Advent 4: Love

 

Probably the Bible verse known by the most people is John 3:16. Most of you can say it on cue: For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that those who believe in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

The verse isn’t a part of our Advent or Christmas readings, but it is in the background of all of it. For God so loved the world.

It is in the background of the story we hear this morning about King David. Sitting in his palace, feeling quite full of himself – he has, after all, defeated all his enemies. I imagine David’s approval ratings were sky high. And so now, with satisfaction, he looks around and says, “It’s a darn shame, isn’t it? I have this nice house and poor old God has to live in a tent. I’m going to do the right thing and give God a nice house of his own.

But God, as David comes to learn, doesn’t want a nice house. “I don’t need a temple,” God says to the prophet Nathan. “I have lived in this tent for many years now, moving in it from place to place, along with my people. Remind David, please, that I have taken him and all of Israel where they needed to go, when they needed to go. And I will continue to do that, always.”

God so loves the people that God promises to be with them always, wherever they are.

And it is in the background of our gospel story, where the angel Gabriel comes to Mary and announces the good news. You will conceive and bear a son; his name will be Jesus – the Savior. The power of God will overshadow you. Through it all, Mary, wherever you are, God will be with you.

Because God so loved the world that God gave his only Son, the boy-child of Mary.

This Son will be called Jesus, the Savior, the Deliverer. But he is known by many names, one of them Immanuel, which means God-with-us.

God loved the world so much that being confined to a temple was not sufficient. God loved the world so much that even traveling in a tent was no longer enough. God came down to earth, took on flesh and blood and bone, becoming fully human. God’s promise is true and eternal: to be with us.

And this means, for us, that no matter what hardships you are facing, no matter the pain and sorrow that befalls you, no matter the threats you encounter, God is with you.

For refugees – those who flee Gaza, those who flee Ukraine, those who have fled gang warlords, corrupt governments, famine or bullets – God is with you.

The God of exiles, refugees, and migrants still shines a light in today’s present darkness. For God so loves the world – all of it. all of us.

This is the most important thing for us to know.

Because hope can be a slippery thing in this world. Keeping faith in the promises of God is sometimes not an easy thing. It was not always easy for King David, and for all those leaders who went before or came after him. It is not always easy for all who have sung the psalm – I will sing the wonders of your love, proclaiming your faithfulness to all generations.

It was not always easy for Mary, the mother of God. When she sat on a donkey’s back feeling her labor pains, when she knew not where she would find shelter. When she, her husband, and newborn fled the wrath of Herod, becoming refugees in Egypt. When she watched the empire crucify her son – God’s Son.

But Mary knew. She knew in her heart that God will bring down the powerful with love, the strongest force there is. She knew this, and her cousin Elizabeth knew that Mary knew this. When Mary entered Elizabeth’s house, a few verses down, the child in Elizabeth’s womb leapt for joy and Elizabeth, the mother of John, sang these words about Mary: Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.

May you share in this belief. May your hope be steadfast and strong. May you know God’s love, which never leaves you.

Photo by Rostyslav Savchyn on Unsplash

Peace

Isaiah 40:1-11

Mark 1:1-8

You know what I love about Mark? It is that he goes straight to business.

The remarkable thing about Mark is that he is in a hurry – he has this urgency about getting the good news to us. Listen, he says. Pay attention. Here it is.

Here is the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Listen up, people, I’ll only say it once.

Which is not exactly true. He does repeat himself – a lot, but that’s okay. It’s how you give emphasis to something you know is important: you say it twice. Like Isaiah saying, “Comfort, comfort my people; speak tenderly to Jerusalem.” Comfort. All caps, underlined and highlighted, comfort. 

Here is the beginning of the good news, Mark says to us. It’s like what Isaiah said hundreds of years ago: Clear a path. Make the way straight. Level every mountain and lift up every valley. Let everyone know, let everyone hear the good news, Isaiah said. 

It’s just like that now, John the Baptizer says. Clear a path, make way for the Lord.

