Six Stone Jars: The Economy of Jesus, Week 1: The Things We Hope For

John 2:1-11

When I was a child, my elementary school held a pumpkin decorating competition every Halloween, and I wanted to win so much. Competition was stiff, though. Every year you would see parents carrying in elaborate creations that took your breath away – and you knew who made that creation. It wasn’t the kid. Still, I kept trying.

One year I decided I would decorate my pumpkin like a spider. So I began working on it, black spray paint, wire hangers for legs. My mother watched and offered some suggestions, but I did all the hands-on work. And I won.

Well, I was elated. I could not stop talking about it for the rest of the day, about how I did this, all by myself, and I won. It was all “I, I, I.” And then my father took me aside. He reminded me that my mother had been a part of it too. She had offered me suggestions that led to the best features of my spider pumpkin. Without those ideas, I would not have won. And I knew this was true.

When I look back on this I realize my mother gave me a particular gift. She helped me do it better, but she let me do it myself. And she never asked for credit, she only celebrated my triumph. And the gift my father gave me was to open my eyes and see this.

I am thinking about the ways we give and receive things. And even whether we are aware of what we have given or received.

When we give something to someone, we have a choice as to how we look at it. We can view it as a transaction – an exchange of some kind. When I come to your birthday party, I bring a gift as the price of admission. It pays for the cake I eat and the decorations I enjoy. So I will make sure I eat my fair share of cake.

But another way to see such an action is as a gift, plain and simple. A gift asks for nothing in exchange; it is given freely. I assume that most of you, when you go to a birthday party, or a wedding reception, do not view it as a transactional event. It’s about gift. The host provides the celebration – food, drink, music – and the guests come bearing gifts. It may or may not equal out in the end. It doesn’t matter. 

When Jesus attended the wedding in Cana with his disciples and his mother, I have no idea if he brought a gift with him. But as it happened, he gave the bride and groom a gift worth much more than everything they spent on the entire wedding celebration. 

Weddings in Galilee were different in many ways from the weddings we might attend. We often say that American weddings are quite extravagant, but they’ve got nothing on the weddings of ancient Israel. 

Back then, it would begin with a betrothal which lasted at least a year. Then the wedding would begin. The groom, wearing dazzling clothes, perhaps with a crown on his head, would set out with his friends in a procession to fetch his bride from her father’s house. She, also, would be fabulously dressed, and lifted up into a sedan chair to be carried back to the groom’s house. The procession of bridesmaids and groomsmen would sing songs all along the way. They would be met by the groom’s parents, who would say a blessing for the couple, and then the festivities would begin – party all night long. That’s day one.

The next day would be the wedding feast. A day of more celebrations – singing, dancing, gift giving for the bride. Then in the evening, the bride and groom would come together. Traditional words would be exchanged, followed by more blessings, more rituals, more celebrations. That’s day two.

The celebrations would continue for several more days. Eating, drinking, dancing, blessing.

Wine was, of course, a very important part of it. Wine was essential to the ritual of blessing. To the feasting, to the general celebration. So, imagine how much wine you could go through in a week of celebration.

I have no idea how many days they were into it when the wine ran out, but it seems apparent that the celebration expected to go on for some time still. And so they would need more wine – wine for celebrating, wine for feasting, wine for blessing.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, was the kind of person who could look at a problem and see a solution. She didn’t fret, she didn’t wring her hands, she didn’t panic. She turned to her son, Jesus, and simply said, “They have no wine.” That’s all she needed to say. He understood what she was asking, just as she understood what he could give.

He responded to her, “My hour has not yet come,” the meaning of which is a little confusing. But most likely he meant the hour of his death. And therefore, it is celebration time. And so he provided the wine. Something like 900 bottles of wine. Only here is an interesting thing: No one, except the servants, knew that the wine was from Jesus. 

He made the host look really good, as everyone exclaimed over the high quality of this wine. He made the celebration go on and on for a good while longer, offering opportunities for many more blessings, much more thanksgiving. But he was not given, nor did he ask for, credit. It was a gift.

There is something called a gift economy, which is simply a system where gifts are given with no expectation of receiving payment or any kind of reciprocity. The gift is given for the sake of giving. We see it most often among family members, because – of course you do. I saw a movie trailer recently where a father confronts his adult daughter with an itemized list of everything she has cost him from infancy on, including diapers and baby bottles. Most people understand this is not done.

We see the gift economy among friends sometimes, too. When you buy your friend a latte or pay for a golf round, just because you want to. Maybe you like it if the friend reciprocates. But that’s not the reason you did it.

Giving to charity is almost always an example of the gift economy. You will get from it a feeling of having contributed to the welfare of the community or the world. But that’s all. 

And participating in the gift economy is what we are doing when we give to the church. It is something we want to do. It is something important to us. It is something that makes us feel more complete, for I know I would not be fully who I am if I did not give to the church.

When Jesus sent his disciples out into the world he told them, “freely you have received, now freely give.” He invited them to participate in the economy of gifting, as he invites us to do as well. Just as he lived his life, giving freely as needed, so he asks us to do.

But as simple as that sounds, we find it to be difficult. Giving freely can be frightening.

We are afraid that our gift will be misused or abused. We are afraid that we will be taken advantage of. Mostly, I think, we are afraid that we will run out – that we will not have enough for ourselves.

In the story of the wedding at Cana, we usually focus on the miracle, or sign as John calls it. We rarely wonder why the wedding hosts ran out of wine. Did they plan poorly, or were they stingy? Were they poor of resources and unable to buy as much wine as they would need? Whatever the cause was, it did not stop them from a joyous and abundant celebration. They feasted freely, they blessed freely, they celebrated freely, they did not hold back.

And when the wine ran out, Jesus was there with his gift. Perhaps they trusted just as freely as they did everything else.

Trusting in God’s provision is not a very easy thing for humans to do, yet it is what our faith asks of us. Because we cannot live as authentic loving community without such trust. 

Authentic community is something that seems harder and harder to find in our times. We draw in on ourselves, spending more time alone, pulling back from commitments, trusting one another less. For most of us, it is a loss that we truly grieve. A community where we know others deeply, belong completely, give and receive freely – this is something we treasure in our hearts, even if we don’t believe we can ever really have it.

The good news is this: this kind of community is available. This is what Jesus offers. This is what he asks us to come together and make – for ourselves and for others. 

This is what we hope for. And this is what we may have together, in Jesus.

Photo: Unsplash.com

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 of 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