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Bearing Witness to the Cross: A Sermon for Good Friday, 2025

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Good Friday

April 18, 2025

Good Friday is an emotional, complicated day. We are drawn into the story of Christ’s suffering, his torture and execution, and we are invited to enter into that story, to approach and experience it through hymns and devotions that have developed over the centuries. Some of those devotions can threaten to overwhelm us; some may repel us. But each of us in our own way is touched, moved, affected by it all.

We gather at a time when many of us are feeling other emotions: anger, fear, despair, as we watch events unfold around us, see the acts of domination and oppression that run roughshod over civic, legal, and moral norms. We may want to leave that cacophony outside on the streets but it invades our thoughts, troubles our hearts, and disrupts our sleep.

We feel impotence alongside all of our other emotions—impotence in the face of yet another mass shooting, impotence in the face of unjust deportations, the dismantling of the institutions that are supposed to protect all of us, and especially the most vulnerable, impotence as we watch the attacks on free speech, higher education, and all the rest, and the reluctance of those with power and influence to stand up against the onslaught.

Then we enter this service and encounter additional challenges. Our liturgy, and especially the gospel reading for today confronts us with one of the profound challenges for Christian faith in the contemporary world. The deep, persistent, ugly anti-Judaism of the Gospel of John is on full display in the passion narrative—the relentless repetition of “The Jews” in the gospel’s depiction of those who were opposed to Jesus and sought his death has had lasting consequences throughout history, in the Antisemitism that has persisted and led to ongoing acts of violence including the Holocaust. 

We are also all too aware of the weaponization of Antisemitism to quash dissent and free speech. At the same time, even on this most holy day of the Christian year, we are conscious of all the ways in which Christian imagery and faith have contributed to the marginalization and oppression of others. The power of Christian nationalism and white supremacy looms over the cross and all that we do here today.

Our liturgy today attempts to mitigate some of that damage. We are using an alternative liturgy approved by General Convention last year that attempts to undo some of the anti-Judaism of the language in the authorized Book of Common Prayer. The gospel we heard is an adaptation of John, rewording it to complicate the opponents of Jesus in the gospel—not just “the Jews” now but Jewish leaders, or parties within first century Judaism. It’s a start but perhaps seems either too little too late, or a futile attempt to stem the tide of Antisemitism and weaponized Antisemitism that threaten to overwhelm us all.

Given all that, given where we are today as we observe Good Friday, how might we find solace and strength in our liturgy to help make sense of our world, our lives, and inspire the courage to persist in our efforts to be faithful Christians? One possible answer to that question may lie in the example of Pilate. Known historically as a ruthless, even bloodthirsty tyrant, in the Gospels he is depicted as an unwilling and unwitting accomplice. John suggests Pilate knows Jesus is innocent of the charges levelled against him but seems impotent to resist the machinations and insistence of Jesus’ opponents. In the gospel of Matthew, we’re given the image of Pilate washing his hands and declaring his innocence of Jesus’ blood in front of the card, an image that has entered popular consciousness. This image of the feckless, spineless politician is one that seems to resonate today as too many of our leaders stand by haplessly as lawlessness and evil thrive.

While naming the Pilates among may offer us some consolation and schadenfreude, there are other ways of connecting the story we heard with the lives we are living today. As Jesus’ followers, we are called to follow him. In John’s telling, unlike the synoptic gospel accounts where Jesus is abandoned by his disciples on his last journey, the disciples accompany Jesus along the way. Peter still betrays Jesus but we’re told that the beloved disciple—I’ll leave them unnamed as in the gospel, is able to go with Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest. 

At the cross, the Beloved Disciple and Jesus’ mother Mary stand by watching and bearing witness, and other disciples, secret ones, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus are responsible for Jesus’ burial. Being present, bearing witness, these are important responsibilities. It may be that not all of us can take action, and the actions we can take may seem futile. But we can pay attention, bear witness, remember so that the voices of the vulnerable and suffering are amplified. In the gospel of Luke, we’re told that the women—the disciples—who followed Jesus from Galilee and ministered to him along the way, stood far off from the cross and watched and remembered.