Even though Isaiah and Mark are speaking hundreds of years apart, the message is the same. What ancient Israel in their Babylonian exile needed to know is the same as what first century Palestine under the Roman Empire needed to know, which is what 21st century people here and everywhere need to know: There is comfort, there is hope, there is good news. God is with us.

And yet, I bristle at the words – comfort, comfort my people – because, on the one hand, I know the hard times are not over. Certainly not for Israel. And not for us, either. Because we live in a world in which hate is expressed loudly and frequently, where all scores are settled with a gun, where wealth increases in the hands of the wealthy and slips through the fingers of those with the greatest need. How is there any comfort in this?

But on the other hand, I want to shut my door on all of it. I want to turn off the news of Israel and Gaza, of Ukraine, of the refugees at our border, of the hungry and homeless people down at the Acme parking lot – I want to shut my door and sit in the blessed peace of my home. I want to shift my attention away from the hard times and the ones who are on the front lines of hard times, like the kindergartener who touches his teacher’s arm every day and tells her how hungry he is. I want to tell him to be quiet, because I don’t want to hear that children in our community are hungry. I want to light the candles and sing the carols, and I want to wrap the gifts and tie the ribbons, and I want to sit and gaze at my beautifully decorated tree.

Funny thing I noticed about the prophets, though: They don’t have the choice. They can’t not see the bad news and at the very same time they are being asked to proclaim that there is good news. They cannot ignore the discomfort all around, and yet they still have to proclaim, “Comfort, comfort my people. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem that her time of service is ended.

The prophet doesn’t have the choice, and the prophet wants to make sure we don’t have the choice either. Listen, the prophet calls out: the world suffers, and God is in control. Death is all around, and God is good. 

But I cry back: this is not making sense. The math does not add up. A plus B does not equal C.  

I don’t understand such things and I want another choice. I want to scramble up on Isaiah’s mountaintop, looking out across the days, weeks, years, and see the Lord coming. I want to look past all the suffering down below in the valley. Just let me gaze across from on high, see the newborn babe nestled in the hay, the loving mother, protective father, wise men kneeling before him. I want this good news right now, right here.

But Isaiah pulls me away from that scene again, insisting that we have work to do. We must clear a path through the wilderness, raze those mountains, lift up those valleys. Straighten the craggy, crooked roads. Mark insists that I save that tender story of the newborn babe for another day, that now I should pay attention to the prophets: Isaiah, John the Baptizer – this, we are told, this is how you prepare the way of the Lord. 

I tell the prophet, I am not comfortable with that. 

The prophet says to me, I know, dear. But in the midst of all of it, God will bring you comfort. God will give you peace.

I want to ask the prophet to tell me how this will all happen. But the prophet makes it very clear that he doesn’t really know either, and that is the point. It is not my place to bring comfort – that is for God. It is not my place to save the world – that is also for God. So, what is there left for me? What is it I am called to do?

There was another prophet, Micah, who said to Israel – about 200 years before Isaiah, 700 years before Mark told of John the Baptizer: 

This is what the Lord requires of you: to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God. 

It was true then, it was true 200 years later and 700 years later; it is true today and will hold true for ages to come. This is what the Lord requires of you: Do what is just. Act with lovingkindness. And always bear the light of God. 

Do this and there will be hope. Do this and there will be peace.

Photo: Unsplash.com

Advent 1: Being Present with Hope

 

Mark 13: 24-37   

Every year I begin the season of Advent feeling the urge to apologize about the scriptures. This text from Mark. It’s not very cheery, is it?

But there it is, with its words of dread; one calamity after another. The sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky. It’s like a horror movie. And we can treat it that way if we want to. My son Joe spent some time in Mississippi when he was a young man and attended a church where the pastor preached in the fire and brimstone tradition. Every Sunday he stood in the pulpit breathing threats and terror against the disciples in the pews. Every week he would end with, “come back next week and I’ll tell you more about how it’s all going to end.” And Joe kept going back. He didn’t necessarily believe it, but he was always the kind of kid who likes horror movies. So it was entertaining, and he was riveted.

