Light shines

“When day comes,” the young poet had us ask ourselves on that Wednesday in January, “where can we find light in this never-ending shade?” She spoke with passion of the possibility of America and we listened to her confident voice, and with tears in our eyes we watched her face, her hands, her fingers—and our spirits soared. At the end of the poem she so powerfully performed on Inauguration Day, Amanda Gorman returned to that opening phrase and declared,

When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid.
The new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.[1]

Brave enough to see the light, and brave enough to be it—she lifted up ancient themes pondered by our ancestors and passed down in the Scriptures, reminders that seeing what illumines the world is no simple matter and that being part of that illuminating presence takes just as much courage as perceiving it.

Jesus asked the disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And they told him that some thought he was John the Baptist, and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets. Jesus got people’s attention, and they saw connections, but they didn’t quite know who he was. So Jesus asked the disciples. They had been following him for a while, they had heard him teach and watched him heal more than anyone else. “Who do you say that I am?”

And Peter said, “You are the Messiah.”[2] Which was a great answer. Jesus, though, ordered them not to tell anyone about him. Which is odd, because you’d expect that the Messiah announcing the nearness of the kingdom of God would want the word to get out. It appears Peter gave the right answer, but he may have given it too soon. The amazing teachings and astonishing healings were not the whole story, and Jesus began to tell the disciples about the road ahead; he told them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected, and be killed, and after three days rise again. And Peter wouldn’t hear it; he took Jesus aside for a little constructive feedback, something along the lines of “You’re not serious, are you?” Because in Peter’s book, suffering and death were not included in the job description for God’s Messiah.

Peter gave the right answer, yet still he got it wrong. He thought he knew the playbook for God’s Messiah. He didn’t yet grasp yet that declaring Jesus to be the Messiah meant that no one but God and Jesus himself would determine what that declaration meant. Peter was first to learn that to follow Jesus doesn’t mean watching him live up to our expectations, but having him shape and transform our lives.

In the next scene, Jesus taught any who would follow him what it means to say to him, “You are the Messiah.”

If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. [3]

To follow Jesus is to trust that the way of the cross is indeed the way to fullness of life, and that kind of trust has little to do with knowing the right answer and everything with seeing Jesus for who he is.

At about the halfway point of Mark’s Gospel, suddenly there’s this mountain. Don’t go looking for it on the maps in the back of your Bible. This mountain, as Tom Long reminds us, “juts out not from the topography of Galilee, but from the topography of God. This is the mountain of revelation, the mountain of transformed vision, the mountain of true seeing.”[4] There, Mark tells us, Jesus was transfigured before Peter, James and John. It was like light bursting through the seams of Jesus’ clothes—his face and hands and feet shining with luminous beauty—and everything was bathed in this glorious light. It was as though time had collapsed—Moses and Elijah appeared, the great prophets of old, and they talked with Jesus. It was as though the veil separating everyday perception from what’s really real had been lifted.

A cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud came a voice, saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” It is not enough to say that Jesus was transfigured on the mountain. It is our perception of him that is changed. In this glorious moment of recognition, we see who he really is: God’s beloved Son. And we’re given this glimpse before his way takes him and us from Galilee to Jerusalem. We’re given this glimpse, because after his baptism we could never have guessed that he was beloved by anybody. Admired perhaps, after those moments when he drew huge crowds and astonished them, but otherwise misunderstood by his followers, rejected by folks in his hometown, drained of his power by scoffing neighbors, and plotted against by the authorities. Beloved? Hardly.  And now he was on the way to Jerusalem where a violent storm was gathering.

“This is my Son, the Beloved,” the heavenly voice said. “Listen to him!” The three looked around and they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. But now everything looked different because of him. Now they looked at the world in his light, now they looked at each other and themselves in his light. Now what they had seen on the mountaintop permeated what and how they perceived in the dimmer plains of everyday. Our journey with Jesus doesn’t take us out of the world and into lofty realms of pure spiritual splendor where we dream of dwelling for good—the journey takes us down the mountain to the plains below and the dark valleys where the whole world is longing to be transfigured. Down the mountain where life is broken and the shadows are long and deep; down the mountain where people languish in crowded camps and flimsy shelters, where too many experience life as though they were the playthings of demons, where corruption is rampant and courage, rare. Our journey with Jesus doesn’t take us out of the world, but deeper into it—as servants of the kingdom of God, as people who dare to believe that the way of Jesus, the way of radical hospitality and courageous compassion that led him to the cross, is the way of life. Not because we know the right answers, but because in the company of Jesus we have caught glimpses of what love can heal, and every glimpse has changed what and how we see. Every glimpse has transformed us.

We know that Lent is only days away. We know that the other hill we climb in the company of Jesus is the one they call Golgotha. And on Golgotha, there is no bright cloud overshadowing the scene, only thick darkness. On the mountain, Jesus’ clothes became dazzling white, but under the cross soldiers tear them into souvenir rags. On the mountain, Moses and Elijah spoke with Jesus, but on the cross he is taunted by bandits. On the mountain, a heavenly voice spoke truth, but on Golgotha a hostile crowd shouts ugly insults. On the mountain, our friend Peter wanted to stay and build dwellings, but at the crucifixion he is nowhere to be found. The contrast is startling and stark. On the mountain, we reflect on our desire to see and be with God, but at the foot of the cross, we kneel in awe as we begin to perceive the depth of God’s desire to be with us.

Peter said to Jesus, “You are the Messiah,” but he didn’t know what he was saying. On the mountain, Peter saw Jesus transfigured and heard the voice of God declaring, “This is my Son, the Beloved.” But only after he had failed repeatedly to stay awake and pray with Jesus in Gethsemane, after he had denied Jesus three times, and after he had fled from the cross was Peter ready to follow the Messiah who suffered, died and was raised. It was not on the mountaintop, but at the lowest point of his life that Peter truly saw who Jesus is. When there was nothing left but hopelessness and the love of Christ, and love prevailed, that’s when Peter knew the Messiah and when he knew himself as his Beloved.

And so we pray, wherever we are on the journey, for the light of God to shine in our hearts that we might be filled with the knowledge of God’s glory shining in the face of Jesus, as Paul so beautifully put it.[5] We pray for the transfiguration of the world and for our own complete transformation in the image and likeness of Christ. And we pray that we may see in the face of every human being what is really there: one of God’s Beloved.

In her novel, Gilead Marilynne Robinson tells the story of John Ames, a minister in a little town in Iowa called Gilead. The novel takes the form of a letter this old man wrote to his young son, and just before the letter ends and the novel closes, we read these words: 

It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of creation and it turns to radiance for a moment or a year or the span of a life and then it sinks back into itself again and to look at it no one would know it had anything to do with fire or light. … But the Lord is more constant and far more extravagant than it seems to imply. Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see.[6]

The young poet declared with confidence that

there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.

Whether you think of it as being brave enough or bringing a little willingness to see—the deep truth the old man and the young poet both point to is that there is always light because the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of creation… constantly… extravagantly. And when our leaders aren’t brave enough to be the light or can’t bring even a little willingness to see it—our eyes have been opened to the fierce and unsentimental love of God, and we are not afraid to step out on faith.

[1] https://www.elle.com/uk/life-and-culture/culture/a35276230/amanda-gormans-poem-the-hill-we-climb/

[2] See Mark 8:27-30

[3] See Mark 8:34-35

[4] Thomas G. Long, “Reality show,” The Christian Century 123, no. 5 (March 7, 2006), 16.

[5] 2 Corinthians 4:6

[6] Marilynne Robinson, Gilead (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004), 245.

Serving with Christ

All they could remember when the story of her healing was told and retold was that the woman was the mother of Simon Peter’s wife. Nobody remembered her name. We can identify her only through her relationship to Peter, a man whose name the church never forgot. He was among the first ones Jesus called to follow him. We know his name, along with the names of his brother Andrew, and the brothers James and John. The church even remembers Zebedee, the old man James and John left behind in the boat — and that’s all we know about him, that moment and his name. “It was a man’s world, what do you expect,” many have said, and some have added, “It’s not like things have changed that dramatically since then.”

In the verses before today’s passage, Mark tells us about a man with an unclean spirit, a man in the grip of the demonic, whom Jesus liberates, and the scene takes place at a synagogue, a very public place. Following that he tells us about a woman with a fever, whom Jesus heals, and the scene takes place in the privacy of a friend’s house. Mark, some readers have noted, has carefully arranged the scenes so that those who hear the story would know right from the beginning that Jesus brings liberation and healing to both men and women, in public and in private. I can see that, and it all takes place on the sabbath day; it’s like two thumbnails that together offer a preview of the whole big picture. The two brief scenes are an opening announcement of the day of life’s fulfillment, that longed-for, long-awaited sabbath day when God’s people, liberated from oppression and healed from every fever, fear, and sickness, rejoice in God’s gift of life and share it. I like that thought, I like that perspective on the opening scenes of Jesus’ ministry, but I still wish we could remember the mother of Simon Peter’s wife by name, because in contrast to her famous son-in-law, she was the first person to participate in Jesus’ mission. She was the first who got it.

