The Power of the Spirit: Sermon on 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a

The passage I’ve just read is a little disturbing. It’s also a little funny. We giggled a lot, over certain portions of it, in Bible Study this week. It’s a little disturbing, it’s a little funny, and it is either the worst news we’ve ever heard or it’s the best. Wow. That’s a lot to pack in to 20 verses of a letter written nearly two thousand years ago. But that’s what we have in front of us.

To recap: We are accustomed to referring to the Bible as “the Word of God,” and while that may be true, it is not so helpful in understanding the sheer diversity found within its pages. The bible contains many different kinds of literature—it contains history, and poetry, and even one or two books that qualify as “novella.” There is prophecy and gospel, which in the Greek is rendered “good news.” And there are letters, communications between individuals and groups. First Corinthians is a letter that has been written by an individual, Paul, to encourage and instruct the members of a congregation that is flailing around a little bit, floundering, you might say.

I talked a little last week about some of the things troubling the Corinthians. There were personality conflicts. There were disagreements about which particular gifts and talents were a sure sign that you were really God’s favorite. And there were divisions along class lines, along lines of wealth and status. This issue reared its ugly head on Sundays.. Remember that this is the era of the house-church. The more well-heeled members of the community could host the weekly gatherings in their big homes, which added to their prestige. The gatherings, supposedly re-enacting the Lord’s Supper, took the form of elaborate banquets. Both the hosts and the wealthy members who were not the hosts could arrive early, get the best seats in the house, and start in on the food and wine hours before the day laborers were released from their employment. By the time the working stiffs arrived, the food would be gone and the wealthier folks would be tipsy, if not ready to put lampshades on their heads. Evidently, for those who arrived later, that didn’t feel much like the sharing of the “good news.” The day laborers and peasants were not exactly feeling the love.

And so Paul has a daunting task before him, in the writing of this letter. He is trying to highlight for his readers a certain inconsistency between what being followers of Jesus Christ should teach them, and their outlandish, decidedly selfish behavior. I don’t think he wants to scold them. But he wants to drive home to them the reality of their relationships to one another, now that they are members of this faith community. He wants to help them understand the power of the Spirit. He starts with a lesson in gross anatomy.

You see, says Paul, there’s such a thing as a body. You each have a body. And your body is one thing, one entity, a unity. But it has lots of parts, doesn’t it? It has hands and feet and arms and a face. It has other parts we won’t mention except indirectly, for the sake of your sense of modesty and propriety. That’s fine. And all the parts of the body are needed, aren’t they? (I have no doubt Paul’s audience consisted of at least some folks who had lost parts of their bodies; the day laborers, stone cutters, woodworkers—a finger here, an arm there. His point would have been driven home to them all the more.) You need your foot every bit as much as you need your hand, don’t you? Of course you do.

And, you know those parts you don’t want to mention directly? Out of modesty, and out of a sense of propriety? How do you treat those body parts? I’ll tell you how, says Paul. You treat them like royalty. They get special attention as to whether they are clothed or not. They receive greater honor than the hand or the foot, which anyone is allowed to see.

Fine. We all understand all these things about the body. Now hear this: by virtue of being baptized into membership in the church, by the power of the Spirit, you are, each and every one, a part of the body of Christ. And you, who are hands, need to deal with the fact that there are also feet. And you, feet, have to stop putting yourselves down because you’re not hands. And you who think these folks here are slightly disreputable, like those body parts we don’t mention by name, you need to understand that that means you must treat them, not with less respect, but with greater respect.

As I said when I started, it’s kind of disturbing. What it all boils down to is a profound misunderstanding of “membership.” We modern day Christians are accustomed to thinking of membership in terms of voluntary association. We pay our dues and we go to meetings, or we receive the newsletter, and so we are “members,” of AARP, or the Glee Club, or Young Republicans. But that is not what Paul means by membership. What Paul means is that we are members in the same way the hand is a member of the body. Try to pull this body apart, and you are dismembering it. Try to pull this body apart, and you have carnage. It’s a bloody mess.

If you have ever been unfortunate enough to have been witness to a serious division in a church, a serious split, you know what I mean. I served one church in which I couldn’t figure out why the Christian Ed. people and the music people were so standoffish, so suspicious of one another. Turns out it had to do with a split over a minister that had happened 20 years earlier. We divide this body, we take sides and face off, at our peril. We have to ask ourselves: is it really worth it, all that pain for all those years?

And then there is the matter of pain and suffering. I was trying to remember the last time I was in pain, and otherwise I felt fine. You know, when I had a toothache, or had pulled a muscle, but aside from the specific pain of my injury or illness, I felt just wonderful.

Surprise, surprise, I could not remember such a time because such a time does not exist for me. Each and every time I have had an illness or injury that caused me pain, every time I have had so much as a paper cut, the pain of that cut has distracted me so that I had a hard time thinking about much else. My friend Jeffrey says, Pain has a way of getting your attention. Naturally, there are degrees of pain. The gall bladder attack that landed me in the emergency room got my attention more dramatically than a paper cut ever did. But pain does have a way of getting your attention, of getting our attention.

And so, Paul says, it is, with the body of Christ. When one member suffers, we all suffer. I don’t know about you, but our family has discovered “Glee.” “Glee” is this year’s break-out TV hit about a high school Glee club, with all the expected (and some unexpected) stereotypes. We have the diva. The cheerleader. The kid in the wheelchair. The young Aretha Franklin. The gay kid. The jock. All these young people come together, not necessarily willingly, I might add, to sing. They sing their hearts out. And while they are singing, life is happening to them.

There are levels of prestige in Glee. There are social strata. The jocks and the cheerleaders, latecomers to the Glee club, are the popular kids. The original Glee club kids, various levels of dorky, are not. But still, they come together to make incredible music. And that is how they become like the members of a body. They develop an undeniable connection to one another. And time and again, in storyline after storyline, whether they are reaching out to the young couple who are trying to cope with an unplanned pregnancy, or trying to figure out how to get the boy in the wheelchair to a big competition, or coping with any of the rest of their high school crises, they realize again and again how deeply they are connected, how very much they need each other, how the pain of one causes the suffering of all. And then, just because it’s “Glee,” the episode usually ends with their singing something like “Lean on Me” to one another, just to drive home the point in show-stopping fashion.