Fire and brimstone is not my style. I am not a fan of threats – except on the rare occasion when I have to threaten a misbehaving two-year-old. But for the most part, I am in agreement with the preacher who advised me to read such texts slowly and thoroughly and carefully, just not literally. That is frequently good advice for the scriptures. So let us approach the text from Mark carefully – but not literally.

And it isn’t really that hard after all. What Jesus is telling us in Mark’s text is that the ways of the world that we are accustomed to will cease to be. The old world will fall away as the new world takes its place.

And what will the new world be like? It’s what we have been talking about for the last few weeks, really. In the parables of Matthew 25, we have learned to think of ourselves as people who wait – we wait in expectation for Jesus. We have heard that this waiting is shaped by creative and courageous living, using the resources we have been given. We have learned that this life of waiting and expectancy is, most fundamentally, paying attention to those around us – it is a willingness, a readiness to see Jesus in each person we might encounter.

It is about being alert. Watchful. Awake.

As the one who watches the fig tree. When the leaves begin to bud, we know that the fruit is on its way. I don’t know fig trees, but I think of my orchid. I watch it every day. When I see a new stem appear, I watch. Eventually there may be buds on the stem, and so I watch. And when the buds appear, I wait for them to open, for the flowers to unfold. I never know how long it will be. It can take much longer than one would expect; the fig tree is the same way, I understand.

We watch. We wait.

It is like someone who travels abroad, Jesus says. They leave their home and put the workers in charge of things while they are gone. Each one has responsibilities as they await the return of the master of the house. It will not do to laze around the house carelessly until they see the master coming up the drive. We know that the right thing is to do the right thing, regardless of whether the master will return on time to see it.

We watch. We wait. We commit ourselves to the spiritual practice of paying attention to what is. And this is something the world needs now as much as it ever has.

There is a story from Jesus that is written in the gospel of Luke, about a rich man and a beggar named Lazarus. Lazarus was in a terrible state. He was sick, he was hungry, he was slowly and painfully dying. Every day, Lazarus lay at the gate of the rich man’s house. But the rich man never really saw him.

The purpose of the story of Lazarus and the rich man is to remind us of the importance of this spiritual practice of paying attention. To watch for everything we are given, to pay attention to how we might use our gifts well, to live as those who are expecting a better world to come even in a world that is crying out for justice, for peace. To live as ones who are expecting this better world to come and expecting to be a part of it.

Every year during advent we preach this message of watching and waiting, and frame it as a hopefulness. Yet, each year I know that this message of hope might not resonate with you. If your life is feeling just fine as it is. Because, quite honestly, hope feels pretty meaningless when life is just fine.

Hope is the kind of thing that just doesn’t mean much until you really need it. It is in the worst of times that hope has the greatest possible strength. It is when optimism is not even possible that hope comes alive. Because hope comes from God. And this is the good news.

When all seems like darkness. When we are feeling the cruelty of death, severing us from our loved ones. When we are watching the world at war – a state of war that seems endless. When we know that we do not have the answers, God steps into our darkness and brings light. When the sun and the moon and the stars fall away, there is the light of God that no darkness can overcome.

And this is the good news. The world is suffering, collectively. And we, each of us, are carrying our own private despair. But we are not responsible for fixing it. We cannot manufacture hope, and that is alright. Because hope is the thing that comes from God’s steadfast love and faithfulness.

Pay attention, I say to you. Watch. Wait, and you will hear the cries. They come from Ukraine, from Israel, from Gaza, from all over the world and from right outside our gates. Hear them. and know that the one we are waiting for is coming. No one knows how long it will be. Do what is right for as long as it takes. In expectancy we watch and wait for the one who is coming, knowing that he has prepared the way for us to follow. We travel that way with hope.

