Author Archives: djgrieser

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About djgrieser

I have been Rector of Grace Episcopal Church in Madison, WI since 2009. I'm passionate about Jesus Christ and about connecting our faith and tradition with 21st century culture. I'm also very active in advocating for our homeless neighbors.

Proclaiming the Good News of God’s Radical Love: A Sermon for Epiphany3C, 2025

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3 Epiphany

January 26, 2025

Today, following the 10:00 service, you’re invited to participate in a series titled “Radical Love.” Sponsored and organized by our Pride Committee, the series is intended to introduce us to new ways of thinking about LGBTQ+ inclusion, and new ways of thinking about the Christian faith in light of the experiences of our LGBTQ+ siblings in Christ.

This series has been long in the planning stage and it’s only coincidence that it is beginning now, when the LGBTQ+ community is feeling especially vulnerable and trans and non-binary people are facing new exclusions and restrictions. But for us at Grace to step boldly into these new challenges is a sign that our faith in God continues to challenge us to reach out to the vulnerable and marginalized and to try to build a community that in its embrace of diversity is a model to others of God’s all-inclusive love. 

Like the timing of our series, today’s gospel reading couldn’t be more fitting for the moment in which we find ourselves. During this year C of the three year lectionary cycle, our focus is on the Gospel of Luke. Although we have been reading from that gospel since the beginning of Advent in December, it may be helpful to have a reminder of some of its unique features and themes. First, it’s important to keep in mind that the gospel of Luke is the first half of a coherent narrative that includes the Book of Acts. They are connected thematically above all by the importance of geography. The gospel tells the story of the spread of the gospel from Galilee to Jerusalem to the world, ending the book of Acts in the center of the ancient Mediterranean world: Rome. 

There’s a second important thematic connection. Luke stresses the activity of the Holy Spirit. It came upon Jesus in his baptism; we see mention of it here in our gospel reading: “Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit…” When he dies on the cross, Jesus’s last words in Luke are “Into your hands I commend my spirit.” Then, the Holy Spirit comes upon the disciples at Pentecost and they are carried by the power of the Spirit into all the world.

Among other unifying themes, there is one in today’s reading that bears mention. Luke is careful to show the continuity of the Jesus movement, and of John the Baptist with the Prophetic tradition of Israelite religion. He describes John in ways consistent with the great prophets of Elijah and Elisha, and here we see Jesus appealing to the authority of Isaiah as he begins his public ministry. It’s also important to note that Luke depicts Jesus as a faithful observant Jew: “he went to the synagogue on the sabbath, as was his custom.” 

So Jesus, the hometown boy made good, is invited to read from scripture. He combines two passages from Isaiah into a coherent message beginning “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release for the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

Remarkable enough these words, what comes next is even more so. Jesus sits down and says, “Today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” The reading breaks off here but the text goes on to describe the changing response of Jesus’ listeners. At first, we’re told that they were amazed at his gracious words. Then they asked, “Is not this Joseph’s son?” In response, Jesus seems to goad them, citing the adage, “no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown” and they turn on him. By the end of the story, they’re trying to kill him. 

It’s astonishing really that the mood changed so quickly. Was it because Jesus was making authority claims for himself and his powers that the crowd didn’t seem were warranted? Was that he was dissing his hometown, as many of us are wont to do?

In any case, Jesus’ rather free quotation from Isaiah is meant by Luke to convey what Jesus is about, what his ministry and preaching will entail. To put it into contemporary language—this is Jesus’ mission statement according to Luke. He makes this clear later in the gospel when the John the Baptizer, now in prison, has gotten word of Jesus’ activity. He sends two of his disciples to Jesus to ask him if he is the Messiah or if they are to wait for another. Jesus response to them, and to John is “Go tell John what you have seen, the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the poor have good news preached to them.” 

I had reached this point in my sermon prep on Friday and was discerning where I might take it when I was interrupted by someone who had come to Grace seeking help. No, he wasn’t looking for rent money or gas. He wanted to arrange a funeral and spot in our columbarium for a friend for whom he was power of attorney. As we chatted, he explained that this friend wanted Grace to be his final resting place because of our reputation for welcome and because a dear friend of his was interred here.

As I’ve reflected on that conversation, I’ve been pondering the gossamer threads that connect us and create community, among the living, and among the living and the dead. Those bonds are fragile and easily severed as we are seeing in our nation today but it may be that our most urgent task right now is to nurture and strengthen them. As our immigrant neighbors cower in fear and transgender and nonbinary siblings face erasure it is incumbent upon us to show by our words and our deeds that our community embraces and welcomes all people.

We might take inspiration from Paul’s words in today’s epistle reading. They are often reduced to requests for volunteers: some are called to be ushers, some to be lectors, some to serve on the altar guild. But it’s much more than that. Paul was trying to create a community across religious and social distance, across the barriers of slave and free, Jew and Gentile. It’s worth pointing out that when he uses this formula here, he does not include gender as he does in the earlier letter to the Galatians; perhaps, as many scholars posit, that division was too deep for him to close.

In a way, the absence of the male/female binary in Paul’s formula here points to the difficulty of creating and maintaining community across difference. We all know that, of course. We find ourselves connecting with people very like ourselves, from our ethnic or racial identity, from our socio-economic class, from our neighborhoods, even from our age cohort. But Paul challenges to do more and to do better, to build those bonds of community and relationship with people unlike ourselves, to reach across the differences of class, gender, race, ethnicity, and more, even religion.

When we think about the community Paul envisions for the body of Christ, we must remember that it is not only focused on building those relationships internally. It should also be a witness to the wider community, a witness of God’s loving embrace of all humankind, whatever their race, gender, religion, or immigration status. 

And that witness should also be one of proclamation of the Good News of the year of the Lord’s favor—the coming of God’s reign. We should boldly preach that good news to the poor release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and freedom for the oppressed. May we have the courage to proclaim it, and the courage to embody that good news!

Quiet Moments of Grace and Glory: A Sermon for 2 Epiphany C, 2025

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On the third day, there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee. I know I often say it about gospel readings, but this story from the Gospel of John truly is one of my favorites. It comes around every three years in the lectionary cycle and I look forward to it each time, even though I suspect that many of you remember at least snippets of what I’ve said about the text in previous sermons. 

One of the things we’ve lost with the switch to the Revised Common Lectionary, is a sense of Epiphany as a season, not just a single Sunday or two, if you include the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, which we observed last Sunday. Traditionally, this gospel story was read every year on the Second Sunday after the Epiphany, and indeed in the earliest centuries of Christianity, in addition to drawing on the themes of the Coming of the Magi, and Christ’s baptism, the feast of the Epiphany also included allusions to the Wedding at Cana.