When one member suffers, we all suffer. We are all connected, perhaps more intimately than we have ever realized, more permanently than we signed on for. That is one reason why the heartbreaking stories that continue to pour out of Haiti continue to rivet us. As the estimates of deaths rise to the 200,000 mark, we cannot look away. We are connected. That’s our body that’s suffering.

This is the nature of the power of the Spirit. It binds us together so that when one weeps, we all taste the salt of their tears. This is either the best news we’ve ever heard or the worst. It is not easy to live with a constant sense of exposure to the pain of others, but that is what happens in community. We become thin-skinned… we feel more. But if we feel more pain by virtue of being bound together, we also have the opportunity to feel more joy. When one suffers we all feel the pain. When one rejoices, every heart lifts. You see that on “Glee” too. The jubilation when the diva hits her high note or the jock decides not to abandon Glee for football.

So. I put it to you. Is this good news or bad? This connection we have with one another, courtesy of the power of the Spirit? I will be honest with you. Is makes some people want to flee. Sometimes the thought of being “one” with certain people confronts us with a level of intimacy that is more than we can bear. So tell me: are we willing both to carry this burden and to share this joy? Are we prepared to weep at the suffering of those we love and at those we will never know, God’s children wherever they might be? Are we ready to join in the celebration at one another’s joy? Are we willing to let the power of God’s Spirit do its work on us? Thanks be to God. Amen.

Unwrapping the Gifts: Sermon on 1 Corinthians 12:1-11

You search and you search for just the right gift for someone you love. You spend time combing the malls and the catalogs that arrive in the mail, to no avail. You go online and browse the many websites for imported items that are a little harder to get, but nothing seems right. You think about something homemade, and you wonder if they’d like it. Finally, you are settled: this is not only what the one you love needs, you just know in your heart they will love and appreciate it. They will be able to use it, and it will bring joy, not only to them, but to those around them.

You choose the perfect container, the lovely wrapping paper, the ribbon or bow or decoration. You outdo yourself: when you are finished, it is a vision. Gorgeous! With joy and excitement, at precisely the right moment, you present it to that person you love. With a smiling face, and words of thanks and delight, they reach out their hands, and they receive the precious gift. But instead of opening it, they turn away, and open a closet door, and find a shelf, and deposit it there. They close the door, and turn back to you and say, “Someday I’ll open it, but not right now.”

Now, that’s a silly little parable. Who would really do such a thing? No one under the age of 12, that’s for sure. Children love gifts, and their innate curiosity and openness and willingness haven’t been damped down yet. But what happens to us later? How ready, willing and able are we to receive gifts, especially when those gifts come from God?

Our passage this morning is from Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth, and it’s fair to say, this was a congregation that had a significant amount of dysfunction spicing up its common life. You don’t have to read very deeply between the lines in the letter to see that there are power struggles going on between different camps. Much of it is outlined in chapter 1. Some identify with a leader called Cephas, and some with one named Apollos, and some with Paul. You’d think this would make Paul happy—he’s got people in his camp! But Paul is not happy about this. He wants no part in partisan bickering, he wants no “camp” swearing special allegiance to him. He wants something for the church which they themselves seem to have lost sight of.

Another area of dysfunction has to do with the worship life of the church. Whether related to or separate from the personality-driven camps, people are also, dividing along lines of those who prefer different styles of worship. Of particular concern is the matter of speaking in tongues—ecstatic speech, given by the Holy Spirit, which needs to be interpreted for most people to understand it. For some in First Church of Corinth, speaking in tongues is like showing up driving a Lamborghini, or wearing the Hope Diamond—it’s flashy, it’s impressive, and it’s enviable.

These matters, and others besides, are splintering and fracturing the community. There is resentment. There is jealousy. There is arrogance, and a sense of superiority. And somewhere, somehow, something important is getting lost.

So Paul writes this letter. And the letter is far-reaching and comprehensive. Like a good doctor with a holistic outlook, Paul diagnoses the situation of the people of Corinth, and recommends, not just a pill, or a quick fix, but an entire change of heart. He takes the Corinthians back to basics. He asks and answers the question, “Why is God giving out spiritual gifts anyway?”

A few sentences into our passage we hear words that may be familiar to us. Paul says,

Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.

~ 1 Corinthians 12:4-7

Paul is engaging in some remedial education for the church here. Notice the lovely and poetic balance he strikes in these words, a balance between two foundational ideas: unity and diversity. One Spirit, many gifts. One Lord, many ways of serving. One God, many activities. One. Many. Paul is gazing at the situation of a fractured community, a group of people who have grown accustomed to identifying themselves by the ways in which they are distinct, or different, or better. And instead of focusing on what divides them or on what differentiates them from one another, he is urging them to recognize what unifies them. What unifies them is God. This is why Paul rejects the “camp of Paul,” just as he rejects the camps of Apollos and Cephas. He wants for the people one camp, the camp of God, the camp of Christ.

But there’s more. One sentence casts all ideas of gifts and giftedness in an entirely new light. “To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.” Not only is God one, but the end or goal of our gifts is one as well. If God has given us gifts, they are not solely for our private use or personal satisfaction. They are for the good of the community, the good of all.

The Corinthians have been thinking of the gifts God gave them in terms of the status they confer upon them. Well, that seals it. The Corinthians were human. We are the same. If we look around us we will see that, in our culture as well, certain “gifts” certainly do seem to engender admiration, respect. We admire beauty. We respect talent. We are impressed by eloquence. But in this passage we are invited to learn a new way of looking at gifts. The true measure of our gifts is not how rare they are, or how impressive they are. The true measure of our gifts is how they are used.

