person wants to be their own person?  Those of you that have been parents would know that better than I would, I guess.   I can’t imagine how hard it must be to let a person develop their own identity, especially when it is different than the way you imaged it to be.  I can’t imagine how hard it must be to let a teenager out of the house with blue hair or a skirt that doesn’t come down to their ankles, like the one you picked out would’ve done. 

I guess, though, every parent prays that a child will not only be grounded in the family’s beliefs, but that they also pray that the child will have wings to fly away and be their own person.  I think parents do pray that, but the fact that they get what the pray for may not make the letting go any easier. 

I’ve tried to put myself in Mary and Joseph’s shoes, and at least in my imagination, they are desperately wishing that Jesus was something he just isn’t any more: the sweet little baby boy who hid behind his mother’s skirt with a big, gap-toothed grin. 

[I don’t think Mary and Joseph were the only ones guilty of this.  Perhaps we not only do it with our children, and the children of the church, but perhaps we also do this with Jesus.]

1.   Making Jesus into what we’d have him be

Truth be told, Jesus is a lot easier to deal with as a baby.   As a baby, he doesn’t demand much of us-- he doesn’t ask us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.  He doesn’t tell us to turn the other cheek when we’ve had our feelings hurt.  He doesn’t stick his nose into our finances, or have anything to say about stewardship of all that has been given to us. 

I wonder how many times and how many ways we’ve tried to make Jesus into the things we think he ought to be. 

Maybe Jesus ought to be a pacifist? 

Maybe Jesus ought to only be a buddy, who doesn’t care how we behave?

Maybe Jesus ought not to tangle with the way things are done, and ought not to challenge us to be better than we are? 

Maybe Jesus ought not to be.... whatever.  

To take the scriptures seriously is to have our toes stepped on all over the place.   And no doubt, Jesus says things to each of us that we could’ve lived our whole lives without hearing.   And his call to radical discipleship, if we follow and heed it, will upset the way we do everything. 

We, like Mary and Joseph, wish Jesus would stay as a baby.

We’d just as soon him not challenge us, or interfere in our lives. 

And we’d be ok if he never, even from his first steps, was making his way to the cross. 

1. Putting Jesus into Storage

As I was working on this passage, I ran across a preacher who tells this story: 

A former student once told me that her little daughter, the week after Christmas, asked her mother to stop the car when they were driving past the church they attended. The child wanted to go into the church and see how the baby Jesus was doing. She remembered that Jesus had been born there a few days ago, and she wanted to make sure he was okay. The mother tried to explain it was a pageant that the child had seen, and that the baby Jesus by now had been put away in the church storage room until next year. This alarmed the child. She wondered who would feed the baby Jesus in the storage room.

He goes on to talk about the child wanting to feed Jesus,  and it’s a cute story.  But I got stuck before my brain could go that far with the preacher.  My brain got hung up on the image of putting Jesus into storage. 

I’ve never thought about that-- but we do it, every year, without fail.  This week or next, even this church will take down its nativity, and the whole Holy family will go into storage until next Christmas when we “need” them again.  

Sure, it’s the only practical thing to do.  Who needs to see that when we’re all dripping with sweat in July, right? And besides, if we left it out year round, it would surely rot.  

And while I’m sure I’m the only one who ever gave a thought to this, what if it weren’t just a practical thing?  What if we were also either figuratively or symbolically putting Jesus into storage, you know, until we need him again. 

Gosh, we’d feel terrible.  We’d never do that on purpose! 

But what if we pushed Jesus farther and farther into a storage container, every time we try to make him into the things he isn’t?

What if Jesus gathered more and more dustbunnies every time didn’t heed his words, and remake our lives according to his call to radical discipleship? 

And what if, we bury Jesus farther and deeper every time we don’t let his amazing grace govern our relationships  with all people? 

What if? 

My prayer is while we may physically have to put the Jesus figure into storage, that that’s all it is.  My hope is that Jesus, the real, grown-up, challenging Jesus is such a part of our lives that for anyone to suggest Jesus might be in storage is positively ridiculous. May we, like Mary and Joseph, finally have the courage to let Jesus be the things he was meant to be--not the things we’d have him be. 

Amen. 