Epiphany as a season, or observance, invites us to explore all of the ways that God reveals God’s glory in the world, and especially in the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. What better way to reflect on that glory than by exploring this story, which ends with the gospel writer telling us that “he revealed his glory, and his disciples believed in him.”

Like other stories in the gospel of John, like the gospel as a whole, this story is dense with symbolism and multiple meanings. Take the very first phrase, for example—“On the third day…” What comes to mind for you? I hope that phrase from the Nicene creed we recite each Sunday “On the third day, he rose again from the dead…” 

By the way, this week marks the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicea, where what we now know as the Nicene Creed was originally formulated—it underwent some editing during the course of the century so what we say is not identical to what was issued from the Council. Sorry, that was a free historical tidbit for you to munch on.

By using this phrase, the gospel writer is pointing us ahead to the gospel’s end, to Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection. As I’ve said many times before, for John, the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension are all wrapped together in the term “glorification;” so the miracle of turning water into wine is also a symbol of cross and resurrection.

It’s worth pointing out that there’s another connection between the story of the wedding at Cana and the crucifixion. Those two stories are the only times when Jesus’ mother is mentioned in the gospel, never by name. Each time, Jesus addresses her as “Woman”—much scholarly ink has been spilt debating whether this is a derisive or honorable form of address. I have no opinion on the matter, I invite you to draw your own conclusions.

But there’s another deep resonance in that phrase “on the third day.” This verse is the beginning of the second chapter of John. Do you know how John 1 begins? We heard it a couple of weeks ago: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” The gospel takes us back to the very beginning, to creation.

If you go a little further in chapter 1, though, you might notice something interesting. Three times, in verses 29, 35, 43, they begin, “the next day…” If you add those three next days with the third day, you get the 7th day—and remember, on the seventh day, God rested, blest and hallowed the Sabbath, and said it was all very good. There’s a sense in which this wedding banquet is itself the messianic feast, the eternal sabbath, where food is abundant and wine flows freely where joy and happiness abound.

Now to the wine. How much wine was it? 6 jars, 20-30 gallons each. 120-180 gallons total, let’s say roughly 5 bottles of wine in a gallon—that’s 600 to 900 bottles. Yes, that’s a lot of wine, and remember, they had run out. The party had been going on for a long time already, and thanks to Jesus’ miracle, would continue quite some time to come.

The story, the season, may gladden our hearts and lift our spirits, if only for a few minutes, as we divert our attention from the events taking place in our world; the devastating fires in California, the continued rebuilding after hurricanes in the South; the anxieties so many of us have about what the future holds in store.

As I was looking through past sermons on this gospel reading, I came across the one I preached in 2013. Like today, it was the day before the Second Inauguration of President Obama and the day before the observance of MLK Day; that confluence seemed a fitting reminder of where we were as a nation, how far we had come. Now, twelve years later; Inauguration Day and MLK Day once again coincide but the feeling is quite different, isn’t it? The fear and foreboding, the threats to democracy, to religious and cultural pluralism, to diversity, are profound and dangerous. To take joy in a gospel reading seems hollow, a denial of the stark realities that we face as a nation and as Christians.

 It may be that another minor detail in this story helps us to make sense of it and ourselves in our current context. For all the extravagance of the superfluity of wine, the miracle itself is understated and downplayed. Jesus does nothing demonstrative to change the water into wine; the only ones who notice it are the servants who obey his instructions. There’s a quiet grace here in the midst of the superabundance.

And that makes sense. We may not be wondering whether we have the resources to keep the party going; our concerns may be much more mundane, more urgent. We may be wondering whether we have the energy to keep going; whether we have the stamina for the struggle ahead. We may wonder whether the effects of climate change that have shown themselves so dramatically and tragically in these last six months will affect us as well as so many other millions in the US and across the world. We may be worrying about the threats to our undocumented neighbors, or to transpeople, or the bizarre sabre rattling around Greenland, Canada, and the Panama Canal. We may be hoping for a miracle—hoping that God will intervene to make things right.

But while we wonder, and worry, and wait, Jesus may be spreading his grace in small, undetectable ways, in our lives, among our community, our friends and family, our world. Just as very ordinary grapes are transformed by the skill of winemakers into majestic wines; just as water was transformed into wine, so too can ordinary things, ordinary people, ordinary moments, be changed into moments of grace, bringing hope to the hopeless, healing to those who are hurting, love to the unloved.

We don’t know what the future holds in store. We don’t know how we, our fellow Americans, the world, will weather the coming storms. But we can be sure that Christ is walking into the future with us; that there will be moments of quiet and unexpected grace, and that with his help, we may be the ones who create those moments of grace for others.

AI and the Word: A sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas, 2024

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December 29, 2024

I’ll be honest with you. I haven’t done much thinking about, or exploring of Generative AI. Maybe it’s because at this point in my professional and personal life, the idea of adopting and growing comfortable with yet another technological innovation seems rather pointless. Perhaps it’s because I don’t see its relevance to the kind of work I do. Oh, I remember back when ChatGpt was introduced, seeing a couple of theologian/pastors post about their attempts to use the new technology to write sermons—their efforts, if I recall correctly—were largely failures.

I’m aware of the questions raised by AI—ethical, environmental, moral. I read of faculty who struggle with students who turn in AI generated or assisted essays; of the wild claims made by its advocates for doing away with all sorts of creative work, mostly by plagiarizing work that’s already been made by those creators. I know of the vast environmental toll taken—the energy and water required to run the computers. I’ve seen the stories about the inadequate responses generated by AI to questions posed—and problems presented—in healthcare for example.

But I think the real reason I have no interest in making use of AI in my work is that it goes against what I take to be a fundamental part of my Christian faith, grounded in these first verses from the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

Each year we hear these words twice in succession. It’s the gospel reading for Christmas Day, and in the Episcopal Church, the gospel reading for the first Sunday after Christmas. As I point out every year on Christmas Day, I’ve preached on this text every year that I’ve been ordained, and a couple of years before that. I’ve also preached on it on many first Sundays after Christmas, so I’ve written lots of sermons about it. But that’s ok, because no one single sermon could exhaust the meaning and power of this passage.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Centuries ago, it was the custom of preachers and theologians to take a phrase or verse from scripture as their motto. They might include it on every title page of works that they published and they used it as a kind of polestar by which to guide their ministry and their work. If I were to adopt such a practice, I would probably choose this sentence from John’s gospel—because it conveys the mystery of the incarnation 

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. It may be that these words, more than any other in scripture reassure me when I am most apt to question my faith. That brief phrase, in fact the whole of these first verses of John’s gospel have provided food for thought for theological speculation across the centuries of the Christian tradition. In the early church, John’s use of the term logos—word to refer to Christ provided an avenue for the introduction of Greek philosophical reflection into Christian theology and inspired deep theological reflection.