Here’s the scene: Jesus and the disciples left the synagogue, walked across the street and entered Simon’s house where she was in bed with a fever. The next sentence is composed of plain, unadorned words, nothing that immediately stands out as quotable, just simple, descriptive terms for simple actions: He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up.

It’s the kind of sentence that easily disappears on a page, slips by amid the many words that tell the reader what happened next, what happened that evening, at sundown, and the next morning, the next day. But when the reader’s eyes or the storyteller’s voice just keep going, line to line, down the column, we’re likely to miss the lovely weight and significance of these three actions: this scene by the woman’s bed reflects the whole work of Christ. Jesus came to take us by the hand and lift us up. Jesus came to give power to the faint and strength to the powerless. Jesus came not just to make people feel better, but to take us by the hand and lift us up to new life, fullness of life in his name. Listen again to Mark’s words:

He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.

What does this have to do with new life? Sarah Henrich says,

It was her calling and her honor to show hospitality to guests in her home. Cut off from that role by an illness cut her off from doing that which integrated her into her world. Who was she when no longer able to engage in her calling? Jesus restored her to her social world and brought her back to a life of value by freeing her from that fever. It is very important to see that healing is about restoration to community and restoration of a calling, a role as well as restoration to life. For life without community and calling is bleak indeed.[1] 

Jesus restored her to her place in the household and in the village, a place of dignity and purpose—but isn’t that the life she had before she got sick? What is new about a life where she goes back to the kitchen to fix supper for Simon and his guests, and wait on them? What is new about a life where a woman’s place is in the kitchen while the men eat and have deep conversations about the kingdom of God? Is it real healing when all Jesus does is restore and affirm the status quo? Is it real healing when Jesus helps us “return to normal” without lifting up and renewing what we called normal before the pandemic? These are important questions the text helps us raise, but it doesn’t mention the kitchen, nor does it say anything about her returning to her household chores. It says, she began to serve them.

In Mark, the word to serve first appears a few verses earlier: Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan, and the angels served him. Then the word is used in this scene at Simon’s house and again a few chapters later, where Jesus says, “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant” and “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve.” In Mark, serving is something angels do, and something Jesus came to do. The last time the word is used in Mark is immediately after the account of Jesus’ death.

There were also women looking from a distance; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joses, and Salome. These used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem.[2]

Evidently a good number of women had left the kitchen and followed Jesus to Jerusalem. They provided for him sounds a little like they made sure he had enough to eat, but the word is again to serve: they did what the angels did for him in the wilderness, and what he himself had come to do. Serving is something followers of Jesus learn to do from him, and Simon’s mother-in-law was the first who got it; that’s why I wish the church had remembered her name.

He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them. 

These simple words describe the whole work of Christ, as well as the work of those who follow him: he serves, and we serve him in love and gratitude, and we serve with him in proclaiming the good news of God’s reign.

Lawrence Wood tells a story about some remarkable women he’s been blessed to know, “women,” he writes, “whose names may never be written large in church history, even though their influence has been widely felt.” Every summer, Sharon, Muggs, Wanda, and Joretta would help to put on a church dinner. One year, one of them couldn’t be there to help, having just had a hip replacement. Lawrence went to check on her a day before the dinner.

“They’re not using boxed potatoes, are they?” she said, clearly more worried about a starchy side dish than her hip. “The people who come expect potatoes made from scratch.”

“They’re planning to peel potatoes all morning,” he assured her.

“And the ham? Did they get a good dry ham, or the watery kind?”

Lawrence didn’t know, told her it was probably the same ham as always. And before she could inquire about the quality of the green beans, he asked if she had always enjoyed cooking. To his surprise, she adamantly said no, that cooking was a big chore.

“Really? I thought you enjoyed doing this.”

“I don’t love the potatoes,” she said—and then there was a brief pause, just long enough for him to know that he was about to hear words of considerable weight and significance.

“Really, young man, you should know I love Christ, and there are only so many ways a body can do that.”[3]

And so she did it, she began to serve as she could. And she peeled the potatoes, even though it was a big chore. Soon others joined her; they came together as one body to prepare for the feast. And together they discovered a new way to think and talk about their service: We love Christ, and there are so many ways a body can do that. They dropped just one little word from her initial statement, the word only, because as a body, gathered into one by Christ’s love for them and their love for Christ, they could do all that was needed to proclaim the good news of God’s reign.

The mother of Simon Peter’s wife got it before anyone else did. Jesus took her by the hand and lifted her up, and she began to serve. That evening, Mark tells us, at sundown, they brought to Jesus all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And Jesus proclaimed the good news of God’s reign. He took them by the hand and lifted them up, and we don’t know how many of them, filled with joy and gratitude, simply returned to their former lives; and we don’t know how many there were who, in grateful response to the healing and liberating love of Christ, began to serve.

In the morning, Mark tells us, while it was still very dark, Jesus got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.  And Simon and hiscompanions hunted for him. The need for healing and liberation was still great in Capernaum, but they didn’t know what to do about it. “Everyone is searching for you,” they said, evidently utterly unaware that they too had a part in Christ’s proclamation of God’s reign.

And Jesus said to them, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also.” You know he didn’t move on because the work in Capernaum was done. He knew he could move on because in that town, in a house across the street from the synagogue, there was one woman who got it—don’t you wish we knew her name?

[1] http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1200

[2] Mark 15:40-41

[3] https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2009-01/first-deacon

Jesus is in the house

“No one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.”[1] Jesus said that. Makes him sound like a master thief, doesn’t it? It’s a rather curious way to describe the mission of Jesus, and yet, this is how he himself sees it. He has entered the strong man’s house.

Following his baptism, Jesus was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan, and now he’s back among people, proclaiming the good news of God. He has tied up the strong one, and now the house can be plundered. It may sound like burglary, but in truth the mission is to invade the house and free its residents from foreign occupation. Forces of evil have taken up residence in the house, keeping in thrall the people who live there, manipulating and controlling them. But now Jesus has returned from the wilderness. Now Jesus is in the house.

He declares that the time if fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near. And when he teaches, people are astounded — they half-recognize a kind of power their learned teachers, preachers, and legal scholars don’t possess. It’s not like listening to somebody talk about God, but like hearing somebody give human voice to divine speech.

Jesus is in the house, and the anxiety level among unclean spirits and demons is high: they know who he is and they know the purpose of this intrusion — to silence them and throw them out. “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?” they shriek. “Why are you picking this fight? Couldn’t you have just left things as they were between us?  We know who you are, the Holy One of God.” Jesus is in the house, their time is up, and they know it. They cry, they whimper, they taunt, but they can neither evade nor resist the authority of Jesus. He rebukes them, saying, “Be silent, come out,” and the man is free. To spread this freedom, throughout all of creation, is the ministry of Jesus. He is not just another teacher or preacher; Jesus is a Holy-Spirit-empowered invader who reclaims the house of creation that has become a playground for demons.

“What is this?” people ask with astonishment. “A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.” A new teaching—not in the sense of fashionable ideas that are exciting today and forgotten tomorrow—no, a teaching that brings about newness like the voice that spoke to Moses at Mount Sinai. Jesus is not just a terrific new teacher who moves and inspires us, surprises and astounds us, and satisfies our hungry hearts and minds—he does all that—but he speaks with the voice of the Holy One who brings light and life into being. He speaks, and it comes to be. He speaks, and the oppressed are unburdened, the possessed are unshackled, the wounded are healed, and the shunned are forgiven. He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.

“Mark wants us to know, here at the outset of Jesus’ public ministry — that Jesus’ authority will be a contested authority,” writes Matt Skinner. “Jesus’ presence, words, and deeds threaten other forces that claim authority over people’s lives. These other authorities have something to lose.”[2] They have everything to lose, and yet they have already lost, because when the unholy coalition of church and state, mob and court betrayed, accused, condemned, tortured and executed Jesus, God vindicated him. These other authorities that have everything to lose can try and crucify the kingdom, but they can’t stop it from coming. They can’t silence the voices that declare its nearness. They can’t deport those who discover again and again, that with one foot they’re already standing in the kingdom, on solid ground: beloved, forgiven, free.

Mark depicts Jesus as the one uniquely sent and empowered to declare the reign of God and reveal its characteristics: It is intrusive, transgressing boundaries that benefit other kinds of rule; it liberates people from the powers that afflict them and keep life from flourishing according to the will of its Creator. Jesus comes from a place of blessing, where in baptism he was filled with the Holy Spirit and a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And Mark contrasts this affirmation and claim with the man in Capernaum, possessed by an unclean spirit, a spirit that will never tell him that he is beloved of God or a delight in the eyes of God. But now Jesus is in the house, and he’s here to end the occupation.