The Darkest Night

The Darkest Night

A Homily for Christmas Eve-- From the eyes of someone who might have been, or might yet be

It’s not that the house was haunted, because he definitely didn’t believe in that sort of thing.  The memories were just too strong.  He looked at the easy chair, and suddenly he saw Poppy “reading”, though Poppy seemed to do most of his “reading” with his eyes shut.  He looked at the pantry, and there was Grandmother’s apron clad back digging around for just the right ingredient. If he looked at the front window, immediately, he was taken back to Christmases of long ago, where he and all the cousins were playing with trucks and dolls under the tree. He looked at the old threadbare sofa, and there he was with his arm around Amy’s shoulder, sneaking a kiss, and daring to dream about the days when they’d have kids to enjoy for Christmas.    But that was before.  A lifetime ago.

If you had asked him this time last year what he thought his life would look like in a year, he couldn’t have guessed it would be like this.  Even in his wildest dreams, or nightmares for that matter.  This time last year, he had a beautiful wife on his arms, two children that were every bit as presentable as a father might wish his children to be.  He had a job at a downtown firm-- he was what people would have thought of as an “up and coming.”  The job gave him lots of luxuries that had come to represent to him life, security, and maybe even status.  He had a little red sports car that he used to zip all over town, from this cocktail party to that one. 

And only a year ago, that was his world.  His kingdom, even. 

In the year since last Christmas, his wife and two picture-perfect children left.  Amy said it was because he was a workaholic, and that if she was going to be a single mom anyway, then she might as well really be a single mom.  

He’d tried to pour himself into work, but mostly what he poured himself was another glass.  Of whatever.  It didn’t even matter.  He never got wildly out of control, but gradually things just didn’t matter as much.  He went into work disheveled and unshaven once too often.  He’d been late for one too many meetings.  “We tried to overlook it, you know”, his boss had said. “But your clients are complaining, and it’s making us look bad.   Besides, there’s a recession, you know, and business just isn’t what it used to be.  Take care of yourself, Pete.”  And with that, he no longer had any place to go to avoid home, whatever that was.  That was in March. 

Not that the severance package wasn’t nice,  but it just didn’t last that long.  He remembered Amy saying something about them not being able to afford the lifestyle they were living, but he just assumed she was worrying too much, like she always did.  Since she paid the bills, he didn’t know, not really.  But then they started coming in: credit cards (who needed five different credit cards, anyway?) house payments, car payments, private school tuition.  It wasn’t long before he’d had the phone disconnected, just so he wouldn’t have to come home to an answering machine full of messages from debt collectors. 

Oh, if he were on top of his game, he’d have been irate.  All that could seriously damage a man’s reputation.  But what did it matter now?

He’d meant to return their calls, meant to get himself together.  But it just seemed like too much work.   So he just ignored them.

In October, Grandmother became sick.  She’d always managed ok, even after “Poppy” as the grandkids called him died.  First it was Pneumonia. Then it was a dislocated hip.  Somehow, she just never managed to come home, not really.  And somehow, he’d never managed to go visit, though he and Grandmother had always been especially close. 

It was only when the lawyer called, asking if he could come take care of a few things to “get the estate in order” did he realize that she was gone.  Wasn’t there someone else?  No.  The aunts and uncles were mostly gone, or were enjoying retirement in Florida like his parents.   The cousins were all ensconced in life-- raising beautiful children, living the lives they always imagined were theirs for the taking.   It made the most sense for him to go, with no job, no family, no life that couldn’t wait. 

Standing at his grandmother’s sink, he realized for the first time that he was excruciatingly lonely.  He longed for someone, anyone to call just to see how he was.  Or maybe he could call them.  His parents? No, he’d declared his independence from them years ago, when they told him he was too young to get married, when they had given him just one ounce too much of “parental advice”.  He didn’t mean for it to end their relationship, but as they made obligatory birthday and Christmas calls, the strain of having nothing to talk about discouraged him from trying to repair it.  No, he couldn’t call his parents.  They were a lifetime ago.

Amy?  Maybe he could call her, just to wish her a Merry Christmas.  But then what’s-his-face might answer, and well, the thought of that awkwardness wasn’t worth it. 

