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

Posted on January 2, 2025 by djgrieser

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

Posted on December 25, 2024 by djgrieser

“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!

Wordle and the Word: A Sermon for Christmas Day, 2023

Posted on December 25, 2023 by djgrieser

December 25, 2023

Do any of you know the New York Times word game “Wordle”? It became an internet sensation during the lockdown. The goal is to guess a five-letter word and you have 6 chances. It’s rather addictive, and for many months, everyone would post their results on social media. That’s become somewhat less common over the years, but yesterday, a former parishioner emailed me his results. On the third try, he got it “GRACE.” Over the course of the day, and night, yesterday, others mentioned it to me as well.

Yes, I do it, but I’m rather embarrassed to admit that it took me 4 tries yesterday. On attempt 3, I went with “BRACE.” In case you’re curious, I’m currently on a 239 day streak. And also, in case you’re wondering, I do them all: the crossword, the mini, spelling bee, and now connections. They’re all part of my morning ritual.

Words are fascinating things. That we play games with them like WORDLE is evidence of the power they have. They amuse and divert us; they hurt and heal us. They help to share our deepest thoughts and feelings; and are also woefully inadequate to express those thoughts and feelings. We are bombarded with words; we bombard others with words. And now, thanks to Chatgpt, we can use artificial intelligence to manufacture words for ourselves, for others, or for class assignments. You probably wouldn’t be surprised to learn that preachers are using AI to manufacture or produce sermons.

That’s quite an irony, isn’t it, given today’s gospel reading: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

I said to a couple of people last night as they were expressing sympathy for me having to get up today and do this service, that for me, in many ways, as beautiful and powerful as the Christmas Eve services are, with choir, and carols, candlelight, and a full church, this service is the one that matters most to me—and it’s for one reason, that I have the great honor and privilege to proclaim this gospel text: John 1:1-14, and to preach the good news from it. Although I’ve preached on this passage more than twenty times, it will never get old; I will never exhaust its meaning, and I will never fully comprehend it.

In the beginning was the word. In principio erat verbum. En arche en ho logos. The Greek word behind our translation of word is “logos.” It means much more than “word.” In Hellenistic philosophy, it referred to the underlying order and reason of the universe and many scholars think that the author of the gospel, or the author of the hymn on which the gospel’s author was drawing, used another Greek word—sophia, or wisdom, which in Greek thought and in Jewish scripture, was the personification of wisdom. Because it is in the feminine gender it is thought, it was changed from “Sophia” to “Logos.”

But word, or reason, or order, or even wisdom points to something deeper. It’s not just that the Word, Christ, the Second Person of the Trinity was present at creation. It’s that God created through the Word, by speaking. As Genesis 1 states, “God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And there was light.

This is powerful stuff. There’s another image that I find particularly compelling. When the great Dutch humanist Erasmus went about publishing the first Greek New Testament, and then re-translating the Greek into Latin, he recognized the inadequacy of “word” as a translation of “logos.” So he chose another Latin word “sermo.” While it’s the root from which our word “sermon” comes, it actually means something quite different: “conversation.”

That image intrigues me. Erasmus is implying that at the heart of God’s nature, at the heart of the Trinity, is conversation, communication. I find it wonderfully reassuring that in spite of our experience of the inadequacy of words, and of communication, that in the Trinity, in God, there is perfect conversation, perfect communication.

Of course, all of that is fine theological speculation; much more than a word game, but also, in a way, a word game. To place Christ at the very beginning, in creation, the means of creation, is to say something or many things, about God’s nature, and about the nature of God revealed in Christ.

But our gospel goes further; our faith goes further. The majestic language, the lofty theological reflection that is revealed in the opening cadences of John 1: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” concludes, “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.”

That’s the message of the gospel, the message of Christmas. In fact, the Greek could be translated “tabernacled” or “tented” among us. Again, there are multiple meanings here. John is referring back to the way God was present among the Israelites during the Exodus, in a tabernacle or tent but there’s also a powerful sense, that he is alluding to the temporary, ephemeral nature of a tent. Like our bodies, tents are not permanent, they lack solidity; they are easily damaged.

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.

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 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 Rubble: A Sermon for Christmas Eve, 2023

Posted on December 25, 2023 by djgrieser

December 24, 2023

At first glance, at first reflection, all seems as it should be. There’s something so seductive, so reassuring about entering a beautiful space like Grace Church, decorated as it is every year at Christmas time. There’s the garland, the wreaths, the beloved creche in front of the altar with the exquisitely carved magi and entourage in the back of the nave as they’ve begun their journey to Bethlehem.

It all sounds the same, too, with familiar carols and our lovely choir and musicians. Where have you come from this evening? From holiday tables at restaurants, or festive gatherings with friends and family? Some of us may even be planning on going to other gatherings; others of us will make our ways home at the end of a long, and exhausting Sunday.

It’s so similar to so many other Christmases, my fifteenth here at Grace. Some of you have been coming much longer than that and are settling into the beauty and familiarity of rituals and memories that may go back decades. But those memories are also tinged with sadness as we remember those who aren’t here any longer.

But beneath that familiarity and beauty, tucked away in our memories, or perhaps shoved out of our immediate attention by that beauty, are other memories, other images—of those Christmases in 2020 and 2021 when there were no services here because of the pandemic. We’re reminded that the pandemic has not left us, that our return to normalcy takes place while many continue to contract the illness or suffer the effects of long covid.

There may be other images, other emotions that are hard to repress right now. One image that haunts me is a photo shared by the pastor of the Lutheran Church in Bethlehem, Palestine. The Churches in Jerusalem and the West Bank announced recently that there would be no public celebrations, no public displays during Christmas, so this pastor, instead of erecting the usual creche like ours, did something else in his church. He brought in a pile of rubble, and in the middle of it lies the Christ child, wrapped in a keffiyeh, the symbol of Palestinian peoplehood. It speaks directly and eloquently to the humanitarian crisis that we’ve watched over the last nearly two months, an indiscriminate and horrific destruction of a people who have been driven from their homes, oppressed and practically held captive for the last nearly 75 years.

The plight of Christians, and Muslims, in the West Bank receives less attention than that of Gaza, but their lives are also under attack on a daily basis, their existence and presence in their homeland more precarious than ever. In Gaza, our Christian siblings are being killed, their ancient churches bombed to rubble. Of course, it’s not just Christians who are suffering there. The bombs don’t distinguish on the basis of religious commitment. On top of the thousands dead and homeless, now we’re hearing of starvation as aid continues to be blocked. The world watches; our own government is complicit in the atrocities. War continues in Ukraine as well, and even where there is no war, there is famine, hunger, and homelessness, poverty and disease.

As we celebrate Christmas with carols, happy gatherings, and parties, we know that across the globe, people are suffering. We have learned hard lessons over the last few years. We have learned and re-learned about the fragility of life—how easily and quickly loved ones may be snatched from us by disease. We have learned about the fragility of our political institutions, our national life. We see daily evidence of the fragility of the human global community, and we are growing more aware, even as many deny it, of the fragility of life on this planet.

So too, do we know the fragility of our faith. It is easy to grow disheartened, for our doubts to spiral into despair. In the presence of all the world’s ills, to lose hope seems not only natural but obvious. We reel from broken relationships, from trauma that continues to haunt us. It may very well be that it took all the courage we have left in us to venture out this evening to this place, in a desperate, unspoken plea for God to speak to us, to heal us and the world.

But the disconnect between our lives and our world and that of first-century Palestine may seem greater than ever. What can an ancient faith, a familiar story say to us in the face of millions suffering and global climate catastrophe? Can the story of Christ’s birth still speak to us? Can the carols we sing, the familiar decorations, the season’s joys, fill our hearts?

The story Luke tells is not only about the birth of Jesus Christ. He interweaves that story with the story, and the reality of the Roman Empire. And it’s not because Luke was one of those 21^st century bros who thinks about the Roman Empire every day, as the recent internet meme would have it. He did think about it every day because it was an all-encompassing, totalizing reality. It insinuated itself into the lives of everyone from the British Isles to the Indian subcontinent—and even beyond as its cultural influence extended almost everywhere.

Luke is writing within the Roman Empire, to citizens and inhabitants of the Roman Empire. The subjects of his story belonged to a people who were prone to rebellion, repeated small ones, but larger ones, like the Jewish Revolt of the late 60s ce, which would have been fresh in Luke’s memory, or the one a generation later in the 130s, after which Rome razed Jerusalem, and forbid Jews to live there.

By placing his story in the context of the Roman Empire, Luke is highlighting the contrast between that reality, and the reality of God’s reign, coming in a very different way, in poverty, humility, and weakness. Not the power of Roman legions, or tanks or military force, but the power of vulnerable and fragile, a baby, swathed in love, bringing love, inviting us to love.

We desperately want certainty, unmistakable signs of God’s power and might, fixing us, fixing the world. Instead, we get this: a baby born in a dusty town in a far-off place and a far-off time. We get stories of angels, shepherds, and magi. We want God to solve our problems, fix our world, to show Godself to us with power and majesty. Instead, we get this: a tiny new life, utterly vulnerable, utterly dependent, the fragility and weakness of an infant. And this, we believe, is God.

This is God: this tiny, utterly dependent and vulnerable baby is God come into the world. This first time, Christ did not come in power and great majesty, but quietly, almost unnoticed, in a remote corner of the Roman Empire, to a young woman who seemed wholly ordinary and unremarkable.

This is God, in Christ, coming to us, in all our fragility, vulnerability, and suffering, coming into our broken lives and broken world. A baby, coming into the rubble of our lives, the rubble of our world, filling it, and us, with grace and hope and love. Thanks be to God.

The Word became Chord: A homily for Christmas Day, 2022

Posted on December 25, 2022 by djgrieser

Those of you who have attended Christmas Day services during my tenure as rector of Grace know that it is one of my favorite services. It’s more intimate yet somehow more glorious than Christmas Eve. All the stress associated with orchestrating a major festival Eucharist is gone. Moreover, I can look forward to the peace and quiet of Christmas Day afternoon—a great meal, a bottle of good wine, and, hopefully, a restorative nap.

But there are other reasons I love Christmas Day services. One of them is that occasionally there’s a day like today—bright, sunny, with the sun reflecting off of the snow and blinding us with its brilliance—a perfect match to one of my favorite hymns, one we sing every year on Christmas Day, “Break forth O beauteous, heavenly light”

But, the biggest reason I love Christmas Day is because it gives me the opportunity to proclaim today’s Gospel, the so-called prologue of the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word…”

If Christmas Eve, with its candlelight and Silent Night, and the story of Christ’s birth from the Gospel of Luke, explores the mystery and miracle of an omnipotent God becoming human in a vulnerable, utterly dependent baby, then Christmas Day with its poetic and profound meditation of the Word made flesh, explores the mystery at the heart of the universe, of an omnipotent God whose love and creative power is reflected in all that is, in this wonderful, expanding, beautiful universe, and yet also comes to us as one of us—lived among us, tented, or tabernacled among us, as the Greek suggests. It’s an evocative word that witnesses to the impermanence of human flesh. It also alludes to God’s presence among the Hebrews in the wilderness, in the tabernacle that the Israelites carried with them in their sojourn in the desert.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Word, words, not just the language that we speak, the words we search for when we try to communicate our deepest feelings, the words that elude us. Think of all those who use words to deceive, to manipulate, to obfuscate. Think of those who deny the truth of words, who rely on lies, whose deceptions tear at the fabric of our lives, the fabric of our nation. Our words, our language, ultimately can, or should, connect us with the Divine, connect us with God, with the Word.

Ponder the word, ponder the word made flesh.

I’m not sure why, but I have struggled this year to enter into this season of mystery and miracle. I felt like I was going through the motions in Advent, not really exploring or experiencing the time of waiting, preparation, and anticipation. Perhaps it was the burden of the world weighing on my spirit, numbing my soul. Scenes of war in Ukraine, the relentless toll on all of us of COVID, even if we want to deny it and declare it over. Maybe it is the political theatre and disruption in Washington and here at home in Wisconsin.

Whatever the case, I felt like I was going through the motions. To be honest, maybe it wasn’t all that different from other years. My Christmas Eve morning started like every other Christmas Eve, as I tuned in to Lessons and Carols from King’s College, Cambridge. While I’ve listened to that service for many years, over the last decade or so, my experience of it has been shared with Anglicans and musicians across the world via Twitter, sharing our feelings, talking about the carol choices, commenting on the readers.

The sound of the treble singing the first notes of “Once in Royal David’s City” broke through my malaise. Later came “In the Bleak Midwinter” which transported me across the years and across the country to the Christmas Eve when I sang that carol in the choir at St. Paul’s, Newburyport. And then, finally, “O Come, all ye faithful.”

There was an article this week in the New York Times about “the chord.” In the arrangement of the carol usually used at the Lessons and Carols, there’s a moment, in the 6^th verse, as the choir and congregation sing “Word of the Father…). I won’t go into technical detail about it but simply quote the article: it is “a moment of total release, embracing the unknown.”

Embracing the unknown, yet being known in that embrace. It transports and connects us—to each other, and to God. St. Augustine of Hippo is famously alleged to have said, or written, “Whoever sings, prays twice.” It is a moment of sheer rapture, made the more powerful and meaningful by being shared by Christians and listeners throughout the world. The music of the universe, the music of the spheres, brought to us. The Word made chord. And yes, Christmas came to me in that moment, in that chord.

That has given an added dimension to my reflections on the word made flesh. As I continue to probe the pluriform and incomprehensible meanings of the word—the logos—in Greek—and I suppose I will continue to do so as long as my mind is capable, the mystery of the word made flesh will continue to elude and entice me. Even as I do so, I pray that God’s grace and truth will continue to open up new possibilities, new wonders, new mystery. In music, in art, in the words of theologians and mystics, the word made flesh is mystery, and possibility, and grace. May we all experience that mystery and that grace today and always.

Ghosts of Christmases Past: A Sermon for Christmas Eve, 2022

Posted on December 25, 2022 by djgrieser

One of the most beloved Christmas stories is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. It’s often said that Charles Dickens invented modern Christmas. It has been made into films and plays. It has been rewritten and adapted—This past week Corrie and I watched Spirited starring Will Ferrell and Ryan Reynolds. We’ll probably watch Scrooged starring Bill Murray before the holidays are over. We probably won’t watch A Muppet Christmas Carol, even though my social media feeds insist that not only is it the best adaptation of Dickens’ story, it’s the bese Christmas movie of all.

As I was watching Spirited it occurred to me that I am haunted by Christmases past this year. I’m probably haunted by past Christmases every year, but this year the ghosts of past Christmases seem especially potent.

Tonight is the first time we gather here on Christmas Eve since 2019; our traditional customs and rituals, our lives and world, disrupted by pandemic. I was asked more than once in the past few days, “We will have services?” “Are there contingency plans?” The concerns were real, of course but driven, not by the continued pandemic, but by the speculation and worry about the weather. We hardly remember that years ago, we wouldn’t have had a second thought about coming out to Christmas Eve services in sub-zero temperatures.

As we gather this evening in this beloved, beautiful space, lovingly decorated by our Altar Guild, surrounded by the sights and sounds of Christmas, we embrace the familiar even as we are mindful of the time that has past, of all that has happened. There are ghosts among us: loved ones who are no longer among us; there is all that we’ve suffered, individually, communally, globally over the last nearly three years.

There are those who are suffering now: the people of Ukraine, subjected to missiles and drones destroying their homes and culture, leaving them cold and dark. There are refugees and asylum seekers on our borders; people staying in homeless shelters or seeking what shelter they can find, as Mary and Joseph did so long ago in Bethlehem. And tonight, especially, we think all of those still suffering from the impact of the storm and the frigid temperatures in our nation.

Ghosts of Christmases past. Among them, for me especially, I’m haunted by the images that haunted me every Christmas at Grace up to 2020. For thirty-five years, from 1984 until March 2020, we worshiped in this beautiful space on Christmas Eve while on the opposite side of the courtyard, men huddled on cots, trying to sleep and rest in a crowded basement. The irony of it all was never far from my mind. We, hearing again the story of a pregnant mother and her fiancé seeking shelter in a distant town. We, celebrating the coming of the Christ child, the incarnation, God made man, coming from warm, inviting spaces, returning to celebrations with family and friends; while a few hundred feet away, men were spending the night as they had spent so many nights before and would again and again. And of course, they are not here now, but they are in this city and throughout the world, homeless men and women, homeless families without shelter tonight.

The starkness of that reality is also only a memory, a ghost, let’s say; but even so, for some of us, perhaps many of us, the reality of our lives and our world, the suffering and trauma, may only be masked by the celebration of this evening. Some of us will return to dark and empty homes. Some of us will be mourning lost loved ones; some of us will be facing the realities and pain of broken relationships. Ghosts of Christmases past. Ghosts of Christmases longed for but not experienced. Ghosts of Christmas suffering.

Yet we are here, and in spite of our worries and troubles, we sing familiar carols, we hear the familiar story. In spite of the cold outside, we are here, surrounded by warmth—not just of the heating system. We are embraced in the warmth of community, of joy, of excitement, of wonder. We celebrate Christ’s coming into the world.

To enter into the story, to hear it read once again, to sing the familiar carols, to be surrounded by the beautiful decorations, connects us with our own stories, and helps us once again to experience the light and love of Christmas.

The story connects with us because of its familiarity. We have heard it so many times—in the language of the King James Version—swaddling clothes, sore afraid; in modern translations, in countless reinterpretations and retellings, on tv, in artistic depictions, Christmas pageants like the one we saw this past Sunday at Grace.

It is a familiar story in other ways, some we may not acknowledge. A couple forced to travel by occupying powers; a young girl giving birth in uncomfortable, perhaps even inhumane conditions. A story told about people in a small town far removed from the centers of power, and money, and culture.

Tonight we feel the vast chasm between the world we want and the world we have; the world we had and the world in which we live. But that is nothing new.

The vast chasm between what is and it is meant to be, what will be, is at the very heart of Christmas. It reveals itself in so many ways—in God coming to us in the person of an infant, the power of God becoming the powerlessness, the weakness and vulnerability of Jesus. God coming to us, not in majesty and power but in the silence and darkness of a night; God coming to us not in the center of the world, in Rome, or New York, or Hollywood, but in a little town on the edge of empire.

In that act, in the manger in Bethlehem, God comes to us, revealing who God is, and revealing also who we are meant to be, what the world is meant to be.

Jesus comes to us, a frail, vulnerable, weak baby, meeting us in our own weakness, vulnerability, and suffering. God comes down to us, in the darkness and silence of our lives, in the world’s suffering. And as God comes to us, in the silence, we see the world God is bringing into being, the world transformed by the coming of Christ. We see ourselves, transformed by God’s grace and love.

Love came down to us at Christmas, God emptied Godself, taking on human form, becoming one of us, so that we might see and know what love is; so that we might see and know love, so that we might be love in the world. As we go out into the world on this cold night, may our hearts be warmed by God’s love, and may we share that love with the world.

The Creche and the Word: A Sermon for Christmas 1, 2019

Posted on December 29, 2019 by djgrieser

Today is the first Sunday of Christmas. You know that there are 12 days of Christmas, and that those twelve days begin, not end, on Christmas Day. Christmas continues right up to the Feast of the Epiphany—although in many places, Christmas decorations remain in the church until February 2, which is Candlemas, or also the Feast of the Presentation in the Temple. Continue reading →

The Word tabernacled among us: A Sermon for Christmas Day, 2019

Posted on December 25, 2019 by djgrieser

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory.”

I love the contrast between our Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services. The early service on Christmas Eve is full of noise and excitement. Last night the church was almost full, with families, and children who were full of anticipation of the presents under the trees back home. They could hardly contain their excitement. Each year, I invite them to come forward and join me at our lovely creche, and I engage them in conversation about the story represented by the creche, and its meaning for our lives and our faith.

Then, at 10:00 pm, there’s a very different mood. Excitement still, but the mood is shaped by the beautiful music provided by the choir, organ, and instrumentalists as people gather in the nave. Both services end in darkness as we sing “Silent Night” with candles lit in a darkened nave. Finally, the bells peal the joyous sounds of celebration and we go out into the darkness, our hearts filled with joy.

Christmas Day is very different. In some years, though not now, we might come to church in the glorious, dazzling light, of sun shining on snow. The brightness of the sun corresponds to the glory of the gospel reading we hear each year, the first verses from John’s gospel.

This gospel reading offers a vivid contrast to the story we read each year on Christmas Eve, Luke’s version of the birth of Jesus. While Luke moves us in panoramic style from the powerful center of the Roman Empire to one of its obscure and distant corners, the village of Bethlehem, as the characters mentioned change from emperors and governors to a pregnant woman and a band of shepherds. The story ends in stillness and quiet, with Mary pondering all that happened and the shepherds returning to their sheep.

John’s gospel begins with an even wider view than Luke’s. Instead of setting the context in the Roman Empire, John expands out even further, to the beginning of time and the origins of the universe. He draws our attention not to how or where Jesus was born, but to the God who created all that is, and the Word through whom everything was created.

John begins with a panoramic view of the universe: In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. But from that vast eternal scope, he focuses in on us:

“The Word became flesh and lived among us.” The incarnation is a great mystery of our faith, something that we should ponder and treasure in our hearts, something we should puzzle over, ponder. More than that. The Word connects us with God because our words, our thoughts are attempts to approach and understand the Word. By thinking, reflecting, struggling to understand the meaning of the Word become flesh, there’s a way in which our thinking itself makes Christ present in our minds and in our lives.

You may find all this very abstract. It is, but John doesn’t stop there. He goes on. The word became flesh and lived among us.

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.” While John likely wants us to think of the tabernacle that was the symbol of God’s presence to the Israelites in the wilderness, it’s also the case that we are to think of Christ being among us, “living among us” in a temporary, make-shift way, like a tent. That is to say, the word took on frail human flesh to be like us.

This paradox, this mystery is quite beyond comprehension. The Word taking human flesh. St. Augustine captures the paradox in one of his sermons on this text for Christmas:

“He so loved us that for our sake He was made man in time, through Whom all times were made; was in the world less in years than His servants, though older than the world itself in His eternity; was made man, Who made man; was created of a mother, whom He created; was carried by hands which He formed; nursed at the breasts which He had filled; cried in the manger in wordless infancy, He the Word without Whom all human eloquence is mute.” — St. Augustine, Sermon 188

John goes a step further. For John, this infant, this tiny human creature, incapable of speech, vulnerable, utterly dependent on others for life itself, this infant reveals God’s glory to us.

To see and know Christ, the Word, in the babe in a manger, is to see and know God’s glory. To see and know Christ in the cross, is to see and know God’s glory. To see and know Christ, to taste Christ in the bread and wine of the Eucharistic feast, is to see and know God’s glory.

May we experience, may we see and know the glory of God today, in our lives, and in the world around us, in the Christ made flesh in a manger and as we kneel at the altar. May we know and believe the mystery of our faith, the mystery of the Incarnation, the mystery of God’s love for us, today at Christmas, and throughout our lives. Amen.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer on the Magnificat

Posted on December 24, 2019 by djgrieser

The throne of God in the world is set not on the thrones of humankind but in humanity’s deepest abyss, in the manger. There are no flattering courtiers standing around his throne, just some rather dark, unknown, dubious-looking figures, who cannot get enough of looking at this miracle and are quite prepared to live entirely on the mercy of God.

For those who are great and powerful in this world, there are two places where their courage fails them, which terrify them to the very depths of their souls, and which they dearly avoid. These are the manger and the cross of Jesus Christ. No one who holds power dares to come near the manger; King Herod also did not dare. For here thrones begin to sway; the powerful fall down, and those who are high are brought low, because God is here with the lowly. Here the rich come to naught, because God is here with the poor and those who hunger. God gives there the hungry plenty to eat, but sends the rich and well-satisfied away empty. Before the maidservant Mary, before Christ’s manger, before God among the lowly, the strong find themselves falling; here they have no rights, no hope, but instead find judgment.

From a sermon preached in London, the Third Sunday of Advent, December 17, 1933

The Messiness of the Messiah: A Sermon for Advent 4A, 2019

Posted on December 22, 2019 by djgrieser

As I grow older, it becomes increasingly difficult for me to make keep up with all the changes in popular culture.

That sentence could be the lede for an almost infinite number of examples..

In this case though, I’m thinking of the Hallmark Channel, of which I was only vaguely aware. I learned this fall that from approximately Halloween to New Year’s Day, there’s an endless stream of Christmas movies; and that on Friday nights throughout the year, Hallmark shows holiday-themed movies. Apparently other channels have followed suit. With good reason. Apparently Hallmark’s programming is so successful that for the fourth quarter last year, it was the most popular channel among women aged 19-54.

other channels have followed suit. Apparently, this programming is so successful that Hallmark wins the ratings war for the final quarter of the year with the key demographic of women 19-54. Continue reading →

Preaching Grace on the Square

Scripture, Tradition, Theology, Random Thoughts from Capitol Square in Madison, WI

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