Deep Down, You're Not Wrong

Sermon for March 23, 2025
Sermon Series: "Who Am I" -- Week 3: I am precious and worthy of redemption.
Exodus 3:1-15; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9

We’re continuing our Lenten preaching series this morning, this exploration of “Who Am I?”  So far, we’ve looked at two very different ways of answering that question.  Two weeks ago, we asked, “Who am I?  I am powerless to defeat sin and evil.”  Then, last Sunday, we asked, “Who am I?  I am God’s own.”  And today, we ask, “Who am I?  I am precious and worthy of redemption.”

Well, if you listened to the last two readings this morning, you might think we used the wrong sermon theme this week.  You probably didn’t hear a lot of “precious and worthy of redemption” there.  In First Corinthians, Paul tells a cautionary tale about our spiritual ancestors of the Old Covenant.  “God was not pleased with most of them,” Paul says, and he mentions several examples, with God smiting idolaters and philanderers and complainers.  “These things happened to them to serve as an example” to us, Paul says.  Yikes.

Then, in the Gospel reading, we hear Jesus laying out judgment pretty clearly:  “Unless you repent,” he says, “you will perish” (Luke 13:3).  Jesus tells a parable about a landholder who’s ready to cut down an unproductive fig tree.  The landholder has been waiting for years, and still no figs.  His kindly gardener talks him into waiting one more year before taking the axe to the roots.  OK, Jesus says, but know the clock is ticking.

In other words, actions or inactions have consequences.  And if those actions separate us from God, we should expect the consequence to be punishment.  It’s hard to argue with that, especially as we make our way through this season of self-examination and repentance.  As we heard at the beginning of our worship today, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (BCP 352).

Unfortunately, I think many of us internalize that message about sin differently from the way Jesus and this Lenten season intend.  I think we often hear God not just judging our actions but judging ourselves, at a deep level.  And the result is the difference between guilt and shame.  As writer Brenae Brown puts it, guilt is “holding something we’ve done or failed to do up against our values and feeling … discomfort.”  Shame is believing that we’re inherently “flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”¹  In other words, guilt says, “I’ve done something wrong.”  Shame says, “I am wrong, deep down.”  

Our culture doesn’t help us much because it thrives on condemning people as wrong, deep down.  These days especially, we’ve come to a point where we regard our opponents not as incorrect but as bad – nasty and evil.  Not only is that a pretty dark view of humanity but, practically, it also precludes progress.  After all, good people don’t work with bad people, right?  So, what way forward is possible other than conflict if you see your opponent as nasty and evil deep down?

Much of American Christianity doesn’t help us with this either.  I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I wonder how many of us have experienced pastors or churches that left you feeling not guilt but shame – that something’s deeply wrong with you?  Of course, conveniently enough, the antidote for this deep wrong just happens to be offered by the church or pastor doing the shaming, right?  If you do X, Y, and Z – or if you believe X, Y, or Z – you won’t be so nasty and evil after all.  Well, if your church is trying to convince you that you’re really not OK, deep down, then it’s time to find a new church.

So, what might it look like to see people differently?  Thankfully, Scripture gives us a truer, and more complicated, point of view.

Today, we heard the story of Moses and the burning bush.  This is Moses, the liberator of the Israelites, the one who faced down the king of Egypt and demanded, “Let my people go!”  And what we heard today is part of his origin story, the account of his calling from God.  Moses is out there on a desert mountain, tending his father-in-law’s sheep, when he comes across this crazy bush.  The bush is on fire, but it’s not burning up.  It’s just burning.  This catches his attention, and Moses thinks, “I need to go see why.”

When he does, God sets the hook, calling Moses by name from the burning bush.  God notes that there’s something very strange and wonderful happening here on this “holy ground” (Exodus 3:5) and that Moses needs to acknowledge it by taking off his shoes.  Actually, the Hebrew word is more interesting than that:  God tells Moses to “shed” his sandals, like a snake would shed its skin.²  All that is rough, all that is broken – shed it, God says, and stand before me ready to be made new.