Hidden in these words is first of all the notion that Christ was present in creation, indeed, that Christ, the Word was the means by which God created the universe. After all, in Genesis 1, God speaks, and by speaking brings the universe and all that is in it, into existence. But John’s gospel goes further, by proclaiming that not only is the logos, the word the means by which the universe came into existence, the logos also became flesh, became incarnate and lived among us. 

That notion goes much further than any ancient greek philosopher would go. Indeed, it is an idea that would be repugnant to most of ancient greek thought, because it was understood that the material world, the world of matter, of flesh and bone, was corrupt, or if not corrupt, was less good than the spiritual world, the world of ideas. So when John proclaims the Word became flesh, he proclaimed that the spiritual world intermingled with matter.

There is something else that is significant here. The reason I have found these words so reassuring over the years is that they provide a link between our words and God. For John to say that in the beginning is the word, is to suggest that in our language, in our thought, in our attempts to understand God and the nature of the universe, we approach, even touch, the divine word. There is a way in which we, created in the image of God, are created in the image of the word of God. In other words, to think, to reason, is a way of coming closer to God. 

So I find all of that quite reassuring. But John doesn’t stop there, with a message only for intellectuals. He goes on. The word became flesh and dwelt among us. This is what caused problems for sophisticated Greeks, and it is a problem for us as well. Greeks didn’t have any trouble conceiving of God as some sort of divine reason or order brought the universe into existence and sustained.

The notion that this underlying order, this reason might take on human form was nonsense to Greeks, because the material world, the world of flesh and blood was a pale, blemished imitation of the true, real, spiritual world. 

With this verse, John brings us back to Bethlehem, to the reality of the incarnation. Literally the Greek reads, “and the word became flesh and tabernacled among us.” That is to say, the word took on frail human flesh to be like us. But John goes on and in one of his key paradoxes, reminds us that in that temporary dwelling, we catch sight of God’s glory.

So we are back in Bethlehem, back in the confusing paradox that God became incarnate in a very ordinary way, in the poorest of circumstances, in the weakest of all human forms, a baby. And it is in that paradox, that we see God’s glory. For John, it is the same paradox as the cross, which he almost always refers to as the glorification of Christ. What he is telling us is that in these moments of weakness, we see God’s majesty and power.

But we have the reality of that incarnation before us in many ways. We see it, we taste it in the bread and wine of the eucharist, when we receive the body and blood of Christ. We see it in the very imperfect Church, both our local community, and the worldwide communion, bodies filled with flaws and imperfections, but also, mysteriously, the body of Christ. And finally, we may see it in ourselves, imperfect human beings though we are, but by the grace of God filled with the presence of Christ. May this Christmas season rekindle in all of us the knowledge of Christ’s presence, of Christ’s glory, in ourselves, in our church and community, and in all the world. 

Christmas Eve, 2024

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“In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus…” 

Once again, we hear the familiar story from the Gospel of Luke; its cadences roll over us like an old familiar song, helping us to settle into our celebration of this holy night. As we listen, we conjure up images of Christmas pageants we’ve attended or been in, of children in makeshift costumes, forgetting or blurting out their parts. As we listen we may find our imaginations wandering elsewhere, to the historical record or to the rather different story in the gospel of Matthew and asking ourselves how it all fits together. Our questions and cynicism may keep us at a safe distance from the story, blocking our emotions, staving offi its power.

Our human tendency is to ask such questions; and since the Enlightenment our scientific and historic curiosity has so examined this story and stories like it, that we may not be able to approach it with the wonder and imagination that it demands. It starts at an early age—at our 4:00 pm service, I invited the children to come forward to sit around the creche. We talked about it, I asked them what they saw and didn’t see. One of them wondered why it was a cave and not a stable. Well, the answer is, there’s no stable mentioned in the story—a manger, but no stable.

 For it is a story that, in spite of its clear references to historical events—a census taken under Caesar Augustus, among others—exists outside of time and history, in eternity. It is our story, as it is the story of countless generations before us; a story steeped in tradition and symbol, radiating out through history and culture, shaping our imaginations, our hopes, our faith.

It’s a story we know, its familiarity a comfort in challenging times.

But for all its significance and symbolic power, for all its seeming timelessness, Luke roots the story firmly in time: “In those days, a decree went out from Emperor Augustus…” And in so doing, he brings us square up against the historical realities humans faced in the first century, and the realities we face today. A census in imperial times meant one thing—to determine population and to levy taxes. Luke presents it as something of imperial whim—the whole world bending to the impetuous decision of an autocratic ruler; impulsively and arbitrarily forcing the movement of whole populations across boundaries. Sound familiar?

What matters in all this, in the makeshift accommodations, in the forced relocation, in the angelic appearance to the shepherds, is that it all takes place among the most vulnerable, the most marginalized. God intervenes in history, God makes Godself present in history not in the centers of power, in Washington, Beijing, Moscow, Silicon Valley, or Rome, but in an obscure corner of the world, among the poorest and least significant, in the unlikeliest of places, among the unlikeliest of people. 

Allusions abound in this story. The shepherds, out with their flocks feeding on the grass of the fields, find the infant Jesus, lying in a feeding trough. Even more poignantly, Mary wraps the infant Christ in bands of cloth. At the end of Luke’s gospel, another Joseph, of Arimathea, will wrap the body of the crucified Christ in bands of cloth for his burial. It’s not just that God becomes flesh among the most marginalized and vulnerable; the enfleshed God—Jesus Christ shares in that weakness and vulnerability. Christ is that weakness and vulnerability.

But even in that weakness and vulnerability, there is beauty and power. Just as the angels announced Christ’s coming to the shepherds, an announcement that would be more fitting in a temple or palace than in a pasture with grazing sheep, so too would angelic presence accompany Christ’s resurrection.

It’s easy to look past the weakness and vulnerability and to focus on the glory and power. We humans like flashy things—bling, swag, the images posted on social media by influencers; the strutting models and a-list celebrities; the new gilded age of billionaires and techbros. 

We want to look past the weakness and vulnerability of our fellow humans, whether it’s the unhoused people on the streets of Madison, the victims of horrific war in Gaza, or desperate refugees and asylum seekers on our borders. We want to forget about all those people caught up in a healthcare system that cares only for profits, and not for people. We want to downplay or ignore our own weakness and vulnerability, we hide it behind bluster and bravado, or stoicism.