Photo: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Downtowngal

Entrusted

Matthew 25:31-46

We have arrived at the final parable. The end of Matthew 25, which is a hard chapter to hear. We have suffered through the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids, where we struggled to understand what it is to be a person who waits, someone who expects Jesus to come. We tolerated the parable of the talents, where we were encouraged to use our resources well, creatively, courageously, even zealously. To understand that this is the kind of waiting and expecting that is appropriate for lovers of Jesus.

And so today we have the parable of the sheep and the goats. The culmination of Chapter 25. The judgment of the nations. The Son of Man has, at last, arrived. And, as much as people have waited and expected and prepared, lo and behold, they are surprised.

Surprised at the way he chooses to sort them – the sheep at his right hand, the goats at his left. He turns to these metaphorical sheep with open arms and a blessing. Come to me all you who are blessed. For I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; I was naked and you clothed me, sick and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me. Come, inherit the kingdom that is prepared for you from the foundation of the world.

And these ones are surprised. When did we do those things? When did we care for you, Lord? We don’t recall. And the answer: whenever you did it for the least of these who are members of my family, you did it for me.

The goats, alas, are less to be envied at this point. They are banished for their failure. They, too, are bewildered. When did we fail you, they ask? When you failed the least of these, he responds.

And so we have the conclusion of this lesson: this is how one waits for the Lord. It is about becoming like the Lord. It is about day by day growing in Christlikeness, becoming unselfconsciously good.

There is the risk of overthinking it, for sure. Judging each of my own actions, judging others as well; comparing myself to them, keeping score. Wondering how I am doing.

How am I doing? As the old New York City mayor Ed Koch was fond of asking. How am I doing?

While we could probably all benefit from inviting a little honest feedback, this is ultimately not a question for any of us to answer. It is only for the Son of Man to answer. But we are not without direction in this life. We don’t have to stumble around in the darkness not knowing which way to go. There is light to be found. I found some light, in fact, from a story I read in the paper this week.

A man named Geoffrey Holt died this year. He lived in a small town in New Hampshire called Hinsdale. He was the caretaker of a mobile home park.

Most people in Hinsdale really didn’t know him. He was not a native and he didn’t do much to be involved in the community. He grew up in Springfield Massachusetts, attended college, then served in the U.S. Navy. After the navy, he went back to school and earned a master’s degree.

And some time later he moved into a trailer home in Hinsdale. The trailer sat on land that was owned by Edwin Smith, who was a lifelong resident of Hinsdale. Geoffrey scraped together a living doing odd jobs for Mr. Smith, and gradually they became friends.

The years went by like this. Geoffrey kept busy clearing brush, plowing snow, taking care of all kinds of little things. People in Hinsdale knew him as the old guy who would sit on his riding mower, out by the edge of the highway, watching the world go by.

When he died earlier this year, the town learned something else about Geoffrey Holt. He was a multimillionaire. And he left it all to the town of Hinsdale.

Earlier in his life he had received a sum of money as a settlement, when one company he worked for was bought out by another. It was a good sum of money. But he didn’t go on a spending spree. He didn’t bury it in the ground. He took this money and invested it wisely, and it grew. And as he got older he set up a fund for his adopted hometown, Hinsdale, that would be dedicated to providing health, educational, recreational, or cultural benefits to the residents of Hinsdale. He set it up and then never said a word about it to anyone.

The story made news everywhere, it seems, because Mr. Holt was certainly an interesting man, as it turned out. But when I read the story, I found myself more interested in his friend Mr. Smith. Geoffrey Holt left his entire fortune to the town that didn’t even really know him very well. And I have to think it was basically because Edwin Smith befriended him. He gave him a place to live; he gave him work to do. He was kind to him.

Edwin Smith, of course, wasn’t angling to get anything out of Geoffrey Holt because as far as Edwin knew, Geoffrey didn’t have anything to give. Only many years into their friendship did Geoffrey speak with Edwin about his wealth – then only to seek his advice about how to best use it. Edwin suggested he talk to a financial advisor, and so he did and the rest is history.