To remember, to bear witness, to be present. As we contemplate the events of Good Friday, we see a deep and powerful paradox. On the one hand, we see the power of the Roman Empire bringing itself to bear on a lonely, humble teacher from Galilee who dared to challenge its power and might. On the other hand, we see Christ giving of himself for our lives and the life of the world. We see Christ, loving the world so much that he gives of himself, gives his life for us and in that giving shows us the power of love. 

We see Christ suffering and in his suffering we know he stands and suffers with all those today who are suffering—immigrants who have been deported for no reason, victims languishing in camps and prisons. He is present in the rubble of Gaza and Ukraine, on the streets of our cities. He is with us in our own lives, in our fears and despair. As we ponder the events of Good Friday today may we find in Christ, in the cross, love’s power to strengthen us to be present in a suffering world and to bear witness to the oppression and violence that surround us, and to minister to those in need. May we find in the cross the love we need to carry on.

Being loved, and loving, to the end: A Homily for Maundy Thursday, 2025

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April 17, 2025

A memory has been running through my mind these last few days as I’ve thought about Maundy Thursday. I grew up Mennonite, which was then, and likely remains a profoundly non-liturgical tradition. When I was a member, we celebrated communion only twice a year but our observance of communion always included footwashing. It was a ritual central to Mennonite identity in that era; so central in fact that one of the Mennonite colleges had as its logo an image of a basin and towel. The idea of service to others, Jesus’ commandment to imitate his actions, and to love others as he loved his disciples, were core values among Mennonites during the 50s and 60s. 

But what I’ve been thinking about is not the act of footwashing itself, as practiced among the Mennonites of my childhood. Rather, I’ve been remembering other aspects of the ritual, specifically the fact that our footwashing was accompanied by hymns. I recall my dad, who was a musician and often led music in the church, leading out in hymns as we watched each other’s feet,–although they were sung from memory and without accompaniment by musical instrument. Truth be told, while I vividly remember singing, I cannot for the life of me remember the specific hymns we sang.

Perhaps the reason I’ve been reminded of that memory is because it is the one thing that our service tonight shares with the traditions of my childhood, even though our singing during footwashing had been planned in advance and will be accompanied by the organ, thankfully.

 Footwashing is an intimate, deeply moving, powerful ritual and for us on Maundy Thursday, it is only one of several such powerful moments in our liturgy. I remember also the first Episcopal Maundy Thursday service I attended, and the wave of emotion that overcame me as I watched for the first time in my life the Stripping of the Altar. It evokes in so many ways the stripping of a body, of Christ’s body, for burial, and as I cleanse the altar later this evening, in near darkness, my gestures will  mimic the scourging that Jesus suffered at the hands of his persecutors and executioners.

Our watching is accompanied by growing apprehension as the ritual acts remind us of the events that follow. Some of them we will remember viscerally as our bodies move through traces of Gethsemane, Golgotha, and the tomb. As we move, our emotions build—the grief and despair, the guilt and shame. Our daily lives seem to be suspended, interrupted, as our attention focuses on the drama of Christ’s passion. But even as we know what tomorrow brings—Good Friday and crucifixion, let us linger for another moment or two, here on Maundy Thursday and with the Last Supper.

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” This brief sentence, the beginning of our gospel reading tonight, is an introduction not just to the events that follow immediately—the last supper and footwashing, but to everything else that we commemorate in the coming days, Christ’s arrest and trial, his execution and death, and yes, his resurrection. All of that, all of what will happen, what we dread will happen, is an expression of Christ’s love for his disciples and for us. But while we may want to move on to the bigger parts of the story; it all begins here. Friends gathered around a table, and a humble, intimate act of footwashing.

We see Peter’s response—his revulsion and unwillingness to allow Jesus to serve him in this way, to kneel before him. Less obvious from the text we heard, the footwashing takes place before Judas’ departure. So Jesus knelt down before the one who would betray him as he knelt before the other disciples. Perhaps that’s the most radical, least imaginable moment in the whole story. 