On this night, gathered here in this place, to celebrate Christ’s birth, to sing the familiar carols, to experience Christ’s presence among us, not only in a manger, in a stable in Bethlehem, but in the bread and wine of the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ.

We see Christ in the manger, we see Christ in the bread and wine, fragile, vulnerable, weak. We bring our own vulnerability, our sins and shortcomings, our broken bodies, our broken relationships, our broken lives. In our weakness, we see Christ’s weakness; in our weakness, we find Christ’s power, Christ’s grace and love.

In a century when we have seen and known such great horror, in a year when there has been so much suffering—Gaza, Ukraine, hurricanes and floods, school shootings across the country and most recently here in Madison. In a year when we have seen spiraling hatred—antisemitism, white supremacy; a year when climate catastrophe threatens, we bring with us, this night all of our fears and anxiety.

Here to this place, to this manger, to this altar. We bring it all to Christ, to the infant, to the body broken; the baby in the manger, the body on the altar. And as we come, he is with us, in our suffering, in our fears, in our doubts. 

Like the shepherds we come, in our terror and amazement, as the glory of the Lord shines around us. Like the magi we come, bearing what gifts we may have. And at the manger, at the altar, we kneel, in adoration and worship, to see the Christ Child, to see our Lord, to receive his grace and mercy, to be embraced by his love.

My friends, as old as this story is, as familiar as it is, its power to move and change us remains as strong as ever. Whatever you have brought with you today, whatever joys and griefs, fears, anxieties, doubts, this story, this child, our God can heal you, give you strength, courage, and hope. Our God is with us, in our suffering, our God is with all those who suffer across the globe and throughout history.

The child born in Bethlehem, the Christ who was crucified, raised from the dead and now reigns in majesty, Christ comes among us, enters our hearts and our expectant world, offering grace, mercy, and peace to all. May our lives be filled with his presence and may the world come to know his saving grace and boundless love. 

Merry Christmas!

Singing the Song of Mary in a week of tragedy: A Sermon for Advent 4, 2024

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December 22, 2024

Over the years, I’ve come to recognize that there’s a certain rhythm to the season of Advent. The scripture readings of the season begin ominously, with emphases on the Second Coming of Christ, urging us to watch, prepare, and to get ready. Then there’s a shift to John the Baptist, who is no less ominous in his warnings, but brings our expectations and waiting closer to the present, as he prepares us for the coming of Christ. Finally, on the fourth Sunday, we come even closer to the great events of Bethlehem and the Nativity, as we hear stories related to the coming birth of Christ.  Most years, our attention on this Sunday is even more relentlessly, more expectantly, more joyfully toward the blessed events of Christmas.

This year, that rhythm has been broken by the events of the last week. We are reeling, unmoored. The shock of the national scourge of school shootings has come to Madison. We know the grief and the horror that so many other communities have experienced over the last few decades. Many of us are also consumed by anger and frustration by the impotence and unwillingness of our political class, our society as a whole to prevent these heinous acts. The Onion headline speaks the truth for many of us: “No way to prevent this,’ says only nation where this regularly happens.”

As we struggle to regain our footing after this week’s events—I won’t say “as we try to make sense of them”—it may feel like Christmas is further away if not temporally, then spiritually, further away than it’s ever been. We may find it difficult to put our hearts and minds into the final preparations for our celebrations, it may all seem a bit hollow. And that’s where a refocus on the themes of Advent might be just the bracing challenge we need.

In my Advent sermons and meditations I always emphasize that Advent is about Christ’s Second Coming as well as his first. By now, you may be tired of this constant message. But it bears repeating, especially now. It’s not just the way in which Christmas has evolved in our culture; the drawing out of the season, this “most wonderful time of the year,’ when we are likely to be watching holiday or Christmas movies in November, or even earlier.

Christian liturgy has made its own peace with the expansion of the Christmas season, so we often hear about the four Sundays of Advent being about “hope, peace, joy, and love.” Lovely, pious sentiments, these, but a far cry from the traditional Advent themes of the four last things: “Death, Judgement, Heaven, and Hell.” 

At the heart of the traditional observance of Advent is a cultivation of a sensibility that the world is not as it ought to be, that it lies in thrall to the forces of evil. We know that, but too often, especially as Advent is eclipsed by Christmas, the four last things ignored in favor of inflatable santas. Unfortunately, Amazon doesn’t sell Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse inflatables which would be much more appropriate for Advent décor. Too, often, we allow ourselves to be distracted from those realities. Sometimes, like now, we may need such distractions.

And so, even when we come to today’s gospel story, we overlook the judgment in favor of the saccharine. 

The familiar story we have heard today has been painted thousands of times throughout history. Two women, one young, one elderly, both of them pregnant, greeting each other. Often, the elderly one is deferring to the younger one, kneeling before her. Other times, the two are embracing. It’s such a familiar image, such a familiar story, that we tend to pay it little attention. Certainly, it does not factor largely in our devotion. Though it’s the occasion for two of the most common hymns or devotions in Catholicism—the Ave Maria and the Magnificat—we probably rarely reflect on the narrative context from which these hymns come. And really, it’s hardly shocking that we don’t pay closer attention to the Visitation, for it’s a brief episode, not more than a couple of verses (not including the magnificat itself). 

Two women, well, an elderly woman and a teenager, Their words seem hardly natural; they are carefully composed, more reflective of the Gospel writer’s concerns than in any way the actual conversation of two pregnant women meeting for conversation.

The tradition has shaped Mary’s image in so many ways that’s hard to get back to what Luke is really about. We think of Mary as a passive recipient, someone who accepts what happens to her without complaint. The tradition has turned her into a model for a certain kind of discipleship, a femininity that is meek and mild, passive, receptive, quiet. 

But that’s wrong. Listen to her song again: 

         
He has shown the strength of his arm, *
    he has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, *
    and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things, *
    and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has come to the help of his servant Israel, *
    for he has remembered his promise of mercy,
The promise he made to our fathers, *
    to Abraham and his children for ever.

These are not words of pious sentimentality, docility, or humility. The faith Mary proclaims is a faith in a God who takes decisive action on behalf of God’s people, a God who vindicates the righteous and condemns the wicked. The God to whom and of whom Mary sings is a God of liberation, a God who intervenes for the oppressed, the powerless, the poor and hungry. These are words proclaiming in a God who saves, but the salvation on offer is not for individuals, it is a salvation for all God’s people. 