This is one of those heartwarming stories that gives you hope for the world. The simple goodness of it is the thing: Mr. Smith, Mr. Holt – they are not perfect people, certainly, but their humble acts of kindness and generosity go a long way to spread kindness and generosity. Farther than they could know.

This, my dear ones, is what it is to live a life of expectation for Jesus to come.

It is truly a way of life. It is about turning away from certain values that the world promotes and embracing the way of Jesus. Knowing that our lives are not blessed because we give in order to get something back. Our lives are blessed when we give simply because there is need.

Whether you have been entrusted with a few things or many things, invest them well and enter into the joy of your Lord.

Photo by Sam Carter on Unsplash 

Some Kind of Joy

Matthew 25:14-30

Last week, maybe you remember, our text was the parable of the ten bridesmaids, in which there were ten bridesmaids waiting for the bridegroom to arrive. Five of them failed to bring extra oil for their lamps, which put them in a very unfortunate position. It is a parable about living a life shaped by readiness, focused on what you are awaiting. 

After the service someone came to me and asked, so should we see the bridegroom as representing Jesus? And the simple answer to that is yes. Like those early readers of Matthew, Jesus is the one we are waiting for, and the question we might ask ourselves each day is what does this waiting consist of? What does this life of readiness look like?

Immediately after Jesus finished that parable he said, “Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour,” and in the next breath, “For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them.” 

To those of us who are wondering what the life of readiness looks like, he is about to tell us.

There is a man going on a journey – a very wealthy man with a lot of property – and before he leaves, he summons the men who serve him to give them instructions. 

But he doesn’t really give instructions. He simply gives them his property. To the first he gives five talents, to the next he gives two. The third man receives one talent. 

The talent, you may already know, was a unit of currency and it was large. A single talent was 6,000 denarii. A single denarius was the usual daily wage for one of these workers. So let’s just say this was a lot of money to fall into these men’s hands. Much more than they could dream of earning in a lifetime.

But they were aware that this was not really a gift. The master was entrusting these talents to their care. He couldn’t really take it all with him on his journey, so he left it in the care of these men who served him.

The safe thing to do, the prudent thing to do was to bury it. Everybody knew that. There were no banks back then with FDIC guarantees, so if you wanted the closest thing to a guarantee you would bury the money.

Jesus knew this too. In fact, there is another parable he once told about a hidden treasure. “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field” (Matthew 13:44).

Clearly, there was no ironclad guarantee that the treasure would be safe, but most of the time it was a safe bet. And so that is what people did.

And that is just what the third man did. Unfortunately for him, because this master does not appreciate safe bets.

The first two men have just presented to their master the fruits of their labors while he was away. Here you go, Master, you gave me five talents to work with; I have managed to turn those five into ten talents. Here you go, Master, you left me with two talents; I have those two plus two more to give you now. The master is certainly pleased. Enter into the joy of your master, he says to them.

And now here comes the third man, who has gone out and dug up the talent his master entrusted to him. He brushed off the dirt, maybe, and handed it over. Here you go, Master. Take what is yours.

Obviously, something different happened with this third man. He didn’t lose anything, but neither did he gain anything. There was something different about his approach to dealing with the treasure that was given to him. There is something, clearly, different about this man – he is different from the other two.

On a scale of risk aversion, this third man is high. He doesn’t want to take any chances because when he imagines what could happen with his master’s talent he can only imagine losing it. He is afraid.

He says as much to the master when he returns. “I was afraid and I went and hid your talent in the ground.” The man told the master just what he thought of him: that he is a harsh man. That he tends to reap where he did not sow and gather where he did not scatter seed. In other words, he sees this man, his master, as someone who lives off the fruits produced by others, and frankly he doesn’t like that.