It’s a shocking act—in the first century as in the twenty-first. Peter’s response to it might be the same as ours, to imagine our teacher, our leader, the Son of God, kneeling down girding himself with a towel, and washing our feet. It makes us uncomfortable to do it ourselves, unaccustomed as we are to such acts of intimate service. Yet all around us people do such things—take intimate care of their loved ones who are unable to care for themselves. And many others do it for people they don’t love—because it’s their job, often ill-paid, thankless. 

But Jesus joins them in their labor and toil, washing the dust and dirt from the feet of his friends—an intimate, revolutionary act that presages everything else to come, and demonstrates, wordlessly, what it means to love his own to the end. It’s a concrete demonstration of his self-giving love; the emptying himself of his identity to become the lowest of servants, performing menial tasks, unworthy of a king, let alone of a God.

In our world, where power and dominance are demonstrated in acts large and small, forcing submission, demanding obedience, where bullying is the norm, for Jesus to fall to his knees in humility and service, upends our assumptions and shatters our expectations.

But more than that, Jesus invites us to join him on our knees, in service and love to others. This act of humble service combined with the meal at which it takes place, is the constitutive act of a new beloved community brought together in shared commitment to following Jesus. Forged by love, shaped by love, the community gathered at table together, shares in Christ’s body and blood, becomes Christ’s body, knit together by love. 

In these days of turmoil and suffering, as we watch our nation and world collapse, and we lose our moorings in the rubble and chaos of institutions and ideals, the acts we remember tonight, the rituals tonight bind us together with Christ in that new community. And what we do here may serve as example and witness to our neighbors and to the world—evidence of a faith in a Christ who comes as one to love and serve in humility, not to dominate and oppress. 

Protests and Palms: A Sermon for Palm Sunday, 2025

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I had to laugh when our procession came across the corner from W. Washington to N. Carroll before entering the church and we were confronted by the people on the capitol steps with their music and shouting. So fitting a reminder for our ministry on Capitol Square that whatever we do in worship and outreach, it is shaped by the context in which we find ourselves.

We know a thing or two about protests around here, don’t we? There have been the big ones—last Saturday, which many of you attended; others in the past like the women’s march in 2017 or the Black Lives Matter protests in the wake of the George Floyd murder. There were others, too many to enumerate, beginning with the Act 10 protests in 2011, which seems so long ago. And unlike the description of the protest given us by Luke, at the Act 10 protests there were at least palms, in the form of inflatable palm trees. 

There have been many others throughout the years, many of them quite small; a handful or so of demonstrators, or even occasionally, a single demonstrator, like the guy who walks around the square regularly shouting at Governor Evers. 

We don’t often associate protests with scripture—they probably seem a very contemporary thing—a product of activists like Gandhi or MLK jr who were able to gather thousands or hundreds of thousands, and in Gandhi’s case, bring an empire to its knees. 

And we certainly don’t imagine that the event we recreated this morning, traditionally called the Triumphal Entry, had anything to do with a political demonstration. But in the context of first century Judaism and of biblical tradition, what Jesus and his followers did that day was profoundly political. The reference to the prophet Zephaniah makes it clear: Jesus was connecting himself with the long-hoped for idea of the restoration of the Davidic monarchy. And that’s hardly an innocuous act in the days leading up to Passover, in a city crowded with pilgrims and with Roman soldiers present to keep violence at bay.

In case you’re still skeptical of the implications of all this, the next two things Jesus did was to pause, overlooking the city and predict its destruction. Then he entered the temple where he staged another demonstration, overturning the tables of the money-changers. Is it any wonder the Roman authorities were keen to get their hands on him? We see the very same impulses at work today—the silencing of protestors, the punishment of outspoken political opponents.

The story continues of course. We heard the passion of Christ according to the Gospel of Luke. All four gospels are eager to deflect our attention away from the confrontation between Jesus and Rome and for us to focus on the participation of the Jewish authorities in Jesus’ arrest and execution. That’s hardly surprising—what member of a tiny new religious movement at the turn of the second century would want to celebrate as their founder and the son of God, someone who was executed by the Roman Empire? But Luke goes a step further by inserting an episode in Jesus’ trial in which he appears before Herod Antipas. Herod seems to see Jesus as a comic diversion. Luke suggests he was curious about him, and the episode concludes with Herod and Pilate becoming friends, tyranny and empire consolidating their power.

