Category Archives: sermons

“Remember that you are dust” A homily for Ash Wednesday, 2025

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“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

I wonder how many times I’ve said those words over the 20 some years of my ministry; certainly more than two thousand. I’ve said them to myself at least once each year. I’ve said them to babies, brought forward by their parents; I’ve said them to utter strangers, like some of you perhaps; people I’ve never seen before and will never see again. I’ve said them to long-time members lying in hospice care, who would die a few days later.

Those words, these ashes are a sign of our mortality, a reminder to us that we are created from the dust of the earth, and that our bodies will return to the earth. 

Those words weigh heavily on my soul when I say them to myself each year, and their weight accumulates on me as I say them to you. I suspect they weigh heavily on you as well, as they challenge all of us to reflect on our mortality, to admit to ourselves who we are—dust and ashes, and that we will once more be dust and ashes, that all of our efforts to the contrary, all of our attempts to hold death at bay will come to nothing.

But contemplation of our nature, our provenance and end, is not an end in itself. We do this ritual, we make this strange gesture, we wear this smudge on our forehead to remind us of who we are and to remind us also of who God is. For it is God who made us out of the dust of the earth. It is God who has given us life and all that we have. Yet like our fear and desperate attempts to ignore our mortality, to fight the finality of death, so too do we often find ourselves running away from or ignoring God. We construct defenses; we try to hide. We put in place of God all manner of idols that we worship and pursue: financial success or security, fame, power; bright, shiny possessions; or the thrill of new experiences.

Cross-shaped ashes on our foreheads, the admonition “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” lay bare the emptiness of all those pursuits. They break down the barriers, strip our defenses, leave us kneeling before God our maker and redeemer. 

Our empty selves, our vain hopes, brought to nothing by those words, leaving us with broken and contrite hearts. It is then that we can encounter God, stripped of our defenses, and open ourselves to deeper relationship with our Creator and Redeemer.

We carry the ashy cross on our foreheads for a few hours, a day if we’re careful. But we’re just as likely to brush it off intentionally as soon as we leave church, or perhaps unintentionally, when it vanishes as we take off our winter hats or caps.

There’s a cross marked on us that is permanent, indelible, that can’t be brushed or washed off. It’s made with the same gestures, my thumb making the sign of the cross on foreheads, but with oil of chrism instead of ashes. And I say something quite different as well.

Instead of, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” the words I say on Ash Wednesday, after baptizing someone, I dip my thumb in oil of chrism, and make the sign of the cross on the forehead of the newly baptized, saying while I do it, “You are sealed with the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.

We bear that cross all of our lives, even if it is invisible. It is the mark of our belonging to Christ, the mark of our faith. And just as the cross of ash reminds us of our mortality, the cross marked in oil is a sign of who we truly are and of our ultimate destiny. We are beloved children of God.

We can forget that identity; as the cross is invisible, it can be forgotten under the weight of our sin and our doubts. But it may be that just as our foreheads are marked with ashes, the ash works as an abrasive, removing all of the accretions, so that our baptismal crosses are visible to ourselves and to the world. We are Christ’s own forever.

Of course, the Season of Lent has us think about another cross, the cross that looms ahead at the end of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem. It’s a journey on which we are invited to accompany Jesus, to walk with him as his disciples and followers. When Jesus explained to his disciples what it meant to follow him, he said, “If you would be my disciples, take up your cross and follow me.” 

We are carrying crosses today; these smudges of ash on our forehead. We carry that other cross on our forehead as well, the sign that we are Christ’s own forever. Lent encourages us to embrace another cross, the cross of discipleship, growing into our identities as followers of Jesus. As we walk this way of Lent, may we find it a time when we confront our mortality, claim our identity as children of God, and grow more deeply Christ-like as we accompany him.

Let us make dwellings: A Sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, Year C, 2025

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            Today is the last Sunday after the Epiphany. This coming week, we observe Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the season of Lent. But today we linger in this season when we reflect on all the ways God reveals God’s glory in the world, and especially in the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. Each year on this Sunday, we hear one of the three Gospel accounts of the Transfiguration; Jesus’ eerie, other-worldly encounter with Moses and Elijah, when he was transfigured, transformed, and his face shone with God’s glory.

            Before exploring more deeply Luke’s account of this event, I would like to point out something else from the lectionary. The three lessons we heard today are interconnected; the epistle quite obviously, and problematically, reflecting on Moses’ encounter with God on Mt. Sinai, even as Luke’s story does the same. 

            First of all, Exodus. This puzzling, fascinating story comes from the larger narrative of Israel at Mt. Sinai and the giving of the Law to Moses by God. You may recall that Moses spent forty days on top of the mountain; and when he came down with the two tablets, he discovered the Israelites had made a golden calf and were worshiping it. He threw down the tablets, breaking them, so he had to go back up to plead with God on behalf of the Israelites. Now, he has the second set of tablets and is bringing them down. 

            We’re told that his face shone because of his encounter with God, and sparked fear in the Israelites, which explains why he veiled his face when speaking with them and removed the veil when speaking with God. As an aside, this story, and a mistranslation by Jerome when he was translating the Hebrew into Latin back in the 4th century, accounts for the iconographic depiction of Moses with horns throughout the History of Art, most famously perhaps in Michelangelo’s statue of Moses.

            We see Paul’s interpretation of Moses’ veiling in the reading from 2 Corinthians. There’s a lot to unpack here and in a way it’s unfortunate that we’re given this text in conjunction with the other readings. Let me just say that a cursory reading, or listening of the text, might lead us to some unfortunate, even evil conclusions about the New Testament superseding the Old Testament; or the binary of evil Old Testament and good New Testament; or Christ abolishing Torah—Jewish law. In fact, Paul here as elsewhere is trying to make space for the continued relevance of the covenant with Jews as well as the relevance of Christ for gentiles. I won’t say more about that here.

            The gospel story of the Transfiguration seems to emphasize the continuity of Christ with the traditions of Judaism. The presence of the two paradigmatic prophets: Moses and Elijah, seem to confirm Jesus’ identity as God’s son, and more importantly, to emphasize the unbroken line of teaching and divine promise that ends in Jesus.

            But there’s a lot more that’s going on here. 

            The story is full of imagery that looks back to the Hebrew Bible and forward to the resurrection. For example, the words that Luke uses to describe Jesus’ appearance are the exact same words he will use when describing the appearance of the angels at the empty tomb—the dazzling clothes appears in both places. But the ways in which this story points backwards in the biblical tradition are even more striking. 

It’s not just the presence of Moses and Elijah, which 21st century readers might assume is only the gospel writers’ attempts to add to the drama and spectacle. Moses and Elijah were important figures in Jewish speculation. Both had mysterious deaths—Deuteronomy tells us that when Moses died, God buried him, and no one knows the location of his tomb. In the case of Elijah, he didn’t die at all but was carried off to heaven by chariots of fire. Because of this mystery, Jewish apocalyptic thinking focused attention on the return of both figures. 

But their presence may be accounted for in less dramatic fashion. Moses, the lawgiver and Elijah the prophet were two key figures in the development of scripture and Jewish identity—Luke repeatedly tells us that Jesus is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, so their presence here are a reminder of Jesus’ continuity with the tradition that came before him.

There’s another theme that connects back with earlier tradition and with Moses. Luke tells us that the Moses, Elijah, and Jesus “were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.” It’s an odd turn of phrase in English that takes on surprising significance in the Greek, for the Greek word used is “exodus.” With this, Luke is reaching back to the story of God’s deliverance of the Hebrew people from bondage in Egypt to freedom in the promised land, a journey they were on in today’s reading from Exodus. In doing so, he is laying the foundation for his interpretation of the events of the cross and resurrection—like the Exodus Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection liberates us from our bondage to sin and death.

            But there’s another deep resonance with Jewish tradition in this story, one that’s often overlooked by readers or preachers. If you’ve ever heard a sermon on this text by someone other than me, the preacher has probably focused on Peter’s response; his suggestion that they erect booths or dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. And the preacher would likely go on to say that this is another example of Peter’s impetuousness and his getting things wrong.

            I don’t think that’s the case. In first century Judaism, as today, one of the major feasts of Judaism is the feast of Sukkoth or Tabernacles; which, among other things, commemorates the Israelites’ time in the wilderness, including at Sinai, when they lived in tents; and God was present among them in a tabernacle—where God’s glory was present.

            All of that imagery is present here—the mountain, Moses, God’s glory, even the voice from heaven. Peter’s response may not be one of disbelief, but rather an attempt to make sense of the experience, to place it in categories that he understands and is comfortable with.

            Think about it. When you have an inexplicable experience; when something happens in the world around you or to you, don’t you try to make sense of it, to figure it out, to categorize it? Whether it’s unprecedent events taking place in the world, or a mysterious encounter with a spiritual being, or even a brush with fate, don’t you try to assimilate it to categories that you know, to put it in a box, if you will, to file it away?

            I think that is going on here. Peter and the other disciples’ encounter with Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, the dazzling white robes, the glory of God, the voice from heaven, all of that was earth-shattering, mind-blowing. Peter’s desire to build dwellings may be an attempt to make that experience a little more manageable.

            I think it’s something scholars have also long done with this story; to assimilate it to the resurrection; or to write it off. The transfiguration is a mind-blowing story, eluding our grasp, escaping our efforts to analyze it. What we do know is what happens next; Jesus and the disciples come down from the mountain and begin making their way to Jerusalem.

            It’s a journey we are also on this Lent, as we turn away from the season of Epiphany and the glory of God’s manifestations in the world, and head toward Calvary and the Cross. That too, is a manifestation of God’s glory, the glory of God’s love for us the glory of God’s victory over evil and death. As we enter the glory of these forty days of Lent, may we be open to God’s voice, speaking to us, and to God’s presence, moving us into deeper relationship with Jesus Christ.

Are You Listening? A Sermon for Epiphany 7C, 2025

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Are You Listening?

7 Epiphany C:

February 23, 2025

Are you listening?

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a conversation with fellow clergy. One of them asked if we could tell whether our congregants were paying attention to our sermons. One, an African-American, laughed that she could tell, because in that tradition, it’s common for members to respond verbally to the preacher. Others of us, from white traditions were less confident. Sometimes, it’s easy to tell. Everyone is focused on the preacher; there’s very little fidgeting. But other times, well, you know. I know; that often I will find myself letting my gaze wander off; I may still be paying attention but I’m looking elsewhere; other times, I look, trying to divert my attention from the preacher, because well, let’s admit, sermons can be boring. It’s not just preachers. I know from personal experience that teachers and professors can see attentions wandering. 

In my sermon last week, I pointed out that Luke described three concentric circles of people to whom Jesus was preaching this sermon on a level place. There were the apostles, the twelve, then the “great crowd of his disciples” and third, a “great multitude of people who had come to hear him and be healed. But now, Jesus makes a further distinction: “I say to you that listen…”

It’s a telling shift in tone or presumed audience. Elsewhere in the synoptic gospels, Jesus will say something like: “Whoever has ears to hear, listen.” Often in such instances, it seems to be that Jesus is signaling that his words have a deeper meaning—with parables, for example. Here, though, I think there’s something else that might be going on. For most of us who are regular public speakers, to say something like: “I say to you that listen” or just “Listen …” may be an attempt to recapture the attention of an audience that is drifting away, because of boredom? Or maybe because what he is about to say isn’t going to go over well, that what he has to say is difficult to hear. Difficult for his first-century audience, and difficult for us.

Last week, as we listened to the beatitudes; Jesus’ blessings on the poor, the hungry, and his condemnations of the wealthy and the satisfied, we were on solid ground. We knew where we stood. Perhaps we’re poor, well, ours is the kingdom of God; if we’re wealthy or comfortable, well, he’s not talking about us because we have nothing like the wealth of Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk, and woe to them!

Now Jesus shifts gears, and the ground under our feet shifts as well. For instead of allowing us to position ourselves comfortably, Jesus’ words strike home uncomfortably, challenging the distinctions we make, upending our assumptions, our attitudes, breaking down the lines we draw between “us” and “them” between those who belong to our group, deserve our love and compassion, and those on the other side of the border, our enemies, outsiders.

Whether or not we find Jesus’ words believable, or relevant, or possible, the challenge to love our enemies, turn the cheek, to give one’s shirt as well as one’s coat, to lend expecting nothing in return confronts us with questions of personal worth and value, the relative importance of self and other, and yes, sheer survival.

But these words challenge us in other ways. For those of us with privilege and status, they pierce the armor of our wealth, gender, color. For those of us without, they work very differently. It’s important for us to be conscious of how they have been used and interpreted over the centuries and even today—how they have been used to oppress and to maintain structures of injustice. Even today, how many pastors counsel victims of domestic violence to turn the other cheek and passively accept the blows of their husbands or fathers or partners?

What if, instead of commands, these words are meant to unsettle and de-center us, to move us away from the certainty of our existence and the world we know into a journey toward a new world, where God reign’s and where God’s love is the model for all of our relationships and for all of human community? Jesus came down from the mountain to a level place where he taught a vision of a new world order, coming into existence in the community of his followers. It is a vision of a community with no barriers or boundaries, no distinction between rich and poor, friend and enemy.

To love one’s enemy is not easy. In our cultural and political context where the lines are sharply drawn between opponents, and the rhetoric demonizes those with whom I disagree, even to attempt to love one’s enemy may seem like a betrayal of our deepest values. How can one love someone who thinks I am beyond contempt, un-American, perhaps even not fully human? 

As hard as it is for us to imagine, or even to articulate, there is yet one more step to take. When we view these words as commands, we place our behavior on a continuum of obedience: Should I turn the other cheek? Did I turn the other cheek? And if in a particular instant we choose not to, because of fear or threat to life and limb, or simply because our anger overwhelms us, we may judge ourselves and feel shame and guilt for falling short.

Luke, in his compassion and concern for his readers, offers hope and consolation even on such occasions. In Matthew’s version of these sayings, Jesus concludes with the admonition: “Be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect.” Luke’s version is quite different, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.”

Using this as a lens by which to read Jesus’ statements offers us a new way of seeing, a new world of possibilities, the reign and realm of God—where the neat calculus of debt and repayment, crime and punishment, eye for an eye no longer is operative. And that’s true not only for the specifics that Jesus talks about but also for us. We need not use this calculus on our own lives and actions. God is merciful and invites us to receive God’s mercy and in turn to offer it to others and to the world.

The instructions which Jesus gives his listeners on the level place are instructions that address our actions towards those who act violently or unjustly against us (love your enemy, turn the other cheek) and address our actions towards those with whom we are already in relationship (if you love those who love you). But the heart of the matter seems to be that whether friend or foe, our actions should not be guided by how others treat us but rather by how God treats us: Be merciful as your Father is merciful.

It may be that we often interpret God’s disposition toward us in terms similar to how we act towards others, loving friends, hating enemies experiencing guilt, expecting punishment when we sin. But God is merciful and forgiving. Receiving God’s mercy and grace gives us the power to share that mercy and grace with others.

It may also be that among the most important things to consider is that in these tumultuous times; remembering that God is merciful is not only helpful in thinking about and responding to others; it may be that we need to extend that mercy to ourselves. When we hear Jesus’ words here, or when we think about how we should respond to the needs of the world, we may think that we need to do more; that taking a stand, fighting the good fight is not only important but necessary. Maybe, just maybe, we need to be merciful to ourselves, to accept our limitations, our fears, our sheer exhaustion. Maybe we need as much mercy as everyone else. 

Blessed are you! A Sermon for 6 Epiphany C, 2025

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Blessed are you:

February 16, 2025

Back when I taught New Testament, one of the exercises I always gave my students was to compare and contrast the two versions of the Beatitudes in the gospels. We heard Luke’s today: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God.” Matthew’s is probably more familiar to you; but to jog your memory, it begins “Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” After we went through all of the differences I would ask them, “Which version do you prefer?” or, and this is really the same question, “Which do you think is closer to what Jesus may actually have said?” 

While there would be someone occasionally, a non-conformist or provocateur who would answer “Luke’s” invariably my students, comfortably upper middle-class suburbanites would say “Matthew’s.” And that’s to be expected because Matthew’s is more accessible more inclusive, if you will. Anyone can be “poor in spirit” but we all know, don’t we, the obvious differences between rich and poor.

 Now, there’s no escaping it. Luke’s version of the beatitudes is more challenging. Jesus is addressing his audience directly: “Blessed are you poor!” There’s a corresponding set of woes: “Woe to you who are rich for you have received your consolation.” Which, among other things, suggests that there were some rich people in his immediate audience. On the surface, what we hear is divisive and off-putting.

But before delving into the content of Jesus’ words, let’s look at the setting. First, like the version in Matthew, which begins the Sermon on the Mount, there’s a mountain in this story as well. But the differences are worth noting. The lectionary doesn’t include it. We’re told that Jesus went up to the top of a mountain to pray; then he called his disciples to him and chose twelve as his apostles, and with them, came down from the mountain to a level place. Thus in Luke, it’s called the Sermon on the Plain. But note the audience, something of a series of concentric circles. There are the apostles, the twelve; then the disciples, a much larger group that included both men and women; and finally the crowd: a great multitude from Jerusalem and Judaea; and even the region of Tyre and Sidon. They had come, not only to listen to him teach, but to be healed.

But let’s think about another aspect of this context. As I mentioned, in Matthew, Jesus speaks these beatitudes, blessings, from the top of a mountain—a place associated with divine revelation, Mt. Sinai, for example. Level places were perceived differently.. Often, they were seen as places of suffering, of mourning, hunger, and misery. At the same time, in the prophetic tradition, God renews the level places—remember Isaiah’s prophecy quoted by John the Baptist?

“Prepare the way of the Lord,
   make his paths straight.
Every valley shall be filled,
   and every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and the crooked shall be made straight,
   and the rough ways made smooth;

The Authorized Version, the KJV, reads “the rough places plain”

We get the connection between God and mountains—a mountain top experience; MLK Jr’s “I’ve been to the top of the mountain” but God working in level places, in the messiness of life, that might be something else.

And we see that messiness in the text. For unlike Matthew’s beatitudes which pronounce blessing on the poor in spirit, the meek, those who mourn; Luke’s Jesus in addition to blessing the poor, the hungry, those who weep, the persecuted, he also issues condemnations: against the rich, those who laugh, etc. That both groups, the poor and the rich were addressed directly suggests that like the messiness of life itself, the crowd listening to Jesus consisted of “all sorts and conditions” of people, as the old collect says.

It’s also worth considering the fact that those listening were at very different places in their lives and in their relationships with Jesus. There were the 12 who had been singled out by Jesus, chosen as his closest companions, symbolic of the 12 tribes of Israel, God’s chosen people. There was the wider circle of disciples, followers of Jesus who had been with him for a time, and some would continue to follow him right up to the end to Jerusalem and the cross. And there was the crowd, the multitude, who had come out of curiosity and perhaps desperation, to hear, and to be healed.

It’s not really a message that’s intended for everyone, is it? How do you think a wealthy person would have responded to Jesus’ words. How did you react when you heard them? Did you think about your own relative wealth and prestige compared to the abject poverty of so many in the world? Did you begin to squirm? Did you think of those others who are so much richer than you, and thought that perhaps, Jesus wasn’t speaking to you? 

Last Sunday, we heard scriptural readings about call and response.  In today’s gospel, we might intuit that Luke sees in Jesus’ audience for his sermon, different responses to his call. As I said, there are the twelve, the wider circle of disciples, and the crowd. Those words might have hit those groups differently, just as they might hit us differently, depending on our life circumstances and where we are in relationship to Jesus calling us.

Some of us may be all in for Jesus, some of us may be wavering for all sorts of reasons. Think again about the blessings Jesus pronounces. They conclude with an especially powerful one: “Blessed are you when people hate you, and revile you and exclude you….” The idea that Christians in the West, in the US might be persecuted has long been something of a fantasy or a mind-game. Yet The ways in which Christianity has been coopted in this country to buttress wealth, power, and division threatens our witness and threatens the gospel.  We wonder whether we will be able to express our faith in Christ openly and to practice the sorts of justice work that we believe is a natural outgrowth of our faith—feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger and refugee and the like. But in our fear and anxiety, Jesus’ words are words of promise: “rejoice in that day and leap for joy!” I hope we can claim and experience that joy whatever might come.

Some of those who heard Jesus’ call; some like Simon Peter, James and John, left everything behind and followed Jesus. But there were others listening to Jesus. Perhaps they were his disciples as well. But they responded differently to his call and to his words of promise and blessing. Perhaps they were on the fence, feeling the tug of his words, a yearning for deeper relationship with him. Perhaps you might imagine yourself in that crowd, wondering where you are standing, in that nearer circle, or further away?

The way of life that Jesus proclaims; the way that he followed and toward which he leads us is not an easy road. It is full of hardship and challenge. It ended for him on the cross. But it is also a way of joy and peace in which all are welcomed and embraced, where true community is found, and where his followers leap with joy. Wherever we are on our journeys, wherever we are as we listen to his words, may we seek to follow him and as we do, may we learn the joy of dwelling and walking with him.

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.

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.