Come As You Are

Isaiah 43:1-7

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

This Sunday we remember our baptism, which is something we share with Jesus. He was baptized by John in the Jordan River. John didn’t actually want to baptize Jesus, because he knew Jesus did not need the repentance he offered. John was right; Jesus was a model of humanity in every way. He was our exemplar for how to live into the image of God. But I imagine this was the reason he wanted to be baptized, to show us the way in this as in everything.

He submitted to John in the river, along with all the others, then he came to shore and began to pray. At that moment the heavens opened, and a voice said, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” 

“With you I am well pleased.” Not all translations put it the same way. Some versions say, “You bring me great joy,” or, “In you I find delight.” But the one I appreciate the most is in the Common English Bible, which says, “In you I find happiness.”

Which is the kind of thing anyone wants and needs to hear from a parent or a loved one. It is the kind of thing we all need to know – that someone finds us delightful, that someone feels happiness because of us. It is the kind of thing that God offers to each one of us – and one of the ways God does this is by placing us in a community of the baptized.

When we are baptized we are adopted into the family of God, brothers and sisters to Jesus, the firstborn in a very large family. As adopted members, we begin to learn the customs and the values of this new family. We learn that in the family of God we share one another’s burdens and celebrate one another’s joys. We learn that the needs of one become the shared needs of all, and the wealth of one contributes to the wealth of all – this is what it is to be the church. We work together, we grieve together, we celebrate together. 

As we read in the scripture, “just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in one Spirit we were all baptized into one body.” 

In our baptism we make promises: to be Christ’s faithful disciples, obeying his word and showing his love. For many of us these promises were made by others on our behalf. Nonetheless, these are the promises each one of us is meant to grow into. To follow Christ’s word and example, to show his love.

But I am afraid that we sometimes fail to remember these promises.

I listened to some friends talking about what a beautiful community the church is. One after another they described situations in their lives where the church had stepped in to offer support when it was needed. And while I could add my own stories of compassion, I also have memories of a different kind of church experience. Through most of my childhood, when my family was going through some very tough times, we did not experience that kind of love from our church. We did not feel the church being there for us when we needed it. We did not feel the embrace we needed, but rather judgment that only piles hurt upon hurt.

There is something deeply troublesome about the church exacerbating the pain on one of its own, of not being there to support their brothers and sisters in their suffering. It seems to me a tragic failure to live into our baptismal vows.

Kim and I once lived in a small town – a little smaller than Salisbury. It was the kind of place where, if you asked for directions to the bookstore, people would say, “It’s down near the old A&P.” But the A&P had been gone for many years, so anyone who actually needed directions wouldn’t find this helpful. People sometimes said that if you moved to this place from somewhere else, you would never, ever feel like a native; that you have to have generational belonging to really feel like you belong.

And I wonder if the church is like this too.

You wouldn’t notice it, probably, if you feel that sense of belonging. But the challenge is this: every single member of the family should have that same sense of belonging, that same sense that we are all in this together, and we are there for one another.

The baptismal promises we make are all about that. As God said first to Israel: When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you walk through the fire, I will be with you. “Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.” So it is that, through Christ Jesus, God says this very thing to all of us too.

And through our baptism, our adoption into God’s family, we make the same promises to one another: We will be there for you. You are precious in my sight, you are honored, and I love you.

Wow. Right?

Truly, there is nothing I want more than for every child in our congregation to feel our love, our delight, our joy and happiness when they are in our midst. And there is nothing more critical about being the body of Christ than that every member of the body knows this one thing: when you pass through the waters, when you walk through the fire, we will be there for them. You are loved, just as you are.

Remember the promises of your baptism.

How Do We Know

Isaiah 60:1-6

Ephesians 3:1-12

If I start the sentence, “How do you know…” and I invite you to finish it, what comes to mind? 

How do you know if someone loves you? How do you know if this is the one you should marry? How do you know if this is the right job for you? How do you know when it is time to make a change? How do you know?

These are the kinds of questions that fill our imaginations. I don’t often wonder “how do you know if the milk has gone bad?” Because, you know. Things like that are simple and empirical. The “how do you know” questions that hold your attention are different. We know how to solve an arithmetic problem by learning the steps and practicing. We know if we have the right answer because there is a right answer and it’s the same for everyone. Two plus two always equals four, so you know.

But there are many questions in life that cannot be answered that way. And these are by and large the kinds of questions grappled with in the scriptures.

How does the prophet Isaiah know that now is the time to arise, to shine? How does he know that the light has come? 

How did Elizabeth, the wife of Zechariah, know that her young cousin Mary was the mother of her Lord?