But the story we heard, the story Christians have told for two thousand years is not just about a political protest, a revolutionary executed by the Roman empire. As important as that is, the story of resistance to evil and oppression, the story of Jesus is much more than that. We see the gospel writers interpreting it to give it cosmic significance, ultimate meaning for us in the twenty-first century as well as for his friends in the first. 

Two things stand out in Luke’s understanding of the meaning of the cross. First of all, Jesus’ words to the soldiers who crucified him: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Second, the interchange between Jesus and the two thieves, one of whom pleaded: “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And finally, the words of the centurion as Jesus died: “Truly, this man was innocent.”

Luke wants us to see Jesus as the innocent victim, whose death imparts forgiveness of sins to those who believe in him. It’s a powerful message that has resonated throughout the centuries down to our own time. Our hymnody, a millennium of Christian devotional practice and reflection lead us to that point; even our Lenten experiences. We recognize our sinfulness, we ask for forgiveness, we see Jesus’ death as a result of our own sins, and a way of unburdening us of those sins. As powerful as that imagery and devotion may be, as deeply moving as it may be for our own personal situations, there are other ways of seeing the cross, equally powerful and transformative.

In the reading from the letter to the Philippians, for example, Paul articulates a rather different understanding. Paul is likely quoting a hymn that Christians were already singing in worship, a hymn that reflects early understandings of Jesus’ death and resurrection. And here there is nothing of sacrifice, or sins, or guilt, or punishment. 

Instead, what Paul and those other early Christians emphasized was Christ’s self-giving and obedience: 

“Who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but humbled himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on the cross.”

In the cross, we encounter God—not an angry or vindictive judge, but a God who emptied himself for us. In the cross, we encounter the self-giving God who became one of us, to show us the fullness of humanity, to remake us in God’s image. In the cross, we encounter God’s love.

As we journey through Holy Week this week, as we walk with Jesus through the streets of Jerusalem, to the last supper, to Gethsemane, to Pilate’s chambers and finally to Golgotha, may each step be an opportunity to experience God’s love in Jesus Christ. May this week be a journey into the heart of God’s love.

Reckoning with Evil: A Sermon for 3LentC, 2025

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3 Lent

March 23, 2025

We all do it. We see someone’s suffering, perhaps even our own, and wonder, “What did I do to deserve that?” We might ask, “Why is God punishing me?” when diagnosed with cancer, or some other random misfortune befalls us. We might ask ourselves when we see someone in poverty, or unhoused, what decisions they made earlier in life that brought them to this point. It’s human; it’s natural. We want misfortune, suffering to have meaning, and so we look for reasons, or assign blame. Since the first humans began to think reflectively, we have wondered about the origin of evil or suffering, and we have developed intricate explanatory systems—religion not the least of them, to help us negotiate, make sense of, and respond to them.

Such questions bring us to the heart of today’s gospel reading, several enigmatic and perhaps unrelated sayings attributed to Jesus and brought together in this place by Luke. Jesus references two apparently somewhat contemporary events. In the first, Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea who had executed some Galileans while they were making sacrifices; or to put in imagery we might understand, people killed while seeking refuge from bombing in a church. The second example might be even stranger. The tower of Siloam falls and kills 18 people who were unlucky enough to be in the vicinity when the tower came down.

Jesus uses these two stories to make a point. He asks his listeners if these people deserved to die, if they were any more sinful than anyone else in Jerusalem. And then he lays down a warning, “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

Philosophers distinguish between natural evil and moral evil. Natural evil is the evil or suffering that comes about through natural disaster—tsunamis, earthquakes, and the like. Moral evil is evil that is a result of human action—the holocaust. These two examples of Jesus encompass both types of evil—a random accident, and a crime perpetrated by someone. In either case, our very human tendency is to assign blame. We want to place suffering in a context that makes sense of it, and that makes it conform to our view of the world.

 Jesus here reminds his listeners that there is plenty of blame to go around. The fact that some people were killed when the tower of Siloam collapsed didn’t mean that they were any more sinful than anyone else in Jerusalem.

But the reading doesn’t end there. After this word of warning, Jesus tells a parable about a fig tree. This story seems to be another version of a story in Mark and Matthew. There Jesus comes to a fig tree, looking for fruit but finds none. In fact, Mark observes, it wasn’t fig season. But Jesus curses the tree, and the next day, as they walk by it again, the disciples notice that it has shriveled up. In Luke’s version, it is a parable in which a landowner comes looking for figs, as he has in the two preceding years. But the fig tree is barren, so the landowner tells the gardener to pull it out. But the gardener objects, suggesting instead that they fertilize it and wait to see what happens the next year.

What are we to make of that? Well, if Luke is really reworking the story from Mark, then we see him turning a message of doom into a message of hope. The message from the death of the Galileans and the victims of the Tower of Siloam was loud and clear: “Repent or perish.” But with the fig tree, another message comes forward: “Let’s nurture the tree and see what happens next year. Perhaps we’ll get a crop of figs then.”

Waiting may be an option when it’s a fig tree, but waiting seems irresponsible when the lives of thousands are at stake. The reading from Exodus offers a different perspective on this dynamic. 

Moses, a Hebrew child  was spared genocide when his mother put him in a reed basket in the Nile.  He was found and raised by Pharaoh’s daughter. As a young adult, he came across an Egyptian whipping a Hebrew slave. Moses killed him and fled Egypt, ending up in the land of Midian, where we encounter him in our story.

And he encounters God. Tending sheep on God’s mountain, Mt. Horeb, also known as Mt. Sinai, Moses sees a bush that is on fire but is not consumed by the fire. When he goes to investigate, he hears the voice of God speaking to him, revealing Godself to him, calling him to be a messenger and prophet of God. There is much to contemplate here; the theophany itself, the revelation of God’s name, Moses’ call, but for our purposes, what matters is something God says to Moses:

“I have observed the misery of my people;

“I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters;

“Indeed, I know their sufferings and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians….”

The God who appears to Moses in a burning bush is a God who hears the cries of the oppressed and suffering, and delivers them from their distress. But, and this is the important thing, while sometimes that deliverance involves miracle or supernatural power; other times, most times, perhaps, that deliverance makes use of flawed and weak individuals and communities. 

In response to God’s statement that Moses will be the means of the Hebrews’ escape from bondage, Moses asks, “Why me? Who am I?” Later he will claim that he lacks a good speaking voice and so God will bring Moses’ brother Aaron alongside as an assistant and spokesperson.

The point is this. We see evil, suffering, oppression, all around us—in the racism of our society and especially our criminal justice system; in the plight of refugees, immigrants, and asylum seekers on our borders and throughout the country. We see evil especially in the wars that continue to rage, not just in Ukraine.. We see this suffering. It may turn our stomachs, bring tears to our eyes. The images may open our wallets as we donate to the humanitarian efforts. We may even know people who dropped everything and are now involved directly in helping those who are suffering, people who have opened their hearts, and their homes.

In light of the magnitude of the suffering and oppression, such efforts may seem of little value, a drop in the bucket. But just as God sent Christ into the world, into the middle of humanity’s messy life, full of pain and suffering, God calls us into those places of suffering and oppression; to be present there as God is present; sometimes with selfless acts of heroism. Other times, we are called to fertilize and tend an unproductive fig tree, hoping and waiting that in seasons to come it will bear fruit.

My friends, in these challenging and heartbreaking times, our faith may falter; we may wonder whether God is still at work in the world. We may wonder whether the forces of justice and truth can overcome the hatred, lies, and oppression that surround us. But God hears the cries of the oppressed, just as we do, and God is working to deliver them, through our prayers and our actions. In these dark times, may we pray, and hope, and wait, and work for justice and for peace.

“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.

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.

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. 

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.