The first century world was full of demons and spirits; they regularly interfered in human life, often capriciously. It was common knowledge that they did control human behavior because they were more powerful than human beings. Most of us no longer use this kind of language; we don’t think of the world as occupied by demons and other spirit beings. But that doesn’t mean we no longer experience powers in our lives that are stronger than ourselves, ungodly powers that oppress and enslave us, individually or collectively.

I used to think that demons were little more than an imaginative way to understand mental illness or oppressive conditions. But I keep returning to pre-scientific notions of the demonic when I reflect on the terrifying fact that Germany under self-inflicted authoritarian rule murdered six million European Jews. Sure, there are historical circumstances to take into consideration, and political reasons, economic causes and cultural factors, but those kinds of explanation attempts can try to grasp what is truly unfathomable only from a high altitude, and to me, such distance often feels like betrayal. To face the demons and name them, and to tell them—and reminds myself—that their occupation will not stand, I need Jesus who has tied up the strong man.

Robert Lifton was a psychiatrist who conducted interviews with Nazi doctors who had worked in the death camps. He talked about this work with Elie Wiesel, a holocaust survivor.

We were discussing Nazi doctors—I had begun to interview them and he had observed a few from a distance in Auschwitz—when he posed this question to me: “Tell me, Bob, when they did what they did, were they men or were they demons?” I answered that, as he well knew, they were human beings, and that was our problem. To which Elie replied, “Yes, but it is demonic that they were not demonic.” [3]

In the face of evil, explanations will not do. In the face of evil we need a different kind of knowledge, one that can ground us in the presence of God the redeemer. There is no room in the house for demons, but they are here because we are here. We need the living Christ, because in his presence the demons become anxious and jittery and they start screaming. And when he speaks, they quickly lose their grip on power. He speaks, and the oppressed are unburdened, the possessed are unshackled, the wounded are healed, and the shunned are forgiven. He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.

I have struggled to understand QAnon and other conspiracy theories and the hold they have on people.

In the summer of 2017, Lenka Perron was spending hours every day after work online, poring over fevered theories about shadowy people in power. She had mostly stopped cooking, and no longer took her daily walk. She was less attentive to her children, 11, 15 and 19, who were seeing a lot of the side of her face, staring down into her phone. It would all be worth it, she told herself. She was saving the country and they would benefit.[4]

One day, though, she had the first nagging feeling that something did not add up. Five months and many more inconsistencies later, Ms. Perron finally called it quits. “At some point I realized, ‘Oh, there’s a reason this doesn’t fit,’” she said. “We are being manipulated. Someone is having fun at our expense.” Sabrina Tavernise wrote a lengthy article about Ms. Perron, because she wonders, like many of us,

what will happen with the followers of QAnon and other anti-establishment conspiracy theories that have been bending Americans’ perceptions of reality. There are signs that some have lost faith ... But others are doubling down, and experts believe that some form of the QAnon conspiracy theory will remain deeply embedded in the nation’s culture by simply morphing to incorporate the new developments, as it has before.

Ms. Perron said, “Q managed to make us feel special, that we were being given very critical information that basically was going to save all that is good in the world and the United States. We felt we were coming from a place of moral superiority.” People who tried to talk her out of the conspiracy theories by sending her factual information only made it worse. “Facts are not facts anymore,” Ms. Perron said. “They are highly powerful, nefarious people putting out messaging to keep us as docile as sheep.”

Eventually, though, she left, and she felt a lot of shame and guilt. But she has come to appreciate the experience. She has talked to her children about what she went through, and has learned to identify conspiracy dependence in others. There are many. Ms. Perron volunteers as a life coach, and recently was working with a 40-year-old man who had lost his marriage and was falling asleep at work. At some point, he began texting her Q links. She realized he was staying up all night consuming conspiracy theories. “I was watching his life fall apart,” she said. “I had no way to penetrate it. I could not even make a dent.”

Not even a dent. What are we to do? Reason doesn’t penetrate the massive walls of suspicion that surround elaborate structures of fear. How can we embody the liberating and healing presence of Christ? We must trust the good news that the strong man has been bound. We must love fearlessly and serve those whose lives are far from whole, whether they are estranged family members or more distant neighbors. We mustn’t tire of seeking ways to remind them of their true identity and dignity as God’s beloved. Humbly and courageously, we must do our part in casting out the demons that feed on our fear.

[1] Mk 3:27

[2] Matt Skinner https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/fourth-sunday-after-epiphany-2/commentary-on-mark-121-28-3

[3] Robert Jay Lifton, Witness to an Extreme Century: A Memoir (New York: Free Press, 2011) p. 240

[4] This quote and the following from Sabrina Tavernise https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/29/us/leaving-qanon-conspiracy.html

Nineveh shall be overthrown

Jonah and Nahum are literary neighbors, they live on the same block in the Bible, as it were, but they can be hard to find. Each book is only a few pages long, and flipping through the prophets you can easily fly from Obadiah to Habakkuk as though Jonah and Nahum weren’t there.

In addition to living close to each other in  the same scriptural neighborhood, the two also share an intense relationship with a city, Nineveh. Nineveh was the capital of the Assyrian empire, a middle eastern super power that destroyed the northern kingdom of Israel and held the southern kingdom of Judah as a vassal for almost one hundred years. In Israel’s imagination, Nineveh had become a symbol of violent oppression, and Nahum’s entire proclamation is infused with rage against the hated city.

Ah, city of bloodshed,

utterly treacherous,

full of violence,

where killing never stops!

Crack of whip and rattle of wheel,

galloping steed and bounding chariot!

Charging horsemen,

flashing swords and glittering spears!

Hosts of slain and heaps of corpses,

dead bodies without number—

they stumble over bodies.

Because of the countless harlotries of the harlot,

the winsome mistress of sorcery, [Nineveh]

who ensnared nations with her harlotries

and peoples with her sorcery,

I am going to deal with you—

declares the Lord of Hosts.[1]

I am going to deal with you; violence for violence. The city must fall. Toward the end of the 7th century BCE Nineveh was totally destroyed and never rebuilt. It’s easy to see how, for many people suffering under brutal regimes, the hated city’s fall from glory became a source of deep satisfaction. For those living under oppression, the prophetic proclamation of the Lord who declares, “I am going to deal with you” and brings down the mighty, has long been a source of hope.The book of Nahum ends with a question, directed at Nineveh: “All who hear the news about you clap their hands over you. For who has ever escaped your endless cruelty?”[2]

The book of Jonah also ends with a question, but it presents an utterly different narrative. It begins, “Now the word of the Lord came to Jonah son of Amittai, saying, ‘Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim judgment upon it; for their wickedness has come up before me.’”[3] And Jonah set out, but instead of heading North and eventually East for Nineveh, he went West as far as his feet would take him, until he arrived on the beach near today’s Tel Aviv where he dipped his toes into the water of the Mediterranean Sea. And apparently this wasn’t far enough. Jonah found a ship going to Tarshish, a port far beyond the horizon, at the end of the known world, as far away as he could from the presence of the Lord. Jonah ran away and got on a boat to go where God was not, only to find out that there was no such place. The Lord hurled a great wind upon the sea, and in the storm Jonah asked the frightened sailors to throw him overboard, and the Lord provided a great fish to swallow Jonah. And after three days, the fish vomited Jonah out upon the same beach where his sea adventure had begun.

There he was, covered all over with stinky fish slobber, and the word of the Lord came to him a second time. “Get up, go to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim to it the message that I tell you.” And this time, Jonah went. Not a word is said about how he felt or what was going through his mind. All we’re left with to ponder as he makes his way to the city is the realization that it’s not merely really, really hard to escape God’s presence and call, but impossible — something I find both terrifying and immensely comforting.

Next thing we hear is Jonah, a day’s walk into the city, crying out, “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” That’s just eight words in English, five in Hebrew. Without a question one of the shortest and least poetic prophetic utterances in all of scripture. Jonah doesn’t scold or accuse his audience nor does he give any reasons for his announcement, he just makes it.  And not a word is said about what a hard assignment this was given the size of the city and its evil ways. No, Jonah makes his announcement and the people hear it and they repent like nobody’s ever seen: the whole city, from king to cattle, put on sackcloth and sit in ashes, fasting and praying. “Who knows?” we’re told the king wondered. “God may turn and relent and turn back from his wrath, so that we do not perish.” And God saw what they did, how they were turning back from their evil ways. And God renounced the punishment he had planned to bring upon them, and did not carry it out.

And Jonah? Jonah who just witnessed the most fantastic response anyone tasked to declare the word of the Lord on the face of the earth could ever even dream of? Jonah is angry. He does not like what he just saw, does not like it at all. “Isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled beforehand to Tarshish. For I know that you are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, and ready to relent from punishing these people.”[4] Jonah is so mad, he declares he would rather die than witness a moment longer how God extends to Israel’s enemies the very compassion Israel has always depended on for its own salvation. We know the feeling: let them taste relentless justice — and grant us your mercy. We know the feeling and we get to laugh at it, laughing at our silly selves as we laugh at silly Jonah.

Dr. King urged us not to forget that in the struggle for liberation from the powers of oppression,

the attack is directed against forces of evil rather than against persons who are caught in those forces. It is evil we are seeking to defeat, not the persons victimized by evil. Those of us who struggle against racial injustice must come to see that the basic tension is not between races. … The tension is at bottom between justice and injustice.[5]

It is so easy to confuse unjust systems with the people caught in them and to forget that when godless, sinful, violent systems fall — and fall they must — the people caught in them are human beings made in the image of God.

We are deeply divided, and it is easy to forget that we are not called to fight those on the other side of the divide, but that which divides us so deeply. We are called to dismantle the old walls and the unquestioned assumptions that separate us. We are called to step into Jonah’s shoes and walk into the city of bloodshed, into the heart of the system that eats people, and to tell the truth that such a city, such a nation cannot and will not stand. And we care called to step into the shoes of the Ninevites and listen to this nobody from nowhere who dares to tell us that our city, our nation cannot and will not stand. We are called to repent — to turn around, to turn to God and to each other, and to let the Spirit of truth inspire and empower us.

It is awfully easy to imagine vengeance and retribution, human or divine, and to say with Nahum, “All who hear the news about you clap their hands over you. For who has ever escaped your endless cruelty?” It is awfully easy until we have the courage to consider our own cruelty, our own lovelessness, our own entanglement in oppressive systems and structures, our own complete dependence on the mercy of God.

At the end of Jonah’s very curious story, God has the final word, and God leaves us with a question, “Should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left?”[6] Countless people who are so lost they don’t know their right hand from their left — those are my people, stuck in deadly myths of supremacy and inferiority, steeped in lies, and yearning to be free.

“All who hear the news about you clap their hands over you,” Nahum declares, imagining the applause after Nineveh’s fall. I am grateful for the hilarious and very serious counter testimony of Jonah who dares us to imagine, against his own inclinations, the world’s laughter and applause after Nineveh’s repentance. Laughing with the redeemed, I clap my hands, and this joy gives me the courage to hear the whole truth and to tell the truth and, again and again, to turn to the mercy of God.

[1] Nahum 3:1-5a

[2] Nahum 3:19

[3] See Jonah 1:1-2

[4] Jonah 4:2-3

[5] From an article in the Christian Century, 1957; reprinted in A Testament of Hope, 8.

[6] Jonah 4:11

True repentance

“Look at ships,” I read in the book of James, “though they are so large that it takes strong winds to drive them, yet they are guided by a very small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great exploits. How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire.”[1]

I listened to the radio on my way home from Mount Olivet cemetery on Wednesday afternoon, and only after a few moments of confusion and disbelief did I begin to realize what had actually happened at the Capitol. I was very upset, but I wasn’t surprised. Words matter. Words have consequences. And I can’t remember a day during the past four years when government leaders, beginning with the head of the administration, didn’t lie to the American people or insist on presenting “alternative facts” while denouncing any media that didn’t parrot their caustic narrative as “fake news.” I thought about the Senators, Representatives, and others who for weeks had kept repeating lies about the election for political gain.

Jesus said, “You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not swear falsely, but carry out the vows you have made to the Lord.’ But I say to you, Do not swear at all … Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one.”[2]

Our representatives swear, many of them with their hand on the Bible, to protect the constitution, but apparently those are just words when political calculations make an assault on the constitution the preferable career move. Many of them love to appropriate the Ten Commandments for their purposes, but knowing or observing them is a different matter. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor, the ninth plainly states.[3] And in Exodus 23, in what reads like a commentary on this commandment, it says, “You shall not spread a false report. You shall not join hands with the wicked to act as a malicious witness. You shall not follow a majority in wrongdoing.”[4]

Heather Cox Richardson wrote in her newsletter how, at 8:00 p.m. on Wednesday,

heavily armed guards escorted the lawmakers back to the Capitol, thoroughly scrubbed by janitors, where the senators and representatives resumed their counting of the certified votes. The events of the afternoon had broken some of the Republicans away from their determination to challenge the votes. Fourteen Republican senators [, among them Sens. Blackburn and Hagerty from Tennessee,] had announced they would object to counting the certified votes from Arizona; in the evening count the number dropped to six: [Ted] Cruz (R-TX), [Josh] Hawley (R-MO), Cindy Hyde-Smith (R-MS), John Kennedy (R-LA), Roger Marshall (R-KS), and Tommy Tuberville (R-AL). In the House, 121 Republicans, more than half the Republican caucus, voted to throw out Biden’s electors from Arizona. As in the Senate, they lost when 303 Representatives voted in favor. Six senators and more than half of the House Republicans backed an attempt to overthrow our government, in favor of a man caught on tape just four days ago trying to strong-arm a state election official into falsifying the election results.

Prof. Richardson, a historian, ended her newsletter with the words, “Today the Confederate flag flew in the United States Capitol.”[5] She didn’t mention “that if Black people had [breached the Capitol like this], the hallways would be red with their blood.”[6] She didn’t mention that this happened the day after Georgia had elected its first Black senator and its first Jewish senator. She didn’t mention that someone had set up a noose outside and that “a few of the marauders wore T-shirts that said ‘MAGA Civil War, Jan. 6, 2021.’”[7]

Many have declared that “this is not who we are”, that “this is not America” — but what else would this be? Somebody else’s country? Someone else’s history? Some kind of alternate reality we accidentally fell into? Roxane Gay wrote, “This is America. This has always been America. If this were not America, this would not have happened. It’s time we face this ugly truth, let it sink into the marrow of our bones, let it move us to action.”[8]

Wednesday was the feast of Epiphany, when churches of the East celebrate the birth of Christ, the manifestation of God in human flesh, and churches of the West, the visit of the wise men who come to Bethlehem in response to this birth. The word epiphany has connotations of seeing something shine forth, seeing the full reality of an event, its truth; and in that sense, the events of Wednesday, bringing to a head multiple chains of events and developments, have epiphanic potential — if we have the courage to face the reality they show us and let it sink into the marrow of our bones.

In the Gospel of Mark, there is no Christmas story at the beginning. There’s the long-awaited messenger who appears in the wilderness. There’s John who calls people to repent and be baptized. He calls them to orient themselves toward God’s future: the promise of liberation, the promise of redemption, the promise of the kingdom. And he calls them to repent. Repentance is our capacity to see who we are and where we are, and to turn away from habits of thinking and doing that we know go against God’s will for human kind. Not that our capacity for, or our track record of, repenting are great, but there is promise in holding the gaze of the prophet, or our own when we look in the mirror and see who’s there, who’s really there, and not turn away until we let the truth sink into the marrow of our bones. It’s the beginning of not bearing false witness.

According to Mark, people came to the Jordan in droves to be baptized and to be prepared for the coming of the stronger one who would baptize them with the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of truth and life. They came from Jerusalem and from the Judean countryside, city folk and rural folk; they were all headed down to the banks of the Jordan to listen to the wilderness prophet and be baptized by him. One by one they stepped into the water, said what needed to be said, and let him plunge them beneath the surface, into the silent depth: Long ago, their ancestors had entered the promised land crossing this river. Like them, they wanted to begin anew. They wanted to live as God’s people on God’s land as though they had just crossed over. They prayed that the mercy of God, like a river, would wash away their wrongdoings and their guilt and the terrible shadows of all they couldn’t undo. They prayed they would emerge from the chilly depth with their lives scrubbed clean as new, prepared to face the holy One who would renew all things in righteousness.

Jesus came like the rest of them had come, walking on dusty roads, waiting in line in the heat of the day, and finally stepping into the water, like the rest of them. He began his ministry where sinners gathered, ordinary people who were ready for a fresh start and needed a space where they could be honest with themselves. So many were gathered at the river, you couldn’t have picked Jesus out from the many faces, and the way Mark tells the story, neither could John. Standing in the water, he didn’t realize that his arms were holding the one whose coming he had been announcing. He plunged him beneath the surface like the rest of them, into the cold silence, down into the darkness at the bottom.

As Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

This is the first, big epiphanic moment in Mark’s Gospel. The beginning of the good news of Jesus is like the beginning of creation: the face of the water, the Spirit, and the voice of the One who creates, beholds, and names. In Genesis we read,

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth darkness covered the face of the deep and a wind from God swept over the face of the waters, and God said: Let there be light! And there was light. And God saw that the light was good and called it Day.

There’s the face of the water, the Spirit, and the voice of the One who creates, beholds, and names. God saw everything that God had made, and indeed, it was very good. God was delighted. And when Jesus emerged from below the face of the deep, God was delighted. It was a new beginning for the world, a new day. In this man’s life, Mark proclaims, God has come to us, stepped into the river with us, in loving solidarity with humankind, disappearing in the deep not to be washed, but to drown and rise. The moment Jesus stepped into the river, he made us all his own. Because of him, we emerge from the water affirmed in our identity as beloved children of God, assured of our kinship with God and with each other and with every last one on the river banks who longs for new life. Baptized into Christ, his death becomes our own and his life ours. As we come up for air, his Holy Spirit becomes our breath.

True repentance takes honesty and courage, and all who want to hear rousing words of healing and unity must first know that we won’t get there without telling the truth — not about them, whoever they might be in our self-centered worlds, but about ourselves.

My hope, when I’m able to cling to it, is rooted in God’s faithulness. I cling to the hope that love frees us to be truthful and humble.

[1] James 3:4-5

[2] Matthew 5:33-37

[3] Exodus 20:16

[4] Exodus 23:1-2

[5] from Heather Cox Richardson’s “Letters From an American” email newsletter at https://billmoyers.com/story/today-the-confederate-flag-flew-in-the-united-states-capitol/

[6] David Brooks https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/07/opinion/capitol-riot-republicans.html

[7] Michelle Goldberg https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/07/opinion/trump-capitol-attack.html

[8] Roxane Gay https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/07/opinion/capitol-riot-trump-america.html

Stream of blessing

The letter to the Ephesians begins with a deluge of blessing and praise, washing readers and listeners in a downpour of poetic, hymnic exultation.[1] The great challenge the letter addresses is as old as humanity: how to live together, given our many differences. But the author doesn’t begin with a good, hard look at the various lines that have long divided us – Jews and Gentiles, women and men, rich and poor, blue collar, white collar, citizens and migrants. The letter’s sender addresses as a Jew a largely Gentile audience with the good news that in Christ God has “made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”[2] Living with differences requires real effort, and the author acknowledges that it takes humility, gentleness, and patience[3] — but the first words are not words of congregational analysis and pastoral admonition: the opening sentence is an outpouring of blessing and praise, with all the attention given and directed to what God has done in Christ.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing… and what follows is just one breathtakingly long sentence, phrase after phrase naming what God has done to bless us and why we in turn are to bless God. “The rambling form of the sentence … seems to have trouble finding a place to stop,” one commentator observes, adding, “This is the grammar of worship more than it is the grammar of … argument, and it is no surprise if we are left struggling to keep up.”[4] It is like standing in a river of praise, a stream of grace washing over and around us like waves, and through us like a cosmic current originating in the heart of God. Blessed be God who has blessed us in Christ… choosing us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be God’s people, without blemish in God’s sight, full of love… destining us to be adopted as God’s children through Christ… redeeming us through his blood… making known to us the mystery of God’s will… as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in Christ, things in heaven and things on earth. The whole world and all who live in it… Earth and heaven… the entire universe washed in this grace… All things reconciled to God the Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer of creation… All things reconciled to God and to each other in the wide embrace of Christ on the cross…

The letter begins with a deluge of blessing and praise, washing us in a downpour of poetic, hymnic exultation, and inviting us to begin our year, our moments and our days by entrusting ourselves to this stream, floating in it, singing.

Praise doesn’t come easy in these days of twittered rage, mournful lament and cautiously leashed hope. Full-throated rejoicing may feel premature or insensitive to those who live their days far from joy — and there is much grace and love in such hesitation — but the stream is there to carry us, and the right words will come when the time is right.

The letter to the Ephesians reminds us, in poetry and prose, that in Christ we participate in a new humanity, wherein everyone and everything in heaven and on earth is reconciled to God and one another. In Christ, even our deepest and proudest divisions come to an end, and we greet and embrace one another as kin. Augustine, who became Bishop of Hippo at the end of the 4th century, said in a sermon on the feast of Epiphany,

Now, then, my dearly beloved [children] and heirs of grace, look to your vocation and, since Christ has been revealed to both Jews and Gentiles as the cornerstone, cling together with most constant affection. For he was manifested in the very cradle of his infancy to those who were near and to those who were afar – to the Jews whose shepherds were nearby; to the Gentiles whose Magi were at a great distance. The former came to him on the very day of his birth; the latter are believed to have come on this day. He was not revealed, therefore, to the shepherds because they were learned, nor to the Magi because they were righteous, for ignorance abounds in the rusticity of shepherds and impiety amid the sacrileges of the Magi. He, the cornerstone, joined both groups to himself since he came to choose the foolish things of the world in order to put to shame the wise and “to call sinners, not the righteous,” so that the mighty would not be lifted up nor the lowly be in despair.[5]

Luke tells us of the shepherds and Matthew of the wise men, but when we put together the Nativity set, year after year, we put the whole world in and around the stable — Jews and Gentiles, poor working folk and star gazing royal figures, locals and outsiders, ox and ass, sheep and camels — the vision of peace is for all of creation. And all because the one in the cradle “came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near,” as we read in Ephesians. And now it doesn’t matter anymore how we determine who or what is “near” or “far off” because the one who went from the cradle to the cross brought us all near in the wide embrace of his love. “So then [we all] are no longer strangers and aliens, but … citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God.”[6] Members of the household of God. One life, shared by all. The purpose is no longer hidden, but revealed in Christ’s embrace of the world.

Left to our own devices, we can’t escape our tendency to rend asunder what God has bound together. Catherine of Siena, speaking in the voice of God, said, “I could easily have created [human beings] possessed of all that they should need both for body and soul, but I wish that one should have need of the other, and that they should be my ministers to administer the graces and gifts that they have received from me.”[7] Left to our own devices, we keep trying to grasp for ourselves all that we should need both for body and soul, and in the process we create alienation, distrust, suspicion, and hostility. Left to our own devices, we make a world where unless you are like me, I have no need of you; unless you are with me, I have no need of you; and unless you are useful to me, I have no need of you.[8] But this proud dismissal, “I have no need of you” was never an option for human life; it became a reality only because of the power of sin.

The letter to the Ephesians begins with an outpouring of blessing and praise, because we are not left to our own devices: Christ has conquered sin so we might live in the community of his making, reconciled to God and one another, in the blessed conviviality of creation, to the praise of God’s glory.

We live in a new day, because God chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love. Christ has made us his own, and because we belong to Christ, we are part of God’s great enterprise of reconciliation and the healing of God’s broken world.

God said about us humans, according to Catherine of Siena, “I wish that one should have need of the other, and that they should be my ministers to administer the graces and gifts that they have received from me.” And Brian Doyle once said to a friend, “We’re only here for a minute. We’re here for a little window. And to use that time to catch and share shards of light and laughter and grace seems to me the great story.”[9] The creation and redemption of the world is God’s great story, and for you and me, Doyle suggests, it’s the dailiness of catching and sharing shards of light and laughter and grace.

Doyle spoke of God as the “coherent mercy” that cannot be apprehended but may be perceived by way of “the music in and through and under all things.”[10] To the writer of Ephesians the music in and through and under all things is Christ, and from that lovely tune our praise erupts — because God has made known to us the mystery of God’s will: to gather up all things in Christ, things in heaven and things on earth, all of creation made complete in him. All things reconciled in Christ. All things healed and whole in Christ. All things — even the wounds of our hostility and our broken hearts. All because of God’s relentless determination to bless the world.

We live in a new day, not because Earth has completed another course around the Sun, but because Christ is come. Thanks and praise be to God.

[1] Eph 1:3-14

[2] Ephesians 2:14; see Susan Hylen https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/second-sunday-of-christmas-2/commentary-on-ephesians-13-14-12

[3] See Ephesians 4:2-3

[4] Brian Peterson https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/second-sunday-of-christmas-3/commentary-on-ephesians-13-14-9

[5] Augustine, quoted in Connections, Year A, Vol. 1, 153.

[6] See Ephesians 2:17-19

[7] Quoted by Stephen Boyd, Connections, Year A, Vol. 1, 139.

[8] In addition to Catherine, see 1 Cor 12:21.

[9] From a collection of Doyle’s essays, One Long River of Song: Notes on Wonder, quoted in https://www.nytimes.com/2019/12/20/opinion/impeachment-trump-pelosi.html

[10] Margaret Renkl https://www.nytimes.com/2019/12/03/books/review/one-long-river-of-song-brian-doyle.html

Joy to the World

Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her king;
let every heart prepare him room
and heav’n and nature sing,
and heav’n and nature sing,
and heav’n, and heav’n and nature sing.

I miss our singing together, and my heart rejoices imagining our singing the carols together with at least twice the joy next Christmas. I love how the words of Joy to the World by Isaac Watts and the tune attributed to Handel come together just right: the opening line happily hops down the scale, step by step, like our little ones come down the stairs on Christmas morning, and then the whole earth leaps back up to the opening note to receive the newborn king. We invite each other to let our hearts be his abode before letting this praise reach cosmic scale in the singing of heaven and nature, and listening as fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains repeat the sounding joy.

Isaac Watts was looking at Psalm 98 when he wrote Joy to the World, but the theme of all creation coming together in praise of our Creator is even stronger in Psalm 148, the Psalm for the First Sunday after Christmas. Saint Francis of Assisi composed his Canticle of the Sun based on Psalm 148, calling to brother sun and sister moon, brother fire and sister water, brother wind and sister earth, and all of us to praise our Maker by being who and what we were made to be. And of course it was Francis who first built a nativity scene that included the baby in the manger, surrounded by Mary and Joseph, angels and shepherds, ox and ass and sheep and royal visitors from distant lands — all of creation coming together in praising God and welcoming the newborn king of peace.

The Book of Psalms begins with a strong emphasis on laments — prayers of God’s people from times of trouble. The composition of the book as a whole indicates an increasing emphasis on praise, coming to a climax with Psalms 146-150. Each of these five Psalms begins and ends with Hallelujah, a joyful call to praise God, and the arrangement itself is an affirmation of confident hope: in the end, all of creation is united in its praise of God the creator and redeemer of all.

In its songs of praise, Israel regularly invites an extraordinarily expansive congregation to praise God — including “all the earth;”[1] “the peoples” and “nations;”[2] “heavenly beings” and “all God’s works.”[3] This joyful inclusivity reaches its climax in Psalm 150:6, the final verse of the entire Book of Psalms, “Let everything that breathes praise the LORD!” But there’s actually an earlier culmination in Psalm 148, where the poet issues an invitation that is even more expansive: this Psalm invites not just “everything that breathes,” but rather everything that is to praise God!

In verses 1-6 the inhabitants of the heavenly realm are called upon: angels and heavenly hosts, sun and moon, stars, the heaven of heavens and the waters above the heavens. And unlike among many of Israel’s neighbors, in this poetry of praise sun and moon and stars are not themselves gods, but are part of God’s creation, moving and shining according to a law that cannot pass away. In the vision of this poetry, the awesome constellations of the night sky are not hard-to-read maps of frightful fate, but wondrous creations of God, praising their creator with their motion and light.

In verses 7-14, the focus shifts to the earthly realm below the dome. Now the poet calls on the inhabitants of sea and air and land to join in the praise: sea monsters, fire and hail, snow and frost, stormy wind, mountains and hills, fruit trees and cedars, wild animals and cattle, creeping things and birds of the air.

Perhaps you noticed, the praise does not begin with people, but with sea creatures. It begins with all things that entered the great symphony of life long before human beings appeared. It begins with all things that serve and praise God simply by being what they were created to be: fire being fire and snow being snow; fruit trees being fruit trees and fruit bats being fruit bats; lilies being lilies and ravens being ravens.

On several occasions this past few days, I watched a squirrel in our backyard praise God. I had put out some goodies for the birds —  sunflower seeds, millet, peanuts and such — and I presented them in a feeder designed to keep large birds and squirrels out. I hung the caged feeder from a pole with a squirrel cone, and since the pole had two hooks, I tied a wire around a couple of pine cones and stuffed them with peanut butter and more seeds, for the larger birds. The birds came to feed, and I loved watching them fly in and out or hop around on the ground and pick up what picky or sloppy eaters had dropped. But then I watched the squirrel climb up the pole. As intended, the squirrel guard presented a major frustration for the little guy. But it didn’t take long before the squirrel climbed up the pole just high enough to leap up and out to the bottom of the feeder cage, grab it and pull itself up. It couldn’t get to the feeder itself, but the cage provided a perfect squirrel ladder to the top of the pole. Now it sat up there, eyeing the pine cones below. The wire was too thin for squirrel paws to get a grip. But soon the little guy was hanging upside down, with its hind paws grabbing the hook and its entire body stretched just enough for the front paws to reach the top of one of the cones, grab it, and pull it up enough to get busy eating.

It was marvelous, this repeated display of perfect squirrelness. “You go, Buddy,” I said quietly. “You finish that cone, you worked hard for it. And when you’re done, I’ll make you another one.”

Praise the Lord, Chickadees and Cardinals, Bluejays and Carolina Wrens, and you, Eastern Gray Squirrel, acrobat of the backyard and planter of oaks! Praise the Lord, all of you that serve and praise the Lord simply by being what you were created to be!

In the Hallelujah poetry of Psalm 148, people aren’t called to join the chorus until verse 11, and perhaps that’s because we are late arrivals in the story of creation. Or perhaps it’s because we struggle with being who we were created to be. Perhaps it’s because we struggle with simply being human beings, made in the image of God. We’re called upon to join the chorus as kings and peoples, rulers and judges, men and women, old and young together. Each of the terms describes segments of our diversity, and each pairing also highlights relationships where our differences easily become pyramids of status and privilege. Humans have trouble finding our place as creatures made in the image of God because we’d rather be like God on our own terms, as lords and masters of creation.

Yet angels and shepherds and royal visitors, ox and ass and sheep, sun and moon and stars, and all of us with all our wondrous and difficult differences come together around a manger in Bethlehem, because this child is our salvation. This child was sent to us to redeem us — to free us from sin’s perverse reign and to bring us back into the household of God as kin and as heirs of the promise.

We celebrate the incarnation of the Word of God, “born of a woman” as Paul puts it in utmost simplicity. This is how we all enter the miracle of life, born of a woman, whether we be male or female or fitting neither category, whether we be kings or people, rulers, judges, or tired healthcare workers, and regardless of where on this beautiful planet our DNA has been knit together.

Together with all of creation we praise God for the birth of this child, because in love that knows no end, he makes us one – one with ourselves, one with each other across all that divides us, and one with the beloved community God created life to be.

Joy to the world, the Savior reigns!

Let all their songs employ!

[1] Psalm 66:1; 96:1; 98:4; 100:1

[2] Psalm 67:3-5; 96:7; 117:1

[3] Psalm 29:1 and 103:20-21

Advent moment

The story Luke wants to  tell us begins with two pregnancies, both quite impossible. Luke first introduces us to Zechariah and Elizabeth, who, he tells us, were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments of the Lord. But they had no children, and both were getting on in years. Some of you may hear echoes of Abraham and Sara.

One day, the angel Gabriel came to Zechariah and told him that Elizabeth would bear him a son, and that he would name him John. The old man found the angel’s announcement difficult to believe, given the circumstances. Yet soon, Elizabeth, whose hair once was black as the night but now was silver as the moon, became pregnant.

It was in the sixth month of that impossible pregnancy when Gabriel was sent to a town no angel had ever heard of, to talk to a young woman about God’s plans for the future of the world — a future that had a lot to do with her. “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” The angel’s words sounded very matter of fact: The Lord is with you. You have found favor with God. You will conceive and you will bear a son. You will name him Jesus. The Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end. I imagine Mary raising her hand at some point as though she could slow the torrent of angelic announcements with a gesture, saying, “Hold on, wait a minute, you lost me when you said I would conceive – how exactly is this supposed to come about? I am a virgin.”

Luke tells the story with Mary asking just one question, “How can this be?” She doesn't get to ask any of the other questions we think she might have had, like, How exactly is this surprise pregnancy supposed to be a favor? How am I supposed to explain this to my parents or to Joseph? And why me? Don’t you know that folks in the village will shun me or perhaps even stone me to death for getting pregnant out of wedlock? Can this wait until I’m married? But in Luke’s story, all she gets to ask is, “How can this be?” And the angel speaks of the coming of the Holy Spirit, and the power of the Most High, and of the child’s holiness — and only indirectly of her, Mary whose body would be at the center of these divine arrangements. Mary is much perplexed, and, in at least one commentator’s imagination, the angel isn’t a picture of calmness either. Frederick Buechner wrote,

She struck the angel Gabriel as hardly old enough to have a child at all, let alone this child, but he’d been entrusted with the message to give her, and he gave it … As he said it, he only hoped she wouldn’t notice that beneath the great, golden wings, he himself was trembling with fear to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl.” [1]

Mary’s answer mattered. She would not be coerced to bear this child. She could decline the favor.

Many artists have tried to capture this scene. In the monastery of San Marco in Florence, the tiny cells on the second floor still look very much the same as they did in the 15th century when Fra Angelico painted the walls with the most beautiful biblical frescoes, most famous among them The Annunciation.[2] Gabriel is standing on the left looking at Mary on the right, who is kneeling on a wooden bench. Nothing in the painting clearly indicates what has or hasn’t been said between the two; they look at each other, both holding their arms close to their chests, both with apprehension in their faces.

I like to think of the picture as capturing the moment right after the angel has finished speaking. This is more than a matter-of-fact announcement, “Here’s what’s going to happen.” This angel didn’t just come to deliver a message and return to heaven. This angel is having an advent moment; this angel is waiting, waiting for Mary’s answer.

When Herbert O’Driscoll was a child growing up in Ireland, his parents would often take him and his siblings to their grandparents’ farm. John Brennan was a hired man living in a thatched cottage on their farm, and in the evening after the cows were milked, he would sit on a large flat stone outside the stable door and smoke his pipe. Sometimes little Herb would sit beside him and listen to the old man’s stories.

One night, as they were sitting together outside the stable, John told the boy to look up into the sky. The moon had appeared, still ghostlike because the light of the sun was not fully gone. Here and there, the odd star could be seen.

“Do you know,” said John, puffing on his pipe, “do you know that the stars and the sun and the moon move around all the time?”

Herb said he did, he knew a lot about the universe.

“Well,” said John, “do you know how the angel Gabriel came to Mary the mother of our Lord to tell her she would have a child?”

Herb said he did, he knew lots of Bible stories.

“Well then,” said John, looking skyward as he spoke, “do you know that when the angel asked Mary if she would bear the holy child, all the stars and the sun and the moon stopped moving? Did you know that?”[3]

Did you know that Gabriel and all the angels in heaven stood in breathless suspense? God had chosen Mary, an ordinary girl in an ordinary town, for reasons she didn’t understand, to be the mother of the Son of God — what would her answer be? What I see in Gabriel’s face in that fresco at San Marco is the whole host of heaven holding their breath and waiting: God had spoken – what would Mary say?

And Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

“How can this be?” she had asked, and Gabriel’s response had only given her a lot more to ponder, but she answered like one of the great prophets of old, giving herself to the service of God for the salvation of the world.

When Fra Angelico painted The Annunciation on that wall in one of the cells at San Marco, he used perspective and the layout of the room to make it look as if the scene were happening then and there in that very room, right next to the window. The people who lived and prayed and slept in that cell didn’t just have a religious painting on the wall; they lived and prayed and slept in the space, in the silence that opens between hearing God’s word and responding to it with the courage of faith.

Luke’s Gospel opens with this story not to dazzle us with the miraculous circumstances of Christ’s conception. We’re invited to hear Luke’s witness and to listen for the word of God in the text with the same openness as Mary and her readiness to be part of God’s redemptive work in the world. She had much to ponder, and she questioned, and she could have declined the proposal, but she said yes, and not because she had to, but because she wanted to. And her yes was not the end of her questions or her ponderings, but she trusted God enough to take this huge step, to give birth to the child who would turn the world upside down. She became the first to believe the good news of Jesus.

When I was a little boy, I had a part in the annual Christmas pageant for years. I started out as a sheep, and eventually I got to play one of the shepherds and the inn keeper and Joseph – but I never was cast to play Mary. I appreciate the kindness of the adults who didn’t want to ask a little boy to play a girl. I’m much older now and I have come to believe that Luke invites us all to play Mary’s part: to receive the word of God with faith and to nurture it — within us and among us — like mothers and midwives care for new life that wants to be born.

Wherever and whenever the good news of Jesus Christ is proclaimed, God comes to ordinary people in ordinary towns with this extraordinary message that is both a favor and a call: to carry Christ for the world. You too have found favor with God. You too have been graced with the word of God, which calls forth life out of nothing — and now God and all the angels in heaven, and the sun and the moon and the stars, and a world longing for wholeness — all stand in breathless suspense, waiting for your response.

What will you say? Will you say, “I’m sorry, I already had other plans for my life…” Or will you reply — not really knowing what you’re getting yourself into but trusting the word that the kingdom of God is near — will you say, with courage and humility, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

[1] Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who’s Who (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1979), p. 39

[2] The famous version of the annunciation is in the hallway http://www.wga.hu/html/a/angelico/09/corridor/annunci.html One of the cells is home to another, strikingly simple rendition of the scene http://www.wga.hu/html/a/angelico/09/cells/03_annu.html

[3] The Christian Century, December 13, 2003, 18.

Rooted in joy

“Before Advent is a word, it is a sigh,” wrote Richard Lischer, “and never more deeply felt than in these troubled months.” Advent is a yearning, a longing, a preparing and a making room. It is the expectant opening of our exhausted hearts to the coming of God.

“We are waiting—dreading—“ as Lischer wrote, “what one health expert promised would be ‘our darkest winter,’ as COVID-19 spikes and spreads in regions that thought themselves isolated from the worst of it. We are … waiting for Christmas, of course, but this year with no grandparents, siblings, cousins, or other relatives gathered around the tree, with no safe way to sing … carols in the nursing home (or to be sung to by fresh young voices).”[1] We are waiting with our souls stretched thin, craving a true word amid the lies, a reliable word amid the constant noise of careless speech, a word worthy of becoming a song. And during these days of Advent, like the gentlest rain of grace, the words of Isaiah fall on our parched hearts:

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
    because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
    to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
    and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

We hear the ancient words and the oppressed raise their heads, the brokenhearted find the courage to hope, and the captives imagine the doors of their prisons flung wide open. Joy blossoms, because we remember how again and again the Lord anointed messengers to bring good news to those walking down life’s weary road. “They shall build up the ancient ruins,” the prophet declares. “They shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations.”

“About whom does the prophet say this?” we ask, hoping that the promise was not just for the exiled families of Jerusalem and Judah returning to the promised land a long time ago, but that this promise, this commissioning is also for us amid the devastations we are facing. Joy blossoms tenderly because we are not alone in facing these devastations: God is the architect and builder of the city of peace, where righteousness is at home. Joy blossoms because Jesus, at the beginning of his ministry, went to his hometown synagogue, and when he stood up to read, the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled it and read,

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down to teach. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. And he said to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”[2]

The words of the prophet are for us, for all of us — and not because we have claimed and appropriated them for ourselves, but because Jesus has made us his own. Because of Jesus we have come to see ourselves and each other no longer as strangers and aliens, but rather as citizens of the city of God.

Our own cities have had a hard year. We have continued to struggle to really face the devastations of many generations caused by the sin of slavery. We have struggled to respond in solidarity to a deadly pandemic. We have learned on the edge of the abyss — and are still learning — how vulnerable our institutions of government are to wreckless destruction. We have watched somewhat helplessly how our trust in each other and in our words and motives has thinned and frayed. And all of us have some ideas how it has come to this, but we no longer seem to know how to convey them to each other.

Pope Francis said, “We have so much to do, and we must do it together. But how can we do that with all the evil we breathe every day?” And then he added, “Thank God, no system can nullify our desire to open up to the good, to compassion and to our capacity to react against evil, all of which stem from deep within our heart.” Thank God, no system can nullify our desire to open up to the good. Thank God, no exile can nullify our desire to open up to the promise of God. Thank God, no injustice can nullify our desire to open up to the Lord who loves justice. With all the evil we breathe every day, what can we do to nurture this righteous desire in us? Pope Francis said,

To Christians, the future does have a name, and its name is Hope. Feeling hopeful does not mean to be optimistically naïve and ignore the tragedy humanity is facing. Hope is the virtue of a heart that doesn’t lock itself into darkness, that doesn’t dwell on the past, does not simply get by in the present, but is able to see a tomorrow. Hope is the door that opens onto the future. Hope is a humble, hidden seed of life that, with time, will develop into a large tree. … [And] a tiny flicker of light that feeds on hope is enough to shatter the shield of darkness.[3]

God made heaven and earth. God brought Israel out of Egypt. God raised Jesus from the dead. God poured out the Spirit on all flesh, thus anointing all flesh to proclaim the good news of God’s faithfulness.

As the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.

Righteousness and praise – against the evil we breathe every day, against the fears that threaten to paralyze us and the idols that hold us in thrall, we entrust ourselves to God and to the promise that oaks of righteousness will spring up and thrive on earth. And so in hope and humility we give ourselves to the work of proclaiming good news to the poor, the work of raising up the former devastations and of seeking to heal our deep divisions in the Spirit of Christ.

“Rejoice always,” Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, “pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances.” Paul had found something to sing about and even the darkest prison cell couldn’t silence him. He was beaten for the gospel he proclaimed, he was imprisoned, he was shipwrecked three times, in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, cold and naked — but he had found something to sing about.[4] He was happy when things were  going well in the fledgling communities of believers that sprang up in response to his proclamation, but his joy wasn’t determined by circumstances. His joy was a happiness that didn’t depend on what happened. His joy was rooted in the faithfulness of God. And with his words to the Thessalonians he urges us, his listeners and readers, to let the deep joy over God’s unshakable faithfulness fill and transform our whole being.

Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. In all circumstances. We know that Paul wasn’t coming up with bite-sized servings of self-help advice by the pool of his posh Malibu mansion.

How might one cultivate such gratefulness? John Kralik wrote a book about writing a thank-you note every day for an entire year. He called it 365 Thank Yous. He didn’t resolve to write all of those thank-you notes at a time when he was feeling particularly grateful. In fact, it was at a particularly low time in his life. His small law firm was losing money and losing its lease. He was going through a difficult divorce. He lived in a small, stuffy apartment where he often slept on the floor under an ancient air conditioner. He was middle-aged, overweight, and at the end of his rope. Then, one day, he got lost on a mountain hike and didn’t know how to get home. And by the time he found his way down the mountain he had a plan. He would write a thank-you note each day for a year.

He writes, “My only problem: Did I have anything to be grateful for? The way my life was going, I hardly thought so.” But he got started, by writing notes to the people close to him, his family and friends. Then it got harder. “One day,” he writes, “I just couldn’t think of anybody to thank.” He stopped at his regular Starbucks, where the barista greeted him with a big smile — “John, your usual venti?”

That’s when it clicked. “I thought, this is really kind of a great gift in this day and age of impersonal relationships,” Kralik writes, “that someone had cared enough to learn my name and what I drank in the morning.” So he wrote the barista a thank-you note. And so it went through an entire year.[5]

It was a simple practice, but it was a discipline that opened him to notice the gifts of others. It was a discipline that made him more attentive to all the ways in which his life was woven into a fabric of mutuality. He became aware that life is altogether gift. And he found joy there.

[1] Richard Lischer https://www.christiancentury.org/article/reflection/advent-season-sighs-especially-year

[2] see Luke 4:16-21

[3] https://www.ted.com/talks/pope_francis_why_the_only_future_worth_building_includes_everyone/transcript

[4] 2 Corinthians 11:24-27

[5] Martin Copenhaver https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2015-10/learning-give-thanks

A mighty good question

There are no shepherds keeping watch by night in the Gospel of Mark. There are no angels announcing the child’s birth, no star-gazing visitors bearing gifts from distant lands, no ox and ass, no baby in the manger. Mark hits the ground running and jumps right into the Jordan with John the baptizer.

After opening with something like a headline — “The Beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God” — the story begins with a voice crying out in the wilderness: John preparing the way of Jesus with a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Many have wondered why the headline says, “The Beginning” rather than simply, “The Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” Some hear echoes of the opening of Genesis, the beginning of creation, and to them it sounds like Mark wants to emphasize that the good news of Jesus Christ is as good and grand as the story of life itself; that this is the beginning of life’s redemption from the powers that deform and disfigure it; that this is the beginning of God’s promised future for this beautiful, broken world. Others have suggested that Mark calls the story ‘the beginning of the good news’ because this story is meant to continue and unfold in the lives of all who hear it, in lives of faith and hope. Mark’s story is just the beginning, because it continues with us and for us and for all, in all the ways that we hear and live and tell the good tidings of God’s faithfulness.

So here we are, at the Jordan with John. At the very river where Israel gathered in the plains of Moab, after forty long years of wilderness wanderings, after their escape from slavery in Egypt — the river where they crossed over into the promised land. The river marks the border between promise and fulfillment, between exodus and arrival. At the Jordan Elijah was taken up into heaven, the great prophet who was expected to return before the day of the Lord to prepare God’s people — and Mark’s quick portrait of John suggests more than a resemblance between the two. Clothed with camel’s hair and a leather belt around his waist, John looks like the ancient prophet, and speaking of repentance and the forgiveness of sins, he sounds like him.[1] His diet of locusts and wild honey is untamed — he only eats what God provides and the earth produces on its own. And John’s message and practice are as undomesticated as his clothing and his food. Forgiveness of sins was priestly business, but this truthtelling wild man offers a cleansing ritual far from Jerusalem and the temple, and he announces the coming of another one, more powerful than he, who would baptize people with the Holy Spirit.

This is the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ — the remembering of the mighty acts of God, the resonance of the words of the prophets, and the call to repent, to reorient our lives in light of the nearness of God’s reign. The wilderness prophet urges us to look at ourselves and be honest, to name what we see and to name what is missing, to lament what is missing, and repent: to turn away from our complicity with the old order of things and reorient ourselves toward the kingdom of God, when all creation flourishes in the peace of God. John calls us to prepare the way of the Lord by becoming an Advent community, a community of the repentant and expectant who eagerly await the fulfilment of God’s promises. The old order is marred by sin, by idolatry, by injustice and violence. But in Jesus, in faithfulness and mercy, the God of Israel has embraced all people with the promise of salvation.

We meet John at the Jordan, in the borderlands between what is and what shall be, between the promise and the coming true. In the wilderness of these days, when the arrogant trample without shame on decency and dignity, we hear a voice calling us to live in bold hope, to let ourselves be immersed in the untamed flow of God’s grace, and to stand up and raise our heads, because our redemption is drawing near.[2]

Heidi Neumark wrote almost twenty years ago, “For as long as I can remember, Advent has been my favorite time. Before going to bed, I read again the text for tomorrow: Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places plain (Isa. 40:4).”

And she asks, “When will this be?”

The prophet’s words were recorded around 2,500 years ago and I haven’t noticed much movement in the right direction. The gap between the rich and the poor—Longwood Avenue in the South Bronx and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan—remains as wide as ever. We turn people away from the food pantry because we’ve run out of canned stew, canned beans, canned tuna, cereal and powdered milk. Yet this is the busy season at Dean and Deluca down in Soho where my husband, Gregorio, works on his feet 12 hours a day trying to meet the insatiable demand for imported foie gras, truffles and caviar. Sometimes he wraps up single sales totaling over $1,000.[3]

I don’t know what’s happened to Dean and Deluca since then, but there are more people waiting in line at food banks today, and more people placing fancy food orders online totaling over $1,000 and having them delivered by workers who themselves may well wait in line at the food bank after work to get groceries for their families.

A good number of mountains and hills have indeed been exalted, and some valleys have indeed been made lower. The uneven ground has become even more uneven, and the voices of the prophets speak the word of God with the same urgency today as in the past.

My colleague Bill Goettler shared a fine story:

Danny appeared on our porch on a cold December afternoon a couple of years ago, hat in hand. He’d been sleeping here and there since getting back into town, he said, mostly on the porch of the Red Cross headquarters across from the church. The people there didn’t seem to mind, and he always cleared out before anyone arrived for work in the morning. He didn’t want anyone to be frightened.

He needed some food, maybe some money for the bus. We’d just hung the Moravian star on our front porch and placed Advent candles in our windows. It was a pretty tough moment to refuse someone aid, so I dug into my wallet and found a few dollars. As he was leaving, Danny turned and looked me in the eye. “Is this the way it’s supposed to be?” he asked. He was off before I could reply or even register what he’d said.

He came back with one need or another throughout the winter and over the years that followed. Sometimes I’d give him some money or make a call to find him a place to live, but nothing seemed to work out for very long. I’d see him working downtown, selling newspapers in front of Bruegger’s Bagels or washing windows on Chapel Street. “Good morning, Reverend,” he’d call out, and just about every time he’d ask, “Reverend, is this the way it’s supposed to be?”[4]

That’s a mighty good question.

We meet John at the Jordan, in the borderlands between what is and what shall be, between the promise and the coming true. We hear the words of Isaiah, “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God,” and we know it has nothing to do with, “Make my people a little more comfortable in their exile.” What the prophet proclaims is the faithfulness of God: there’s no mountain high enough to keep God’s people in exile, no valley deep enough to keep them away from the promised land, or to keep God from coming to us to take us there.

We’re facing enormous mountains, mountains of injustice, mountains of suspicion and distrust, mountains of guilt and shame. And between them run valleys of despair, valleys of resignation, valleys of loss and grief where the shadows are deep — but God is coming.

“Comfort, comfort, my people,” God declares in the heavenly assembly, “Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her penalty is paid.” Then the prophet reports what appears to be a debate among members of the heavenly court.

“The people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field.” It sounds like an objection or a lament. The people are short-lived, unreliable, hardly worth the effort, here today, gone tomorrow, they wither, they fade, they don’t have what it takes to reflect the divine glory.

But another voice replies, “Surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.” The faithfulness of God’s people and their leaders may wither and fade, but God’s faithfulness to God’s people is firm. God’s commitment to creation is unshakable. That, and that alone, is our hope. That is why we look at ourselves and at the world, and we don’t say, “That’s just the way it is.” We say, “That may well be the way it is, but it’s not how it’s supposed to be; and it’s not how it shall be.”

And because God moves mountains to get through to us, we too take our shovels and go to work on God’s highway project, lowering the hills of distrust and suspicion with kindness, and filling the vales of fragmentation with acts of solidarity and friendship. We follow the way Jesus came to prepare for us; we live and tell the good news of God’s faithfulness until all things shine with the glory of God.

[1] See 2 Kings 1:8

[2] Luke 21:28

[3] Heidi Neumark https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2001-12/advent

[4] Bill Goettler https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2011-11/sunday-december-4-2011