Christmas Day

I read a book a this past summer that conveyed a very simple message to the reader – that keeping a population in a constant state of fear makes it easier to be controlled.  Reading that book, then looking around at my world, I see how in fact we are encouraged to be in a constant state of fear, if not despair, at all times.

Newspaper headlines scream about the economic catastrophe.  Four days – four days!! – of  weather headlines proclaimed the arrival of a snowstorm and cold snap that is really neither unexpected nor surprising for our geographic location and climate.  If we don’t have snow tires, all wheel drive, four wheel drive, or traction control, we’re warned that we may not even make it out of our drive way without becoming buried in an avalanche of biblical proportions.

And for what?  Would this even have made headlines 60 years ago?  A generation ago, winter came and went with nary a peep.  I’ve read newspaper articles from 1929 and 1930 that do more to foster hope in these circumstances than the blithest financial commentator on CNN.

And that’s just local news, really.  Watch the international news and…well, if you can make it through the international news without strong medication you’re a better person than I.   Even human interest stories – the Duggar family, for example, who just welcomed their 20^th or 21^st child – are tempered by editorial and reader comments that spout off such gems as “don’t they know that many children is too many for the environment to support,” and “don’t they know they’re hurting their children by not allowing them the room to be individuals?”

And don’t even ask me to comment on the health and lifestyle news.

Fear. Fear that you’re not doing enough.  That you’re not doing something right.  That the world is coming to an end as a direct result of  you and your choices.  Fear that death from dubious circumstances lurks just beyond your sofa.

Even religion prospers from fear – throughout its history Christianity has certainly been guilty of promulgating conversion through the threat of fiery hell while at the same time condemning other religions that use the same tactics. In the Small Catechism Martin Luther begins every explanation with the statement “we are to fear and love God…”

Your Pastor would argue that most – if not all – of the problems of the world stem from 3 essential fears – the fear of sin (doing something wrong), the fear of sorrow, and the fear of death.  Because people fear doing something wrong they do nothing, because they fear sorrow as the inevitable consequence of love they seek superficiality in relationships and use others as they themselves are used; and the fear of death that leads people to focus solely on their own immortality – through money, wealth, fame – as the expense of others.

St John writes in his first letter, “there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear, for fear has to do with punishment.”  The root problem of fear is that it is irrevocably tied with the idea of punishment or retribution for what we’ve done wrong.  Fear paralyzes us, leaving us unable to move outwards to engage in relationships and it freezes our attentions onto ourselves and we need to do.

And God comes into this world?  Into this world of fear the Eternal Word becomes flesh and comes to us?  Yes!  That is exactly what happens.  Into this world of fear and fright and terror comes a single solitary baby.  And this baby did not become God – indeed, God became flesh and dwelt among us so that fear would cease.  Rather than living as humans doing all those things that kept us from punishment we would instead become humans being in relationship with each other because that fear of punishment is lifted.

When the angels appeared to the shepherds who were in the fields, they brought with them a message that contained three instructions:

1.)  do not fear.

2.)  Look.

3.)  See.

Three simple messages.

Do not fear.  The shepherds were terrified, as would we be if the night sky over Spruce Grove was suddenly populated by a celestial chorus wreathed in blinding light.  But their fear also had to do with the fact that, by and large, the angels in Old Testament stories are not usually ‘nice’ – they wrestle with you, or are part of a ginormous army, or are there to test you somehow – they aren’t cute, round, cuddly cherubim that look like Morgan with fluffy wings.  They big, powerful, and carry with them the terrifying reality that God actually exists and in all probability is mad at you.

But that night, the message they brought was different.  Do not fear.  That’s a common message in Scripture; that combination of words – ‘do not fear’ occur some 400 times in the 66 books of our Bible.  But the angels brought something different.  Instead of “do not fear, because the Lord is with you,” they brought the message ‘do not fear, because to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ, the Lord.”  Instead of God being with them in spirit, in the form of those militant angels striding the field of battle God was with them in their humanity; in the great colossal theological mess that we label “the Incarnation” and let it be.

Do not fear, because you have a Saviour.

Look.  Go and look at where he is.  Your king is born, not in a palace or castle but in a stable, and laid in a manger.  Look not in the things or places of power in your world – where you are told the beautiful people are – but look in the everyday for the presence of God.  In the manger, in the pages of a holy Book you will find the Christ, for he is present with you.  You no longer need to seek out God’s face because that tiny, chubby face is looking right back at you.

And see.  See the glory of God and the presence of Christ in your lives.  Yes, there’s a choir of angels in the night sky forming a celestial combo that’s rocking the world.  But Christ is with you.  See him.  Because in becoming human, Christ was one of us so that we may find Christ in each of us.