He doesn’t like the expectation that he should use these resources to create something more for his master. He doesn’t like the notion that everything belongs to the master and his life is devoted to serving the master. He doesn’t like his position in life and all that is expected because to him it only looks like a chore. One chore after another and another and another, and then you die.

So he hid the talent in the ground and was done with it.

Now, on the one hand, we can sympathize with this man because the parable is all too close to the story of slaves and masters in our nation. For hundreds of years slavery was a massively cruel and exploitative way of life in America. What the third man says about the master could be said about too many people in this world and we condemn that. 

But while we condemn such practices of men and women, we need to step back from the details, once again, and understand that this is a parable meant to point us toward the one whom we serve – God. 

Two of these men served God well but the third did not. This is tragic, really. Even though he didn’t lose anything, technically speaking, he lost everything because for him there is no joy.

This man never knew the possibility of joy that awaited him. He never imagined the possibility of something better. He never understood that gain for his master was gain just as much for him.

He never realized that stepping outside the box he lived in could lead him to life as he had never seen before, could lead him into the joy of his master. No, this man had shut the door on joy.

This is a parable I sometimes preach in funerals because it speaks of the joy we will have awaiting us in the embrace of our Lord at the end of a faithful life, a life in which we have used the talents we have been given – along with all the other resources we have – to bring more love, more justice, more life to the world.

But it is not only a parable for death, it is a parable for life. For those of us who wonder what it means, on a day-to-day basis, to live a life of readiness, expecting to see Jesus, this is what it is like:

To use all that you have been given, to be creative, to take chances, to leave fear behind you and step out in faith for the sake of love. For the sake of our Master.

Because his joy is our joy. 

Imagine that your life, that the world, could be better than it is right now. And know that God has given you what you need – more than you could imagine – to move it in that direction.

And enter into the joy of your master.

Photo by Yeshi Kangrang on Unsplash

Keep Awake

Matthew 25:1-13

I am the kind of person who watches the Super Bowl for the commercials because some commercials these days are really great.

There is one that is aired a lot now that I love. It shows a family going through security in an airport. The dad gets through first and one of the TSA workers says to him, “Enjoy your flight.” Without thinking the man says, “You too.” And everything stops. The employees and his family members look at him as though he has somehow betrayed them. The TSA workers are offended, his kids are humiliated, and his wife says to him, “I thought I knew you.”

It’s a huge overreaction about a tiny little mistake this guy made. I hope I never find myself in that situation. This poor man would surely like to rewind the tape and try again. If only he had a chance, you can bet he would be a little more mindful of what he was hearing and how he was responding. It’s funny, in a squirmy kind of way.

So it is with this parable in Matthew, about the wise and foolish bridesmaids. Is it supposed to be funny? Because in so many ways it feels absurd.

Absurd. You have ten bridesmaids waiting around for the groom. Is there a bride? Who knows? There is no mention of one, but wouldn’t you think ten bridesmaids would be attending to the bride?

We are woefully short on meaningful details here. The women have to go out and meet the groom, somewhere. He’s not where he is supposed to be, though. Why? Again, who knows? So, they wait…and wait…and wait. They all fall asleep. And then he arrives. Here’s where it begins to get objectionable.

The women all get up and prepare to meet the groom, but five of them have brought extra oil for their lamps and five of them have not. Five of them were able to refill their lamps that have gone out, but five of them were not. Five of them asked for help, five others refused to help. Five of them had to leave to find more oil for their lamps (because evidently it was not permissible to greet the groom unless you had a lamp burning), and so five of them missed the arrival of the groom. Five of them joined the groom at the wedding banquet, but five of them were left out in the dark of night.

And when they called out to the groom, saying, “We’re here,” he answered them, “I don’t know you.”

I find several stumbling blocks in this parable. And so I need to find a different angle from which to view it, hear it. So, here’s what I know.

Knowing when Matthew was writing this, and who he was writing to, is a part of that angle. The gospel was written 40 to 50 years after Jesus was crucified. The church was on its way to becoming what it is, but there were a lot of things they were still trying to figure out. Just what it meant to be a follower of Christ, for example. That’s only central and foundational to everything else, right? To understand what it is to be a Christian?