Indeed, so powerful is this God, so vivid the imagery in the song, that it is hard to imagine they are the words of teenager, a young woman who has just learned she is to be a mother by miraculous means. And the fact of the matter is that Mary’s words are not hers alone. They are also the words of another woman from the history of God’s saving acts, another woman who found herself with child, almost miraculously.

The Magnificat, Mary’s wonderful song, is a reworking of the Song of Hannah, which Hannah sang when she learned she would give birth to Samuel, a boy who would become judge, priest, and prophet over all of Israel. Like Mary after her, Hannah sang in praise of her God, confident of her people’s salvation through God’s continuing care for Israel, confident that God would bring justice and righteousness to the world.

Hannah’s words were put in the future tense. Her song of praise was a song of hope that God would one day make things right. Mary’s song is in the perfect tense, suggesting that God’s liberating action has already begun to take place, but that it is not complete. God’s reign, with its promise of justice for the poor and the oppressed still lies in the future, though Mary can see signs of that reign in the world around her.

God has scattered the proud in their conceit, cast down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. God has sent the rich away empty and filled the hungry with good things. It’s hard to hear these words without thinking of our own society and economy where income inequality is greater than at any time in a century, where the elderly and the poor risk losing what few benefits they have, where money equals power and our political class seems oblivious to the deep need in our nation. It’s hard to think of these words, of a God taking such action when people are grieving across the city, frightened, angry, frustrated.

When we sing or reflect on the Magnificat our tendency is to see these words as Mary’s words, not our own. We lack the imagination and faith to make these statements ours. But if we believe in a God who comes to us in a manger in Bethlehem, it shouldn’t be beyond our capacity to believe in a God who acts in history on behalf of the poor, powerless, the hungry and the oppressed. But more than that, we need to do more than sing the song, to proclaim the greatness of the Lord. Luke reminds us that a true follower of Jesus is one who hears his word and obeys it. This Advent and Christmas, this year and beyond, we should proclaim our faith that God is acting in history to vindicate the oppressed, and we should do all in our power to usher in God’s reign.

Stir up your power, O Lord: Reflections on the Abundant Life Shootings

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I sent the following to the congregation yesterday:

Dear friends in Christ,

The collect for the Third Sunday of Advent reads:

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen.

Our hearts are breaking; our hearts are broken. The scourge of school shootings has come here to Madison. We are confronting the horrific violence, the trauma, and the grief that so many communities across the nation have experienced over the years. Many of us are also reacting with anger and frustration over the inability of our nation and our society to take the common-sense steps that could prevent such tragedies in the future. It might seem like this is the final straw; that on top of all the other events of the last years, the anxieties, fear, and despair that many of us are feeling, that we cannot go on. The burden is too great, the way forward too difficult. 

Yet the collect above and the Season of Advent reminds us that all is not lost, that we should not allow our fear and despair to overwhelm and immobilize us. Christ comes among us in humility and weakness, revealing God’s power and love, preaching the coming of God’s reign. Even as we grieve the deaths and injuries and condemn the violence, we can also come together to work for change, to stand in solidarity with the suffering, to gather for comfort and consolation.

Christ comes to a broken and hurting world, to a broken and hurting humanity. Christ comes to us in our grief and pain. His coming offers joy and hope in the midst of our sadness, anger, and grief. May his joy and hope sustain us in these difficult days, and may his boundless love transform our lives and the world.

Silence, Songs, Prophecy: A Sermon for Advent 2, 2024

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December 8, 2024

This past Sunday, on the First Sunday of Advent, we began a new liturgical year, and with that new beginning, we also began reading a new gospel—the Gospel of Luke, which will be our focus throughout the coming year. Because of the different gospels emphasized in each year, each liturgical year takes on a different aura and different themes predominate.

For Luke, one of those themes, and it’s consistent with what I emphasized last Sunday, is to place the story he is telling in a clear historical and geographical context. We get that emphasis very clearly in today’s gospel reading, which a newcomer to the gospel might assume is the beginning of the gospel as a whole. John the Baptizer is situated in the reigns of emperors, governors, and other rulers, and his ministry is firmly located in Judea, the region around the Jordan river.

But there’s another theme that emerges in this year’s gospel readings, and it’s one of my favorites. Each Advent Sunday moving forward, our readings will include canticles—songs, taken from scripture that have been used in Christian worship for centuries, and in the case of today’s canticle, and the Song of Mary, which we will hear in two weeks, likely derive from Christian worship that predated the writing of the gospel. But they have also been used in Christian worship over the centuries—especially the Song of Mary, the Magnificat, and today’s canticle, The Benedictus or Song of Zechariah.

The latter has been a fixture of Morning Prayer in the Anglican tradition for centuries; used almost daily for many years, and still used that way for those who pray Morning Prayer following Rite I. Over the years, I have come to know the Benedictus almost by heart, although without ever trying to memorize it: 

Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel

He has come to his people and set them free

He has raised up for us a mighty savior

Born of the house of his servant David…

One of the miracles to me each time I encounter this canticle in Advent is how a text with which I am intimately familiar becomes new and illuminating in a new liturgical context of Advent. In a season of waiting and watching, this canticle takes on new meaning as it proclaims what God has done in the past and continues to do, and promises that God’s saving work will continue.

More than the words themselves, it is the context in the story that helps to deepen the meaning and power of this canticle. You may recall the story. Zechariah was a priest, serving in the temple in Jerusalem when he is visited by the Angel Gabriel who tells him that he will have a son who will become a prophet like Elijah and call the people to repentance. 

Zechariah finds this hard to believe as he and his wife are elderly and responds to Gabriel’s words by saying: “How can this be so?” In response to his incredulity, Gabriel strikes him speechless for the duration of Elizabeth’s pregnancy. When their son is born, Zechariah writes on a piece of paper that his name should be John, and immediately his voice returns to him. He began to speak, praising God. Then Luke writes, Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and began to prophesy. This song, the Benedictus, was his prophecy.

It’s quite remarkable, if you think about it. We rarely think of prophecy and song as being connected in any way, even if, in our bibles, the prophetic books often appear in verse form. Songs are for entertainment, enjoyment, relaxation, and diversion. But they do so much more, as well. There are protest songs of course: the great legacy of Woody Guthrie, the songs of the civil rights movement and the anti-war movement, Bob Dylan. When we encounter a song like this one, however, we may be inclined to think of it rather differently.