Let’s hit “pause” on the story for a second.  Why would God frame it that way?  Why does Moses need to shed the cracked and dirty hide covering his feet?  Because, like all of us, Moses has a backstory.  He isn’t just some shepherd tending his sheep.  Moses was saved, by God and some heroic Hebrew women, when the Egyptian king was trying to destroy the Hebrews by killing their baby boys.  But, ironically, Moses was rescued and raised by the king’s daughter, making this Hebrew slave now an Egyptian prince.  Eventually, Moses grows up and witnesses Egyptian security forces harassing Hebrew slaves; and Moses kills the officer who’s responsible.  Now a murderer and an enemy of the state, Moses flees to the wilderness and takes up a new identity as a shepherd.  But God knows who he is.  God knows Moses was the baby saved for something special.  And God knows Moses has blood on his hands.  So, like all of us, Moses has some things about himself he needs to shed as he stands in the presence of the sovereign of the universe.

So, back to the story:  If you’re Moses, standing before the burning bush, what are you thinking at this point?  You’re thinking, “I’ve been caught.”  You can run, but you can’t hide, at least not from God.  Maybe that fire in the bush is burning for him.  No wonder Moses “hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God” (Exodus 3:6).  Wouldn’t you be?

So, with Moses’ old skin shed and his feet ready for a new path, God gets to work.  “You’re not here for judgment,” God says. “You’re here for an assignment.  Remember the fury you felt at the Egyptian who abused your people?  It’s time to solve the problem,” God says.  “These people of Israel, these people I love – I want to deliver them from their suffering and bring them to a place of bounteous life.”  

And Moses is thinking, “Yeah, go for it, God; bring the heat.  Smite those Egyptians, and conquer Pharoah, and let justice roll down like an ever-flowing stream.”  

But God has a different idea.  It’s not time to call out the heavenly army.  Instead, God says to Moses, “I will send you to Pharoah to bring my people out of Egypt.” (3:10)  And Moses says, “Wait, what?”

*  *  *

After thousands of years of telling, this story may lose a bit of its punch.  But think about this:  The Lord – the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the One who is Being itself – the Lord has sought out and raised up a murdering refugee to be the instrument of liberation for God’s beloved people.  Moses has done nothing to deserve his special assignment.  In fact, he himself knows he has no capacity to pull this off:  He says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharoah and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (3:9).  You’ve got the wrong guy, God.  You’ve got a guy who deserves punishment, not freedom.  And, yet, you’re going to free me from my prison of guilt so I can go and set your beloved people free?

You know, God never says to Moses, “It’s fine you murdered that Egyptian.”  Moses knows he’s standing in judgment, for God’s judgment is a real thing.  But here’s where it differs from how we usually think about it.  God’s judgment doesn’t say, “Because of what you’ve done, you’re nasty and evil.”  God’s judgment says, “You know you let me down.  You know you missed the mark.  You know it better than anyone.  Don’t do it again.  In fact, act against who you’ve been, and choose to live differently.  Let me set you free,” God says, “so you can bring new life to others.”

That’s what redemption means, actually.  To be redeemed is to be freed from bondage at a cost.  Back in the day, enslaved people were redeemed when they or someone else paid a price that bought their liberty.  God redeems the undeserving Moses so Moses can redeem the undeserving people.  And now, God frees us from bondage, too, even though we haven’t earned it, so we can be instruments of liberating love for others, who haven’t earned it either.

It’s a stunning thing, right?  Despite what I know to be true about myself, God says to me, “Sure, you’ve done wrong.  But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong, deep down.  You are my beloved child,” God says.  “You are precious and worthy of redemption,” God says.  “So, go and live that way.”

1.      https://brenebrown.com/articles/2013/01/15/shame-v-guilt/

2.      https://biblehub.com/hebrew/5394.htm

Love's Got Your Back

Sermon for Lent 1, March 9, 2025
Sermon Series: Who Am I?
Week 1: I am powerless to defeat sin and evil.

It’s been a minute since I stood up here to preach with you.  In fact, it’s been six weeks since Ann went into the hospital and a month, almost to the day, since she died.  This is one of those moments when I want to say everything.  I want to honor Ann; I want to share what I’ve learned over these weeks; I want to answer all your questions; I want to reassure you that I’m OK – because, today at least, I am.

But all that will have to unfold over the coming months.  Today, I want to whittle it down to one thing I hope you can take away with you this morning, as we begin this Lenten preaching series on one of the biggest questions we face: “Who am I?”

That’s the kind of question God is hoping we’ll ask ourselves in this annual season of self-examination and repentance: Who am I?  Our various affiliations would lead us to answer that question many different ways.  Who am I … in relation to my family?  In relation to my profession?  In relation to my friends?  In relation to my country?  In relation to my culture?  In relation to my faith?  All those intersections contribute to our sense of identity and our sense of allegiance: Who am I, where does that identity come from, and whom do I owe my deepest loyalty?