How do the shepherds in the fields know that the child who has been born was the Messiah?

How did the magi know that the star they were following would lead them to the newborn king?

How did the apostle Paul know that he was called by Christ to serve the mission to the Gentiles? How did he know, when he was knocked to the ground by a flash of heavenly light, when he heard the voice speaking to him, when he lost the ability to see, how did he know that his life was irrevocably changed?

Some would say that the way you know is that suddenly there is no other choice. Isaiah could see nothing but the light of God’s glory, could do no other than to proclaim this message of hope. 

The shepherds in the fields knew that they simply could not remain where they were. They could do no other than to follow the command of the heavenly host.

The magi knew the power of their dreams to speak truth to them in a way that no human voice could speak. They knew that they could do no other than to follow the star that led them across miles and miles.

Some would say that you know something is right and true when you can do no other than to pursue it. That does not make it easy, though. It certainly was not easy for the magi. It was not easy for Mary or Elizabeth or Joseph to trust the message they had been given from an angel, from a dream, from a vision.

It was not easy for the priest Zechariah, when the angel Gabriel visited him. He asked the question, “How will I know,” not in a wondering way, but in a challenging way, a doubtful way. Which was a foolish thing to do, when the angel took away his power of speech, so he could ponder these things in silence.

Some would say it is a mystery, how you know. Indeed, it is a mystery. You can’t know the steps to follow, you can’t know the source of the revelation, not in any way that we want to know things. All revelation comes from God and, of course, there are real limits on what we can know of God.

There is mystery, Paul uses this word several times in the letter to Ephesians – four times it appears just in this passage. 

There is mystery in the passage from Isaiah, although he doesn’t use the word, but all that he describes conveys a sense of awe, of holy mystery.

How do we know these things? We know by the experience. We know by what our senses know: a star, a dream, a blinding light. A voice that speaks to us and maybe to no one else. A sense of shimmering joy, elation. A sense of peace, the kind that passes understanding. A sense being drawn in. One of the tenets of our Reformed faith is that God’s grace is irresistible – simply irresistible! You know by the flame that ignites within you and smolders, and glows. You know by what you know.

And yet –

The knowing is open to more. The knowing of epiphany must be very wary of putting down a period. Is God finished speaking? Has revelation ended? Is it possible for us, mere humans, to put a limit on God’s divine wisdom, on the extent of God’s love? 

There are very few things I know for sure, but I see that throughout the scriptures, when there is more light given, there is more love. When Isaiah says, “Arise, shine, for your light has come,” we know that the dark days of exile are past, and that God’s grace will shine on Israel.

When the shepherds and the magi see the brilliant light in the sky, we know that God has opened the door and reached out to draw these outsiders inside. When Paul was blinded by the light on the Damascus Road, he knew that this was a turning point in his life, which would from now on be devoted to carrying the good news of God’s grace far and wide.

Paul did not know, at first, where he would be sent. He did not realize that the calling, the commission placed on him, would take him to the outsiders, the whole Gentile world. But soon he did know.

The knowing of epiphany is a strange thing. It can be wild, unexpected. It is ever-expanding divine love.

This light, this love, was there for the people in the time of Isaiah. It was there for the people in the time of Christ’s birth. and the light shines on.

This light, this ever-expanding love is here for us. The light that darkness cannot comprehend or overcome, as we read in the Gospel of John. The light has not left the world. It never will.

It is a mystery that draws us in.

More light is yet to be seen. Keep watching, keep listening, for God is not yet finished. 

Returning by a Different Way

Matthew 2: 1-12

I want to tell you a Christmas story. It’s about a family – a mother, a father, their three little boys, and a fourth child on the way. Mother was in the final weeks of her pregnancy. On Christmas Eve the family all went to church, and on the way home the mother said to the father, “Oof. This baby is coming tonight.”

So they continued on their way home. They all went in the house, the boys just vibrating with excitement. They weren’t paying any attention to what mother and father were talking about – it was Christmas! They had more important things on their minds.

Suddenly, father announced to everyone, “There are reports that Santa has been seen in the area,” as he points up toward the sky. And the boys’ eyes grew big. They knew what to do. They all scampered upstairs, put on their PJs, and jumped into bed because everyone knows that Santa won’t stop at a house where the kids are still up.

They barely got the lights out and closed their eyes when father came up the stairs and said, “Guys, come on down and see what Santa left you!” and they all hopped out of bed, never questioning any of these slightly odd events. Because it was Christmas.

Everyone went downstairs. Mother half-sat, half-lay on the couch, breathing through her contractions while the kids all opened their new toys. And as soon as everything had been opened, father said, “Alright, kids, let’s get in the car. We’re taking you over to your grandparents’ house.”