One tiny baby.  “Call him Joshua,” Mary was told.  Yeshua, in Hebrew, meaning “Yahweh saves.”  The Greek conquerors of a few centuries earlier left their linguistic legacy with Jesus.  We call him the Christ – the Messiah, the saviour that was born that day – this day – in the city of David.

Not a delivered from oppression of an occupying army or the yoke of poverty – although these are indeed consequences when his message is taken and practiced and lived – but delivered from fear.  From the fear of sin, sorrow, and death.

We talk of death-defying acts in our culture as those extreme-sports junkies who ski down mountains or parachute with a shopping bag from 60 000 feet.  But those are death-inviting acts.  You are participating in death-defying acts every morning you wake up, because you wake up baptized.

To defy death is to love Jesus Christ, and to love Christ is to bear out the expression of that love in relationships with each other.  We maybe use different language, though – instead of death-defying, we call these things life-inviting.  

I’ve often told confirmation classes and youth that I believe there are three things that are needed to have abundant life – God, love, and community.  Those three things can exist separately, certainly, and even any two of them can coexist – but finding all three means finding everlasting life.

Do not fear.  For God is with you and among you.

Look.  For love is in you, and is a gift of God.

See.  Because you are surrounded by community.

You are a holy people; the redeemed of the Lord.  You have been sought out.  Go out and lift up your sign before all peoples: the message “Do not fear, for Christ is with you.”

Christmas Eve - Never Wake a Sleeping Baby

Most people who gather here tonight will be somewhat familiar with the Macintyre household.  Two adults, four kids, and three bedrooms makes for a very loud, very busy household.  Yet we manage with a minimum of fuss and bloodshed.  The kids play very loudly usually; there is probably more than the normal amount of yelling, screeching, music-making, and general mayhem.

But the household is governed by one simple rule. It is the source of order and sanity in our little home; it is inviolable and concrete; those who dare to break it must suffer the scorn and derision of the rest of the family, and be publically shamed.  That rule is very, very, simple (and no, it isn’t ‘daddy is always right’):

It’s never wake a sleeping baby.

That does not, in fact, mean that our house is as quiet as a mausoleum for 14 hours a day.  I’ll make fair wagers that our home is just as much, if not more, chaotic than some others.  But that one rule reigns in our home.  Never wake a sleeping baby.

For the most part, we can be as loud as we want; because there are many things a baby can sleep through.  The vacuum cleaner.  The washing machine.  General chaos.  But, it turns out, in fact, that the baby will not sleep through conflict of any kind.  Tears over a hogged toy: the baby wakes up.  A temper tantrum over permission not given: the baby wakes up.  If I speak sharply to my wife, or one of the other littles (and it does happen): the baby wakes up.  Even I am not allowed to transgress that one rule.

So when I think about, and reflect upon that first Christmas night, I confess that my images are coloured by that one simple rule; that rule has been in place since the birth of our first child.  This proves problematic when I consider some of the popular hymnody that we sing at this time of year.

For example, take that little drummer boy carol.  I haven’t looked it up; but I would be very surprised to find that it had been written by someone with children.  Especially the part when Jesus’ mother gives the little boy permission to play, and the assorted barnyard animals keep time.

If you played a drum near my newborn, God would have mercy on your soul, I guarantee it.  I rather imagine that Mary would have looked at someone coming into that stable with a drum with the best ‘mother’ look a young woman could manage – you know, the kind that leaves an imprint of your shadow on the wall behind – and that drummer would have beaten a hasty retreat.

Never wake a sleeping baby.

It extends beyond that, too.  Do you know why angels appeared to shepherds in their fields, way out in the countryside?  Because not even an angel is going to wake a sleeping baby and invite the wrath of his mother.  The angels appeared to shepherds in their fields singing their ‘glories’ because it was a safe enough distance away.  They had to sing; there were going to sing; they just knew better than to do it in that stable.  And then the shepherds, who would understand all about keeping silent so as to not spook their flocks, went to see the baby.  The shepherds could adore, and love, in silence.

We sang ‘Go Tell It On The Mountain.”  That’s a good idea.  If you want to shout about the birth of the Messiah, go and find a mountain.  Don’t wake the baby.

It’s funny, what living in a house governed by that rule will do.  The littles learn conflict resolution skills at a very young age.  My wife and I learn that there is very little worth raising our voices over.  We all learn, in fact, that the presence of that baby in our house brings a peace that passes all understanding: it doesn’t change the way we are; but it changes who we are. 