Initially it meant being Jewish. But that had changed, as the apostles took the gospel far afield of Israel and gained converts by the hundreds everywhere they went. At the same time, tension between the Christ followers and the institutions of Judaism were growing, up to the point where the Christians were either thrown out or decided to leave.

Initially, the church thought being a Christ follower meant being a Jew, but it turned out not to be so.

Initially it meant waiting for Christ to return. By all reports, he said, “I’ll be back!” There was every reason to believe that he would come back for them and take them with him, like a bridegroom coming to take his bride. And so they waited…and waited…and waited.

We gather from some of Paul’s writings that they were very worried about what was going to happen. They were trying to wait, but some of them were dying. What would that mean? What would happen to the ones who couldn’t wait, through no fault of their own?

What about the ones who were left, who felt like they had been in a holding pattern for 40 years now? What did it even mean at this point to be waiting? Were they the foolish ones? What were they waiting for?

Initially, the church thought being a follower of Christ meant waiting for his return, but by this time they were having grave doubts.

From this angle, a story about the importance of waiting is meaningful. For the people Matthew was writing to. But is that enough for us?

I think that understanding how parables work is also a necessary angle. As some have taken to saying about politics, it seems apt here to say: We should take it seriously, but not literally. A parable is never meant to be taken literally, for it is an attempt to come right up alongside our lives, just close enough that we can see the parallels, without ever telling us precisely what we ought to do. A parable is a work of art, in which we look for connections to life as we know it.

And so we find some pieces that seem important. The waiting for something wonderful that is going to happen – although we don’t know when. The uncertainty about the end of it all, when and what it will be like. And perhaps the uncertainty about how to be one who waits. What does it mean for us to be waiting for Jesus?

It is the hardest aspect of the Advent season, which is just right around the corner. Advent is about waiting for Jesus – both the infant whose birth we will celebrate on Christmas, and the return of Christ, whose arrival will signify a new age, a new world. It’s a very heady prospect.

And our lives are full of demands and distractions – how is it possible to keep our eye on the door waiting for Jesus to walk in? We sleep, we work, we tend to many other things, and we make mistakes. Like the guy in the airport. Like the women who failed to bring extra oil. Lord, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy on the ones who forget the extra vial of oil, the ones who forget to buy extra batteries for the flashlight. Lord, have mercy on the ones who forget to pack diapers and wipes when they go to the park with their babies. Have mercy on the ones who get to the check-out line with a cart full of groceries and realize they have forgotten their reusable bags. Lord, have mercy on us for we are a busy and forgetful people.

We can’t always get it right.

We can’t stay awake every minute.

We can’t remember everything no matter how hard we try.

But we are waiting for you, Lord, even if we lose our focus at times. Even if we have to step out of the line because we realize there is something we failed to attend to, something important, something that will help us keep our focus, keep us awake and alert for another day; something that will allow you to recognize us when the day comes. So that you won’t ever say, “I thought I knew you. But I don’t know you.”

Is it too late, we ask, Lord; is it too late to step out of line and find what it is I’ve left behind, the oil in my lamp, the forgiveness in my spirit, the love in my heart, the generosity in my soul. I know I can’t borrow that from someone else, I need to find my own. Is it too late?

Is it too late?

Sometimes, when I look for a different angle on this story, I imagine this: the women are waiting, and one of them suddenly thinks, “I didn’t think to bring extra oil. I might run out. What can I do?” And one of the women who has extra oil smiles at her and says, “This is true, you might. Now would be a good time to go out and get some more. It will be useful to you.” And so, all the women who have neglected to bring enough oil go out to get the oil they will need. They know now what they need, and they don’t hesitate. They might be tired because it’s late, but they know this is important, so they prioritize it. They go.

They go out in search of this oil as though their lives depended on it. 