Father drove like he was behind the wheel of the getaway car after a bank robbery. They dropped the kids with the grandparents, and then raced to the hospital, where mother delivered a Christmas baby.

The next day, they drove back to the grandparents’ house and introduced the boys to a new baby sister, born on Christmas Eve. The family all drove home and went in the house, which was just exactly as they had left it the night before: all the lights on, the tree lit up, toys, boxes, and wrapping paper strewn everywhere. They were back in the exact same place, but they were not the same.

Some journeys are one-way. Some journeys are round-trip. But every journey you take leaves you different than you were before. Even if we come back to the very same place we left, we are not the same as we were when we left.

As we have journeyed all through the season of Advent and now Christmas, we have been accompanied by others also on a journey: Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth and Zechariah, the shepherds who watched the flocks at night. And now the last ones, who have been on a very long journey: the magi.

Even though our nativity scenes include the magi at the scene of Jesus’ birth, along with the angels, the shepherds, and all the animals in the stable, the biblical story suggests that they didn’t actually arrive until quite a bit later. Scholars believe by the time they arrived Jesus was already a toddler. They were no longer in the stable, but in a house. Still in Bethlehem.

There is some consensus that these mysterious men came from Persia, which is now Iran. They were probably Zoroastrian priests. They studied the stars looking for divine guidance. And one night they saw what they had been looking for. They made the decision to follow it.

This could not have been a simple decision for them. They traveled a great distance, they gave a lot of their time to this project – presumably several years! They must have had a lot of faith that this was real and trustworthy – and they must have had a great commitment to discovering whatever this journey would show them, and the change it would bring to them.

Of course, a journey this momentous would have to change them. To come and meet the Messiah. To kneel before him and worship him. To offer their precious gifts to him.

We know that it was also a risky trip. Travel in those days was full of dangers – bandit encounters, injuries or illness that could occur. But in this case, we also know of the dangers King Herod presented. When he discovered what was afoot, of course he felt threatened. And such a frightened king will do frightening things.

Herod might have threatened or harmed the magi if he thought that might help him. He didn’t, but he did something even more ghastly. He said to the magi, “Return to me; let me know where this child is so I, too, may pay him homage.” This was a lie, to hide his real intention to eliminate what he saw as a threat to his power.

But the magi were warned in a dream about the dangers of Herod, and so they returned home by another way.

And after that, Joseph was also warned in a dream about the dangers of Herod. And so he took his family to Egypt, where they lived as refugees. They lived there, probably for several years, until Herod died. And then Joseph was given another dream telling him it was safe to return home. And so they did.

The story is full of journeys, all guided by divine wisdom. And perhaps we can see our own journey this season – or any of the journeys of our lives – in a similar way. How is God guiding you? Where do you see or hear the angelic messages?

Maybe this is not the best time to ask questions like this, because we have all been pretty busy. Our lists and duties have kept us focused on much of the material stuff of this world. But when you snatch a quiet moment, think about this: How is God guiding you?

We probably won’t know unless we do take the time. The magi would have been unlikely to see the star unless they were paying attention, looking for something. Their minds and hearts were open, inviting something new. Their spirits were obedient, trusting, ready to follow and see. The magi were ready to be changed in the way God led them.

Joseph and Mary had that same openness, that same trust. The shepherds did as well, on that one night, at least. Elizabeth and Zechariah, too, although Zechariah had to learn it in the moment, sort of a trial-and-error situation.

Herod did not have that trust. He never opened himself to the guidance of the Lord, the possibility of change, and because of that he became a real danger to others.

But the ones who trusted God, they were all on a journey – the kind of journey that leads to change, that never takes you back the same as you were before. All of them went home by a different way.

And all of this was made possible, not only by the angels and the stars, but by the care each gave the others. People on a journey recognize fellow travelers. People on a journey know that in some ways we need one another, if we are to make it.

May you seek to know what you are looking for.

May you seek the divine guidance that will take you on your journey.

May you be a friend to fellow travelers, knowing that nowhere we ever journey are we ever alone. 

Photo: ChurchArt.com

Christmas Eve: You Are Here

John 1:1-14

I want to tell you a true story about a woman named Sara. Sara was an adventurer. She traveled all over the world as a journalist, covering the most newsworthy events of the day. She was hungry for experience and she seized everything that was offered – worked with all kinds of people in all kinds of places. Unafraid of a challenge. Sara was always looking for something.

Eventually, after many years, she slowed down, settled down. She bought a house, got a dog. And she started taking walks around her neighborhood. This was the extent of her travels now.

One morning on her walk, she came by a church. It was a Sunday. She could hear the sounds of worship from inside the building. Without really thinking about it, Sara went inside. She found the congregation standing in the center of the room in a circle. She walked right up to the circle and stepped into it. Someone handed her the bread, the cup.

That morning Sara met Jesus for the first time. It was the beginning of a new life for Sara. It happened just a short walk from her house.

All the other journeys of her life had been preparation for this one. Those few simple steps into the circle that transformed her.

During this season of Advent we have been traveling to lots of interesting places – important places: Rome, Jerusalem, cities that are in the news every day. Then we went to Nazareth, a place that is most vivid in our imaginations, perhaps, as Jesus’ hometown but now is a bustling modern city.

And after visiting all these places we ended up in Bethlehem. In a stable. At a manger. Because God has something to show us there.

In this place we are shown a people who looked for salvation for generation after generation.  They sought a land of promise, a land of milk and honey where they might live in peace. 

In this place we see a nation looking for a savior who would break the chains of slavery; relieve them from oppression and war and hunger. 

And in this place we find a man and a woman, about to become parents, who were simply looking for shelter and the safe delivery of their child.  They weren’t certain they understood why they were in this place at this time. But this was where the circumstances of their lives and their faith had led them. 

And we are here, too. You chose to come here.

And that is, perhaps, an unlikely event, that you ended up here.

Because you have choices. There are so many places you can go, so many things you can do and experience. There are so many ways to celebrate a day so festive and merry. You could be at a party, at a dinner table loaded down with rich food and drink. You could be exchanging gifts with friends. You could be standing under the mistletoe, roasting chestnuts on an open fire, just a few of the things on offer at this most wonderful time of the year.

You could be at home on your couch watching Christmas movies, the endless stream of It’s a Wonderful Life, or National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, or any number of other classics.

There are so many things you could be doing tonight, but you made the journey here, to this sanctuary. You carved out time and space in your life to be here – in a time when fewer and fewer people do. You did, so perhaps there is something in you that knows God has something to show you.

Two thousand years ago God showed the world a new thing in the birth of a baby in a stable in Bethlehem. There the word became flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth. Through this child, God continues to show us the way. The way of love. The way of care for the least and the last, the most vulnerable in this world. God’s way of love softens this hard world. Perhaps this is what you came here to find.

You and I are born to be seekers, every one of us. Some of us seek far and wide, traveling the world to find ourselves, our purpose. Others of us confine our journeys to no more than a few miles, seeking the answers right where we are. Many will seek their own enrichment, often at the expense of others, but some will seek that way of love and care, to bring more light into this world.

The light that shines through the darkest night and will always guide our journey.

 photo: ChurchArt.com

Advent Four: When Holy Meets Lowly

 Romans 13: 8-11

Luke 2: 1-14      

On this final Sunday of Advent, we arrive at the place we have been traveling toward all month – Bethlehem. A few days before Mary and Joseph arrive, we stop here now in Bethlehem, to wonder at all that happened here in a place so humble and lowly.

The word Bethlehem means “house of bread,” because it was a place where grain was grown, a very basic staple that humans depend on. You might recall that the Old Testament story of Ruth takes place in Bethlehem, during the barley harvest. Ruth, the foreign woman who arrived in Bethlehem with her mother-in-law Naomi, goes out to glean in the barley fields, so that she and Naomi may eat. The law provided that everyone – the widow, the orphan, the foreigner, they were guaranteed the right to glean the fields so they might eat. They would not eat lavishly, but they would eat. In Bethlehem, the law of God provides for the least and lowliest among all.

Today, Bethlehem is a city of about 25,000, which is not that big – there are more people living in Salisbury. Bethlehem was always fairly small in size. The prophet Micah calls Bethlehem little, a name that stuck. But even then, it was foretold that the little town of Bethlehem would loom large in the imagination of the faith, as Micah said:

from you shall come forth for me
   one who is to rule in Israel,
whose origin is from of old,
   from ancient days.

Just outside Bethlehem there is a place called Beit Sahur, a little Palestinian town. The name comes from old Canaanite words – beit means house, sahur means nightwatch. Sometimes it is called the house of vigilance or house of dawn. This is the place where shepherds kept watch over their flocks at night. This is the place where those shepherds were visited by angels.

Shepherds, we know, did not enjoy high status. They were not among the educated class nor were they wealthy. They slept outdoors. Their closest companions were animals. They were humble, lowly.

This is the place we find ourselves, the place we have journeyed to for Christmas. We have passed through much more glamorous places – the cities of Rome and Jerusalem. But those places were not our destination. Just as they were not the destination of Mary and Joseph.

The story of our faith is a story of the small ones, the humble and the lowly that God chooses to work through. In little Bethlehem, where the immigrant Ruth found a place of welcome, a place where she could thrive and where she gave birth to a son.

In little Bethlehem, where the grandson of Ruth raised seven sons of his own, and the smallest of whom, David, was anointed by the prophet Samuel, to become king of Israel. David, who, when still a child would defeat a giant of a foe, to bring victory to Israel.

In little Bethlehem, where the people grew barley for bread, raised sheep for sacrifice, lived simple lives, close to the earth. This is the place Mary and Joseph journeyed to.

This is the place where Joseph and Mary arrived one night, exhausted from their travels, Mary frightfully close to her time of delivery. But they did not find ease, not yet. Every door on which Joseph knocked, looking for a place to rest, brought more bad news. There was no place for them in the houses of Bethlehem. Finally, they were given shelter in a stable with the farm animals.

And Mary began her labor.

You have to wonder what Mary and Joseph were thinking that night – if they were able to think much at all in that moment. While Mary’s body tensed with each contraction, so far away from her mother, from anyone who might give her comfort; while Joseph stood by her side feeling about as helpless as any father-to-be might feel in those moments. Fearful as any father-to-be might feel. Would Mary survive this? Would the child survive this?

Why, they both might have wondered, why has God put us in this place?

Every one of us has had those moments when we wondered whether God had forsaken us. Moments when we felt fear and pain, and helplessness, as Mary and Joseph must have felt that night. In these moments we may have cried out our lament, this is not the way it is supposed to be.

Mary would surely have preferred to be in her home, attended by her mother and the women she had known all her life. Joseph surely would have preferred to be back in Nazareth, amongst the men of his family, who would stand with him, celebrate with him. In Nazareth Joseph might have felt pride in this moment. But here in Bethlehem, kneeling on the dirt floor amongst the farm animals, watching his wife labor on a bed of straw, Joseph was humble, lowly.

Surely this is not the way it’s supposed to be, Joseph and Mary might have thought. We might have thought.

But once again God shows us something different.

Mary gave birth, her son was laid in the manger, safe and sound. Mary rested on her bed of straw. And in the fields outside of Bethlehem, where shepherds watched their flocks by night, the angel of the Lord appeared. The shepherds were, naturally, terrified. The angel had to say, “Do not be afraid,” as they always do, and then gave them the good news of great joy for all the people: “to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

These shepherds, the humblest of men, were the first to hear this news. They were the first to visit the newborn child in the stable. They were the first to report to Mary and Joseph about the message they had received in the fields. And Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.

And this is the way it was.

Despite the ways we habitually return to our beliefs about how things should be, God brings us to a place like Bethlehem. Despite our insistence that we know what is honorable, that we know what glory looks like, God brings us to Bethlehem. Despite all our efforts to glam up Christmas with sparkle and shine, God brings us to a stable. God surrounds us with the animals of the fields, and the shepherds who watch over them. God brings us to the humble, lowly place where Jesus was born. Because this is God’s way.

This is where God shows up – among the humble and the lowly. There is a term for this divine mystery: God’s preferential option for the poor. We know that God’s love is infinite, but still, there is a special place in God’s heart for the poor. This is a living and breathing truth, wherever you look in the Bible, God’s heart holds a special concern for the humble and the lowly on earth, the ones who need the most.

When God came down to be with us, God chose a child of humble birth, a family of low esteem. This child would go on to live his entire life among the humble and the lowly. These are the ones he would call his friends. And one day while with these friends, some of whom had begun to think a little too well of themselves, Jesus would say to them, “The poor will always be with you.” Because if we call ourselves followers of Jesus, there is one thing we will never do: abandon the poor.

God came to a stable in Bethlehem. To a ragged little family struggling to survive. God came to the lowly and made it holy.

This is where God shows up – and this is where God wants us to be, too.

photo: ChurchArt.com

Advent Three: Will We Sing with Them?

 

Luke 1: 26-38

In the midst of everything else about this Christmas season, the secular attachments and the religious meanings; at the very center of it this is a story about women having babies. It’s about pregnancy and childbirth. And today we rest our minds on that.

In Luke’s gospel, it is a story about two women – Elizabeth and Mary – both finding themselves pregnant in the most unexpected circumstances.

Elizabeth, older cousin to Mary and wife of the priest Zechariah, is too old for having babies. For Elizabeth, those years have passed and left her empty. She is barren, the term the Bible uses, like other women we have seen in the scriptures: Sarah, the wife of Abraham; Rachel, the wife of Jacob; Hannah, the wife of Elkanah. All these women waited for their turn to come, while they watched their peers’ swelling bellies and glowing faces; they waited, while month after month they came up empty.