Maybe there’s a lesson there to be shared; a lesson learned from a baby born in a stable, and laid in manger.  That welcoming that baby into our lives won’t change the way we are, but that baby will change who we are.

There’s something about spending time with babies – any babies – that changes the way we look at the world.  It’s not that it seems any more peaceful; in fact, more often than not a baby will throw the violence and capriciousness of the world into sharp relief.  But a sleeping baby…well, a sleeping baby is a beautiful thing.

A beautiful thing.  And sometimes, a painful thing.  My family has experienced the loss of a baby born sleeping.  I know too many parents who have buried their babies – even babies well into their 30s or 40s.  Joy at Christmas is tempered by sorrow; or maybe it’s the other way around sometimes: that sorrow that Christmas reminds us of can be tempered with joy, or hope.  I know that because of that baby born in Bethlehem there is hope that we will see those babies again.  But instead of watching them sleep, we can watch them wake up. 

Because there’s a big difference between watching a baby wake up from sleep, and waking one up.  For starters, the noise level is decidedly different.  But to see a baby come to gradual awareness of their world…that’s an amazing thing.  I sometimes think that a sleeping baby is seeing a little bit of heaven; and that when they’re startled awake they cry because they see the world for the way it is: and know doesn’t work the way it should. 

Never wake a sleeping baby.

This Christmastime beloved, try not to wake the baby who is sleeping in the manger.  Turn down the lights; light your candles.  Sing your songs, and say your prayers.  Let out your little ‘glorias’, and find your joy to the world.  But be at peace with each other.  Forgive those who long for, or ask, for your forgiveness.  Love those who do not; for your love means more than your forgiveness.  Let that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.  Try not to wake the baby.

Soon enough, that baby will wake up; will wake up to a world of hate, and fear, and hunger; a world of uncertainty and doubt.  That baby will soon enough be a Saviour; will find out all too well about suffering, and shame, and dying, for you.  For you, so that you can know the everlasting peace that a sleeping baby, in a manger brings.

God comes as a baby, to us, tonight.  There is hope, and peace, in believing.  There is hope, and peace, to know that those who have died rest in love, and everlasting joy; because that sleeping baby became a king who reigns forever in a place where there is no sorrow, where this are no tears; where all there is, is glory.

Don’t wake a sleeping baby; watch, and wait, and wonder, and worship, because that baby is going to be your Saviour.

Advent 4 - Reasons for Seasons

So, there’s a baptism today!  I love baptisms; they’re one of the best parts of my job.  Who else gets to splash people with water, and not get splashed in return? 

Today we welcome little Lochlin Robert into the family of God here at St. Matthew’s.  He’s a bit small yet, but he does show some promise.  I can imagine, though, that there was perhaps a little bit of stress getting things put together for today, and a family get-together this afternoon, when after all – tomorrow is Christmas Eve!  The fourth Sunday of Advent is a great day for a baptism – any Sunday is – but this one, with Christmas Eve tomorrow; my goodness.  On the plus side, it shouldn’t be hard for you to remember Lochlin’s baptismal date.  Even better, if you began a family practice of giving a gift on the anniversary of his baptism every year…’awesome’ is the only word that can describe it.

That’s the funny thing about dates – some are easy to remember, and some are harder.  I can remember lots of various dates that float around in my head, but others get lost in the shuffle.  That may be an occupational hazard; the church has had much the same struggle for a number of dates.

Take, for example, the date of Christmas.  The birth of Jesus.  If you noticed, the winter solstice was Friday.  The world also didn’t end.  But for many years, people have wondered if Jesus was actually born on December 25.  We know exactly when Lochlin was born; we know exactly when he is baptised, because this sort of knowledge is really important in our culture.  Not so much for the culture Jesus was born in to. 

Things that were important, and celebrated, were things like the solstice festival.  A few centuries after Jesus’ birth there arose a new festival in the Roman empire called natalis solis invicti; or “the birth of the unconquered sun”.  That’s sun, as in the big burning ball of gas in the sky.  Early Christians weren’t so concerned about the date of Jesus birth.  They remembered the crucifixion (or more importantly, the resurrection), but it was a moveable feast, usually remembered around the Passover festival (it’s only much later that the conceit of a concretized calendar became popular).  But since Passover was usually in the spring, it worked.  They were also concerned with the annunciation of his birth – Mary’s story in the gospel lesson today is perhaps one of the most important in the early church – and early Christians placed the date of the annunciation in juxtaposition with the resurrection (so it was around the same time).

But when early Christians wanted to figure out an approximation of Jesus’ birth – because the festival celebrating the sun, and especially the birth of whichever current emperor was on the throne – they took the time of the annunciation, and added nine months.  So, if the annunciation was in (what came to be) March, that put the birth of Jesus sometime in December.

But obviously, that creates some problems.  For starters, as soon as we put sometime in concrete, as a people of faith we tend to stop acting as if it matters. 

Take, for example, baptism.  Many, many, parents willing stand up and say that it is HUGELY important that their child be baptised.  Then, once it’s done, their pastor or congregation won’t seem them there again, except on….Christmas.  But if faith is so important, why not bring a family to the place where their faith is going to be fed? (though, in your defence, Winston and Danielle, I will hunt you down.)

So, once we have that fixed date for Christmas…who cares about the rest of the year?  If we can stuff God in a box and only bring it out once a year, then it’s easy to pat yourself on the back about what a good person you are.

It’s curious, because when I wandered through the mall parking lot trying to find my truck a couple of days ago, I counted thirty vehicles that had some version of the sticker on the back of their vehicle that says “keep Christ in Christmas,” or “remember the reason for the season.”

Those are a little passive-aggressive, are they not?  Just the little hint of a threat, of dire consequences.  But seriously, if you just give the Sunday school answer, “Jesus is the reason for the season” it doesn’t cover a whole lot of ground.  Easter is very nearly just as commercialized as Christmas, yet no one asks about the reason for the season, then.  Really, that sort of “remember the reason for the season” gobbledygook doesn’t mean a whole lot, when you consider that every season the church celebrates, it celebrates because of Christ.

It’s not even ‘Christmas’, yet.  The season of Christmas does not start when Walmart gets out its junk or you pick up a “Christmas Calendar” full of chocolate.  The celebration of the season of Christmas starts Tuesday – December 25 – and lasts 12 days.  Just like in the song.  But if I were to walk up to someone on January 4^th and say, ‘merry Christmas,” I rather imagine that I’d get the uncomfortable looks usually reserved for people wearing tinfoil hats.

Come to think of it, I get that look a lot.

The problem with those little passive-aggressive signs is that they miss the point.  They miss ‘the reason for the season.’  There is only one reason for the season, beloved of God: one reason for Advent, for Christmas, for Epiphany, for Lent, for Easter, for Pentecost; one reason.  One reason that is spelled out in the words of every prophet, every singer, every person who has ever spoken the words of the Lord:

You.

The angels appeared, bringing their first message to the shepherds: do not be afraid.  And then they continued:  for unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ, the Lord.

You (plural) are the reason for all the seasons.  It was for you that God came, so that sin, sorrow, and death would hold no fear for you.  It’s right when we say that a great gift came at Christmastime – and that gift was for you.

Because God loves you.  If there were no people; there would be no need for Jesus.  Jesus came because, in fact, we’re not ‘good’ people; not in the way that the ancient Scripture uses the term.  We’re used to a greek philosophical ideal in which a ‘good’ person is someone who does the least possible amount of damage to others.  God’s standards are a little higher; but because we can’t reach them on our own we are given the Messiah, who gives us the gift of God With Us; so that we could stop trying to reach up to God.

Little Lochlin is the reason for the season; his baptism is the reason the church exists.  It doesn’t exist to dictate morality or a socially conservative agenda; it exists to convey God’s love and presence to the world in it’s gathered community.

I’ll point out to you here at St. Matt’s: this is what you do.  It is your mission. 

God wants you to be part of his promise to the world, the promise that today binds Lochlin to this family and to God; the promise that binds you and all believers together – a promise made to Abraham and Abraham’s descendents, that God would abide with them.

The gift of Christmas is not that you can go and spend yourself silly at the nearest mall, then piously look at your gigantic hoard of loot, and say “gee, now someone knows I love them.”

If you think you need to do that, you need more help than I can offer.

But you can remember that it was for you that Jesus was born.  Yes, the promise of a Messiah was a promise made for all people: but it is also a promise made for you.

It’s when you come together, when you gather for worship that that promise is made visible to you, in your singing, in the word that is shared, and in your neighbours.  Christmas is not about gathering with family and friends – because even if you have no friends or family to gather with, Christmas would still happen.  It still happens in the midst of grief, of loneliness, and in the midst of sorrow.  Christmas is a celebration of life, a life shared together with people under God’s promise.

In a world that looks very dark around us – in the longest nights of the year – God’s promise to Lochlin, and to us, remains: that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Advent 3 - Advent Expectations

Here’s a question for you today, beloved: what do you expect of church?  Is this a place where you gather to sing old favourite hymns, see old friends, and have old perceptions affirmed; is this is place where you come to hear the word of God proclaimed, to be challenged, stirred up, and sent out; or do you not know what to expect when you walk through these doors – what do you expect of God?

I sometimes wonder what I even expect.  I heard this past week of a shooting at a school in Connecticut this past week that left 27 people dead, 20 of whom were children.  I’m at a loss. Even I want to wander through Advent and shout at God: what are you doing about this??!!  I don’t believe that events like that can possibly have anything to do with God’s will, or God’s way; they are pure human evil.  But surely, we can expect God to do something about that.  It’s unspeakable.

There’s a long tradition in Christianity, at least in the western church, that really discourages believers from expecting anything from God.  There’s a firm foundation of teaching for that, that suggest the only thing to expect from God is a bolt of well-aimed lightning, or hellfire for our sins (though that’s a greek god kind of thing…).  But to think of 40 parents who will remember this coming Christmas as the time when they buried their murdered child should be enough to make just about everyone lose their minds with rage.  And many people will.  Already, some internet forums that I see are full of comments about the non-existence of God (if God can exist, how can things like this happen?), and people are listening. 

Yet there’s another side to think about, as well; the side that forces us to confront our own sense of entitlement and worthiness as Christians in North America.  We get used to thinking that because we’re good, then only good should happen to us.  It’s a formula I see all the time: why did something bad happen, when people are good?  What happened in Connecticut is unspeakable.  Yet, far more than 18 children have died in Syria, die in a single African country each and every day, and yet we remained untouched by that.  Even I fall for that line of thinking; why shouldn’t God do more for the rest of us?  Maybe that’s too selfish a question to ask.  Maybe it’s something I only ask myself.

Though maybe, at Advent, surrounded by commercials that urge us to ‘think of that person we love at Christmas, and what they mean to you, and buy accordingly’ it’s the time we need to ask questions that confront our own expectations.  And maybe we need to ask those questions so that our faith can move beyond materialistic expectation to enable us to become the people we were created and redeemed to be.

Maybe, on this Sunday in advent, we’re called to put those feelings of expectation and wanting aside and focus more inward: what does God expect of us?  John the Baptizer stands on the shores of the River Jordan, surrounded by people who are coming to him for baptism.  It seems they’re not coming out of a genuine desire or expression of faith – who knows why they’re coming, or what they expect.  John is suspicious of their motives: you brood of vipers!  Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? 

Realize, beloved, that he’s talking to the congregation.  This is not a good pastoral tactic.  But John does know that he’s beginning to get some pushback from the group.  They’re reminding John that his job is to splash some water on the people; to tell them “God loves you!” and let them get back to their important lives.  After all, they say, they’re children of Abraham, members of God’s chosen nation; God is for them. 

Yet John doesn’t seem to buy that line.  In fact, he gets pretty irritated at it, and reminds the people that God is able to raise up children from anywhere – or anything – and he reminds them that if they are children of Abraham, then God has certain expectations of them – but those are not moral codes, so to speak, but rather rules for living together in community.  Don’t take advantage of each other.  Care for each other.  Model the community of God so that others can see your light.

But that not always easy.  It’s not ever easy.   Because we live in a land of deep darkness; darkness that covers like the shadow of death; it is easier to see the darkness than to see, or seek, the light.

In the birth stories of the Saviour, there are many, many stories.  There are angels, shepherds, magi, people singing, and a choir of the heavenly host.  Things like these are the fodder for the falsity that pervades our culure – that instead of searching for the light in darkness we can cover, paint over, build a façade around a rotten structure and still pretend that every is all right; that we can market well, ignore, or spin our own shame and nobody will notice – until it all comes crashing down.

In those birth stories are details that you cannot miss, though they are not part of the dainty manger scenes.  There is the scene of a young pregnant woman having to tell her much-older fiancé that she is pregnant, and her expanding belly growing obvious to the stares of gossip-mongers in her own home town.  The scene of two peope travelling across the barren desert by donkey; the scene of a birth that takes place away from her kith and kin.

And later, hidden away in the gospel of Matthew, is the massacre of the innocents, when Herod orders the death of every child under two so that he may stamp out the birth of the promised Messiah.  This week, this has been played out in our hearts and minds, the a fabric of an imagined Christmas has been torn. 

It turns out there is darkness that no bright coloured lights can twinkle away; that no decoration can make acceptable; darkness that is so complete that the only possible course of action is to beg God for a light that will conquer and drive it away.