One other thing I would like to point out. If you were voiceless for nine months, and your voice returned only upon the birth of your child, what would you say? Would you have spent those nine months thinking about what you might say if you got your voice back? Would you release all of your pent-up anger and frustration, blurt out all the things you had wanted to say but couldn’t? Well, whatever Zechariah was thinking and planning over those nine months, according to Luke, this is what came up out of his mouth when he had the chance: “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel…”

Think of the waiting, the silence. Think of the hope that Zechariah had. As a Jew, a priest, living under the Roman Empire, dreaming of the restoration of Israel, doubting it would ever happen, going about his routines; chosen out of all of the priests in the temple to perform the daily office of sacrifice, and in that moment an angel comes to him and offers him new hope—had he and Elizabeth given up hopes of children years ago, decades ago?

And now, because of his disbelief, doubt, ridicule, silenced. Unable to share with Elizabeth the miraculous joy; the hopes and planning for a child, lost in his own thoughts.

It’s a powerful story, a powerful evocation of the Advent experience. Waiting in silence and hope; hoping in the midst of doubt and fear; meditating on the coming events, preparing for joy. 

Perhaps, this Advent, instead of focusing on the man whom Zechariah’s son would become, John the Baptist, the voice crying out in the wilderness; instead of focusing our attention on the coming of Christ, we might focus our attention and meditation on Zechariah, the silent one, the voiceless one, waiting, wondering whether his voice would ever return, but in that silence, preparing himself for the miracle that might come, that could come, when his voice was restored and he was free to say what he wanted, to sing his song, to prophesy about God’s goodness and redemption.

Advent, the weeks leading up to Christmas can sometimes seem overwhelming—the bustle of activity, all the things to do, holiday concerts, and parties. It can be a time of eager expectation and bitter disappointment. It can be a time of tears as well as joy as we think of loved ones who are no longer present in our lives, broken relationships, a world full of tumult. Finding time to spend with God, deepening our relationships with Jesus, preparing our souls and hearts for the coming of Christ may seem like an unnecessary luxury or even a burden of guilt.

Zechariah’s example may inspire us. As he waited in silence, the voiceless one, perhaps he had room to listen for God.

Perhaps in his silence he came to a deeper knowledge and experience of God, that enabled him to sing his song. Perhaps he experienced the tender compassion of God. May this Advent be for us a time to listen for God, to look for God’s presence in our lives and in the world, and to cultivate God’s tender compassion.

Apocalypse, Dystopia, and the Coming of God’s Reign: A sermon for I Advent, 2024

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There’s something about the coming of the Season of Advent that always takes me back to the first year I spent in Germany in 1979-1980. Maybe it’s because it was then that I first really felt the darkness of the season. Marburg, where I was studying was much further north than the part of the Midwest where I grew up and the constantly gray skies and short days combined to create a gloom that seemed to encompass everything. 

But it was also then that I first encountered the powerful themes of Advent in the Lutheran tradition; not just the Advent wreath but the great German hymns, like the Bach Chorale “Wachet Auf” which we will be singing later. Lutheran theological reflection on Advent also shaped me deeply: the theological reflection on Christ’s comings—at Christmas, at the end of times, and in Word and Sacrament. A few years later, I would listen to the great Swedish New Testament scholar and later bishop of Stockholm, Sweden as he preached to a tiny congregation of students at Harvard Divinity School on the symbol of lighting candles in the midst of deepening darkness. As darkness descends in the Northern Hemisphere, to light candles is not only a necessity but an act of hope in a time that can seem disorienting when the darkness seems overwhelming.

In the twenty-first century, we have the luxury of electricity that helps us keep the darkness at bay. It’s hard for us to imagine, unless we’ve experienced lengthy power outages, or are accustomed to camping in the wilderness far from human habitation, the ubiquity, intensity, and sheer power of darkness, especially as it was experienced in previous centuries. For those of us who are sighted, it is hard to imagine how blind people experience the world—the darkness in which they are enveloped all of the time.

As rich and powerful as the imagery of darkness and light is—and we will see it not only now in this season of Advent but right through Christmas and Epiphany, it is not without its problematic side—it can easily slip into the binaries of white and black, good and evil, that have had such a pernicious and persistent effect on our culture. Can we imagine other ways of relating to darkness—its mystery, its infinity, its unknowingness, the way it has of disorienting and reorienting us?

While the language of darkness and light is almost ubiquitous in our liturgy, other themes dominate our scripture readings and theological reflections in Advent. Chief among these may be time. 

We see that theme emphasized in the beautiful collect for the First Sunday in Advent:

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

This beautiful and powerful collect for the First Sunday of Advent stresses that this season is not only a time of preparation for Christmas; an opportunity to get a head start on Holiday festivities. Advent directs our attention to Christ’s second coming and teaches us that we live as Christians between that time of Christ’s incarnation, his death and resurrection, and the consummation of our final hope in Christ’s return. As Christians, we have experienced the first fruits of Christ’s transforming work, but we languish in this world, in this time, enmeshed in the powers of evil that surround us and seem to hold sway.

In a very profound sense, all of Christian life lives in that tension between Christ’s coming and the Second Coming. It’s often said that Christians are “Easter People”—the reality is that we are also Advent people, living in the interstices between Christ’s first coming and his second. Of course, we usually do what we can to reduce that tension between time past, time present, and time to come, and we most often do that by ignoring or downplaying that focus on the future, on Christ’s second coming. 

Those of you who grew up Evangelical in the 70s, and perhaps even in the decades since, may still bear with you the trauma of endless warnings on the imminence of Christ’s second coming and the rapture, much of it precipitated by Hal Lindsey and his bestselling book—The Late Great Planet Earth. Lindsey died this past week, but his legacy lives on.

Now, however, It may be that our visions of the future are dominated by dystopian nightmares : the movies of the Mad Max franchise, or the Handmaid’s Tale; and the dystopian future may seem ever closer and more realistic. In the gospel reading, we have hints of such dystopias: signs in the sun, moon, and stars, the roaring of waves and the sea.

We may be tempted like so many in the past and in the present, to see in those signs evidence of the nearness of the Second Coming. Certainly, however we interpret those signs, we may be full of fear as we look into the future of the next few months, or the next four years, or beyond.

This morning’s gospel comes from Luke’s version of Jesus’ apocalyptic warnings to his followers. Present in all three synoptic gospels, though with significant differences among them, this speech is located in the last week of Jesus’ life, when he is preaching and teaching in the temple, and confronted by his opponents. In fact, it comes from Luke’s version of the story we heard from Mark just two weeks ago. To set the context a little more clearly, the chapter began with Jesus’ prediction of the destruction of the temple, followed by the disciples asking him when all this would take place. Then Jesus gives lists of things to look for, warnings of what will happen to those who are his followers—arrest and persecution.