Yet, to each of these long-empty wombs, was given a child who would change the world: to Sarah was given Isaac, to Rachel was given Joseph, to Hannah was given Samuel.

God made these women and men wait – and in God’s time and God’s place, they were given a child with God’s plans for them. This is the story of our faith. God will often bypass the expected in favor of the unexpected.

And there is Mary, young girl, wife of no one. Promised to Joseph, but not yet given to him, Mary is a woman with no worldly experience. Sure, she knows plenty about the harshness of the world – I have no doubt. Mary is a Jew in an occupied land. She has seen the intimidation tactics of the Roman soldiers. She knows how her people can suddenly, without warning or explanation, be forced to serve the soldiers by carrying their load for them. And she knows that at the slightest misstep her people can be charged with treason and crucified, their bodies left hanging for days to make sure every Jewish man, woman, and child is terrorized by the sight.

Mary is a young, unmarried woman, a nobody. She is a Jew in the Roman Empire, a nobody. She is a child of nobody, living in the outskirts of civilization – in the town of Nazareth, a place not even on the map. Mary is nobody.

She has no agency of her own, according to the laws of the society in which she lives. She is the property of her father, until such time as she becomes the property of her husband. And as a Jew in the empire, she is in many ways, property of the Romans.

And then Mary, this nobody, is visited by an angel of God and told that she will bear a child, who will be great – the son of the most high! This is the story of our faith. God will so often bypass the somebodies in favor of the nobodies.

Elizabeth and Mary. Two women who have no reason to expect anything, yet God has seen them. And God has lifted them and blessed them.

Mary, when she receives this news, runs from her home in Nazareth to Judea, to Elizabeth. It seems the better part of wisdom that she did. In spite of the equanimity in her response to the angel – let it be with me according to your word – her head must have been reeling. What does an unmarried teenage girl in ancient Palestine do with this news? Does she imagine her parents will receive it joyfully? Or her fiancé, Joseph? Or anyone in her community? No. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Mary chooses to flee.

She probably joined a caravan of people traveling south toward Jerusalem. That would have been the prudent thing to do – no one with any sense would have taken the journey alone. She would be vulnerable to bandits or maybe soldiers, who would have seen a young girl alone as easy prey. But there is some safety in numbers, as so many others have learned. In a caravan, travelers have the shelter of one another.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth is in her sixth month of pregnancy. Against all the odds, the elderly Elizabeth is pregnant. No doubt she is feeling all the discomfort and the fatigue of carrying a child, especially in her older body. No doubt, she is, even so far along, still feeling this is too good to be true. Will it last? Will she really give birth to a healthy baby?

Yet, I am also sure Elizabeth is quiet about any doubts she might harbor. Months ago, her husband Zechariah was visited by the same angel who came to Mary and was told his wife Elizabeth would conceive and bear a child. Hearing this, Zechariah blurted out the equivalent of “I doubt that.” And the angel said, “Ok then, we don’t need to hear any more from you.” Zechariah was struck mute. For the duration of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, so Elizabeth was enjoying a quiet gestation.

And there she is, Elizabeth, in this quietness, this stillness; and Mary steps through her door. “Elizabeth,” Mary calls out, and the unborn baby leaps in Elizabeth’s womb.

I have no idea how well Elizabeth and Mary knew each other. There is a big discrepancy in their ages. They did not live near one another. Maybe Mary only knew Elizabeth from brief stopovers while her family made pilgrimage to the temple in Jerusalem. Maybe they barely knew each other, but at some time they had seen a soul connection. They had, maybe, recognized kindred spirits in one another, and so when Mary learned of her condition, she thought of Elizabeth.

And when Elizabeth heard Mary’s voice, and felt her baby move, the word that leaped into her mind was blessed. Blessed are you, Mary, among women. Blessed is the fruit of your womb. Blessed is she who believes.

Blessed. You and I are blessed, Elizabeth sings out her song of blessing.

And Mary opens her mouth, too, and sings.

My soul magnifies the Lord, 
   and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, 
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
   Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; 
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
   and holy is his name. 
His mercy is for those who fear him
   from generation to generation. 
He has shown strength with his arm;
   he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. 
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
   and lifted up the lowly; 
he has filled the hungry with good things,
   and sent the rich away empty. 
He has helped his servant Israel,
   in remembrance of his mercy, 
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
   to Abraham and to his descendants forever.

I have heard that some of the earliest translations of the Bible into the common languages, English and German, did not translate Mary’s song because it would be so offensive to kings – to read “he has brought down the powerful from their thrones!” Better to leave it in Latin and hope they don’t understand it.

But this, dear brothers and sisters, is the story of our faith. God bypasses the powerful in favor of the powerless. God bypasses the rich and the full in favor of the hungry and the needy. God bypasses the proud and lifts up the lowly. And the powerless, the hungry, the lowly sing their songs of joy.

I think back a few years to 2020, the year we lived in fear of COVID. We were all quarantined, unable to gather together, deprived of the human touch. We began gathering every evening on Facebook live, to pray. And every day a part of our evening prayer was this song of Mary. A song of hope in the face of devastation.

Mary and Elizabeth sing for themselves and for the powerless, the hungry, the lowly in all times and all places. They sing because the children they carry in their bodies will grow up to become powerful voices for the powerless, the hungry, the lowly. They sing because in their lives of suffering and uncertainty and risk, they have been blessed by the hand of the almighty, who is in them and for them – for this is the story of our faith. God is in and for the powerless, the hungry, the lowly.

God’s hand rests on the ones who need him most – the homeless, the hungry, the refugee. God is in and for these ones.

It is a season for singing, singing the songs of the poor, the powerless, the nobodies because our God resides in and with the nobodies.

In a world that worships power and wealth, God is in and for the poor ones. In a world where so many people, beloved children of God, are valued so little, God is in and for them all. There are times, it must be said, when this does not come to us as good news. Like kings and others with great power and wealth, there are times when Mary’s words can seem threatening even to us.

But when we remember how our savior came to us … from the bottom, not the top; from the margins, not the center; from the disgraced, not the proud.

And in these moments the heavens break open and we see a glimpse of the truth that Elizabeth and Mary knew, the truth that made them sing. The truth we heard from Zechariah’s song last week. The powerful truth of God that shakes the very foundations of the powerful ones.

Will we sing with them?

Photo:  Adobe Stock Images

Advent Two: While We Wait

Romans 12: 9-18

Luke 1: 5-17      

If you know one thing about Advent, you know it is a season of waiting. And waiting can be so hard. Last week we lit the Advent wreath in our home for the first time this year. Lena looked at all the candles and asked, “How many?” I said, “Just one.” And later she asked, “And tomorrow we get to light two?” and I said, “No. We wait a week before we light two candles.” And Lena made a little squeaky sound of angst. Because this is just one more thing she is required to wait for this season, and a week may as well be 10 years in her mind.

On this second Sunday of Advent, we still wait. And on this day of our journey toward Bethlehem we are in Jerusalem. It is one of the oldest cities in the world, with a population 60 percent Jewish and 40 percent Palestinian, home to the three largest monotheistic faiths – Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Think about that for a moment.

No one knows how old Jerusalem is, but there are references to it as far back as the time of Abraham and Sarah. In Genesis, Abraham has an encounter with Melchizedek, the priest of Salem – Salem was an early settlement of Jerusalem. Salem and Shalom share the same root word. Hence, Jerusalem is sometimes called the City of Peace.

It wasn’t until the time of David that the Jews controlled the city of Jerusalem. And it was David’s son, Solomon who built the first temple there. For many centuries, the temple was central to Israel’s relationship with God. It was a religion built on a system of sacrifices, which was common among the religions of the ancient world, and all sacrifices took place in the temple.

The temple was built as a series of layers, from the outermost, secular layer to the innermost, holy of holies where the ark of the covenant was kept. Just outside the holy of holies was another space called the holy place, which contained three things. There was the bread of presence, which was much like our communion bread, symbolizing God’s provision and desire to be present with God’s people. Opposite the bread was a menorah, with seven candles that were always burning, as a reminder that God was always with them. And in between was the altar of incense. A priest was required to enter the holy place daily to take care of these things.

The priests of Israel were the descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses, and they were the only ones permitted to enter the holy place. Every able-bodied male descendant of Aaron was a member of the priestly order. It is estimated that there were twenty thousand priests in Israel in days of Zechariah, who rotated responsibility for these duties at the temple.

With so many priests, we can assume that this was a once in a lifetime experience for Zechariah. Most likely, he had never entered the holy place, and most likely he would never again.

The duties were simple and well-understood. They did not vary from week to week and so, even though Zechariah had never had this duty before he certainly understood what he needed to do and was quite capable of doing it. He would have entered the holy place at the designated time, bringing in the fresh loaves of bread. He would refill the candles in the menorah, and he would burn incense at the altar, while offering up the prayers of the people. While he was inside praying over the incense, the whole assembly of the people were outside praying along with him.