He realized he was utterly alone, except for Dolce, his grandmother’s very old mutt dog-- a present to her from Poppy, named so because that’s what he called Grandmother when they were first married.  He was freshly home from the war, and he’d always loved that Italian word for “sweet”.  Poppy thought Grandmother needed some company, but they never took to each other, not really.  Mostly, Dolce rode around with Poppy in the farm truck, at least until Poppy died.  Then Dolce sat at Grandmother’s feet while they both feigned indifference, though Pete knew Grandmother talked to the fleabag often. Dolce, though, was well past her time when she was great company.  These days, the dog just wanted a nice, warm, soft place to sleep. 

TV? Surely there’d be a nice law show on, something anything to take his mind off this Christmas nonsense... Oh, that’s right-- Grandmother never saw the need for a TV.  The radio? Surely that would keep him company.  Not, of course, that that was an easy feat.  Poppy and Grandmother didn’t have digital radio, or even a CD player.  But, finally, music started coming out of the box-- which would have been great, had Judy Garland not started wailing out “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.

It was more than he could take, and who could blame him? Judy Garland and her little fairy tale world had no right to tell him to have a merry little anything.  Poppy and Grandmother had no right to leave him.  Amy had no right to pursue a life of her own, and take his children away from him. His parents...well they had no right to take him at his word that he wanted to be free from them. 

It was Christmas Eve, and the only place that was open was the Pizza joint a few miles down the road.  Dolce raised an eyebrow as he called and asked for the Meat Lovers Supreme.  Normally, he was health conscious-- well, except occasionally having one too many.  Food had never been his vice.  But now, really, what did it matter if he had a heart attack?  Who would care? Who would even notice him missing? 

He was about to pour himself a glass of brandy that Grandmother kept for “medicinal purposes” when the doorbell rang. The pizza guy already?

But when he opened the door, there was what looked to be a casserole-bearing well wisher-- the kind that always show up at funerals.  Before he could wonder who she was, the woman said, “Oh Peter, you sure aren’t the little boy I remember.  It’s been so long, I’m sure you don’t know me anymore, but I’m Olive.  I was your grandmother’s best friend.  I just live down the road, and I saw the lights on as we came home from church.  I had heard that you were coming, and well... I thought you’d need something to eat.  It’s not much, just a little ham on some biscuits that we had earlier.”

“Ummm... well thanks.”   Somewhere in his head, a voice told him to be a gentleman, and before he could stop himself, he heard himself saying, “Err...would you like to come in?”

Olive looked at him for just a second, before tears filled her eyes. “I miss her so much.  She was so proud of you, you know.”  Somehow they managed to make it to the recliner and threadbare sofa, respectively, as Olive continued “I remember her praying over you the night you were born, from her living room, not the hospital room, because you came early.  She prayed that you would grow up to be a great man who always remembered who he was.”  Olive looked up, and dabbed her cheek.  “But she prayed if that wasn’t possible, that you’d always know whose you were.”

“Your Grandmother wasn’t one who talked about her faith a lot, because it wasn’t something that was easy for her.  Your “Poppy” as you children called him was the one who listened to every special The Gaithers put out, the one who’d listen to a radio preacher if he wasn’t up to church, and the one who loved a good hymn-sing more than just about anything. But your grandmother and God wrestled, a lot, I think. I remember her wailing aloud to the heavens when she lost her first born to one of those childhood diseases.  I sat here as she cried for days when your “Poppy” died, rubbed her shoulders as she asked the young well-meaning pastor not to read her the 23rd psalm, because she just wasn’t ready to hear it.  No, your grandmother never had a touchy-feely faith, but for her to pray that you’d always know whose you are was no small thing. Of all the grandchildren, I think she had a suspicion that you would be the one with the fiercest need to make your own way in the world.  She always said that you were the one most like her, perhaps the one that would struggle the most.”

Really, how could someone respond to that? Fortunately he didn’t need to, because Olive started talking again.

“Your Grandmother told me about all the things that have been going on in your life the last few years.”

Oddly, Olive said it without any judgment.  Did Grandmother really know, really understand?  Surely Olive would’ve caught her instincts from whatever Grandmother said. 