Like many of you I have been riveted this week by the news coverage of Tuesday’s 7.0 magnitude earthquake in Haiti. The photographs and the descriptions of the death and destruction are so overwhelming, so heartbreaking, at times it was just too much. What can one person possibly do in response? I heard a story on National Public Radio about the US military gearing up to provide medical relief to the devastated country, in the form of supplies, personnel, and airlifting out the injured.

The reporter interviewed a number of officers and airmen at Scott Air Force Base outside St. Louis. Each person told a little piece of the story, how the operation looked from their perspective. They spoke of the particular challenges of flying into a country whose infrastructure has been so utterly destroyed. But it was one voice that really got my attention. It was the voice of Captain Justin Brockhoff, explaining the Air Force’s attitude towards these challenges.

“Keep in mind… We have folks on the road every day. We're landing at dirt strips in Afghanistan, dirt strips in Africa. We're taking this show on the road.”[i]

Now, it was partially what the captain said—his confidence that their training and experience had more than prepared them for this mission. But there was more to it than that. It was something in his voice that captivated me. It was the excitement I heard. He sounded so alive. My first reaction was to wonder that someone would feel and act so alive in the face of such grim circumstances. But then it occurred to me that this is what it feels like to know that you have training, or a gift, or an ability, and it is needed, and you are going to make good use of it right now. This is what it feels like to use your gifts for the common good. It brings you to life.

Most of us do not have the option to fly to Haiti to lend a hand or to drop off supplies. But we do have options, both to respond to this disaster and to use our gifts for all the communities of which we are a part. One Spirit, many gifts. One Lord, many ways of serving. One God, many activities. Sometimes I think we have exactly the opposite problem of the church in Corinth: it’s not that we want to lord our gifts over others, it’s that we’re afraid to use them, even to find out what they are. We’re afraid to open the package, unwrap the gift.

Here are some ways we can use our gifts, both in response to the crisis in Haiti, and to enrich our own community.

First, we can pray. Every single one of us is capable of praying. Our prayers do not have to be long or wordy in order to be heard by God. And prayer matters, whether we are praying for healing and comfort for the injured, dying or mourning, or praying for the strength and health of our family or our church or our nation. Prayer is a gift, prayer matters, and every one of us can pray.

Second, we can learn. Every relationship is enriched when we make a deliberate decision to deepen our knowledge or understanding. We can learn about Haiti, its history, why it was so vulnerable to this natural disaster; we can learn about our own neighborhoods and communities and what their special needs and challenges are. We can learn as much as we can about scripture, and deepen our connection with the stories of our faith community.

Third, we can speak—honestly, openly. Each one of us has a wealth of knowledge, experience and insight that is ours alone. No one else brings to the table precisely the same blend of experiences and learning as you do. So, if there is a moment of discernment or decision making, whether here in this community, or in a family, or in the town, county, or state, our individual voices are a precious, irreplaceable gift.

Fourth, we can search ourselves to learn what other unique gifts we can bring to each and every situation and circumstance. Maybe we can bring our monetary gifts. Maybe we can bring our mind. Maybe we can bring our muscle. The possibilities are limitless! But only if we unwrap those gifts and determine we will use them for the common good.

God searches and searches for just the right gift for each of us. God brings all the wisdom of the ages, and infinitely more, to the project. God knows us intimately and knows the circumstances of our lives, and at last, God settles on it: this gift is not only exactly what we need individually, but God knows we will be able to use it, bring joy, not only to ourselves, but to those around us, to the wider world.

When God is finished choosing this gift, it is a vision—God’s vision for us. Gorgeous! With joy and excitement, at precisely the right moment, God presents it to us, God’s own beloved. And what will we do? Will we reach out our hands? Will we accept it with joy or with trepidation? Will we unwrap the gift God has given us, and find out how we can give it back? Thanks be to God. Amen.

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[i] “Air Force Coordinates Military Relief for Haiti,” NPR’s All Things Considered, January 14, 2010, Wade Goodwyn reporting.

A Prayer for Haiti

God of compassion
Please watch over the people of Haiti,
And weave out of these terrible happenings
wonders of goodness and grace.
Surround those who have been affected by tragedy
With a sense of your present love,
And hold them in faith.
Though they are lost in grief,
May they find you and be comforted;
Guide us as a church
To find ways of providing assistance
that heals wounds and provides hope
Help us to remember that when one of your children suffer
We all suffer
Through Jesus Christ who was dead, but lives
and rules this world with you. Amen.
(Adapted from Book of Common Worship)

-Bruce Reyes-Chow, Gradye Parsons and Linda Valentine

The Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) is responding to this earthquake through Presbyterian Disaster Assistance and its partners. Presbyterian World Mission is gathering information on the safety and status of our mission personnel and ecumenical partners in the area. For updates on the earthquake and the church’s response, please visit PDA. Initial reports indicate a large number of casualties and widespread damage especially in the capital city of Port-au-Prince.

You, too, can be part of God’s answer to prayer for those affected by this disaster. Information on the situation and prayers and worship resources are available through Presbyterian Disaster Assistance. Funds from One Great Hour of Sharing are already helping with the initial response. You can give to the ongoing relief through PDA account number DR000064.

"I Am With You": Sermon on Isaiah 43:1-7

You can learn a lot about a person by the stories they tell about themselves. I grew up listening to the stories my mother told me about life during the Great Depression. Her father, my grandfather died in 1929, leaving my grandmother a widow with seven young children. My mom was the second youngest, a Catholic girl who attended Saint Gabriel’s School in South Philly. My mom was a Catholic girl, but she did not like to kneel in church. The nuns thought she didn’t like to kneel because she was too proud. But the truth was, she didn’t like to kneel because she didn’t want the people behind her to see that she had holes in the bottoms of her shoes. My mom also told me that she was a teenager before she finally noticed that her mother never ate the meat she prepared for her family, but only the drippings with bread. The meat was for the children.

I was privileged to grow up in a home in which children did not have to go without new shoes for too long, and parents did not have to be undernourished so that the children could eat. My mom’s stories were the stories of a woman who saw herself as someone who overcame adversity, worked her way out of poverty, but who was still haunted by it. The stories my mom told went a long way towards explaining why she saw herself as a kind of modern day Scarlett O’Hara, she who proclaimed, “As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again.”

In addition to reflecting our self-understanding, the stories we tell about ourselves can actually help to shape it. If the story I tell about myself is that I am a person who works hard to overcome any obstacles which life might throw in my way—well, I will tend to be the kind of person who lives up to that narrative. And, if the story I tell about myself is that I just can’t get a break, that I will never overcome these unfair circumstances… well, I will probably live up—or down—to that narrative, as well.

What stories do we tell about ourselves? I’ll tell you two stories I heard about St. Sociable Church before I ever came here to be your pastor. Both these stories told me something important about our church. Both these stories made me want to be a part of your life here. One story tells of something that happened not too long ago—well within the memories of many of our members. One story tells of something that happened before any of us were born.

The first story I heard was the story of the terrible, devastating fire of ’06. In 1906, the church that first stood on this spot was struck by lightning, and burned to the ground. But within a year—just under ten months, in fact—the building in which we worship this morning had been completely constructed, and dedicated, and the people of this congregation were once again worshiping God on this site. So here’s one story we could tell about ourselves: St. Sociable is a kind of phoenix, that rises from the ashes; we are the kind of church that comes back from terrible devastation to rebuild and to go forward. The second story I heard was the story of our church’s response to Hurricane Katrina. The short version is, you raised a bunch of money, you bought a lot of supplies and put them in a big trailer, you got a group of people together, and you—the people and the supplies—drove south to Mississippi to help, in person. So, here’s another story we could tell about ourselves: St. Sociable is the compassionate hands of God, hard at work mending a broken world filled with broken hearts.

As Christians, of course, we look to the bible as the great reference library for the kinds of stories we tell about ourselves. In one sense, there are thousands and thousands of stories within its pages. In another sense, there are just a handful of stories, two, maybe three. Among these few stories is the one our passage tells us, simply, directly. This is the story of a God who never leaves us, who always stands by us, who is always with us.

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you… he who formed you… Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you…Do not fear, for I am with you…

~ Isaiah 43:1-2, 5a

It’s important to understand the background for these words Isaiah reports from the mouth of God. The background is the Babylonian exile… when God’s people were carried away from their homeland, and their Temple was destroyed, and they languished for more than a full generation as strangers in a strange land. We can’t understand the importance, the depth, the passion of the commitment God is proclaiming here without understanding the devastation that precedes it. I am with you, God says. I was with you, I am with you, I will be with you.

Your church has burnt to the ground. But I am with you: when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned. Your community has been devastated by a flood. But I am with you: when you pass through the waters, they shall not overwhelm you. Your losses may be great, unfathomable, unendurable. And still I am with you.

In a few minutes we will be calling those who will be ordained and /or installed as deacons and elders to stand in our midst. We will call them forward so that we can pray over them and for them, and lay hands upon them. We will call them forward so that we can commission them to work on our behalf for this church—this church which, when faced with smoldering piles of ashes, builds something even more beautiful in its place; this church that sees people in pain and reaches out to extend loving and healing hands to them. We will call them forward and entrust them with the story; we will call them forward to convey to them our deepest hopes and dreams for our future together. And all the time, through all the work they will be doing, we call them forward, in the sure conviction that God will be with them, and with us, through it all.

This is the story of God’s love for us: “I am with you. When you wake in the morning and greet the day, brand new, a day you’ve never seen before, I am with you. When you set about your daily routine—at home, in the office, in the classroom, in the laboratory, in the gym—I am with you. When you sit to eat your meal—at a table for one, in the midst of a large family, in the din of a cafeteria, listening to the clinking of water glasses in a restaurant—I am with you. When you get a phone call, or an email, or a text message, or a letter that tells you terrible news, or wonderful news, I am with you. When you are sure your heart is breaking and can never, ever be mended again, I am with you,” says the Lord your God.

“When sitting in a committee meeting, or a session meeting, or a staff meeting, or a parent-teacher conference, or a town council meeting, I am with you. In passion’s embrace, in the heat of an argument, in asking forgiveness, in telling the truth, I am with you. When writing a letter to the editor, when laying down your pencil after taking the SAT’s, when talking to the nice officer, when talking to the emergency room doctor, I am with you. When you lay your weary head down on the pillow at night, whether your heart is filled with anxiety or gratitude, fear or love, I am with you.” This is what God promises, to each of us. This is what we take with us into every room, every situation, every relationship of our lives. This is our story, this is God’s promise: “I am with you.” Thanks be to God. Amen.

Christmas Wisdom: Sermon on Luke 2:41-52 and Colossians 3:12-17

I have to confess that I was torn, this week, between these two passages. Which one would I focus on for the sermon today? On the one hand, we have what someone has called “sassy-pants Jesus”—Jesus the adolescent, scaring the daylights out of his parents by vanishing in the middle of a family trip, and then instructing both them and the teachers in the Temple when they finally do catch up with him. And on the other hand, we have Paul’s instructions to the church at Colossae, lovely and poetic words of wisdom that apply to us all, whether in or out of this season of Christmastide. So, like someone who just can’t say ‘no’ to the various offerings on the holiday table, I will attempt to touch on both passages, and see if I can’t manage somehow to bring them together.

In our passage from Luke, we have the only story to be found in scripture of Jesus when he is not either an infant or an adult… it’s a rare glimpse into his lost years. That’s not to say there aren’t other stories that exist about Jesus’ childhood and adolescence. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, which did not make the final cut to become a part of scripture, is full of fascinating stories about Jesus’ childhood. It tells of his fashioning 12 swallows out of clay, and then breathing life into them and watching them take flight. It tells another story of his stretching a beam of wood so that his father might be able to finish building a bed. And it tells of Jesus cursing a schoolmate who bumped into him while running; the schoolmate falls to the ground dead. (Later young Jesus remorsefully resurrects him). I am not entirely sure why that particular gospel didn’t make it into the final version of the bible, but I have a hunch. I think it was a good call.

This story did make it in, though, and every three years it is lifted up as the gospel for the Sunday after Christmas. And one is tempted to say, “Wow! That was fast!” Just three days ago we left church on Christmas Eve with the image of the newborn Jesus in his mother’s arms, angels announcing the glorious good news to the shepherds, and then the shepherds looking on with wonder and awe. Christ is born! Let heaven and nature sing! And three days later… here we are reading of a 12-year-old boy who seems to stand at the threshold of adulthood, though his parents aren’t quite ready to see him that way.

As the story begins we are told that Jesus and his parents traveled to Jerusalem every year for the Passover. To this day, that is a goal for every devout Jew—in fact, the Seder meal, when it is celebrated anywhere else in the world, always ends with the words, “Next year in Jerusalem.” Jerusalem is the right and proper place to celebrate the Passover, at least once in a lifetime. Jesus’ family did so annually. It was “usual” for them to do so. So the story begins, right away, by telling us something about Mary and Joseph. They are devout Jews. They are raising Jesus right—observing their religion with the best practices and customs, much as devout modern day Christian parents bring their children to church, or observant Muslims ensure that their children are schooled in the Qur’an.

Another detail the story reveals to us is the fact that Mary and Joseph do these things as part of a community… they don’t travel to Jerusalem the way my children and I will travel to my father’s house this week, as a small unit of three, traveling in isolation (in our case, in a car). Rather, they travel as part of a larger community—the people from Nazareth, where Jesus is being raised. This was the safest and most sensible way to travel. In such an entourage it would be customary for the men and older boys to walk together as a group, and the women to walk with the girls and the smallest children. And we are told that Mary and Joseph had other members of their extended families who took part in the pilgrimage. It was assumed that Jesus had fallen in with a group of cousins, aunts, uncles. Mom and dad, initially, had no reason to believe they had left their son behind.

I had a friend in seminary who was the middle child of seven. On more than one occasion, when her large family traveled together, her frazzled parents left her at a rest stop. Even in her forties, the memory of being left behind did not amuse her. Of course, at a certain moment, her family did realize what had happened, and, horrified, they sped back, to find her steaming, waiting for them. Similarly, Jesus’ parents traveled for a time unaware of his absence. But a day into their journey, they realized that their child was not with the entourage headed home to Nazareth, and so they left the safety of the group and turned back toward the city in search of him.

They didn’t find him for another three days. Three days is a very long time when you are a parent and your child is missing. As I type this, there are at least two stories in the national news of children missing—under much more obviously sinister circumstances. But any parent or caregiver who has even lost sight of a child for a few minutes—in a crowded department store, say, during the pre-Christmas rush, or in a throng of people at a baseball game—anyone who has ever experienced that panic has a tiny window into the experience of these parents who lost track of their child for three full days.

Three days. Jonah was in the belly of the great fish three days. The Old Testament figure of Joseph, when he was ruler over all Egypt, threw his brothers in jail for three days. Jesus was in the tomb for three days. Three days seem to describe a time of suspense, danger, literal or symbolic death. I can imagine that parents would feel a terrible suspense, even a sense of desolation, over any period during which their children were missing. It may be that is exactly what the writer of this story wants to evoke for us… a kind of premonition of the time Jesus would spend in the tomb, except here it is his parents who suffer in the darkness.

Of course, eventually they find do him, and, oh, what an unsatisfying encounter it turns out to be! He is sitting with the teachers in the Temple, listening to them, asking them questions, answering questions, and impressing the daylights out of everyone with his answers.

Well, he impresses almost everyone. Mom and dad are singularly unimpressed. Mom cuts right to the heart of the matter: “Child, why have you treated us like this?” Now, this is not an unexpected tack for a mother to take under these circumstances. The child has been missing, it is now apparent that he was not waylaid by scoundrels or injured or taken ill, but is exactly where he intends to be. And anger wells up in the parent who even a moment ago was frantic with worry. When I was 11 years old I disappeared for a few hours during a Christmas vacation in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I had gone to the beach. When I returned, I received the one and only slap my father ever gave me. I know now that it was entirely a product of his terror that I had somehow been abducted or drowned.

What Mary fails to realize at this point is that Jesus has not, in fact, done anything “to” her and her husband. He certainly has done something that affected her, and one hopes that, at some point on the long, tense walk home to Nazareth he might have sidled up to her, and laid his head on her shoulder, and said, “Gee, Mom, I’m so sorry I worried you!” But this is a classic moment of misunderstanding for those of us who have children: that moment at which they are on the verge of adulthood, and beginning to make choices that are surprising to us, even alarming—not because they are bad choices. But because we still see them in that golden glow that we equate with their being children. It is the moment when, in fact, they are not children any more, and we have to scramble to catch up with that fact. This is not the manger scene. This is not the nursery. Someone is growing up, and, for whatever reason, we just didn’t see it coming. Jesus didn’t do anything “to” his parents. He did something for himself—something that was a crucial part of his own development, his own self-understanding, maybe a tad self-involved and inconsiderate. But very, very important. And for mom and dad… it was hard.

Jesus doesn’t help matters with his smart-aleck answer. “Didn’t you know I must be in my Father’s house? God, Mom and Dad, don’t you get it?” And despite all they know about Jesus, somehow this does not compute to them. Despite Mary having been told about 13 years earlier that her child was somehow from God, she does not get it. Despite this couple having reared Jesus to be a devout and observant Jew, they do not get it. Despite our raising our children to be independent, it still stuns us, when they actually become independent. We do not get it.

I think this story has something important to say about all sorts of change. Whether in a family, or in a group of friends, or in a church, or in a work environment, or just about anywhere else you can think of, change can be wrenching. It can shake us up when people step out of their accustomed roles. It can be painful when people’s behavior seems different than we have come to expect. It can be devastating when we begin to suspect… we are not necessarily needed any more, or needed in the same way. Change can be hard.

And this might be a good moment, in the life of any family, or group of friends, or gathering of co-workers, or members of a church, to take a deep breath and turn to the words of Paul.

As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.

Patience. Someone has said, Never pray to God for patience; you will quickly have more opportunities than you really want to develop it. But it is an excellent quality to nurture, a necessary quality to help us to live life around other people, no matter what their relationship with us.

¹³Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other...

I am imaging that tense walk back to Nazareth. I am imagining the beginnings of a conversation about what’s next for Jesus. How might he want to continue his studies when he returns home? I am imagining Jesus offering to do the dishes every night for a few weeks.

… just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.

All in all, I think Joseph and Mary must have been pretty good parents. Amazing parents, in fact. Jesus, for any growing pains he may have had around about the age of 12, grew into a man who embodied forgiveness and love, and taught it fervently. “Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor,” the story ends. But we knew that. It was that blossoming wisdom that led him to follow his path, to see where it might lead him.

¹⁴Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.

I guess I think of the words of this passage as consummate Christmas wisdom, a kind of grand “therefore.” God has loved us so much, has given us this most precious gift of the divine presence in our midst… therefore. Therefore, let’s swaddle ourselves with compassion and kindness… even when those we love slip the bonds of who we thought they were and blossom in new directions. Therefore, let’s bear with one another, even when the specter of change threatens to throw our lives into imbalance and confusion. Therefore, let us forgive one another, even and especially when that forgiveness is hard. Therefore, let us swaddle ourselves with love, and do everything in our power to let it mirror the love we have been shown. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Image: Jesus at the Temple by Brian Jekel

Making Room: A Christmas Eve Meditation

I am between services at my church. We had a lovely 7:00 service, with music by our Youth and Bell choirs, and communion. I love communion! I wish we did it every Sunday. But I'm glad we do it on Christmas Eve.

Here's my meditation. Blessings all!

~~~

"And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn." [Luke 2:7] There was no room.

I suppose, if we were to think about it, the whole enterprise of Christmas could be seen as a great exercise in making room, and, for the most part, the whole culture cooperates. TV and radio stations have been making room for Christmas carols and programming since the beginning of November. As children you can bet we made room in our schedules to watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas”— I will confess that I learned our passage from Luke primarily by listening to Linus recite it. As an adult, I now have an annual appointment for 10:00 Christmas Eve morning to listen to the Ceremony of Lessons and Carols from King’s College Cambridge on public radio. We make room for those experiences that tell us: It’s Christmas!

Many of us have to figure out how to make room in our budgets for Christmas—for gifts, entertainment and travel. The average American family spends about $743 on presents, the Gallup Poll tells us, though 30% will shell out more than $1000. We have to make room in our budgets in order to see an expression of delight on the faces of those we love.

And if we travel, we have to figure out who will make room for us when we get there. Will it be the Holiday Inn? Or the pull-out couch at Grandpa’s house? We make room for entertaining guests… remember Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig rolling up the carpets and sweeping away the extra furniture to host their merry Christmas Eve ball for their employees. The whole enterprise of Christmas could be seen as a great exercise in making room.

And so it was for the couple at the center of tonight’s drama, Mary and Joseph. It’s not always easy to make room for a baby. Even the most enthusiastic, well-situated, intentional parents can find it a daunting challenge. And here we have an unexpected pregnancy, at the very end of which a woman is forced to undergo an uncomfortable journey, and when she arrives… there is no room for her, despite her obvious need. She beds down among animals, where, at least, she can be warm and bring forth her firstborn son with some measure of privacy and safety. They find room, the couple, the baby, among the livestock.

Making room for the baby.. Christmas is a great exercise in making room. That counts for the spiritual experience that is Christmas, too, for the birth of Christ. Christmas invites us, urges us to find a way to make room in our hearts and in our lives for this blessed babe, the Christ child born in Bethlehem. A medieval Scottish lullaby puts it this way:

O my deir hart, yung Jesus sweit

Prepair thy creddill in my spreit!

And I sall rock thee in my hart

And never mair fra thee depart.

[O my dear heart, young Jesus sweet,

Prepare thy cradle in my spirit!

And I shall rock thee in my heart,

and never more from thee depart!]

“Prepare thy cradle in my spirit,” the singer prays, longing to receive the Christ Child in an intimate gesture of care. But what do we mean by that? Sometimes I worry that we mean the same thing Ricky Bobby means in “Talladega Nights,” when he prays his odd table grace to “Dear Lord Baby Jesus.” It is tempting to want a Jesus small enough to hold in our arms, who can’t confront or challenge us, who can’t tell us things we don’t want to hear. Who can’t remind us why he is here to begin with. It’s tempting to want a Jesus for whom we don’t really have to make that much room.

But here’s the thing: what we celebrate at Christmas is nothing less than the grandest gesture of compassion and love imaginable: God enters into humanity. God, all-powerful, all-knowing, all-wise, loving, just and good, chooses to throw in the divine lot with stumbling, fumbling, not-too-quick-on the uptake, us. God chooses to be with us in all the messiness, uncertainty and pain of fragile human existence… and just to drive home the point, God comes, not in power on a cloud with an army alongside, but in the most fragile, most tentative state of newborn infancy. All-power comes to us in complete powerlessness.

This is what we Christians claim about Jesus, whose birth among us we celebrate tonight. We claim he is the very love of God made flesh among us. And that truth about God, perhaps, begins to point us in the direction of how we might begin to imagine making room for God, for Jesus, in our own lives. Jesus comes to us in the grandest gesture of love and compassion we can imagine. And so, perhaps, making room for God, involves our own beginners’ attempts at learning how to make room for others.

We make room for God when we open our hearts and our hands to those in need. We make room for God when we decline to judge people, or to assign motives to them, but instead show them grace and love. We make room for God when we practice the hard art of forgiveness, or the arduous tasks of releasing anger, and jealousy, and resentment. We make room for God when we get outside the concerns of our own little worlds—my interests, my family, my circle of friends and acquaintances—and gain an interest in those whose lives we know nothing about, even those we might consider our enemies.

You may already know the story I am about to tell you. But some stories never grow old. On Christmas Eve 95 years ago, British, French and German troops faced one another across the World War I battlefield of Flanders. A brief truce had taken hold in honor of the holiday, and as the troops settled in for the night, the sound of a German soldier singing wafted across the field. “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.” Others joined in. When they had finished, the French troops and the English troops responded with their own Christmas carols.

Eventually, the men from both sides left their trenches and met in the middle. They shook hands, exchanged gifts, and shared pictures of their families. Informal soccer games began in what had been “no-man’s-land.” And a joint service was held to bury the dead of both sides. The generals, of course, were not pleased with these events. Men who have come to know each other’s names and seen each other’s families are much less likely to want to kill each other. War seems to require a nameless, faceless enemy.

So, following that magical night the men on both sides spent a few days simply firing aimlessly into the sky. Then the war was back in earnest and continued for three more bloody years. Yet the story of that Christmas Eve lingered – a night when the angels really did sing of peace on earth.[i]

The soldiers on Flanders Field, for a few days, managed to make a cradle in their spirits for the Child whose birth we celebrate. They made room, ever so briefly, for something greater than even global hostilities: for the love and peace they knew instinctively God would smile upon. That is what Christmas is: making room in our hearts, in our lives, in the whole wide world for compassion, and love, and peace. Thanks be to God. Amen.

---

[i] Jim Wallis, Sojourner’s Magazine, “Christmas in the Trenches,” 2002.

Service for the Longest Night

PRELUDE
Harp
Piano

SENTENCES OF SCRIPTURE

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.
God says, Comfort, O comfort, my people.
The Lord says, I will wipe every tear from your eyes.
But we feel like voices crying out in the wilderness.
We wonder if we are alone in the barren desert.
Let us worship the God who saves.
Let us draw near to our God, clothed in fragile humanity, like us.

LIGHTING OF THE ADVENT CANDLES The Wexford Carol, Harp

THANKSGIVING FOR LIGHT

Let us give thanks for the light of Christ.
Blessed are you, O Lord our God, ruler of all the universe, creator of light and darkness.
In this holy season, when the sun’s light is swallowed up by the growing darkness of the night, you renew your promise to reveal among us the splendor of your glory, made flesh and visible to us in Jesus Christ.
Strengthen us where we are weak, support us in our efforts to do your will, and free our tongues to sing your praise, for to you all honor and glory and blessing are due, now and forever. Amen.

EVENING PSALM: Psalm 88, selected verses Translation: Gannet Girl

1. A song; a melody; for a son of the Korahites.
To the leader, according to Mahalath Leannoth. A maskil for Heman the Ezrabite.

2. Lord God of my salvation,
in the day I cry out, and
in the night, before you.

3. Let my prayer come before your face;
Incline your ear to my ringing cry.

.4. For my soul is sated with troubles,
And my life touches Sheol.

5. I am counted with those who go down to the Pit;
I become like those with no help.

6. With those who have died forsaken,
as with those profaned;
Those who lie down in the grave
whom you do not remember,
for they are cut off from your hand,

7. You have put me in a pit of lowest places,
in the depths of dark places.

8. Your rage rests upon me,
and every breaker of yours knocks me down;
each of your breakers humbles me.

9. You have put those who know me far from me;
you have made me an abomination to them,
one who is shut up,
and I cannot go out.

10. My eye becomes dim from afflictions.
I call you, Lord, in every day;
I spread the palms of my hands toward you.

11. Do you do wonders for the dead?
Do ghosts rise up praising you?

12. Is your kindness recounted in the grave;
Your steadfastness in Abaddon?

13. Are your wonders made known in darkness?
And your righteousness in the land of oblivion?

14. But I cry out for help to you, Lord,
And in the morning my prayer confronts you.

15. Why, Lord, do you reject my life?
Hide your face from me?

16. I am wretched, and
I am one who has perished from my youth;
I suffer your terrors;
I am helpless.

17. Your rage has swept over me;
your terrors annihilate me.

18. They surround me like waters all the time;
They surround me completely.

19. You put far from me friend and companion,
Those known to me –

Darkness!

SOLO “O Come O Come, Emmanuel”

READING: “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver

SONG: “Emmanuel”

READING: Psalm 139

MEDITATION

PRAYERS OF THE PEOPLE AND THE LORD’S PRAYER

ANOINTING: “I Sing a Night in Bethlehem” Vocal and Harp

HYMN: “O Little Town of Bethlehem” Verses 1-3

DISMISSAL

May the peace of God, which passes all understanding, guide our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.
Amen.
Bless the Lord.
The Lord’s name be praised.

Meditation for the Longest Night

Last night a small group gathered at St. Sociable for our second annual "Longest Night" service. Similar to a "Blue Christmas" service, this is a quiet, meditative evening for those who are struggling-- with grief, depression, and other states of being that make the "Holiday Season" particularly difficult.

I asked Gannet Girl for permission to use her translation of Psalm 88, with attribution. You can find it here.

Later I will post the service, but for now, the meditation.

“The Longest Night”

Psalm 88, Psalm 139

December 20, 2009

I recently heard a poem: “Christmas Landscape” by Laurie Lee. It starts like this:

Tonight the wind gnaws

with teeth of glass,

the jackdaw shivers

in caged branches of iron,

the stars have talons.

There is hunger in the mouth

of vole and badger,

silver agonies of breath

in the nostril of the fox,

ice on the rabbit’s paw.

Tonight has no moon,

no food for the pilgrim;

the fruit tree is bare.

the rose bush a thorn

and the ground is bitter with stones.

Those of us who are acquainted with upstate New York winters recognize this kind of night. Unrelenting cold. Oppressive darkness. Even the simple action of breathing becomes an agony.

Except in the most sensationalized way, it is rare for so honest a depiction of cold and darkness to make its way into the popular depictions of the holiday season. We are usually shown smiling people playing in the snow, making snowmen, throwing snowballs, falling in love by the fire while the storm swirls outside. “I really can’t stay…” “Oh, Baby, it’s cold outside!” The relentless, killing cold is not one of this season’s more marketable qualities.

But this poem taps into a truth that lies at the heart of the Christmas story—the real Christmas story. If we peel away the layers of commercialization, and the layers of tradition, and even the layers of faith, beneath it all, the story of Christmas is about the birth of a child to poor parents who were members of an oppressed religious minority in an occupied territory. The child is born into a world that is almost unimaginably harsh.

And that is the first point of entry for us, we who gather on this cold night, almost the longest night of the year. This story already resonates with our stories, if we come into this season with pain or grief. Why gather on this longest night? Why take note? We gather because of that very dissonance—the dissonance between what the culture believes to be at the heart of the celebration of Christmas (and, depending upon which commercials you listen to, that could be food, or drink, or shiny, pretty presents) and what truly lies at its heart—the audacity of hope even in the midst of pain or grief that is harsh and unbearable.

It seems appropriate this night to read from the book of psalms. Those of you who have gathered here on Sunday mornings have heard me say on more than one occasion: there is no emotion a human being can have that is not found somewhere in the book of psalms. That makes it a handy and ideal prayer book for us. In the heights of joy, in the heat of rage, in the warmth of gratitude, and in the depths of sorrow and despair, somewhere we can find our emotions mirrored in the book of Psalms.

I read tonight from Psalm 88. It is a good companion to that poem whose opening stanzas I’ve just read. Just as the poem describes unrelieved cold and darkness, the psalm describes unrelieved spiritual darkness and alienation. Of all 150 psalms, Psalm 88 is the only one that does not, at some point, find its way back to praise, thanksgiving, or hope. It is the only psalm that describes what it is to feel utterly alone and disconnected from God and community.

I don’t know how many of us find ourselves in that position tonight, feeling, with the psalmist,

“…my soul is sated with troubles,
And my life touches Sheol.
I am counted with those who go down to the Pit;
I become like those with no help.” (Psalm 88:4-5)

Grief and depression can make us feel as if we can’t reach anyone, not God, not our loved ones, not our friends or community. Though I love this season, certain painful memories associated with it nevertheless have the ability to pull me down, memories sweeping over me, like a flood. I am grateful for a prayer that doesn’t pretty it up, for Psalm 88, which says to God, “I confront you with my grief. I confront you with my prayers.”

But then, I find I need to turn to Psalm 139.

O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away.

You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways.

Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.

In contrast with the one praying the first psalm, this writer seems to have a sense that God is there—no, God is here. While the first prayer seems uttered from a place where God is impossibly distant, in the second, there is a recognition that God is close by, hovering, never leaving the pray-er alone. This I think expresses a deep truth about God.

Here’s the rest of that poem I started with:

But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog

lies curled in a womb of leaves,

the bean and the wheat-seed

hug their germs in the earth

and the stream moves under the ice.

Tonight there is no moon,

but a new star opens

like a silver trumpet over the dead.

Tonight in a nest of ruins

the blessed babe is laid.

And the fir tree warms to a bloom of candles,

the child lights his lantern,

stares at his tinseled toy;

our hearts and hearths

smoulder with live ashes.

In the blood of our grief

the cold earth is suckled,

in our agony the womb

convulses its seed,

in the cry of anguish

the child’s first breath is born.

The birth of the blessed babe does not heal our grief. The nearness of God does not send the cold or the darkness scurrying away—not tonight, at least. But the nearness of God is real, whether we feel it or not. The nearness of God can be depended upon, if not experienced. Even if we feel that the darkness will swallow us and all the available light—as if our sadness were some imploding star with infinite mass—even the infinite darkness is not dark to God. The night is as bright in God’s all-seeing eyes as the day.

Perhaps the audacity of hope is this: even in the deepest darkness, when our tired and searching eyes cannot see their way to the light, we can rest in the arms of the One whose eyes see clear through to eternity. We don’t have to see it ourselves. We can simply know that it is seen—light, at the end of the darkness, a thin and pinkish dawn after what feels like an endlessly long night. God blowing on the ashes in our hearts, to make them smolder again—not for a bonfire, just the faintest promise of warmth, glowing, even before we feel it.

Friday Five: Soon and Very Soon!

Posted by Sophia at RevGalBlogPals:

It's the last week of the semester here so I offer another very simple Friday Five in honor of the past, present, and eschatological dimensions of this powerful season of the church year.... Please share five ways that God has come to you (your family or friends, your church or workplace, our world) in the past year, that God is coming to you right now, and/or that you are longing and looking for God to come. Marana tha! Come Lord Jesus!

1. In the past year, God has come to me most powerfully in, first, the quiet suggestion, and then the booming imperative, that it was time to come out to my congregation. I stood at the edge of a precipice, and God said, Leap! (The evolution of my thinking/ God's speaking to me can be found at my other blog, [un]closeted pastor, beginning in February. It was a Lent thing.).

2. If God said "Leap!", then my loved ones and congregation caught me, most profoundly. God came to me (and continues to come) in the affirmations and support I have received from nearly everyone in my congregation, and from all my friends, family and Beloved, without exception.

3. God comes to me in the early darkness of Advent. I have long loved this season, a whispered and candle-lit time in a minor key. It pulls me back to center, despite the crazy/busy nature of the way the world wants us to prepare for Christmas.

4. God comes to me in the reminders I receive daily that my work is not "all about me," but rather, like John the Baptist, a pointing upward. In reading the article about which I blogged here, I recognized a dangerous tendency in myself to assume total responsibility for the way things are going at church-- especially when they go awry. God comes as I am able to let go of that particular form or idolatry, and focus on the business of putting the Good News in front of my congregation.

5. God comes in relationships. Beloved, Petra, Larry, peacester, Little Mary... you know who you are. I am constantly amazed to see and experience the depths of love that are available to me. Thank you God.