Now, here, Jesus gives his followers advice. Be on guard! Be alert! Stand up and raise your heads! But there’s another piece of advice that seems to contradict what else he says. Jesus refers to the fig tree. He points out something every gardener knows, that when a plant begins to show signs of growth in the spring, the summer is on its way. On one level, that’s obvious and might be interpreted as another sign of what is to come. But as every gardener knows, a tree that leafs out and blossoms in the spring, may not bear fruit until the late summer or fall. In other words, the new growth may be a sign of things to come. But there is also a lot of time to pass and probably some hard work to do. 

Most importantly however, the signs Jesus mentions are not signs of doom and destruction. They are signs that our redemption draws near. They are signs of the coming of the Reign of God.

There’s a sense in which all that we do in this season of Advent, all that we do in the run-up to Christmas, is about the nearness of God’s reign. The promise we hear in the words of the prophet Jeremiah, that God will keep God’s promise and restore justice and righteousness,–that promise beckons still. 

But the reality is rather different. God’s reign draws near but the world knows it not. God’s reign draws near but the shoots of new life are only that, faint signs in the midst of a turbulent and difficult world. God’s reign draws near but it is easy to miss those signs and to fall into despair and disappointment.

We shouldn’t interpret Jesus’ instructions to be alert, stay awake, as warnings. We shouldn’t lapse into fear and foreboding. Instead, we should look for the signs that God’s reign draws near, signs of promise and hope, signs of new life in the midst of our troubled world. Advent is a time when we should look for such signs, cultivate and nurture the signs we discover, and be signs of the coming of God’s reign to the world around us. 

Among those signs, but more than a sign is the third way that Christ comes to us in Advent and throughout the year. In the proclamation of the Word, and in the sacrament of his body and blood, we experience Christ’s coming among us, to us, in us, even as they are signs of Christ’s second coming and signs of God’s coming reign. Truly our redemption draws near. May this season of Advent be a time when we experience and see Christ’s coming to us and to the world. 

My kingdom is not of this Cosmos: A Sermon for Proper29B, 2024

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What comes to mind when you think of the word “King?” Is it of King Charles III, the British monarchy, the ritual and splendor of his coronation? Or perhaps of the more sordid details of the royal family as depicted in the TV series “The Crown” or the tabloids? Maybe you think of the “Game of Thrones” and the bloody battles over succession and dominance. Or maybe even the King himself—Elvis, either at the height of his career and charisma, or his later years.

What about “Christ the King?” What images does your mind conjure up? Did you know that there’s an image of “Christ the King”—Christus Rex, displayed prominently in our worship space. Christ on the cross, depicted not in his humility and suffering, but reigning in majesty, from the cross.

Today is the last Sunday of the liturgical year. Since 1925 it has been designated as “Christ the King.” It was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925 as an effort to resist the rise of secularism and the decline in the political power of the papacy. But it arose in the wake of the devastating First World War and in a time of growing nationalism and fascism. Mussolini had come to power in Italy in 1922, creating a crisis with the papacy.

Christ the King is problematic in several ways. Many people find the use of “king” language off-putting, because of its patriarchal and militaristic connotations. Those interested in fostering egalitarianism or undermining authoritarianism rename it as “The Reign of Christ.” But the name change doesn’t really help matters. As is clear in all of our readings, Jewish and Christian scripture is replete with imagery of kingship, especially in reference to God. In the Psalm, for example, God is depicted as a king seated upon a throne, and the language here suggests an analogy between the rule of God and the rule of Israel’s king, an analogy that has been adopted and extended by Christians down through the centuries. At the center of the Psalmist’s vision is an image of the king ruling in splendor and majesty, on a throne. 

Similar images dominate the readings from Daniel and Revelation. Both of them, as I mentioned last week, are apocalyptic texts, and in these excerpts we are treated to images of the world as the authors imagine it might become or will be, or even perhaps is, if we see the world as it really is, ruled and governed by a righteous and just God. Although we don’t see those themes in any of these three texts, the notion that God’s reign is a reign of peace and justice is self-evident. All of these images are meant to emphasize the fact that Christ’s kingship, though accompanied and understood with imagery from human experience of kingship, is of a totally different order. Christ’s kingship has no beginning or end; it will not fail or falter. 

 Whatever the imagery comes to mind: from human history, scripture, or even Hollywood spectacle, the reality of human kingship is rather different than its display. For that, the small portion of John’s gospel that was read serves us quite well. For that is how kingship has played out in human history, in oppression, injustice, and violence.

As Procurator or governor, Pilate was the most powerful person in this little corner of the world. He had come to Jerusalem, as he did every year during the Passover to be present during a time filled with tension. The Jewish community was remembering and celebrating God’s deliverance of the Hebrews from an evil and oppressive ruler, and given that they were living under an equally evil and oppressive tyranny, tensions always ran high. That explains, at least in part, the charge that was brought against Jesus—King of the Jews. It was not simply a mistake, or an effort by his Jewish opponents to get the Romans to do their work for them. It was, quite frankly, accurate. Jesus did pose a political threat to the Roman Empire. By preaching the coming of God’s reign, Jesus presented a direct challenge to Roman power, and to the local leadership who both benefited from, and helped to exert that power.

We see that confrontation front and center here. When Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews? Jesus, and we suspect that Pilate is not asking the question honestly. He does not know, or care who Jesus is. In fact, he seems most interested in finding some way to avoid responsibility for what is taking place. And Jesus seems willing to help Pilate avoid what is to come. As the gospel of John tells the story, Pilate will make every effort to avoid condemning Jesus to death. He moves back and forth between Jesus and the other players in the drama—the crowd that according to John seeks Jesus’ death. He offers to free Jesus, but the crowd will have none of it. Then he stages a mock ritual of coronation with the purple robe and the crown of thorns. 

Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus puts the question back on him, asking him his motives for the charge. But Pilate will have none of it, and so Jesus responds, “My kingdom is not of this world—cosmos, to use the Greek word. And here, our western, 21st century conceptions get in the way of understanding what’s at stake. For when we hear Jesus saying, “My kingdom is not of this world,” we are inclined to think of the contrast between spiritual and material realms, or perhaps between political and religious, projecting our notions of completely separate spheres of human experience and human power back on to the first century.

But when Jesus says, “my kingdom is not of this cosmos” he is using a term that in the Gospel of John is introduced in the very first chapter, and recurs throughout. The world, the cosmos, is inveterately opposed to God: “He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him” (John 1:10). At every turn, the world rejected Jesus, yet throughout the gospel Jesus again and again expresses his desire and intent to save the world. 

For example, John 3:17: “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” And John 12:47: “I came not to judge the world but to save the world.”