“I don’t mean to pry, or offer you any unsolicited advice, but I was thinking about you on the drive over, and what I would say to you.  But mostly, I kept thinking about how you’re probably comparing this Christmas to all the others you’ve known, and how hard that must make this year for you.  If you’ll excuse my saying, you don’t need any Hallmark pictures telling you how Christmas “ought” to look.  Well-meaning though they are, they’re far from true.  Christmas has become a greeting card holiday--with no depth, and no room for anyone who can’t sing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” with gusto.” I know your “Poppy” always gathered you children around and read the Christmas story before bed every Christmas Eve. Don’t mess with the tradition, but don’t read it from his Bible-- maybe that’s not the version for you tonight.  Read it from your Grandmother’s bible.  I’m sure it’s on her bedside table, where she always kept it.”

“Umm.. Ok. I’ll be sure to do that.” 

“Well, I’ve got to be going.  I promised Joe I’d be right home.  I never liked those people that said ‘let me know if I can do anything’, but I hope you will anyway.   Goodnight, Dolce. Merry Christmas, Peter. ”

“Thanks for stopping by.  Err...Merry Christmas to you too.”

As he shut the door, he knew that he would not be taking the kindly neighbor’s advice.  He knew the Christmas story after all. Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wisemen, a baby in a cloth. It’s not like it had changed in all the years he had heard it.

But as he gave the radio another shot, Olive’s words rung in his ears “She wanted you to remember whose you are.” 

What did that even mean? He was nobody’s, not anymore.  But for some reason, it was important for Grandmother’s best friend to tell him that... out of all that she could’ve said. 

“Remember whose you are.”  The words haunted him.  It became clear that he wasn’t going to get any peace, so he went upstairs, and found the well worn Bible on grandmother’s table.

Before he could ask himself any questions, the pages fell open to the first chapters of Luke, and a small  booklet fell out.  It was a small version of what they had always called a “blue book” in school--the kind they took essay tests in.  It was well worn, and in Grandmother’s tiny, scrawling hand, entitled “Promises for the Darkest Night”. Then as an afterthought-- “Promises for even me”

It wasn’t a manifesto, no “this is what I believe”.  Instead, it was what must’ve been some of Grandmother’s favorite passages.  In her booklet, there was no oft quoted 23rd Psalm.  There were no shepherds and wisemen, no chubby cheeked babes, and no sweetly smiling Mary’s.  The pages were dripping with raw emotion, crinkled in places with tear drops that had smudged the ink. 

The booklet was filled scriptures that Grandmother had wrestled with, and had evidently decided were the things she’d ground herself in.  In the margins, countless notes written as if Grandmother were having dialog with the writers, or with God himself.  Peter imagined her pouring over her own Christmas book, long after the others had gone to sleep. 

On the last two pages were quotes from the prophet Isaiah.   On the left, a note at the top said “what they read at Christmas” and had the familiar words,  

"Behold, I will create 

       new heavens and a new earth. 

       The former things will not be remembered, 

       nor will they come to mind.

 18 But be glad and rejoice forever
       in what I will create,
       for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight
       and its people a joy.

 19 I will rejoice over Jerusalem
       and take delight in my people;
       the sound of weeping and of crying
       will be heard in it no more.

 20 "Never again will there be in it
       an infant who lives but a few days,
       or an old man who does not live out his years;
       he who dies at a hundred
       will be thought a mere youth;
       he who fails to reach [a] a hundred
       will be considered accursed.

 21 They will build houses and dwell in them;
       they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit.

 22 No longer will they build houses and others live in them,
       or plant and others eat.
       For as the days of a tree,
       so will be the days of my people;
       my chosen ones will long enjoy
       the works of their hands.

 23 They will not toil in vain
       or bear children doomed to misfortune;
       for they will be a people blessed by the LORD,
       they and their descendants with them.

 24 Before they call I will answer;
       while they are still speaking I will hear.

 25 The wolf and the lamb will feed together,
       and the lion will eat straw like the ox,
       but dust will be the serpent's food.
       They will neither harm nor destroy
       on all my holy mountain,"
       says the LORD.

She had circled words, and underlined things for her emphasis.  She wrote, “When, O Lord, when?” and “Lord, rend your heavens and come down”.

On the last page, she scrawled at the top “What I read for Christmas, on the darkest night.” And another page from Isaiah. 1 But now, this is what the LORD says— 

       he who created you, O Jacob, 

       he who formed you, O Israel: 

       "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; 

       I have summoned you by name; you are mine.