I’ve had to stare down questions like these over the past month.  Maybe other members of the Widow’s Club here this morning have done the same.  It begins with disbelief that the core of your heart has been emptied.  That moves into disorientation that comes from baffling questions, everything from what to do with the body when you leave the hospital to what you might want to keep from closets full of clothes and drawers full of jewelry.  Once the funeral is over, you find the questions going deeper.  I was a spouse – am I still?  I’m a parent – how do I do that alone?  In my case, I’m a parish leader – can I still carry that responsibility?  I’m a spokesperson for the God who promises to heal us – can I still make that claim with authenticity when my own spouse didn’t recover?  When your world shakes – and it happens for each of us, one way or another – it makes you ask questions you never wanted to ask.  But we have to ask and answer them honestly, whether our lives are at a turning point or on autopilot, because it’s the real questions – the ones that keep us up at night – that help us grow into the image and likeness of the God who made us.

As it turns out, Lent is here just in time to help us hold hard questions like these.  And we start our Lenten time of discovering our way by overhearing Jesus as he struggles with his own questions of “Who am I?”

The first thing that stops me short in today’s Gospel reading is the fact that Jesus’ wilderness time is no accident.  It doesn’t come from some tragic event but from … “the Spirit” (Luke 4:1).  Wait, what?  Yes, you heard it right: The Holy Sprit leads Jesus into “the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil” (4:1-2).  

So, the devil – hmmm … not some cartoon character but the Gospel writer’s representation of the very real power of sin and evil and death – the devil steps into this opportune time … which, of course, is what the power of sin and evil and death does best.  This power of all that is not Love meets Jesus where he is, in the ugliest sense.  “You’re the Son of God,” the power of not-Love says.  “Give yourself something to eat.  Avoid this trial that’s supposed to form you.  Have dinner instead.”   But Jesus says, “One does not live by bread alone” (4:4).  Instead, real life, meaningful life, is about much more than getting your needs met.

So, Jesus presses on through his wilderness time, continuing to fast and set aside his fully human needs.  But in a while, the power of not-Love comes back for a new assault.  In an instant, the devil shows Jesus “all the kingdoms of the world” (4:5); and the power of not-Love says, “Hey, look, if you were in charge of all this, think how good life could be – for them and for you.  Avoid the pain.  Forget this time in the wilderness; forget the years of struggle to come; forget the ugly road of suffering and death.  If you give your allegiance me,” the devil says, “you can fast-forward to what you’ve always wanted.”  But Jesus says, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him” (4:8), because there is no shortcut, no express lane to the kingdom.  To live into the fullness of who God has made you to be, you’ve got to do the long, slow, slogging work of faithful living, honoring God in each day you’re given, until you find, remarkably, that God’s given you precisely what you needed.

So, Jesus rests in that assurance a while more out there in the wilderness, able to make it one day to the next.  And finally, the power of not-Love visits him one last time, asking him the hardest question there is, the deep “Who are you?” that can leave us shaking in our boots.  “You say you believe in God,” not-Love says.  “You pray to an invisible friend who seems to dole out pain as much as pleasure.  You plead for what you need, and the answer just as often comes back ‘no’ as ‘yes.’  You say you’re God’s beloved child – are you sure?  Do you really believe it?  Does the evidence back it up?  Well,” the devil says, “if you think so, prove it – prove you’re God’s beloved.  Prove that the angels really will show up to save you if you throw your life away.”  But Jesus says, “It is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test’” (4:12).  The power of Love doesn’t come because you’ve got some money-back guarantee.  The power of Love comes to you precisely because you trust that it will.

So, who is Jesus in this story?  Well, as people of our culture, I think we see Jesus as a superhero – Ironman battling the devil in the wilderness.  Of course we see Jesus that way.  Maybe the most pernicious not-God to which we give our allegiance is the false gospel of individualism.  “If I just learn the right thing, if I just buy the right thing, if I just gain the right skill, I can overcome anything.  And those who can’t?  Well, they just don’t have as much on the ball.”  That’s what our culture tells us.  So, of course we see Jesus as the ultimate rugged individualist, so strong he can take on even the devil himself – and win.