But Jesus’ efforts came to naught. As we see in this passage, his apparent attempt to sway Pilate away from the predetermined course of events was a failure. Pilate was enmeshed in the world, he saw things only in terms of power and self-protection and in the end, condemned Jesus to death.

This gospel story presents us with a grave temptation. It is likely that we see the confrontation between Pilate and Jesus as a historical event, with a clear winner and loser, and with no implications for our own lives, except that it resulted in the crucifixion.

Christ the King Sunday is a problem because it allows us to elide the distinction between the reign of Christ and the kingdoms of this world. Our king may not wear purple or a carry a crown, or even sit on a throne, but imperial power still holds sway and may be more brutal today than at any time in recent history. 

When we think of the kingship of Christ, our attention and focus should be, not on images of Christ ruling in majesty. Instead, what should come to mind are images of Jesus in the dock, facing the oppressive power of an unjust and evil regime. When we think of the kingship of Christ, we should think of Christ, not elevated or seated on a throne in majesty, but hanging on a cross, dying at the hands of oppressive, imperial power. 

When we think of the kingdom of Christ, we should contrast it with the kingdoms and empires of this world, fighting unjust and meaningless wars that claim millions of innocent victims. We should think of the devastation in Gaza, a brutal campaign of retribution and destruction waged by, yes, an imperial power. 

Over against those forces of evil and domination, we should think of Christ’s reign. We should think instead of Christ the victim, suffering at the hands of an imperial power, suffering with and for, those innocent victims, for refugees and asylum seekers, for prisoners and captives. And if we want to live under Christ’s reign, live in Christ’s reign, we should take our place beside those innocent victims, and work for justice and peace. For that is the nature of Christ’s reign, a reign not of this world, not of hate, or violence, injustice or oppression, but a reign of love, justice, and peace. May Christ’s reign come soon!

Beauty in the Rubble: A sermon for Proper28B, 2024

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Proper 28B

                                          November 17, 2024

It’s more than a little ironic that every three years we hear this gospel reading on what is for us the day of our Annual Meeting. After this service, we will gather in Vilas Hall to elect lay leadership for the coming year, to discuss our operating budget, and this year to get updates on the roof project and to embark on a fundraising campaign.

It’s doubly ironic this year because Jesus’ prediction: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down!” is heard against the backdrop of masonry repairs taking place on our exterior to ensure the continued presence of Grace Church for future generations. Grace Church has stood on this site for 185 years now and we hope that what we are doing now and planning to do next year will preserve it for another century.

To top it all off, as I wrote these words, I could hear the sounds of demolition taking place in advance of the construction of the new History Center. Talk about not leaving one block upon another…

It may be tempting, though, in light of today’s gospel reading, to discredit the work we are doing, the money we are spending. Jesus’ prediction of the destruction of the temple; his earlier actions in overturning the tables of the moneychangers; and the attack on those who were donating to the temple treasury may led us to include that buildings like temples are misguided. And there are certainly plenty of verses in scripture that might lead one to that conclusion: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice”—for example. Protestant Christianity has often disparaged beautiful buildings; worship that includes beautiful vestments; images; even the music of organs and choirs. 

The verses we heard, the first verses of Mark 13, are an introduction to what scholars call “the little apocalypse.” It’s a genre of literature that emerged in the Hellenistic period, combining biblical symbolism and imagery with elements from other cultures and religions. While modern readers tend to assume that apocalyptic provides a guide to future events—the end times—in fact it’s coded language to help its readers understand their current historical context. 

For the gospel of Mark, that context was the Jewish revolt of 66-73 and the destruction of the temple. While scholars debate whether Mark was written just before or soon after Roman legions under the General, later Emperor Titus destroyed it, the conflict and the destruction loom over the gospel and especially this chapter. Later in the chapter come predictions that the followers of Jesus will be persecuted; that the temple will be profaned; that there will be earthquakes and signs in the heavens, and finally the Son of Man will come.

Such language both terrifies and fascinates us—to be clear, apocalyptic imagery and thinking are the ancestors of contemporary horror and fantasy literature and film. And we see how that imagery plays out in other segments of our culture, even in our political life.

In spite of the fact that apocalyptic has tended to be a fixation of conservative Protestantism in the US, it may seem like it is especially apt for the rest of us. It does seem like we are in the end times, with wars and rumors of war, collapsing cultural norms and institutions, climate catastrophe, and profound divisions in society that are often depicted in starkly oppositional terms: light v. darkness; good v. evil. It may seem like false prophets have arisen, claiming to speak in Jesus’ name, claiming “I am he” and leading many astray.

And it may feel like the stones are already crumbling around us, as the institutions we hold dear are being attacked and destroyed from inside and out. As we contemplate that destruction, both real and metaphorical, it may seem like there’s nothing we can do, that hopelessness, helplessness, impotence, despair, and acquiescence are the only options available.

In my sermon last week, I referred to small acts of defiance and hope—like the widow putting her two pennies into the temple treasury while the billionaires threw in their millions. But there are other, less confrontational things as well. 

Several recent post-service comments from visitors got me thinking. They all mentioned the beauty of our worship, our building, our music. It has occurred to me over the last couple of weeks that perhaps the most faithful, the most counter-cultural thing we can do is to create and sustain beauty. Beauty connects us to God, who created this universe and us in all our beauty and diversity. 

We might consider the place of our church in its built environment; surrounded by uninteresting buildings, opposite a state capitol built in the neo-classical style. The spire, tower, and walls of our church stand apart from other buildings; our courtyard gardens offer natural beauty in the midst of a brick, concrete, asphalt, and stone landscape. The interior of our nave lifts our eyes and hearts toward the heavens; the stained glass transforms sunlight into something ethereal, magical. Our music, the choir, organ, and hymns make our hearts soar into heavenly spheres.

In the midst of the demolition that surrounds us; the chaos in our world. In the presence of all the pain and suffering—the ongoing wars in Gaza and Ukraine; the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene; the threats to our common life and to the social safety net on which so many of us rely, to appeal to beauty may seem like a frivolous, even futile thing. 

But beauty can restore us; sustain us, strengthen us. And beauty draws us to God. Perhaps no one said it better than St. Augustine of Hippo, who wrote in his Confessions: 

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou were within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou were with me and I was not with Thee. Iwas kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness: and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness: Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant forThee: I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee: Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

As we plan for the coming year in the parish, and as we consider the future of our nation and the world, we may feel that Jesus’ words in Mark 13 speak directly to, and for us. The signs of apocalypse seem to be all around us. In that chaos, in the rubble, beauty still beckons to us, inspires us, draws us to God. May our desire and nurture of beauty in our building and our worship, draw others to God as well.