 2 When you pass through the waters,
       I will be with you;
       and when you pass through the rivers,
       they will not sweep over you.
       When you walk through the fire,
       you will not be burned;
       the flames will not set you ablaze.

 3 For I am the LORD, your God,
       the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;
       I give Egypt for your ransom,
       Cush [a] and Seba in your stead.

 4 Since you are precious and honored in my sight,
       and because I love you,
       I will give men in exchange for you,
       and people in exchange for your life.

 5 Do not be afraid, for I am with you;
       I will bring your children from the east
       and gather you from the west.

 6 I will say to the north, 'Give them up!'
       and to the south, 'Do not hold them back.'
       Bring my sons from afar
       and my daughters from the ends of the earth-

 7 everyone who is called by my name,
       whom I created for my glory,
       whom I formed and made."

Scrawled at the bottom, “a promise for me, even when I’m not sure.”  In another ink, in a hand that had changed for all its years of writing, “A Promise for Peter, even when he can’t remember whose he is. This is the meaning of that baby in the manger.” 

“She wanted you to remember whose you are” Olive had said.

For Grandmother, that was the most important, even when she had questions, even when the “traditional” Christmas story wasn’t enough for her and didn’t line up with her experience, she knew whose she was.   

Could you will your faith to someone? He didn’t know. The sky didn’t open up, and angels never sang “Gloria, In excelcis deo”, but Christmas found Peter.  Perhaps one day the shepherds and wisemen and sheep and the chubby cheeked babe would be his Christmas story.  But for now, he decided, it was a blessing to be like his grandmother. Shaky, imperfect, world-worn, and full of questions.  But beloved anyway.

   And that just might be the wildest Christmas story ever. 

Singing Dancing Women and a Topsy Turvy Gospel

Singing, dancing women and a topsy-turvey gospel

Luke 1: 39-55

Dec 20, 2009-- Advent 4C

1. Intro

Finally.  We’re in the fourth week of advent, and finally there is someone who is excited.  Advent started out with scary lectionary readings about signs in the heavens, and parables about fig trees.  Then Zechariah was struck mute because he wasn’t quite sure about the angels words to him.  Last week, John was all up in our faces, and called us a “Brood of Vipers”.  Talk about “Merry Christmas” and a dose of nice holiday cheer.

But this week, we find somebody who’s merry and not bothering us with their “Bah Humbugs”. Two somebodies, in fact.  Two pregnant, impossible women.  One too old, one, truthfully, too young-- at least according to our standards.  One married to a high priest, one not married at all.   Impossible, no doubt.  

And these are the two chosen to herald the news that the world is about to be shaken up.  Peek with me into their world, on this day. 

1. Playing in the text

Who can I tell?  Who can I trust?  They’ll throw me out of the family.  When Joseph finds out, he’ll call me all sorts of names.  Or worse, he won’t call me anything.  He’ll just turn and leave.

The angel made this sound like a blessing, but he didn’t tell me what to do in the meantime.  There’s nowhere I can go, no one who will believe my story.  I’m bearing the Son of God, and I can’t show my face anywhere.

I don’t know that she’ll understand about me, but the angel said Elizabeth was having strange things happening to her, too. Besides, she’s my family-- distant though she is.  Maybe she’s a haven for me.  Or maybe, once she hears my story, maybe she’ll throw me out, and shake my dust from her doorstep.  After all, no one would want one such as me ruining their family’s reputation. 

BEAT

Pregnant, at my age?  What will people say?  Nobody would bother to say anything if Zechariah fathered a child by a younger woman.  But for me to be pregnant at my age? 

It’s not that I’m not overjoyed.  I’ve prayed for this for years, until I didn’t dare pray it anymore.  We’ve moved on.  We’ve long since quit praying that God would give us a child.

And now here I am, at my age.  And I’m going to have a baby.   But who can I tell?  Who would understand?  I’ve talked to Zechariah, but he can’t talk back.  He didn’t understand the angel’s news...so all he can do is listen until this baby is born.  It’s great to have a listening ear, but what I want is someone who can share my joy without letting all their questions get in the way.   If only...