But here’s where the story undercuts our worship of individualism.  Jesus is not in the wilderness alone.  Jesus is the second person of the Trinity, as the theologians say – the Son, right?  Well, the deep mystery of the Trinity is that God is Three in One and One in Three.  So, Jesus is never alone.  Now, in the fullness of his humanity, he feels that way sometimes – especially hanging there on the cross.  But even then, and certainly out there in the wilderness, Jesus is not dealing with the demons on his own.  The Spirit has brought him there.  And the Creator has made the wilderness, formed it as a tool to form God’s people, even God’s Son.  The wilderness is part of what makes Jesus who he is, part of what makes each of us who we are.  And maybe the most important lesson the wilderness teaches us is this: Myself, I am powerless to defeat sin and evil and death.  I can’t hang in there on my own when the demons come.  When the easy way seems tempting, or when the road seems impossibly rocky, or when beloved fellow travelers leave us – when we’re under assault, what gets us through is trusting in the power of Love that never leaves us.  For it’s only Love that defeats sin and evil and death, and Love is a team sport.  The battle in the wilderness is not a battle I can win on my own.  But it is a battle we can win together, if we trust that the power of Love has got our back.

If I know nothing else today, at the end of this awful month, I know this: that two conflicting things can both be true.  Jesus is fully human and fully divine.  God is a unity and a relationship.  The wilderness is hostile and healing.  Ann is dead and yet alive.  I am alone, and I am embraced.  My heart is broken, and my heart is being healed by God’s love – love that I know through you.  As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, we are not alone.  For the power of Love has always got your back.

State-of-the-Parish Address

Annual Parish Meeting Sunday
1 Corinthians 12:13-31a
Jan. 26, 2025

Welcome to annual-meeting Sunday and the state-of-the-parish address.  Of course, there are many ways to frame the state of our parish.  I’d encourage you to take home your copy of the annual report, which you can find in the entryway and on the tables downstairs.  

In terms of the temporal affairs of the church, God continues to bless us with good indicators.  Including both in-person and online worshipers, attendance was up 8 percent last year.  Because of your amazing generosity, giving was 1 percent over projection.  The endowment fund is greater than $3 million for the first time in decades.  I can’t tell you how grateful I am to God, and to you, for the incredible foundation for ministry you provide.

I’m going to focus this morning on the spiritual state of our parish.  As some of you will remember, just before the pandemic hit, we did a spiritual self-study called RenewalWorks, which documented something I think we already knew.  St. Andrew’s is a group of disciples who are much more comfortable following God by doing rather than being.  We’re passionate about serving people nearby and far away, which you’ll absolutely see in the annual report.  That’s all right and good, true to the heart of Jesus and the heart of this place.  And, it’s not the end of the story of our discipleship.

Over the past year, we’ve been pushing on this a bit, trying to build a pathway you can use to grow closer to God not just through service but through study, prayer, worship, and even (God forbid) rest.  We’ve been framing our spiritual journey as following the Way of Love, a phrase coined by our past Presiding Bishop Michael Curry.  We’ve offered a couple of sermon series as well as devotional booklets on the Way of Love.  And we’ve been prioritizing spiritual growth and spiritual leadership in our Vestry, as you’ll hear later from the wardens.  

What became clear through the Vestry’s work this year is that there is no single pathway we all have to follow to grow closer to God.  Instead, we each create our own adventure along the journey, finding the route that’s right for each of us but leading to a common destination – heaven, both in this chapter of eternal life and in the chapters to come.

So, in 2025, what will that journey of spiritual growth look like?  In a time of division and rancor in the world around us, I think it’s important that we grow in our clarity about who we are, who we follow, and what we value.  So, what’s our journey for the year ahead?

In 2025, our parish theme will be “Discovering My Way.”  I want to break that down a bit because the words matter.  In fact, just the emphasis we put on certain words matters.  For example, what if I say, “I love you”?  The meaning’s quite different if I say, “I love you” or “I love you” or “I love you.”  

So, let’s highlight the first word in this year’s theme: “Discovering My Way.”  Now, that may seem odd.  I mean, after 2,000 years, doesn’t the Church already know where we’re going?  Well, we’ll spend this year “discovering” because the eternal truth of God as revealed in Jesus Christ is always new.  From creating the universe, to covenanting with Abraham, to saving people from slavery, to entrusting them with promised land, to leading them back after exile, to redeeming all people from sin and death – through it all, God says, “See, I am doing a new thing, … do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19 NIV).  Well, in the same way, God is always newly at work with you, inviting you to take the next step on your own journey – to come closer and go deeper with God.  