But something very unusual happened when Zechariah entered the holy place that day. The angel of the Lord showed up. And it knocked the poor man over in fear.

From one perspective, this event should not have been shocking. If we understand that this is God’s dwelling place, shouldn’t we expect God to, at least some of the time, be home when we come visit? Mightn’t we expect the Lord to show up in some way? Perhaps, but Zechariah was not expecting this. And I dare say none of us would expect it either.

I’m guessing you did not come in here today expecting God to show up. To change the world. To come bearing gifts of unlikely things – even impossible things. Yet, it is what we are asked to hope for…wait for.

Among the many things all of Israel hoped for, Zechariah and Elizabeth held a special hope of their own – for a child. But they grew old while they were waiting, and gradually they stopped hoping.

Just as Abraham and Sarah had hoped for, waited for a child hundreds of years before. But they grew old while they were waiting, and gradually stopped hoping.

Jerusalem, the City of Peace, has waited for peace to come – hoping…praying…waiting. But perhaps they, too, have gradually stopped hoping.

Have you ever stopped waiting for something that you longed for? Stopped expecting something good?

As Zechariah knelt before the altar of incense, the angel Gabriel appeared to him, to tell him that God had not forgotten or forsaken him. God had heard the prayers of Zechariah and Elizabeth – even if they had long abandoned those prayers. God would give them a child.

At this point Zechariah was not inclined to believe it. It had been too long. He and Elizabeth had closed that chapter. They knew enough about life to know this: It was not humanly possible for these two old folks to have a baby.

But, in the place where it is not humanly possible – that is precisely where God steps in. One of the hardest things about faith is waiting for that time when God will step in.

Last Sunday we were in Rome, which was, for Israel and for us, a place where we could see the vast gulf between what exists in the world and what we are longing for – real peace, real justice, real freedom. Rome helps us to see, by its absence, what we are longing for.

But these things we long for turn out to be beyond our human capacity to achieve, a hard truth for us to accept. No matter how hard we try, we cannot give ourselves these gifts. What we long for, what we hope for, these are the things we must wait for.

Jerusalem is the place to go to wait – Never knowing how long we will be waiting – Never being quite sure what one does while waiting.

Something I have observed is that good church people have a hard time just waiting. If we have grown up in church, then we have been taught our whole life long what good church people do. We want more than anything to be doers of the word, not just hearers. And we are not wrong. We know with all that is in us that it is God’s desire for us to work for greater love in this world – for peace, for justice, for freedom for all God’s children.

We are made in God’s image, made to be partners in God’s dance of creation. This means we cannot do the work on our own, as we want, how we want, when we want. This partnership means we wait on the Lord. And as hard as that can be, we must never stop waiting on the Lord. We mustn’t grow weary and settle for something less, to look at the work of our own hands and say, “Well, that’ll have to do.” and forget what it was we were waiting for, hoping for, as Zechariah might have done.

Zechariah was literally struck mute by Gabriel, I guess for the insult of doubting the angel’s words. Maybe Zechariah was a guy who loved the sound of his voice, loved explaining stuff to everyone all day long, and Gabriel thought he’d heard enough from Zechariah. Maybe it was Gabriel’s gift to Elizabeth; maybe Elizabeth was grateful to have nine months of tranquility. I don’t know if any of this is true, but here is what I think: A time of forced silence for Zechariah was a good time for him to wait. To reflect on the words of the angel. To listen. To remember all that he had hoped for.

When Zechariah got his voice back – on the day of his son John’s circumcision – he opened his mouth and sang. The song of Zechariah is in the first chapter of Luke’s gospel, and it is a part of my morning prayers every day:

Blessed are you, Lord, the God of Israel;
You have come to your people and set them free.

You have raised up for us a mighty Savior,
born of the house of your servant David.

Through your holy prophets, you promised of old to save us from our enemies,
from the hands of all who hate us,

To show mercy to our forebears, and to remember your holy covenant.

This was the oath you swore to our father Abraham:
to set us free from the hands of our enemies,

Free to worship you without fear,
holy and righteous before you, all the days of our life.

And you, child, shall be called the prophet of the Most High,
for you will go before the Lord to prepare the way,

To give God’s people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.

In the tender compassion of our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,
and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

We are not different from Zechariah. Most of us could use a time of silence to listen, to wait. To remember what it is we hope for.

In this season we wait. We wait for God to do unlikely things – even impossible things. And so, people of faith, let us continue showing up, offering our prayers, listening, hoping, waiting.

Let us never forget what we are waiting for. 

NOTE: I am indebted to Rob Fuquay, whose book, On the Way to Bethlehem, has guided my thinking through this journey.

Picture: stock.adobe.com