*****

Can you imagine this meeting?  I imagine the shocked look on Elizabeth’s face when she opens the door and finds a relative from long ago.  I imagine Mary, with her head bent, not quite daring to look in Elizabeth’s eyes.   But after a long moment, after Mary finally dares to look at Elizabeth, and they have a second to take each other in, and then joy takes over. 

I imagine Elizabeth catching Mary in a big bear hug, the smile on her face uncontrollable. 

Suddenly they are dancing around, and laughing like little school girls-- the joy between them tremendous. 

In the instant that Elizabeth takes Mary into her arms, suddenly Mary knows that all well be well.  But Elizabeth takes it a step farther, and says with a sparkle in her eyes, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!”

And all this because of a well-timed kick from a baby.  

I don’t know much about babies or pregnant women, having never been around many, but I would think the fact that a baby kicks is not an event to write home about.  I mean sure, when the glowing mother-to-be is standing in a group of people, she’ll say “Ooooh...he’s kicking.”  And everyone will put their hands on her belly, as if it somehow belong to all of them. 

But unless I’m mistaken, this isn’t a once in a lifetime occurrence.  My understanding of these things is that baby kicks happen often. 

Yet, as Luke is telling us this story, he wants to make sure we realize that something is different about Elizabeth’s unborn baby’s movement.   Luke has Elizabeth attribute it to joy-- as if to say that the joy between these two women is so strong, that even the baby feels it. 

We don’t know much about Elizabeth, other than she was married to now mute Zechariah and that she’s expecting a baby, well after that should be a possibility.  But, I think, after having already received a miracle herself, Elizabeth is open to seeing miracles in other places.  She expects that her world, and indeed the whole world, is about to be dumped on it’s head.  I wonder if she feels like she’s in an M.C. Escher painting, where nothing is as it should be.   

Yet oddly enough, Elizabeth character doesn’t seem to be terribly fearful.  Instead, she is about to be a sanctuary for Mary, who is cut off from her community, which in turn allows Mary be a sanctuary for her. 

1. A sanctuary 

Make no mistake.  These women, by virtue of their pregnancies that don’t follow anyone’s  rules, are  outcasts.  They can’t go anywhere and be part of any “in” crowd.

“Marginalized” is a popular word these days-- and it refers to all those  who aren’t in the center of things.  That ugly word refers, oddly enough, to two women whom we would consider to be abundantly blessed. 

In this beginning to a Topsy Turvy world that Jesus ushers in, God provides these women with the two things they desperately lack: community and connection.

  

Though most of us loudly say how much we love this time of year, secretly, I think we’ve all been battered by the world in some way, and I think we feel that more at this time of year than we do at any other.  For some of us, we’ve been battered by too much to do, and not enough time or money to do them.  For some, we’re battered battered by the memories of Christmases that aren’t any more, or how Christmas is “supposed” to look. 

Whatever it is, it weighs on us more than we’d care to admit, and when things get quiet, we feel it deep within our hearts.  I think we’re in need of a sanctuary more than we’d like to believe.

I’ll bet you’ve never thought about it-- about what a sanctuary you find when you’re here.  So many of us were shocked earlier this year when there was a church shooting, as much as anything, because we just don’t think about that sort of thing.  We feel safe from the world here.  I hope, though, it’s deeper than that.  I hope it’s a place where we not only feel safe from the perils of the world, but it’s a place where we find acceptance, and feel loved and nurtured. 

I think that’s what Elizabeth and Mary must’ve found in each other. 

That’s nice to think about-- about how they were able to smile conspiratorily together-- but sanctuary is not something we give much thought to.  Perhaps such a thing is a luxury so common in this place that we neither think about what our world would be without it, nor what another person’s world might look like without it. 

Our first instinct is never to think about how another person has been battered by the world, or how they are without community that we all crave so much.  Our first instinct, instead, is to think how “those” people (whomever they are-- they’re different for each of us) aren’t like us. 

I think it’s really interesting that Elizabeth and Mary, the two outcasts, sing and dance around together. Elizabeth never lectures Mary, never asks any questions, never bothers to think about her own reputation.  Instead, they rejoice at the opportunity to share their blessings together. 

When I first started working this this story, I thought that maybe this was Mary’s passage.  But as I’ve sat with it, I think Elizabeth plays a much bigger role than I would have guessed at first. Because Elizabeth had already seen a miracle, she was much more open to believing that other miracles might be out there.  Because she her eyes and heart had been open, and she dared to hope beyond the possible, Elizabeth was a safe place for Mary.  I think by giving Mary a place where she felt loved and cared for, Elizabeth gave Mary the courage to see her situation as a blessing, and gave her the hope that leads to her song. 

My first instinct when I began crafting a sermon was to focus on Mary’s song, and what a Topsy Turvey world she saw being ushered in by Jesus.  Maybe that instinct was right, just not in the way I saw it playing out.  There is something Topsy Turvy afoot, and we see in the ways that these two outcast women are role models.  What they offer to us is not only a joyous look at the coming savior, but through their actions, they invite us to offer sanctuary to all whom we meet.  They invite us to take the ones who aren’t like us, the ones who might hurt our reputations, the ones who aren’t doing the things we think they ought to be, and bring them into our safe fold.  They invite us to rejoice with those in our midst, opening our arms to them.  After all, we’ve seen a miracle, and that opens our eyes to the miracles that just might be taking place in the lives of those around us. Who knows? Perhaps by so doing, we’ll help someone find the courage and hope to sing their own song. 

Preachers all over talk about what a problem it is to preach the incarnation: that is, when God became human.  They talk about how hard and inconvenient it was that God in Jesus was born a baby, of a virgin mother, in inconvenient circumstances.  It’s fleshy and earthy and full of things that we just as soon not think about or preach.  It would have been a lot easier if an angel did all the proclaiming, if Jesus wasn’t like us at all.  It would’ve been easier if Luke had left these singing, dancing, pregnant, outcast women out of it. 

But Luke put them in, and hoped we could hear their story anyway.  And today, they are the ones heralding the good news, more beautifully than most preachers could.  The news they herald is that no matter how far out we are, we are brought into community.  They herald that the sanctuary we find in each other, and pray that we might offer other people, makes all the difference in the world.  But perhaps the best news they herald is that miracles are all around, and might even be happening in the life of someone who isn’t on the “inside”. 

I don’t think fleshy, earthy Jesus would mind these “impossible” women proclaiming that message, because that will be a big part of his ministry: taking the ones we consider “out” and doing something miraculous and life changing with them. 

And thanks be to God for that. 

Rumors of Hope

Rumors of Hope

12.06.09

Advent 2C

Luke 1: 

Focus: The angel’s proclamation to Zechariah, and his subsequent 9 months of silence, bring about great change in Zechariah’s world view.

Function:  We, like Zechariah, are called to moved from fearful followers to those who trust in God’s amazing gift.

I From Zechariah’s eyes

I’m sure you’ve heard all about me.  You know that I’m a high priest, and that I’m married to Elizabeth.  And I bet you know that she’s pregnant.  I’d bet you even know that I was rendered mute for nine months  because I didn’t believe the angel.  

But I bet you’ve never heard about it from my point of view...never had to stand in my shoes so to speak. 

I love my wife, Elizabeth, but it’s not like she’s a spring chicken.  I know how these things work,  and once you reach a certain age, children just aren’t something you expect.  So I’m not sure exactly why the angel came down so hard on me for saying “But how can I know this is true?” It’s not like I said, “You’re a liar.”   I just wanted some proof, some reassurance before my world was turned upside down.  I guess the fact that I’m a high priest, and therefore should have been on the lookout for divine occurrences has something to do with it.  I guess I’m just not like Elizabeth’s cousin, Mary,  who said simply “May it be with me as you have said” upon finding out that she was pregnant with the Holy Spirit’s baby. 

I was painted as a grumpy old man, and maybe I was.  But I had nine months to think about it, and that nine months changed my mind about a lot of things.

Have you ever been speechless? Sure maybe someone said something that was so unfathomable that you just didn’t have anything to say.  Or maybe you’ve had laryngitis for a few days.  But I bet you have never been without words for months on end.  Powerless.  Weak.  Defenseless.  Only able to listen.  (Of course, my wife thought it was great.  Nine months to fill my ears with anything she wanted, and I couldn’t even say, “Wait a minute! Can’t I even get a few minutes of peace?”) 

At any rate,  I’ve had a long time to think about everything.  The first conclusion I came to was that I  might have acted out of fear.  The angels words to me were a shock, and they were really frightening.  I guess, because my whole world was about to be rocked.  Maybe it was because something that I had spent years proclaiming to people, showed up at my front door-- and I was confronted with just how little faith I really had.   After all, I guess God is easy to believe in when he doesn’t require anything of you, and when he’s not knocking at your very door.  

The second conclusion I came to during my time of thinking is that fear isn’t the best way to be a good disciple.  After all, it stops you from doing the things you’d really love to do.   It makes you a crazy person.  I wonder how many times fear crept into my ministry, and kept me from doing the things that I knew God was calling me to do.   I wonder what my life, and my ministry might have looked like if I had been able to really trust God to miraculous, amazing things?

And one last conclusion that changed me completely during this time of silence is  that God is doing miraculous things.  The fact that John was born to us, an elderly couple, is nothing short of a miracle.  It’s not that we did anything special.   No, God did every bit of it.  The fact that my voice came back just at the right time, was nothing short of amazing.   I guess you can’t blame me for breaking into songs of Joy-- and singing the “Benedictus”  praising God for what’s been done in my life.  

I know the things that happened to me were through God’s own hand.  And I believe that I have been changed for the better in a way that has transformed my life.  Now, I can see God’s hand at work in the world. 

1. Read Scripture

1. Zechariah’s song

I love Zechariah’s song, just like I love the other five offerings of praise in the Gospel of Luke.  WHile those focus directly on the birth of Jesus, this one offers a slightly different spin.   This one focuses on the birth of John as a sign of what is done and what is to come.  Zechariah is almost bursting at the seams with the things that the birth of John, and later Christ, will mean for the world.

I think I love it so much, partly because I long so deeply to be able to sing it with him.  Zechariah is one that I understand.  I get his wanting proof.  I get the fact that some things just seem too good to be true.  And I get that he was at least a little afraid.  

I’ve expressed this in a couple of ways, in a couple of places.  But as we go farther into Advent, I am struck again by these things.  First of all, it doesn’t feel like things are different.  In doesn’t feel like there is a Lord of all the earth, especially as I look around at the world.  I’ve also mentioned that this year, more than ever before, I really ready for it to feel like Christmas.  I think I could do without all the waiting of Advent, and just jump straight into the magic of Christmas.   But as I hear Zechariah’s song, I am reminded  that there are rumors of hope floating around. 

1. Seeking peace in a war-torn world

Zechariah’s song is much about peace, and the new era that is dawning.  As we go deeper into Advent, we wonder if in fact we will ever know peace.   Will we find it deep in our hearts, will there ever be peace on Earth?

Peace is a traditional theme for the Second Sunday in Advent, and not just the sort of peace that is the absence of strife, but the sort that surpasses all understanding. 

I wonder what Zechariah’s call to us would be?  As we look at a world which is war torn, would he have us sit still and wait for Peace on Earth, Goodwill to men, glumly mumbling to ourselves that nothing feels different?

Or perhaps would he challenge us to get up and dance, believing that the dawning of a new age is coming near?

Zechariah is so amazed at the things that God has done, that it completely trumps his fear.   We don’t hear tons about him after this first chapter in Luke closes, but he seems to be a very different sort of person.  I think he would beg us to cast off our fears that the world won’t be handled the way we think it ought to be, and challenge us to look for the ways that God is bringing about peace, with joyful expectation.

But, too, I think Zechariah would say that true peace will only come when we are in a good relationship with God-- when we have lost our fears, laid aside our personal ambitions.  

The conditions that cause both an absence of peace in the world and an absence of peace in our hearts really stem from looking out for ourselves.  We can’t appreciate what God offers to us in covenant life with Christ until we rid ourselves of these things. 

For Zechariah, a big hurdle was his fear.  But only when he allowed his fear to disappate did he find true peace.

Zechariah, I think, heard rumors of hope... and it changed him, completely.   Can you hear the whisper that says, “Things are not as they seem... Christ is coming?” 

My prayer for you is that you might move a little farther from being a disciple plagued by fear and a little closer to becoming a disciple who trusts that there is a God who cares, who is in control, and who is on the way.  Amen.