So, through this year, we’ll be inviting you to do just that.  Your clergy and Vestry are drawing a map you can use to chart your own spiritual adventure with God.  It won’t be complicated – just take a couple of inventories, meet with a clergy coach, and start taking some next steps forward.  When you do, you’ll be amazed to meet the God of new things sidling up next to you.

So, that’s the first word.  Here’s the second, a small but mighty word: “Discovering My Way.”  What happens when we emphasize “my”?  That’s not something we usually do.  Usually, when I stand up here, I’m not talking about “you”; I’m talking about “us” – the Church as the Body of Christ, the Church as a family, even the Church as an organization.  In a world of individualism, the Church is one of the last places in American society where “we” matters more than “me.”  

And yet, as we heard in the second reading today, the Body of Christ is made up many unique members.  And we each follow a unique path deeper into the heart of God.  That’s why we’re encouraging you to take this discovery process seriously for yourself.  There is no one-size-fits-all approach to something as personal as spiritual growth.  We’re here to help you explore your own wiring and explore your own gifts as you explore the love story God’s opening up to you.

OK, how about that last word: “Discovering My Way”?  What way is that exactly?  Well, it’s the way toward what we all long for, deep down.  You can call it “peace.”  You can call it “joy.”  You can call it “the heart of God.”  You can call it “union with the divine.”  You can call it “heaven.”  Whatever you call it, we’re each on a journey to seek our heart’s desire, right?  

Well, the way to get there is the Way of Love.  Love is the only thing that brings us into peace, and joy, and union with the divine.  Love is the only door that opens our hearts to God.  It’s the way of Jesus, and that’s the way we want to help you explore this year.

So, this is our journey for 2025 – a unique journey for each of us as we move toward heaven, living ever more fully into the image and likeness of Love.  And … alongside our individual work of “Discovering My Way,” we know we do that in a particular time and place.  In 1913, God put a missionary outpost of the Episcopal Church here in Brookside; and 112 years later, we’re just as surely called to reveal God’s kingdom where we find ourselves here and now.

You’ll find examples of that throughout the annual report.  Through our 16 Outreach projects and partnerships last year, you witnessed to the power of love with $95,000 given from our operating budget, another $122,000 given by individual parishioners, and 279 opportunities for service in the world.  That’s a powerful witness to the call of Jesus Christ to prioritize the needs of the poor and the hungry, the dispossessed and the rejected.  When the world says, “Those folks don’t matter so much,” the Church says, “Those folks are made in God’s image and likeness, so we serve them as we would serve Jesus himself.”

Outreach ministry is a huge part of that witness to love’s power.  But so is something harder to quantify, and that’s our presence – the way we engage with each other, and our neighbors, and the people God puts in our paths each day.  And in this historical moment, the stakes feel especially high as we Americans engage with each other.  In the past week, since President Trump’s inauguration, our national divisions have come back into full view.  The president is doing exactly what he said he would do related to immigration¹ and sexual identity² and a dozen other issues.  Some of us gathered here this morning will respond with satisfaction while others will respond with fear and anger.  And the question will arise: What will St. Andrew’s say and do in response?  

Well, first, I encourage you to read the words of our bishop, Diane Jardine Bruce, in this weekend’s Messenger and bulletin.  As she says, our primary call as followers of Jesus is to love God and love our neighbors.  Indeed. 

And where might we find a guide to help us live that way?  What’s our touchstone, as a congregation and as individuals?  

It’s the Baptismal Covenant.  This fundamental statement of our faith and practice reminds us that God exists in a relationship of love among Father, Son, and Spirit.  It reminds us we’ve been created, redeemed, and empowered to live out that same self-giving love.  And it describes what living that way looks like week to week, day to day: worshiping God together, resisting evil and turning from it, proclaiming the Good News of God’s love, seeking and serving Christ in everyone, and striving for justice and peace by respecting the dignity of all.  That’s our touchstone.  It’s what St. Andrew’s will promote, and it’s what you’ll hear me advocate.  Just as this summer I suggested you use the Baptismal Covenant as your voting guide, so now I suggest you use it as your living guide for divided times.

Now, when someone asks you what your church has to say about the news of the day, it may be hard to bring those five promises to mind.  So, as you witness to the Way of Love in this fraught year, let me boil down the Baptismal Covenant into an elevator speech.  Actually, it’s been right before our eyes for more than three years now.  You see it every time you come by St. Andrew’s, adorning the wall of HJ’s:  “God loves all.  All means all.  Pass the peace.”