Into that darkness are spoken the words of the prophet Zephaniah:

I will remove disaster from you, so that you will not bear reproach for it.  I will deal with all your oppressors at that time.  And I will save the lame and gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise and renown in all the earth.  At that time I will bring you home, at the time when I gather you; for I will make you renowned and praised among all the peoples of the earth, when I restore your fortunes before your eyes.

THAT is the promised of Advent; that God will bring us home, that the massacre of the innocents and its great reproach will be cast away from us because we will rejoice in the presence of our Saviour.

Our response to our own shattered expectations is to shift those expectations where they are necessary and needed: to expect of ourselves a greater and stronger community; to reach out to those in our midst affected by grief and anguish with a hope and a healing touch when words are empty, and cold; that we should seek to reach out to those who are in darkness before their darkness consumes us; that we should seek the light of Christ that shines in the world and hold it for all to see.

John speaks of a Messiah who holds a winnowing fork in his hand; that he will separate the wheat from the chaff, and the chaff will be destroyed.  Realize this, though – he’s not talking about individual people.  Separating wheat from chaff is God at work in you; creating and forming and restoring you.

Today is classically referred to as gaudete Sunday – the Sunday of joy; though as I have seen and heard from others joy may seem fleeting.  There is a still a cause for deep-rooted joy; the sense of God’s promise made to us, of God’s promised delivered.  I am ever mindful of a story told to me of the accompanist at a congregation I served: on September 11, 2001 she came into the sanctuary and those in the building heard the swelling crescendo of Joy to the World as the world they had known came crashing down around them.  When asked, all she could respond was ‘what else could I play?’  Indeed, it did seem them as if the Lord had come down.

And beloved, God does, when we least expect it.  But it remains; that God’s expectation for us is that we would listen to the Baptizer when he stands on the bank and cries: prepare the way of the Lord!  That the way of the Lord is not on a neat, tree-lined boulevard, but through the desert and the wilderness; that we are go out into the wilderness and point towards the life-giving spring that runs through its midst.  That we are together to be the people of God, to set aside selfish interest and demands; to show the kingdom, to live in hope through fear and darkness, to proclaim the coming light into our midst; finally, a light that shines in the darkness -- and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.

Advent 2 - Word of God, Come to Us

I was sitting on a city bus in downtown Saskatoon when I first met John the Baptizer.  I’m serious.  And, if you’ve gone to downtown Edmonton, maybe spent some time at a shelter, I’d imagine that you’ve met him, too.

I was riding downtown to go to St. Paul’s hospital on the West side, when a man came on the bus and sat down next to me.  He was wearing several years of coats, and more than a few days had passed since he last had a bath; his smell preceded him by a substantial amount.  He sat down, and proceeded to preach to those around him about…something.  I’m unclear what, exactly, was his point.  But Jesus was in there, and Satan, and George W. Bush, and the Middle East…if everyone had walked into a bar at the punchline, it would have been a good joke. 

But as I was sitting beside him he’d turn occasionally to look at me, and I’d look at him; and as it happened it was indeed close to this time of year.  Close enough to Advent that as I looked at this man I realized that I was likely looking at John the Baptizer.  Not that I believed this man to be the reincarnation of John (a Buddhist belief that would be a neat trick for a Hebrew to manage), but I realized that those people on the bus with me beheld a vision from two thousand years before: a man driven ragged by a vision before his eyes, without care of his appearance, only a burning desire to share his message of repentance and deliverance with all those who could hear.

If I’d have been anywhere but Saskatoon in the middle of winter I may have stayed longer to catch more of his message; maybe I could’ve gleaned out some of his personal story, found a hint of what propelled him to share such a message with strangers in such a strange land.  But I bundled my coat around me and stepped out into the dark morning.  For the rest of the day I thought about what I’d heard that morning; thought about deliverance and repentance, and what I would do if I ever felt a compunction to preach so fiercely that it swallowed my entire life.

That is what happened to the cousin of Jesus, beloved: the word of God came to John…in the wilderness…[and] he went out into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  John became the last vessel for the word of God; in the old prophetic formula that Israel knew so well: “the Word of God came to [name] and said [subject]”.  John proclaimed that which Isaiah had seen: a straight path in the wilderness, no detours, no valleys, no mountains; nowhere to hide and nowhere to run, so that all of creation would see the salvation of God. 

And his family, friends, and people around him looked at him the way the people on the city bus in Saskatoon looked at the man in our midst: confused, weirded-out, but still almost compelled to listen (granted, on a city bus, in Saskatoon, in winter, there really is no place to go).  But John proclaimed deliverance, he talked – shouted – yelled about a covenant in which the people would delight: a promise of hope, of peace, of joy, of love that would level mountains and fill valleys. 

That kind of covenant – of promise – has been the believer’s hope for ages.  That God would come down and be with us; that we would see God and know God, and know that God is truly with us.  But God does more that fulfill that hope: God’s terms are generous, but dangerous; because we have invited God to be with us, God brings his presence to us and, like the prophets of old, we find that God’s purity can cause pain, and his holiness can cause hurt.  As the prophet Malachi said, he is like a refiner’s fire and like fuller’s soap, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver.  We don’t make ourselves holy or pleasing to God (we can’t,) beloved; it turns out that God makes us holy, and pleasing – but that may not always be a gift that we want, or desire.

I was flipping through TV channels a little while ago when something caught my attention.  A religious program.  A well-dressed young man, energetic, enthusiastic, was preaching like he believed in what he was saying.  So, I did something that I hadn’t not done before: I listened for a bit.  We don’t make ourselves holy, he said, and we don’t work to be better for God.  Well, that was a bit enheartening, beloved.  It was like coming up on a whole mess of flashing lights on the highway, getting that sinking feeling that says “oh no, not an accident,” and realizing the whole thing is a training operation.  A bit of relief, a bit of “oh, well, that’s not bad, then.”

I should have changed the channel.  What followed was when we ask Jesus into our hearts, we’re telling Jesus what we want.  We’re telling Jesus that we want his blessing, and when we command those blessings, they’ll come.  The heart of the preacher’s argument was that Jesus won’t come into your heart unless you have a strong enough character to command him to do what you want.

I nearly put an axe through the TV.  Because beloved, that way isn’t going to bring you peace.  It’s going to cause you to do a lot of hurt to people around you.  

What God is going to do, Malachi says, is going to feel a lot like being melted down, shaped, and reformed, into a purer product.  Salvation comes not when you are finished, but when the Master takes you into his hands; you are formed not because you are lacking and God hates what is not perfect in you; but rather that God loves you too much to let you remain the same.  Salvation, it turns out, isn’t fire insurance or a doctrine to learn in confirmation class, but a relational experience with God and others through faith in Christ.  We become rooted, and grow in Christ.

John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance, turning from self-centred living to a life of self-giving.  If you live your life centred on yourself, on your own this-or-other-worldly success, you will only turn yourself into a hollow excuse of a human being.  When you learn self-giving, when your self is given to God, you let the voice of the Lord speak into your depths to renew and restore your souls.

In the old prophetic witness, the word of God came to those individuals who were called and made to proclaim the coming kingdom of God.  The word of God was how God worked in the world: speaking over the waters, calling out to Noah, and Moses to lead his people.  The word moved over the prophets of old and they proclaimed God’s promise: that into darkness, God would pour out light, and life, and peace.

The word advent means ‘coming,’ and throughout this season we prepare for the Word of God to come to.  That same word through which God created the world, spoke through the prophets, and promised salvation, took frail human flesh and lived with us.  The Word of God has come to you, beloved of God: you don’t need a prophet to tell you what to do.  You have a Saviour, that God promised you before the foundation of the world.

God made good on that promise.  The word became flesh, and dwelt amongst us.  But there was a catch: the peace that Jesus brought was not the absence of suffering or hardship, but purely the presence of God’s love and forgiveness.  In Christ, God’s love meets you when and where you least expect it; in your valleys low, or on your own high mountaintops – God’s Word came to and filled those valleys, levelled those mountains, made those rough places a plain, so that wherever we are, Christ may find us.  Beloved, God’s word comes to you; you may be in the wilderness, or right at home.  You may be in church, or you may be in despair: but the word still comes.

Through advent, you are called to listen to the prophet speaking in the wilderness; to listen to God’s promise of salvation and deliverance; to live in ways that bring about justice and peace.  For many people, this time of year is hard, as you remember those you’ve loved and lost.  But God is with you; holds you, moulds you, loves you.  Your darkness is shared by those around you.  Take heart, and look for the light beloved, because the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Let the people of God say amen.  

lots of updates

Many people have requested blog updates - sorry!  But here are a few to keep you going.

Happy Advent!

First Sunday of Advent - Lessons from the Fig Tree

For someone who hung out with fishermen, have you ever noticed that Jesus spends a lot of time talking about plants?  Think about it: fig trees, trees, mustard seeds, whatever seed the sower is sowing, trees of life, growing trees, withering trees, leafy trees…there’s far fewer fishing metaphors, when you get right down to it.

There’s a point, though.  He’s talking to a large number of people in  metaphor, and not a lot of people know what fishing is about.  Everyone, though, has seen a tree.  Except maybe if they lived in certain parts of Saskatchewan.  You can mark the changing of the seasons by watching trees, Jesus says, and he’s right – when trees get leaves, you know that seasons are changing.  Or, you live in southern Alberta in Chinook country.  But today, Jesus says that like trees gaining leaves, it is possible to look at the world around us and see signs of his return.

That’s a bit of a tall order, I think.  I’m not going to preach on the end of the world, partly because I’m deeply suspicious when anyone tells me that they know when it will be.  Even Jesus’ criteria are a big vague: signs in the moon, and the stars, and on the earth…confusion by roaring of the sea and waves….the powers of heaven shaken.

A few generations before Jesus was born the volcanic island of Thera in the Mediterranean sea had blown up in a massive eruption that gave origin to the legends of Atlantis and affected weather patterns all over the globe.  People probably still talked about it, because the earth has been a restless place for a long time.  Yet Jesus says that when those things happen, you may now know “that the kingdom of God is near.”

The kingdom of God is near.  Stir up your power, Lord Christ, and come.  This is Advent; and beloved, I do wish that the kingdom of God would be near.  I wish that the kingdom of God would be visible and tangible and touchable and be a reminder that at least somewhere in the world there is grace, and peace.  In Advent we wait, we prepare for the coming of Jesus, both as a baby at Christmastime, and as the King who comes in glory. 

Remember, though: Advent is the beginning of our year, and from this season flows everything else we do; our preparations – spiritually and personally – during this time shape our selves and our community.  Like trees growing, these things take time.  We are asked to be patient, and wait, while God brings about these things.

So, if we are to watch for trees, beloved, then this is the time.  Now is the time to look for leaves sprouting, to see how the future is shaping up.  But it’s also time to turn and look at something else; because the health of a tree – whether or not it gives leaves – depends on its roots.

I like the example of the fig tree that Jesus uses, partly because a) fig trees are useful and produce tasty fruit; but also b) fig trees can grow massive roots.  Take this picture of a fig tree at Ankor Wat in Cambodia: the roots are huge.  To look at the fig tree is to understand how deep and big its roots really are – and a tree won’t grow if its roots are compromised.

 

At Advent, as our attention is called to the fig tree, it is a reminder that we are also called to take root, and grow.  It is a reminder that a we bear fruit as faithful Christians that those around us will see the kingdom of God come near.  It is a reminder that we know there are signs that we can look for to know that God is near.

I have several good friends who are first responders: firefighters, police, and medical technicians; they are trained to run toward the first sign of trouble.  And so, Jesus says today, are we: when you see these things, stand up and raise your heads, for your redemption is drawing near.  When others are faint with fear, we are called to lift up our heads and look for God’s presence.

We have the double blessing today of both beginning the season of Advent and officially welcoming new members into our community.  As I’ve said, you can join the community at any time of year; and membership isn’t a necessity for involvement, either.  But this is a day to celebrate these families who have taken the step of affirming their faith with us and becoming part of our family.

Becoming part of this family comes with some challenges, though, and I’ve sat down with all of you and we’ve talked about them: there’s the challenge of living with a great diversity of people; the challenge of growing in faith, love, and obedience to the will of God in this place; the challenge of leadership both in this family and in the community around us.  The sheer challenge of getting involved and getting along in a diverse group of people.  You can meet those challenges because your roots are strong enough, beloved of God; find your roots here, and bloom with us.

Jesus counsels you, beloved, to not to get caught up in wine, or worry; you don’t need to sedate yourselves with pharmaceuticals or phylacteries or Angry Birds; worry focuses your attention on the bad, so that when you could be seeing the kingdom of God, instead you turn your back.   

I see the kingdom of God in you, beloved; I pray that you see it among yourselves.

I said that I have one wish for Advent: to see the kingdom of God come near.  And beloved, I find that wish fulfilled here, with you.  I see Christians of different backgrounds and traditions coming together as family.  I see new believers walking with old; I see children welcomed into this family because they belong here and they offer life.  But most of all, beloved of God, I see your roots.

Your roots are showing.  Your roots of compassion, caring, community, and family bring forth fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control.  Your roots are showing; your fruit is the kingdom of God come near.  The Lord is your righteousness, and you proclaim God’s glory.

In this season of Advent may you see the kingdom of God come near: may you see Christ as the light of the world; may you see each other as family; may you bless each other as you are each a blessing to our community.  May Christ be the light that you bear to the world in its time of need; may people see by your leaves and roots that the kingdom of God has come near; that the kingdom of God is within them, and among them; that heaven and earth will pass away, that the grass withers and the flower fades; but that the word of our God abides forever.

And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.