Photo: ChurchArt.com

The Kind of Religion We Need

Matthew 5:1-12

A few days ago, I read an opinion article in the Washington Post called “America Doesn’t Need More God. It Needs More Atheists.” I read it with interest, because I am always curious about what thoughtful people have to say about religion, whatever their thoughts may be. I appreciated the author’s efforts to put down in words just what she thinks and why. But in the end, I had the same reaction that I usually have to these arguments. I felt sad and frustrated.

For anyone to come to the conclusion that there is no God just feels very sad to me. Whether they reach their conclusion casually or after much serious and sincere thought, in both cases I am saddened by it. A life of faith, I believe, has so much potential to do good in the world, it feels tragic to turn away from that.

But I not only felt sad; I also felt frustrated, because I understand why someone would arrive at the conclusion that belief in God is a harmful thing. I understand why someone would come to the conclusion that the world would be better off without religion, that religion is harmful, period. I am frustrated because it is hard to argue against.

It is hard to argue against because there are many, many people who do appalling things in the name of religion.

There have been more wars than can be counted that were waged in the name of religion. The Protestant Reformation, of which the Presbyterian Church is a product, was one long, bloody, battle fought all over the European continent and Britain. You could argue that it continued to be fought up through the 20^th century in Northern Ireland – the “Troubles” as they called it.

Religion stirs passion, often violent passion, and we only need to open the newspaper to see it. For all of recorded history, people have been going to war in the name of their god. And there is not one religion that has a monopoly on this kind of bad behavior. It is easy for people of any and every religion to do.

Religion often gives people a pass on judging others in the cruelest ways. Religion often leads people to assert a right to power that they probably should not have, power to hurt others. Religion often teaches the beliefs that people then use to justify harsh and oppressive rules – rules that hurt other people regardless of whether they share the same beliefs.

Religion gives people an excuse to be their worst, ugliest selves.

It’s a powerful excuse, because you can say, “It’s not me; it’s God. I personally don’t have anything against this person, religion, culture, lifestyle or decision, but God does.” When your religion leads you to believe that certain people are an “abomination” in God’s eyes. That someone’s choices or needs or circumstances are sinful. That there is one right way of living, believing, and loving, and everything else is wrong. Then it is possible to justify awful things in the name of God, and there is usually so much collateral damage when you do.

It makes me very sad and very frustrated and, in a certain way, sympathetic to the atheists who say religion ought to die a quick death. Because I too feel that the kinds of religion that promotes power to oppress and hurt and condemn other people ought to die.

If that sort of religion died, then perhaps it would be easier for people to see God. The God of the beatitudes. The God whom we see in these words of Jesus.

There are many people in our midst as well as in our memories who have carried that vision, who have glimpsed the light of God and lived their lives accordingly – with love toward their neighbors, even when they disagreed; with empathy for the needs of others and generosity to give what they could. Many of the saints who have gone before us live on in our memories and serve as an inspiration for us to do the same.

To practice humility and mercy, to mourn with those who mourn, to work for God’s righteousness and peace for all of God’s beloved world. And to know ourselves blessed.

Some years ago, I had the opportunity to hear the preacher James Forbes, the Senior Minister Emeritus of the Riverside Church in Manhattan. I was fortunate to hear him speak twice and both times he left me unraveled. Such were his gifts. On this occasion I am remembering today, after the service I approached him and for reasons I could not explain now, I began talking to him about my father-in-law. Peter Hill, Kim’s father, who was a preacher too. I told Reverend Forbes about what an extraordinary man Peter was, how his faith led him to work for righteousness, for justice, for peace, no matter what, all his life. A man who embodied the beatitudes. Reverend Forbes listened to me, like he had all the time in the world. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and said, “And now it’s all on you.”

And so it is. We remember the saints of God, with gratitude and love and admiration for the faith they lived. And now, dear ones, it’s all on you. Let us follow in the steps of the saints and know ourselves blessed. 

Photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash