Author: Rosemary Lovelace

1 Epiphany – George Yandell

The account of the baptism of Jesus begins a pattern in the ministry of Jesus we don’t take seriously enough: Jesus continually pushes those in his kingdom movement to serve. Stanley Hauerwas says John was calling Israel to repentance as a nation. Jesus is all about Israel turning to God, because the kingdom of heaven, where the poor are blessed, is coming. [Adapted from an article in the “Christian Century”, January 2023 issue.]  He doesn’t limit the power of God to his own ministry. Matthew’s story of the baptism, when set with the other gospel accounts, offers a subtle but powerful pattern: the grounding, the program of the Messiah, is imbuing power to all those who come after Jesus to continue God’s mission of bringing new life. [ibid]

When John the baptizer protests that he should be baptized by Jesus and not Jesus by him, it foreshadows what will come further on in the gospel: Jesus demurs claiming for himself messiah-like authority and power, as many expected the messiah to do. John wants to reverse the action about to take place. The messiah Jesus intends John to continue his own work; Jesus expects to carry out his mission alongside John. Jesus intends them both to serve the earth rather than ruling it. [ibid] His passion for God means he takes the form of a servant, as Paul says in Philippians.  He is a different messiah than most expected. 

Jesus insists regularly from this point on that the power to heal the world is from the Holy Spirit. Jesus builds his mission by submitting to the Spirit’s power then sharing it with all who come to him, multiplying its effect. [ibid] As the Acts reading has it, Peter says, “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears god and does what is right is acceptable to God….The message God sent to the people of Israel, preaching peace by Jesus Christ—he is Lord of all.” // Jesus is Lord of all people.

Dom Crossan has said that John the baptizer was ritually re-enacting the Hebrew people crossing the river Jordan into the promised land after the death of Moses. [Notes from lecture at Calvary Church, Memphis, Feb. 27, 2008.] So all those who came out into the wilderness to the Jordan River and were baptized by John were crossing over into a new promise. They entered a new expectation through the water of the Jordan. 

Recognizing Jesus as the reason for his baptizing ministry must have made John shake with amazement and wonder- the holy Spirit had moved him to initiate his baptizing movement, and in front of him was the one for whom he was preparing. For John, Jesus himself WAS the promised new kingdom of God.

The spirit that Jesus imbues is not limited to his own band of followers. Holy Spirit work is diffused and more radical than we in the Church often care to admit. We don’t have a franchise on the good news and its action of renewal and grace. Sometimes the ‘greater things’ that Jesus foretells that his colleagues will do, is done for and at the hands of outcasts or those outside the circle of belief: tax collectors, Roman soldiers, Samaritans. Those of us who are baptized and regularly come to the table and know we are beloved by God don’t have an exclusive franchise on the Holy Spirit’s kingdom work. 

We should expect that words and actions of truth, justice and healing will be spoken outside our walls for us to see and hear. Deeds pleasing to God will be carried out by those who don’t worship with us nor follow our program of ministry. Whenever we think we’ve established the turf for doing Jesus’ work, the Holy Spirit sets up camp just beyond our program’s reach. [Christian Century article adapted.]

Once I was taught a lesson about exclusive claims to ministry. I was a young priest, the vicar of St. James the Less Church in Madison, TN, a suburb just north of Nashville. I was confronted by a Seventh-Day Adventist pastor in a clergy meeting. The group of us met regularly to pray and carry out mutual ministry. We were planning the annual community Thanksgiving service and deciding who we should invite to participate. Someone suggested we invite Ira North, the pastor of the world’s then largest Church of Christ- the conservative group sometimes called Cambell-ites. That gigantic Church was two miles from where were meeting in the Roman Catholic Church. I piped up, “We don’t need to invite him, he’ll never come- his congregation looks down on the rest of us as not being true Jesus followers.” The Adventist pastor said, kindly, “George, I’ve discovered I need to be with folk most different from me to see how God works through them. I vote we invite Ira to participate in the program.” And all of us voted to invite Ira and his congregation to participate. I never forgot what the Adventist pastor told me.

If every Baptized Christian is to be a minister of God’s unending blessing on all creation, then we take our bearing from the promises made in our baptisms. They direct us to be as deeply immersed in the world as Jesus is. [ibid] Our baptisms open us to God’s kingdom work, whoever does it. Our baptisms drive us to cooperate wherever the Spirit inspires people to submit to the Spirit’s power. The program of Jesus demands we share the work of the Holy Spirit with all who are placed in our path, multiplying its effect.  Let us renew our Baptismal Covenant on page 292 of the Prayer Book.

Pondering the Time Being – Bill Harkins

Luke 2:15-21

2:15 When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.”

2:16 So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger.

2:17 When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child;

2:18 and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them.

2:19 But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.

2:20 The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

2:21 After eight days had passed, it was time to circumcise the child; and he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen.

I bid each of you good morning, Happy New Year, and a heartfelt welcome to Holy Family on this first Sunday after Christmas!  Just a week ago we heard the lovely narrative from the Gospel of Luke, telling us of the earthly origins of Jesus in the form of the birth and infancy narratives of which we are all so fond. The Gospel of John, in contrast, does not include an account of the birth of Christ as do Luke, from whom we hear this morning, and Matthew, both of whom are ever the storytellers. They charm us with angels and shepherds, a virgin birth in a stable, a villain named Herod, and heroes in the form of peripatetic kings. John, who is more of a theologian, gives us in those first 18 verses pure poetry in the form of a lovely Christological hymn and a dazzling, paradoxical conundrum: the light by which everyone sees came into the world, yet the world did not see it. And this morning we hear of the shepherds who also needed to bear witness in person to the light, and Mary ponders in her heart these words.

These mysteries can sometimes raise as many questions as they answer. For example I wonder if, when Mary says, “Let it be with me according to your word” after Gabriel’s announcement in Luke (1:38), the temptation is to consider her as passively surrendering to God. But her Magnificat suggests otherwise. She boldly reminds God of who God is. The God of “our ancestors” is the one who “scatters the proud” and “brings down the powerful from their thrones and lifts up the lowly” (vv. 51, 52). Mary’s word of consent in Greek (genoito [“let it be”]) recalls God’s first command in creation: “Let there be light” (Gen 1:3). By agreeing to God’s word, Mary is mandating God’s creative, justice-making word for the world, the Word whom she will mother into being. Knowing the power of Mary’s agency, I can easily imagine something left unsaid by Luke after Mary sang her song: God whispering in awe, “Let it be.” 

We, too, dear ones, participate in this Holy narrative. The 13th century philosopher, theologian, and mystic Meister Eckhart (1260-1328) echoed this: “We are all meant to be mothers of God. What good is it to me if this eternal birth of the divine Son takes place unceasingly, but does not take place within myself?”  What might it mean for us to ponder in our hearts, as flawed and finite human beings, this Divine invitation to be light bearers, here and now? How do we ponder and discern this Incarnational invitation even as we, too, are vulnerable to not seeing the light that may shine in our midst? How do we live into the invitation, the mandate, to let the same mind be in us which was in Christ Jesus? It is so easy to forget.   Are we, like the shepherds, willing to make the arduous journey to bear witness to the light? And perhaps more important, are we willing to be light bearers ourselves?

Last year, on the night after the winter solstice, my running buddies and I ventured once again into the darkness of the trail, with our headlamps lighting the way until we reached a place we affectionately call “Beech Cove.” Deep in the woods, alongside a lovely brook, we turned off our headlamps and let the darkness settle in around us. The water could be heard in a new way, and above us Orion and Perseus were visible. Wendell Berry, our American treasure, wrote this about the dark: “To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet, and dark wings.” Anyone who has spent time in the woods at night will know the truth of this poem, and its paradoxical lesson that we know the light, in part, because we are willing to become familiar with the dark. And, sometimes we know the dark by virtue of the fact that we are human, and vulnerable, and in spite of this, amid our darkest moments, we see glimpses of light. May we be mindful and discerning, lest we fall into a simplistic, binary sensibility of light over darkness. “The light shines in the darkness, and darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1) The witness is not that the light abolishes the darkness; the light is known as light because it burns in the dark.

And this is where the Gospels of John and Luke speak to one another, in dialectic fashion perhaps. Now, in Christ, we can gaze upon God, both human and divine, just as light—the Word—is both particle and wave, and in seeing Him we see who we were meant to be. We are reminded of W.H. Auden’s similarly paradoxical Christmas Oratorio in which he wrote: “To those who have seen the child, however dimly, however incredulously, The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all…we look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit our self-reflection.” This being human can be so very hard, until we remember that we are held in the hands of a God who chose not to leave us alone.

Some 25 years ago now, I was serving a small parish tucked away the mountains of north Georgia. I was by now was teaching full-time, and very early each Sunday morning Vicky and I would make our way up I-575 to this wonderful place where I began my formal journey to the priesthood under the wise and watchful tutelage of the rector, also a bi-vocational priest. The people there were warm, and gracious, and forgiving of my rooky mistakes, my awkwardness with the liturgy, and my efforts to find my voice in the pulpit. They were, and they remain, a grace-filled blessing for us. On this particular Christmas Eve I arrived mid-afternoon to prepare for the 4:00pm service. That year, as was true this year, winter came early, and stayed long. As I drove north the radio was replete with warnings about freezing rain, sleet, and snow. The second service that evening was to have been an ecumenical effort, with our parish hosting the choirs of the local Lutheran and Catholic churches and by late afternoon both had canceled for fear of driving the icy mountain roads. Shortly after I arrived, amidst the excitement of the preparations for the services to come, a parishioner mentioned to me that his father lay dying in the local county hospital, and asked me to pray for him, and for his family. I gave him a hug, told him I was sorry, and that I would remember his father in my prayers. And I was swept up in the services that continued through the evening, and ended with the midnight mass. The weather continued to worsen, and I began to wonder if I would be able to make the drive back home where my family waited, having attended services closer to home on that wintry night. By midnight the sleet could be heard against the windows as Luke’s Gospel was read, and the light indeed shone in the darkness of this deep December winter night. After the final service of the night I walked out into the storm, and, perhaps foolishly, decided to try to make it home. I wanted to be with Vicky and the boys to celebrate Christmas with them the next morning, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed.

Slowly, I made my way from the church into town. As I came to the intersection that would take me out to the highway and home, the light turned red, and as I applied my brakes I slid on the ice midway into the abandoned intersection, my car, now pointing left, to the east, and my right-hand turn signal blinking on and off, keeping time with my windshield wipers in the frozen darkness of that dark town. And, sitting thus askance in the middle of the road, my blinker now meaninglessly indicating a right-hand turn, I remembered my parishioner’s father, lying in the hospital down the road to the left. So, I turned left. A couple of miles down the two-lane road lay the old county hospital, ageing and almost defunct, with a newer, much larger facility now just down the highway towards Atlanta. I made my way up the icy steps to the lobby, where a pitiful Christmas tree now bereft of most of its needles, worthy of a Charlie Brown Christmas, sat forlornly on an institutional metal table now bending beneath the weight of too many decorations. The reception desk was empty, and I paused at an intersection of four hospital corridors leading off like spokes on a wheel, or like being at the center of a cross. I was lost.

Choosing one corridor, I walked halfway, about to turn around, when a nurse appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and said “You must be here to see Mr. Lewis.” “Yes. I am,” I said, wondering how she could have known. “This way,” she said, leading me to a single room where a man lay amidst a tangle of tubes and wires, his breathing shallow and raspy with the aid of a respirator. I turned to ask the nurse about this, and she was nowhere to be found. Carefully, I made my way into the room, and stood for a moment beside the bed. Suddenly I felt very tired, and a little out of place. I did not know this man—had never laid eyes on him until this moment—and I had only a passing acquaintance with his son, our parishioner, whose comment earlier in the evening somehow, mysteriously, led me here. I did not know what to do, or say. I pause here to remind myself, and all of us, that I was by now a professor of psychology and religion and pastoral care—the irony of which did not escape me in that moment—but I felt as if I were wandering a trail alone at night, without a light to guide me. I was in the dark. I said a perfunctory silent prayer—I had thoughtlessly left my Prayer Book in the car—and I turned around and left the room. I wanted to go home. About half-way down the hall I heard the nurse call out behind me. “You probably already know this,” she said, “but the last sense we lose before we die is the ability to hear. I just thought you would want know…If you didn’t already know…which you probably did.” And then she disappeared into another room. I stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, but somehow emboldened, and I went back down the hall and into the room. This time, I carefully made my way into the tangle of wires and tubes, and sat on the bed, and took his hands in mine. And I prayed out loud, in a clear voice. I asked God to shepherd this man’s transition home, and to welcome him there, and to bless his passing and be with those who loved him, and comfort them. And I told him that God was with him, and would not leave him, ever, no matter what. And I sat there for a while, listening to the sleet hitting the windows and the respirator breathing in and out, and the sound of my own breathing, now calmer. And then I went home. Before I left, I tried to find the Christmas angel so cleverly disguised as a nurse, and I could not. Where had she gone? Had she been there at all? Could this dying man hear me? I do not know. But I do know this; the light of the forlorn Christmas tree in the darkened lobby of that old hospital has stayed with me, and reminds me that the Word on that evening penetrated even the darkness of my inadequate, hesitant, finite, and all too human brokenness. Grace. That’s the word. Sometimes, in the darkness, despite ourselves, we catch a glimpse of it…and of the light from which it comes.

Each human soul, my sisters and brothers, is sacred and unique, and Christ dwells there, too. Let the same mind be in us that was in Christ Jesus, so that each of us might in the particularity of the “time being,” and the sacred landscape of our souls, give birth to that light. God has poured upon us the new light of God’s Incarnate Word. Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives. Amen

Christmas Day – George Yandell

C. S. Lewis always liked to say that God has a way of making straight paths into crooked lines. 

Sometimes when meeting folks who are unfamiliar with the life of the church or its ministry, it might help us to repeat this mantra: “You know—most of us are just not able to schedule a crisis.” That seems so true of our lives, whatever ‘crisis’ we might face – a crisis of illness and death, or the crisis of unexpected joy and good fortune; we simply cannot schedule what eventually shapes a great deal of our lives. Our life of faith is about seeking and accepting the unseen hand of God when it moves, and accepting the uncertainty of where it may lead us. 

I imagine ‘crisis’ was very much on the minds of Joseph and Mary as they fulfilled their state obligations of census and taxes on the road to Bethlehem. Has it ever been easy to schedule the birth of a child? In those weeks that would become our first Advent, on that night that would become our first Christmas, I’d guess that Joseph and Mary might have thought or uttered the word “crisis,” either under their breath or in the depth of their hearts. “What in God’s name is going to happen next?” 

The unseen hand of heaven was moving through their lives, all the tables turning, and they had no way of knowing how or where things might end. No way to make a market forecast. No real plan B or C, except to hang on for dear life, and bed down where the Lord might make a place for them — a stable, a manger, unknown surroundings filled with nothing but God’s promise, and ultimately God’s love. 

One of the most powerful insights C. S. Lewis ever shared is that all of Western history—all of its wars, its art, its music, its literature; the great cathedrals of Europe, the Sistine Chapel, the discovery of America, the rise and fall of kings, tyrants, and governments—all have hinged on the simple beauty of a girl saying her prayers. A young woman at prayer has shaped the world we have inherited, the world we share, and the world we give to our children. That young woman is Mary, and the prayer she offers is one of faith, courage, and hope in the face of what for her, and for Joseph, must have been a “crisis.” 

In what “best of all possible worlds” would a young woman ever desire to have her child born on the road, in the back of a garage, in the presence of a man who was not actually the father of her child? And yet, it is Mary’s crisis, it is her faithfulness, that opens another doorway to how we live our lives and the history that we build and share on our journey.

Mary holding her baby in a stable, in a garage, is one of the reasons that we know God has compassion on those who suffer uncertainty and tragedy in life; because that is how Christ himself enters the world—in the midst of the worst of all possible circumstances. The baby who arrives in Bethlehem is not on the world’s schedule; He is the unexpected guest. This baby is the crisis none could foresee, but whom everyone ultimately will desire and need.

If we are traveling the crooked lines hoping to make a straight journey, God travels with us. God comes to guide, encourage, laugh with us. God comes to weep with us, and dry our tears. God knows, from the inside-out of a crisis, what it means to take the detours as we make our way home. 

Be at peace, my friends, the King of Peace was born into our uncertainties so that we might know the certainty of his love. God is with us.  (Adapted frm the Very Rev. Alston B. Johnson, St. Mark’s, Shreveport, LA, as reprinted in the Anglican Digest, Autumn 2013.)

Christmas Eve – George Yandell

Who or what affects you most strongly in the birth story of Jesus? With whom do you identify? Is it Joseph? Or the inn-keeper, or the shepherds? What about the other guests in the inn? I suspect many of us identify with Mary. Maybe it’s too much to focus on Jesus – but we might be well-served this Christmas to do so. 

What exactly are the ‘inn’ and the ‘manger’ described in Luke? Those terms fit well with what we know from the later Ottoman Empire. Its ruined caravansaries still border the Silk Road in central Turkey. (Caravansary literally means “camel-caravan-palaces”.) A more primitive version of those structures was likely found in Bethlehem. The inn had a gated enclosure with a central courtyard for the animals; around that were covered rooms without doors from which the animals’ owners could keep an eye on their livestock. Toward the back there were regular closed rooms. Luke mentions those details not only to emphasize the poverty of the holy family, but to be as accurate as possible. As the census drew so many to Bethlehem, the closed and private rooms were gone, and so were all the covered and semi-private ones around the open courtyard. Therefore Jesus was born among the animals in that open courtyard and laid in one of their feeding troughs. [Adapted from The First Christmas, Borg and Crossan, 2007, p. 150]

Had you ever considered that Jesus was born under the starlit sky, no roof, nothing but starlight to be one of the first blurry sights his eyes caught? It gives me a chill, then an understanding. As a gospel passage quotes the grownup Jesus, “The Son of Man has no place to lay his head” but under the heavens.

What about the shepherds? The frightened shepherds became God’s messengers. They organized, made haste, found others, and spoke with them. Don’t we all want to become shepherds and catch sight of the angel? I think so. [Adapted from DorotheeSoelle in On Earth as inHeaven, Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993].

“Mary treasured all these things in her heart.” All beautiful, all touching, but what must it really have been like for a young mother giving birth in a cold, dark stable?For her, life already had been tough. She was, after all, questionable.

Pregnant and not yet properly married, the villagers probably whispered. Birth is messy and scary at best, but in a stable, or a parked car, or a tenement house, or a shack built on a garbage dump? Many women today can relate to Mary’s concern and fear. Our manger scenes, our art, our music are often too pretty, too warm, too safe.

“Mary treasured all these things in her heart.” I’m sure she treasured the lovely things, the joy of the shepherds, the pride Joseph felt, the birth of her beloved Child. But she also treasured the troubling things, the questions, the fear, the tensions—she held them in her soul, dealing with them with courage and faith.

The example of Mary is profound. We might learn how better to treasure many things in our hearts and let those treasures teach us to be more human, [more loving, more trusting]. [Adapted from Susanna Metz in “Synthesis,” December 2019 issue.]

If we focus on Jesus, we come to realize we are gathered to celebrate and make known what is unique to Christianity alone: that God has become one of us. In this neonate, suckling at his mother’s breast, is the enfleshment of God. Here lies God’s ultimate self disclosure, God’s ultimate risk-taking, God’s bright exclamation point to the proclamation God makes at Christmas: “I love you!”

Some call it the “vulgarity of God” to stoop so low, to descend so far, to leave Power and Glory so far behind. And the miracle of miracles occurs in a nameless place, to obscure peasant Jews, broke and fearful, who simply seek to start a family and to live a decent life for this their first-born child. The only witnesses are livestock and shepherds who arrive later, looking like people from a homeless shelter. No trumpets, no fanfare, no attendants, no OBGYNs or nurses, no incubated nurseries to announce the world-changing event, or to make the birth any safer or easier.

This is God in the raw. Who could have invented such a story but God? Some call it the “scandal of particularity.” The Timeless has entered time. The Boundless, Limitless One has become limited. The Nameless has become named. The All Powerful has become the most powerless of all—a newborn child. The Universal and Unlimited One has become “particularized,” in a specified time and place. [Adapted from King Oehmig in “Synthesis”, December 2013 issue.]

All of the participants together tell us we are to participate with God in bringing about the world promised by Jesus’ birth. Rather than waiting for God to bring heaven to earth, we are to collaborate with God. [Adapted from The First Christmas, Borg and Crossan, 2007, p. 241] Christmas is the mandate for all Christians to make God present every day, in every precinct. God is with us. We are all included.

Morton Kelsey once said, “I myself am very glad the divine child was born in a stable, because my soul is very much like the stable, filled with strange, unsatisfied longings with guilt and animal-like impulses, tormented by anxiety, inadequacy, and pain.  If the Holy [Child Jesus] could be born in such a place, the One can be born in me also. I am not excluded.” [Morton Kelsey, quoted in “Anglican Digest”, Winter 2016 issue, p. 30.]

In just a moment, you’ll hear and are invited to sing the first 4 stanzas of the haunting hymn [60], “Creator of the Stars of Night”- the mystery of the birth of Jesus is expanded when you consider the prologue of the Gospel of John. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”

The infant Jesus, looking at the stars above the manger in the courtyard of the inn- that infant son of Mary and Joseph- he was looking up at the stars he had created. It kind of blows the mind, doesn’t it? The Christ made flesh, living among us, is God’s agent, God’s own son. This moment, we are breathing atoms of air that Jesus himself breathed. The stars above us, he knew as creator. Listen and join in singing if you wish, to a part of Hymn 60, printed in your service sheets. I hear the mystery expanding as the music sings of the impossible- the creator of the stars of night is born among us. 

Advent – 4A – George Yandell

I knew Mary. She was in first through third grades with me and she went to my Church. Mary was a freckle-faced strawberry blond who walked home from school with me. Her eyes were crossed and she wore light blue-framed glasses with thick lenses that swept up at the temples. She was shy and didn’t talk much. Sometimes in class she had to step up close to the chalkboard and squint to make out the figures Mrs. McGuffy had written. Once in Sunday School class, Mary was being made fun of by two nasty little boys because she couldn’t see too well. I’d never heard Mary raise her voice before that, but she lit into those two boys – “You don’t think I can see you making fun of me. I can. I’m smart, and I know lots of things you don’t know. For one, my name means ‘one who is loved.’ I know that God loves me, and even loves you. But I don’t know why He loves you. But He does.” And they were stunned to silence. As were all of us third graders. She earned my respect in a big way. For years after, whenever I heard about Mary, mother of Jesus, I always pictured her with light blue glasses, in the image of my friend Mary from down the street. They may have more in common than you’d think.

Mary of Nazareth was given a new title by teachers of the Church almost 175 years after Jesus’ birth. By 451 her title was considered orthodox and accepted widely by the Church. The title = Theotokos = God-Bearer. In today’s gospel, we’re like flies on the wall when Joseph wrestles with the fact of Mary’s conception. When the angel appears to Joseph in a dream and calmed his fears, urging him to wed Mary, the angel tells him to name their son Jesus. You can actually read that passage, “You shall call his name ‘Savior’ because he will save.” The gospel writer distills all that the angel told Joseph, saying, “All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet Isaiah, ‘Look, the young woman shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,’ which means ‘God is with us.’”

Such is the nature of hope for us. God is erupting in human history to be with us. Time collapses around events when the eternal intrudes into the finite. For God, there are (at least) two kinds of time: Fat time and skinny time. Skinny time is clock time – it only goes one direction – it is long and lean. Called in Greek “chronos”. My watch is called a chronograph, and so it is. Fat time is eruptive explosive time, time without boundaries. Fat time is birthing time. Infinity exists in fat time now – God who has no beginning and no end, lives primarily in fat time. In Greek, “Chiros.”

The prophecies Mary recounts in her song says that God makes fat time happen in skinny time. The result is that the low will be exalted, the hungry filled with good things. Essentially, God’s love will reign on earth; in fact, it already does reign. God is in the process, therefore the process is already full.

For this group of Christians here called out, hope is the pooled desires and needs of us all. It is hope that we will be transformed into the people of God’s love. Hope is faith facing the future. Mary gives us the template for living that hope. Mary began that process of transformation, yet unfolding. It requires us also to say “yes” to God daily. Our hope is too precious to be soft-pedaled. We need to live toward God as she did.

You can imagine, then, when leaders of the Church proclaimed Mary as “God-bearer,” that some would balk. Lots did. Yet the wisdom of the Church says that we can call Mary no less than the bearer of God than we can call Jesus any less than God’s own Son. The hope of Christians everywhere is fulfilled. It has all come to pass. A young woman said “Yes” to God, and Jesus was conceived in her womb. The event to come has already happened – we’re embraced by God’s Son even while we’re humans on this tortured earth. We are graced with heavenly hope – hope that took flesh and was nurtured in the womb of a peasant woman. “Our spirit rejoices in God our Savior.”

So what does Mary mother of God have in common with my neighbor Mary? I believe Mary of Nazareth was a simple young woman of faith, maybe 13 or 14 years old. The two Marys both stood up for themselves, and for others of us. I learned from my neighbor Mary that quietness doesn’t mean weakness. Same with the mother of Jesus. She opened her heart, her entire self to God, and became the bearer of God’s love. For that she was blemished in the eyes of her future husband, and certainly her family. Yet she was brave beyond expectations. And she led others to believe, beyond what they thought possible. More than anything, the two Mary’s have taught me that seeing with the heart is soo much more important than seeing with my eyes. That’s why when I think of Mary, I see God rejoicing with her, and all of us who stand up and proclaim God’s love come among us.  

Advent 3A – George Yandell

The story goes that John the baptizer was born on the summer solstice. Six months older than his cousin Jesus, John is a dynamic figure, a man of judgement and light. John burns bright- he lays peoples’ sins bare, his prophecy calls down fire. Yet in today’s gospel passage, John is alone in a dark prison cell. He who recognized Jesus as the Messiah now seems to have doubts. “Are you the one to come,” John asks through his disciples come to Jesus, “or are we to wait for another?” [Adapted from “The Christian Century”, p. 22, November 23 issue.] 

John might well have doubts since the deeds of the Christ are acts of compassion rather than the fiery judgement of the anticipated Messiah John had preached about. (That was in the gospel for last Sunday.) It seems John had backed off his earlier confidence that Jesus was the expected one. [Adapted fm The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol.8, p. 266]

In ancient prisons, prisoners were cared for by friends and family. Their needs were not provided for by the state, but by supporters of prisoners. News traveled freely. Witness the letters Paul wrote from prisons. In the chapters preceding today’s reading, Jesus has cleansed a leper, made the lame to walk, restored sight to the blind, and raised the dead. John must have known these stories. And he must have known that these miracles followed a pattern traced by Isaiah hundreds of years before– we heard those miracles attributed to God as described in the Isaiah reading today. The immediate historical context for that Isaiah passage is a prophecy concerning the return of Israel after the exile in Babylon, in which God will provide safe passage through the barren wilderness. They are obviously important for those who heard and witnessed Jesus doing what Isaiah had described– they were living through the oppressive occupation of their ancestral home by the Roman Empire, the most overwhelming empire of all time.

So when John’s disciples come to Jesus to deliver John’s question from prison, “Are you the one who is to come?”, Jesus was generous with John in his reply- “Tell John what you hear and see- the blind see again, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news (gospel) preached to them.” And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” [Above two paragraphs adapted from “The Christian Century”.]

Jesus was already aware that many would not accept his words and deeds. Thus he goes on to bless those who take “no offense at me”- i.e., those who do not misunderstand his ministry. As the Gospel of Matthew repeatedly illustrates, such misplaced expectations by his followers and adversaries alike would ultimately lead to his rejection.

As John’s disciples depart, Jesus turns to the crowd and begins to speak to them about John. He sees the Baptist as austere and uncompromising— not like a reed that bends and changes direction with the wind. Nor is John like a spoiled prince lounging in his palace, as evidenced by his rough clothing and life in the wilderness. John is clearly a prophet; indeed, he is “more than a prophet”. He is the messenger foretold in the Scriptures who was to prepare the way for the Messiah. He is the one who ushers in the new age of the Messiah, even though he wouldn’t live to see it come in fullness.

However, despite John’s stature as the greatest prophet of his age, Jesus proclaims, “The least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he”. This statement is not a rebuke of John, but an indication of the radical transformation in the age to come. Those in the Kingdom inaugurated by Jesus will be “greater” because they will have experienced the glory of God in the light of the Resurrection—an understanding of the future beyond anything John envisioned. Thus, today we too are called to tell out the things that we have seen and heard, and to do our part to prepare the Lord’s way. [Above adapted from Synthesis Advent 3A.]

St. Bernard of Clairvaux (1090–1153) wrote about the nature of the Kingdom Jesus ushers in. He said, “We have come to know a threefold coming of the Lord. The third coming takes place between the other two. They are clearly manifest but the third is not. In the first coming the Lord was seen on earth and lived among Galilean Jews in the days when, as he himself bears witness, they saw him and hated him. In his last coming “all flesh shall see the salvation of our God,” and “they shall look on him whom they have pierced.”

“The other coming is hidden. In it, only the [ones close to him] see Jesus within themselves and their souls are [transformed]. In brief, his first coming was in the flesh and in weakness, this intermediary coming is in the spirit and in power, the last coming will be in glory and majesty.

“This [hidden middle] coming [of Jesus] is like a road leading from the first to the last coming. In the first coming Christ was our redemption, in the last he will appear as our life, in this intermediary coming he is our rest and consolation. Do not imagine that what we are saying about the intermediary coming is simply our own fabrication. Listen to Christ himself, “If a man loves me he will keep my words, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him” (John 14).” Where, then, are they to be kept? Without any doubt they are to be kept in the heart. ….. Keep the word of God in that way…. Let it pierce deep into your inmost soul and penetrate your feelings and actions. …..If you keep the word of God in this way without a doubt you will be kept by it. The Son with the Father will come to you.”

Once Rabbi Mendel Morgensztern of Kotzk surprised a group of learned scholars in the 19^th century by asking them: “Where is the dwelling place of God?” “What a thing to ask!” they replied. “Is not the whole world full of God’s glory!” they exclaimed. “Yes,” the rabbi said, “but God dwells wherever people let him in.”

Indeed that is so. And that is the question of Advent: whether it is the coming of the End, and/or the coming of the Christ in the Incarnation: Are we ready to let God in? Are we ready to entrust our lives to Christ? To unclench the fist of willfulness and open the hand of trust, believing somehow that God’s creativity is not exhausted in the past, but is alive and at work in ways more than we can ask and imagine—if we simply turn our lives over to it.

When Gandhi was once asked by a reporter what was the secret to his happiness, the holy man replied, “Three words. Renounce and enjoy.” Renounce control, and embrace grace. Breathe a little easier. Take yourself less seriously. Soar, and leave the results to God. Hark! A thrilling voice is sounding “Christ is nigh,” it seems to say; “Cast away the works of darkness, O ye children of the day.” Advent’s leap of faith awaits us all. [Adapted from King Oehmig in “Synthesis”, Advent 3 2019.]

Advent 2A – George Yandell

I offer you an exercise, a thought experiment. You may close your eyes. Recall your favorite childhood memory from the days leading up to Christmas.// Did you keep peering under the tree, hoping presents would appear? Did you add figures to the crèche as the days drew nearer? Did your family light an Advent wreathe to mark the passing days? What was it like for you? Do you remember what you felt? //

As adults, has anything changed? Ha ha. What do we anticipate now? Is it family gatherings? A feast? Do some of us anticipate sadness at losses that are accentuated near Christmas? The adult preparation for Christmas is often doing for others rather than ourselves, isn’t it? That gets lots closer to the scripture passages for today than our childhood anticipation.

Centuries before John the Baptist appeared, the Prophet Isaiah described a time of universal peace under the rule of an ideal king (Is. 11:1-5). Over time, Christians came to associate this figure with Jesus. This Messianic king was to be a descendant of David, the son of Jesse-hence the reference to a green shoot springing to life out of a stump.

The image of a stump here also conveys the strength and humility of Israel in contrast to the imperial arrogance of the Assyrians (“majestic trees”) that the Lord will cut down (Is. 10:33-34). This king will be filled with God’s Spirit and endowed with wisdom, understanding, and knowledge. His delight will be in the Lord, and he will reign with justice and equity for the poor and the meek. Rather than his wearing the trappings of imperial office, “righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins”.

Creation itself will be transformed in the Messiah’s age of reconciliation. The images of verses 6-9 describe life as originally intended in Eden, with animals and humans living in harmony, and where the weak do not fear the strong. This peaceful kingdom on God’s “holy mountain” will become a reality because “the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord” (v. 9). This spirit of peace will extend throughout the world as the nations turn to the Messianic king (v. 10). [The above 3 paragraphs adapted from Synthesis for Dec. 2013]

These prophetic images were about God doing for God’s people what they desperately needed. And God’s people were to be open and caring to all the others of the world, working compassion and justice with and for them.

What was John up to at the Jordan? As Matthew says: “All the region streamed out to him, and they were baptized, admitting their sins.” He called out, “Change your ways because Heaven’s imperial rule is closing in.” Scholars have said John was the hinge-point of salvation history, the greatest and last of the prophets of Israel.  He was conducting a massive sacrament, leading people through the Jordan, baptizing them, leaving sins behind, entering the promised land anew as a forgiven people. He was reenacting the Exodus, leading the people of Israel again into God’s kingdom. The one Isaiah had foretold was coming. And those John baptized were ready. 

Provocatively, John offered people baptism apart from the temple– very important- he was taking the place of the priests in declaring people’s sins washed away.  The temple was no longer the center for those people- they participated in a prophetic act. And he said it would be violent when God comes- God will do to the Romans what they had done to Judea. 

“What crossing the Rubicon was to a Roman citizen, or what storming Bunker Hill is to an American citizen, the entering of the land from the eastern bank of the Jordan river was to an Israelite,” writes Brad Munroe [at firstprespueblo.org.] He points out that John’s desert location must have been both provocative and tantalizing—one for which no Israelite could possibly have missed the symbolism. They were preparing for an explosive visit from God. God was indeed promising freedom for a beleaguered people. But the joy of restoration and rest was not yet theirs. And indeed, even today the desert speaks to us of isolation, physical challenge, alienation, and parched spirits. Real dangers lurk there.

We too are often in deserts ourselves. Christmas can accentuate the divides among us, the losses we have suffered. As we anticipate the promised kingdom, the common-wealth of Christ, we need to recall that we too have crossed the Jordan, been baptized, and are now God’s tenants in God’s world. We have died with Christ and been raised up out of the Jordan in new life. That’s the promise of Advent. The coming commonwealth of God is near.

The hallmark of our anticipation, and John the baptizer’s, is reverence. Holy awe like John’s as he beheld the Lamb of God. We sorely lack this reverence. One only need drive the highways or walk the shopping malls. No one seems to be awe-filled, being gently still, expecting the holy. Expecting the holy moves us to respect and kindness toward all of life- and toward ourselves, for we are the ones God created to love. 

It believe for us that Advent and Christmas can be about mystical re-union of our opposites– reunion of our childhood thrill and anticipation with our adult knowledge of pain and loss. Reunion of the youthful love of getting with the mature love of giving. I intend to seek some quiet in the coming days and remember those I love but see no longer. And I intend to embrace with gusto those I love as they appear in different stages over the coming weeks and tell them how much I love them. And wait once again for celebrating of the mystery- the mystery of God come to us.  

1st Sunday of Advent, Year A – Rev. Frank F. Wilson

This morning we exit the long season of Pentecost and begin a new season in the church – the season that we call Advent. Advent, as we all know, is the first season of the new church year. Advent is sort of the preamble to all that we will attend to in terms of liturgy, Biblical texts, and themes throughout this new year. 

You no doubt know that the word “advent” simply means “coming.”  It is a word that anticipates something new, and novel, maybe even glorious is to come.

Actually, if you think about it, we use the word “advent” quite often in everyday speech. For example, we might say that the renaissance marked the advent of a new and vibrant era in the arts, and in science and religion.

We might say that the discovery of electricity marked the advent of the industrial age. 

If you are a fan of University of Georgia football, you might say that the hiring of Coach Kirby Smart marked the advent of UGA’s return to top-ranked football – a thing that Georgia fans have anticipated with great enthusiasm.

And so, we begin this new church year as we do every year. This is a time of year when we put ourselves in a posture of anticipation. The season of Advent is a time of being in waiting. Waiting for he who is to come – anticipating the arrival of the Christ child. But in the waiting, we also find ourselves pondering that time in the future when all that Christ initiated will come into all its fullness. This is a time we sometimes refer to as the Peaceable Kingdom – a term although not found in the Bible per se, is a term that bubbles up out of texts not unlike those read here a few moments ago. The term Peaceable Kingdom was coined by the Pennsylvania artist Edward Hicks. Hicks, a Quaker, was inspired having read certain passages from the Book of Isaiah, including the following: The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them…”[Isaiah 11:6-8]

And so it is that this season of Advent illumines and renews our hopefulness in humankind’s potential of someday establishing peace on earth and goodwill towards all.  

One of the ways that we signify that we are living in a time of new beginnings is by the displaying of an Advent wreath and candles. We have one here. The point is the flames from the candles are a symbol of the Light of Christ which comes in the darkness. 

The story is told about the writer Robert Louis Stevenson growing up in Scotland around the turn of the century. The same Robert Louis Stevenson who penned such classics as Treasure Island as well as many non-fiction works. As a young boy, Stevenson lived on a hillside outside of his hometown of Edinboro, Scotland. It is said that each evening young Robert would sit in his family’s kitchen and look down on the town, and watch as the lamp lighter ignited each of the town’s street lamps below. From his vantage point it was as if each light sort of emerged from the darkness in a slow but steady stream, one at a time. Stevenson recalled saying to his mother once, “Look mother, there is a man down there punching holes in the darkness.”

The analogy, of course, the metaphor if you will, is that this is what the light of Christ is like. Embracing and living life as extolled by Christ punches holes in the darkness of the troubled human heart, and the troubled human soul – all in a very troubled world. We have but to turn on TV news any hour of the day or pick up a newspaper to be reminded that it is so. And so, each week as we progress through the season of Advent, we will light more candles to express our deep desire for and our collective longing for the Peaceable Kingdom.

So, the question becomes, “What are we to do with this time of waiting — this time of anticipation and preparation?

Well, let us consult once again the prophet Isaiah in search for the answer to that question. He writes: Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob… so that we might be instructed in the ways of God. And the prophet speaks of a time when swords will be forged into ploughshares and spears will be turned into pruning hooks. This is but another way of saying: let us be intentional about casting away the works of darkness and embracing the light. It is about stepping outside of that which bedevils us and embracing that which renders peace, hope, joy, and contentment.

The Psalmist says pray for peace – peace in your own spirit and peace among and between all persons. 

And what does Jesus say? Jesus simply says, “Therefore, you must be ready.” And over the span of his ministry Jesus will say a hundred times over, in one way or another, as do all of our texts this morning, that the way we will be ready is to let love be our guide, our example, and our intention.  Jesus is saying if we can but bring ourselves to just let that simple principle, that simple prescription, that simple way of being and thinking be our guide – our collective guide – we will be ready. We will be prepared. And maybe we would have arrived at what Hicks called the Peaceable Kingdom.

                                                                     ***

You know Jesus did not coin the term Christianity. That would come later – many years following his death. In fact, early on, Jesus’ movement had no name. A perceptive observer might have called Jesus’ way the way of radically reformed Judaism.  But the earliest followers of Jesus, in fact, simply called the Jesus movement ‘The Way.’ Simply put and at its core, this simply meant the way of love.

The Psalmist this morning focuses on Jerusalem and the tribes of Israel when he prays for peace and prosperity. But Jesus later comes along and offers something of a corrective. He pushes a reset button on the theology of the psalmist. Jesus will say to focus on the tribes of Israel is fine and well, but God’s view of the family of God is ever so much greater than a single tribe or nation. God’s kingdom includes all whom God has made.

The Apostle Paul, arguably the most articulate of the leaders of the Jesus Movement, says that we owe not one nothing except to love one another.

Jesus will say this no plainer than when asked the question, “Who is my neighbor?” In response to that question Jesus tells the story of the so-called good Samaritan. And the point of the story of the Good Samaritan is that your neighbor is everyone with whom you share this planet whether that person lives next door, or in a neighboring country, or is your perceived enemy, or is someone who lives on the other side of the world. 

Love is universal. It knows no tribe. It knows no boundaries. It knows no nation.  We are not called to love those whom we might judge to be loveable or whom we might desire to love. We are simply called to love.      

*****

In closing, let me “shift gears” so to speak and admit that now that I am no longer required to attend diocesan Annual Council, it’s been a few years now since I have attended one.  But know that one of the things that takes place at Council is that at some point in the proceedings the bishop takes off his Chairman of the Board hat and gives an address to those 500 or so delegates – about whatever is on his or her heart and mind. It is called an address rather than a sermon because it does not take place within the context of a worship service, but be assured that this address is most always sermon-esk.

And I remember to this day a story that Bishop Wright told at the last Council I attended. It happened that he had recently been in Cuba working in mutual ministry down there. And he told how one morning, before breakfast, he was standing at the window of the room in which he was staying. And he allowed as to how there had been something of a storm during the night that was still lingering as the sun was rising. It was still raining and he said that the wind was blowing quite hard. Rob said that as he was staring out the window, he saw two doves on a power line. They were poised about a foot or so apart. And he said that as he watched the birds, one began to move toward the other. And he watched as, in unison, the two birds began to edge toward each other until they were quite pressed together, side by side.  And there they stayed, huddled and pressed together, heads down, contending with and struggling against the storm. Then Rob said, he witnessed an amazing sight. He said one of the birds lifted its wing and very purposefully blanketed the other dove with whom he was sharing that powerline perch.

My friends in Christ, Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. In the meantime, let us be about seeking and pursuing our better selves. In the meantime, in the waiting, let us be reminded that God calls us simply to love one another. In the meantime, as we await the arrival of the Christ child and the advent of creation in all of its expansive glory; as we await that time when love will indeed rule all of God’s creation – in the waiting we are to practice the art of love as if Christ has already returned. 

As the Apostle Paul said, let us put on the Lord Jesus Christ. Let us adopt love as our rule of life as Christ demonstrated for us. Let us adopt love as if our very lives depend on it because you know what? It actually and absolutely does.

[Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty we may rise to life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.]Amen.

Meditation Pledge Card Dedication Sunday – George Yandell

Four parallel stories in all four gospels are actually parallel miracles. Miracles of few loaves and fishes feeding 5,000 people. In John’s gospel account, Andrew speaks up to Jesus, says, “There is a lad here with five loaves and two fish; but what does that amount do for so many?” Jesus said, “Have the people sit down,” and he took the loaves, gave thanks, and passed them around with the fish to all the people sitting there. No more mention of the young boy.

What was the boy thinking? Did he regret letting Andrew know about his bread and fish? I suspect not- especially when Jesus passed the food around and at the end, and 12 baskets full of the left-over food was gathered. The boy had witnessed something unbelievable- and his catch of fish and bread had been the catalyst for it. 

Mark’s account doesn’t mention the boy. Jesus tells his disciples to give the huge crowd something to eat. When his friends complain that there’s not enough to begin to feed the crowd, Jesus asks them: “How many loaves do you have? Go look.” The disciples come back to Jesus and tell him, “Five loaves and two fish.” Jesus had everyone sit down, then took the bread and fish, looked up at the sky, gave a blessing, and broke the bread apart, and started giving it to his disciples to pass around. Everyone had enough to eat. The disciples picked up 12 baskets full of left-overs, including some fish. 5000 people were fed. 

I like that this shared story has distinctive differences in the two accounts (Matthew and Luke’s account today follow Mark’s account closely.) The two striking things about John and Mark are the boy, sharing all he had, and in Mark, it was the disciples who distributed the bread and fish- it was at their hands that the bread and fish were multiplied. And in Luke, 12 baskets full of broken pieces were gathered. Much more than the 5 loaves and two fish Jesus blessed and broke for distribution.

The boy contributed all of what he had- the miracle was in the sharing, God’s blessing covered everyone. Some Jesus scholars suggest that it wasn’t only the boy who put in his offering, but that many others did as well. It doesn’t change the outcome- you’d have had to buy 4,950 happy meals to feed the 5,000. 

Our parish turns 36 on Advent Sunday, one week from today. Sam Buice gave us a sense of what the early founders of our parish experienced as their supper club with Eucharist grew into a parish. We are collectively growing into mature adulthood. When I think what the wider community would be like if we’d never been born as a parish, I imagine it impoverished and diminished. And we as well. I am so grateful to be part of this community of saints, founded on a wing and a prayer by generous souls, many of whom are still with us.

I have been tithing since 1983. 10% of my income goes to God through the Church. Susan and I have been tithing since we came to Holy Family 12 years ago. (Draw attention to the chart in the service sheet.) Some couples choose to pledge separately from one another from their separate incomes, respecting one another as they are in different places on their faith journeys.

Some of us are part-time residents of Jasper and Holy Family. You might choose to estimate your giving based on the percentage of time you spend here. 

Many of our regular givers have filled out pledge cards over the past 12 years. 112 of us did so for 2022. What if every individual/every family in this congregation submitted a pledge card? What if everyone came forward with her/his offering, like the young boy in the gospel? The miracle might well overwhelm us. And note, one’s pledge can be modified throughout the year as our fortunes rise or fall. (Read the card aloud, word for word: “I/we commit to give of my/our financial resources to God through Holy Family Church. To support the ministries of Holy Family in 2023 I/we commit $$ as a weekly or monthly or quarterly or annually.”)

Today we’ll gather in the pledges of those who’ve chosen to give to God through Holy Family Church for 2023. For those unable to be present today, or those who’ve not sent in their pledge cards, a reminder notice will be sent in the coming days. I recall Bp. Whitmore’s words 6 years ago: Generous giving consecrates ourselves to Christ.// Giving 10% (or more!) allows us to live 90% free- knowing we’re bound up with Christ in the work of the kingdom of God. Pooling our giving creates us as a holy community, as consecrated disciples. I am convicted that as we combine our hearts in the movement of the spirit in a moment, God works through us. Stepping up, pooling our substance, deepens our faith, increases our fellowship, and spreads the good news way past this congregation into God’s good world. I can see the little boy’s eyes wide with amazement. Jesus is opening us up to new life, new freedom.

Proper 28C – George Yandell

Here are some facts about a region known to many of you. Over a period of 200 years, at least 8 major events troubled this region. See if you can tell where it is.

• At the beginning of these 200 years, a series of major earthquakes rocked the region, killing untold numbers of peoples, devastating communities.
• There was intensive slavery, masters growing rich on the backs of their slaves.
• A massive conversion to commercialized agriculture focused on crops that big companies could sell in foreign markets, causing landowners to go into debt, because they couldn’t compete with the huge combined farms. Small landowners were driven off their farms and turned into sharecroppers.
• Grinding poverty grew among the population, as the rich grew richer.
• A civil war tore the region apart. Throngs of residents were conscripted into military service, sent to die in battles close to home and far away.
• The victors occupied the region after subduing rebellions large and small; racial minorities were oppressed.
• The infant mortality rate grew to epidemic proportions.
• Religious institutions failed to honor their mission to protect the poorest of the poor.
• Toward the end of these 200 years, a charismatic leader arose who protested against the treatment of the impoverished people. He preached non-violent cooperation. His disciples watched in horror as he was violently killed.

What region am I describing? Yes, Palestine in the period from 170 BCE to 30 CE. All these statements are true.

The homeland of Jesus is split by the northern end of the Great Rift Valley. Palestine experiences an average of two destructive earthquakes per century, 2-6 light shocks each year. After the Hebrews revolted under the Maccabees against the oppression of the Syrian rulers 162 years before Jesus was born, they actually achieved independence for a time. In the century Jesus’s birth, Roman legions occupied Syria and established their headquarters there. In 5 BCE, while Mary was carrying the baby Jesus in her womb, peasant Jews revolted in Sepphoris (5 miles from Nazareth) and in Jerusalem. Roman legions were sent south to quell the revolts. One legion passed right through Nazareth on the way down to Sepphoris. They practiced a scorched earth policy, raping women, taking slaves, leaving devastation in their wake.

Jesus delivers his last teaching before his crucifixion in today’s gospel. It is called ‘the little apocalypse’. Apocalyptic writings interpret a present or impending crisis as the last crisis of this age of human history, before a new age begins.  

After Jesus spoke to the disciples and others in Jerusalem, they probably looked at one another, and replied, “So what’s new about this? This is our world you’re describing. Why should anything change?” Jesus tells of the world as it is, war after war, crisis after crisis. He longs for the world to be transformed into the world as it should be. Jesus knew God’s heart. Jesus knew God longed for God’s kingdom to cover the earth so that justice and peace would reign. The disciples who slept out with Jesus on the Mt. of Olives had entered kingdom life with him, and sampled the surpassing peace the kingdom promised. And they knew the world was shaking and in flames all around them. They were living on the fault line. 

What fault lines are destabilizing our Holy Family community? What temblors do we feel in Jasper? // Listen again to Luke: Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that you (plural) are not led astray; for many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am he!’ and ‘the time is near! Do not go after them. When you (plural) hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately.  Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.”

The important word here is ‘You’ plural. “Don’t be led astray- you all, my community, stay together.” “Cling to one another”, Jesus was saying- “The end of this age is near, God’s kingdom is pregnant now. You are the kingdom being born now.” Jesus meant for the disciples to hold onto each other through all sorts of calamities.  That tiny community grew to 33 million followers by 350 CE. More than half the population of the entire Roman Empire. How did that happen? They lived the kingdom of God as real and present.

The 1^st evidence of God’s kingdom present now = peace in the midst of chaos. The 2^nd evidence = love growing in fellowship, sharing God’s gifts with all. The 3^rd evidence= serving the world with joy. It’s like a double helix of the individual and the community- each strand growing into God, separate but connected. Knowing, loving, and serving God. The individual’s growth into God’s heart is carried in community, and the community grows as I am led deeper into knowing, loving and serving God. That’s what Jesus grafted into the hearts of his disciples- hold onto one another: know, love and give to God through the fellowship. That’s why followers of the Way of Jesus still flourish today in the midst of pain and devastation.

I want tell you a story about living through the worst, of disciples that won’t let go, and the present kingdom of God. There was a wild boy named Charlie in my home church in Knoxville. He was two years older than I. His mother, Beth, taught my 4^th grade Sunday school class while my mother taught Charlie’s 6^th grade class. My mother said it was the most challenging class she’d ever taught because Charlie instigated all sorts of mischief.

When I got to 9^th grade and went to high school, Charlie was a junior. He was one of the boys who drove fast, drank beer and smoked cigarettes. He was always called to the principal’s office. After his junior year, Charlie was flunking out. He enlisted in the army. Keep in mind this was 1968. He trained to fly helicopters, and went to Viet Nam as a med-evac pilot. Home on leave the summer after my junior year, Charlie attended Church one Sunday in uniform. He was a changed person. He had found his calling in life. He stood proud. He said he’d seen things that brought out the very best and the very worst in people. He was a man on a mission. In my senior year, Charlie’s helicopter was shot down as he was airlifting the wounded from the battlefield. Charlie and all aboard were killed. 

At Charlie’s funeral in our Church, I sat in the choir loft with other volunteer singers, and looked down at his flag-draped casket. I couldn’t accept that Charlie’s body was inside it. It was surreal, unbelievable. News cameras were taping the service. A distant war had become personal and horrifying. Charlie’s mother Beth was devastated. She withdrew from her friends. She and her husband divorced a year after Charlie’s death. She was lost in her grief. 

There’s a postscript: Charlie’s mother didn’t stay submerged in her grieving. Her fellow church school teachers wouldn’t let her go. They kept calling, going by her house, urging her to come to planning lunches, and finally her resistance caved. She started teaching again, sharing in the planning for the special events of the parish. She spent large portions of each day volunteering, helping to build a remarkable Christian Ed program.  By the time she died in the early 1990’s, Beth had experienced resurrection. She once remarked to some of her fellow teachers, “You know, I miss Charlie every day. But God has entrusted throngs of children to me. I love each and every one of them- I’ve seen them grow up and flourish. I’d never have my heart fill with love again had it not been for my fellow teachers- they wouldn’t let me go.” That was how the rector quoted Beth at her burial. Everyone knew it to be true.  This is still our mission- cling to each other through good times and bad. Don’t let go. No matter what fault lines shift under us, we are God’s kingdom people. The new age of God’s peace begins here and now. When you pass the peace today, realize it’s a prayer for the one in front of you. A prayer for the peace that is God’s kingdom coming. Jesus intends we live it.