Let’s take it from the top.  First, “God loves all.”  That truth rings throughout the New Testament: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life” (John 3:16).  Or, as St. Peter says in Acts: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him” (10:34-35).  Or, in the words of Bishop Michael Curry, “If it’s not about love, it’s not about God,” for love is what God does.

So, first, “God loves all.”  The second sign at HJ’s says, “All means all.”  That may seem unnecessary – of course “all means all.”  But we’re quickly tempted to think, “Well … all but them.”  And who might those “thems” be?  If we look at our own circles of relationship and at our own stories, I’ll bet most of us will find a “them” pretty close to us, perhaps now, perhaps in our family histories.  For me, it’s the LGBTQ+ community that I feel protective of.  I have three family members who are trans men, one who’s bisexual, and one who’s gay.  So, when I think about who’s at risk of exclusion, that’s the “them” who come to mind for me.  It might be good for each of us to ask ourselves:  In my own circle and my own story, when have my people been the other?  I’d wager nearly all of us have a connection to someone whom someone else wanted to exclude.  

But Jesus is having none of it.  As St. Paul puts it in the reading this morning, “Just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with [the body of] Christ…. The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’ nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you.’ … If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.” (1 Corinthians 12:12, 21, 26)

So, if God loves all, and all means all, what are we called to do?  “Pass the peace.”  That’s our shorthand for the Baptismal Covenant’s five promises of discipleship:  Gather in beloved community.  Turn from evil and sin.  Proclaim Good News.  Seek and serve Christ in everyone.  Respect the dignity of all.  In other words, “Pass the peace.”

In a nation that insists we define ourselves by which leader we follow, we must be clear in our answer.  Our leader is Jesus Christ, the Love of God walking among us.  We follow him by living the Baptismal Covenant, serving the God who is love by walking in love ourselves.  What doesn’t align with those promises doesn’t align with who we are.

“God loves all.  All means all.  Pass the peace.”  This is who we’ve been.  This is who we are.  This is who we will be: Unique members of the Body of Christ – hands and feet, eyes and ears – each of us indispensable, each of us discovering our way to heaven, each of us welcoming all the fellow travelers we meet, each of us passing the peace.

1.      https://www.whitehouse.gov/fact-sheets/2025/01/fact-sheet-president-donald-j-trump-protects-the-states-and-the-american-people-by-closing-the-border-to-illegals-via-proclamation/

2.      https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/01/defending-women-from-gender-ideology-extremism-and-restoring-biological-truth-to-the-federal-government/

Follow the Wise Man

Sermon for Jan. 12, 2025 (Epiphany, transferred)
Matthew 2:1-12

I think this amazing Gospel reading and these beautiful, exotic visitors are God’s way of asking us a question:  As we begin the journey this new year will bring, whose path will we choose to follow?

On the one hand, our story this morning gives us the path of King Herod.  Herod stands for power as the world typically sees it.  He aspires to be the King of the Jews, even names himself by that title.¹  At least ethnically a Jew, Herod knows his people are awaiting their messiah, and he wants the honor due God’s King for himself.  But, in truth, Herod is never more than Caesar’s enforcer lording it over the Jewish people.  Herod buys into the wrong power, power that only knows how to assert itself in worldly strength.  He does that even to the extent of trying to murder Jesus, the true King, by massacring “all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under” (Matthew 2:16), a story that comes soon after the reading we heard today.

So, Herod gives us one possible path to follow.  For a contrast, let’s look to the other major characters in this story, the magi.  These learned astrologers have discerned that there’s a divine king to be found, so they set out to worship him.  They come to Jerusalem, the center of Herod’s power but even more the center of Yahweh’s worship, and they ask where they might find this newborn king of the Jews.  The question leaves Herod shaking in his boots, so he tries to manipulate the wise travelers, sending them to Bethlehem as his spies.

We don’t get to hear what the silent magi think about that, but they keep their eyes on the star, the divine sign that’s been guiding them ever since they left their homeland beyond the boundaries of Roman rule.  Remarkably, they trust this sign from the God they don’t fully know.  In fact, they welcome what Yahweh’s doing, and they bring gifts that the Hebrew scriptures identify as tribute from the nations for the king who will rule with divine justice and peace.²  Following the star’s light, these wise travelers find real power for all people – the power of unquenched hope, the power that propels us to seek God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven.  Again, the magi get no lines here, but they’re “overwhelmed with joy” as they offer their gifts (Matthew 2:10) – strangers witnessing to God’s shocking pattern of saving people in the least likely ways.

Finally, the story ends with God intervening to save the Holy Family, and the wise travelers, from Herod’s corrupt power.  God visits the magi in a dream, warning them to steer clear of Herod.  As the songwriter James Taylor put it, “A king who would slaughter the innocents will not cut a deal for you.”³  And the magi tie up the story with a bow, upending Herod’s plot simply by taking a different way.  It’s stunning the difference we can make simply with the road we choose – and how making that choice blesses countless people as it brings us safely home.

Perhaps it’s in keeping with God’s divine sense of timing that, as we remember the true King being revealed to all nations, our nation remembers its 39^th president, Jimmy Carter.  It might be interesting to overlay the one story on the other, looking at our history through the lens of our faith.  What does this ancient Gospel story of politics and power tell us about where we look for power today?

Of course, Jimmy Carter was a politician.  You don’t get elected president without knowing how to work the system and without an outsized sense of your own capacity and significance.  But still, Jimmy Carter came to office because he was the starkest contrast imaginable to the man elected before him, Richard Nixon, with his imperial sense of the presidency.  Where Nixon was about wielding power to advance his own and his country’s interests, Carter was about channeling power to strengthen human rights and bring peace between ancient adversaries.  And where Nixon skulked away from office in disgrace, spending his post-presidential years trying to write his way back into history’s favor, Carter found his true calling in his post-presidency, as we’ve heard from so many voices in the last week.  For more than 40 years, he channeled the power of his past office, along with his gifts of perseverance and hopefulness, to advance the well-being of normal, powerless folks.  And his work touched millions – eradicating illnesses and pressuring uncaring government leaders to support that work, building homes for people, monitoring elections to ensure votes got counted, removing military rulers from Haiti with no shots being fired.

Now, you can make a good case that, in terms of presidential effectiveness, Jimmy Carter wasn’t exactly a success.  Perhaps Sunday-school teachers don’t make the greatest presidents.  But the greatest presidents embody what Sunday-school teachers teach them.

So, if you’re holding up the narrative of Nixon and Carter alongside the narrative we’re celebrating this morning, it’s easy to see Nixon as King Herod.  But what about Carter?  Which character does he mirror?

Well, the temptation here might be to hold up Carter up alongside the original J.C.  I remember a campaign poster in the 1970s that backlit Carter, and decked him out with long hair and a beard, and proclaimed, “JC can save America!”⁴  Now, you could argue Carter had a bit of a messiah complex, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have claimed the title for himself.

No – to me, the characters from our story today that Jimmy Carter mirrored are the exotic visitors we just saw, those wise travelers.  The magi were drawn not to Herod, the conduit of raw imperial power, but to the Christ, the conduit of true power – the divine power that, from the beginning of creation, empties itself for the well-being of nobodies like us.  Similarly, Jimmy Carter was not drawn to the domain of King Herod – the lure of reputation and self-aggrandizement.  Carter could have spent his four decades as a former president raking in cash and jockeying for historical position.  Instead, he lived in his two-bedroom house, taught Sunday school, wrote mostly about faith, and tried to heal the world.  Like the magi, Jimmy Carter was wise enough to bow down before the true King and take that King’s Good News on the road.  Both the magi and the ex-president pointed toward the light of leadership that the world can’t see so well – servant leadership, kingship based in God’s love, power that empties itself of power.

I think it’s interesting in our story this morning that these wise travelers, these beacons of perseverance and hope – they still don’t get any lines when they finally find what they’ve been looking for.  I’d love to hear their reflection on the power they witnessed from “King” Herod versus the power they witnessed when they entered Mary and Joseph’s cave and found the baby King.

After all, the magi had a choice to make.  I mean, we take the ending for granted, but it could have gone the other way.  They could have been taken in and cozied up to Herod. They could have been seduced by God knows what Herod was promising for delivering Jesus to the assassins.  But after they offered their tokens of kingship and worshiped the One who actually deserved it, these wise travelers heeded a voice in a dream telling them to say “no” to Herod’s offer and follow another path.

That’s the choice we bear still:  Follow the path to the palace where Herod’s waiting, or follow God’s own path home.  I’ll leave you today with the words of the wise man Jimmy Carter, in his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech.  Carter said:

[A]n individual is not swept along on a tide of inevitability but can influence even the greatest human events. …  I worship Jesus Christ, whom we Christians consider to be the Prince of Peace.  As a Jew, he taught us to cross religious boundaries, in service and in love.  He repeatedly reached out and embraced Roman conquerors, other Gentiles, and even the more despised Samaritans.…  The bond of our common humanity is stronger than the divisiveness of our fears and prejudices.  God gives us the capacity for choice.  We can choose to alleviate suffering.  We can choose to work together for peace.⁵

Or, you could put it like this:  We can choose to follow Herod’s path or go home by another way.

1.      New International Study Bible, 1749 (note).

2.      New International Study Bible, 1750 (note).

3.      Taylor, James and Timothy Mayer. “Home by Another Way.” Never Die Young. Columbia Records, 1988.

4.      “Poster: ‘J.C. Can Save America!’” National Museum of American History. Available at: https://americanhistory.si.edu/collections/object/nmah_528342. Accessed Jan. 1, 2025.

5.      “Jimmy Carter: Nobel Lecture.” Dec. 10, 2002. Available at: https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/peace/2002/carter/lecture/. Accessed Jan. 1, 2025.

Hearing Voices – and Trusting Them

Sermon for Jan. 5, 2024 (the Second Sunday of Christmas)
Matthew 2:13-15,19-23

If you were looking forward to the arrival of the Three Kings today, I’m sorry to disappoint you.  With the winter storm and the warnings to stay off the roads, it seemed prudent to delay our royal visitors and have them come next Sunday instead.

Among other disruptions, this change throws the sequence of our Gospel readings out of whack.  Instead of hearing about the magi and King Herod today, we move to the next episode in Matthew’s story.  But, in the category of finding the silver lining in the clouds of our blizzard, this gives us the chance to hear part of Jesus’ family story we usually miss because of the kings’ visit here.

For today’s Gospel reading to make sense, you have to know not only that the magi have just left from visiting Jesus but what that means.  As we’ll hear next Sunday, the story of the wise men concludes in two parts.  First, they give Jesus gold, frankincense, and myrrh, symbolizing his status as God’s own king – the messiah.  But after that, the story ends with an angel visiting the wise men in a dream, telling them to avoid King Herod as they make their way home.  Why?  Because King Herod was trying to use the wise men as spies.  He’d told them to go find the baby King and then report back, supposedly so Herod could go and worship, too.  Right.  What we hear today is what Herod really had in mind, which was to kill his tiny rival to strengthen his grip on power.

So, in today’s story, the spotlight shifts from Herod and the wise men to the Holy Family.  And because it’s Matthew telling the tale, the central character among the Holy Couple isn’t Mary but Joseph.

The reading begins with an angel, a messenger of the Lord, coming to Joseph in a dream.  This time, the angel isn’t offering wise advice; it’s acting as a first responder.  “Get up,” the angel says, “and take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt … for Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him” (2:13).  And then comes one of those lines in Scripture that, by itself, holds enough material for a book: Joseph does what the angel says; the family escapes Bethlehem in the middle of the night, moves to Egypt, and stays there until Herod dies.  I’d like to hear the rest of that story.

Anyway, this was no quick camping trip; this was the Holy Family fleeing to a foreign country as refugees from government persecution.  And they were exactly right to have left because Herod’s next act in the story is to slaughter all of Bethlehem’s children two years and younger, an act of state terror that would have killed Jesus, too.  We don’t know exactly how long Joseph, Mary, and Jesus lived in Egypt but probably a few years as they waited for Herod to die.

Now, let’s hit the pause button on this story and think about Joseph for a minute.  In Matthew’s version of the Christmas story a chapter earlier, there is no annunciation to Mary.  In Matthew, the annunciation comes to Joseph when, you guessed it, an angel visits him in a dream and says, “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit” (Matthew 1:20).  Now, if we were Joseph, we’d be thinking, “Right; sure that’s where the baby came from.”  But Joseph shows himself to be the paragon of trust.  He may not have been happy with the angel’s news, but he lets it be.  He takes Mary as his wife anyway.

Well, now, the angel is back.  If the first news was strange, this news is terrifying.  The angel tells Joseph, “Remember what I said about this baby being God’s instrument to save people from their sins? [Matthew 1:21]  Well, first you’ve got to save this baby from Herod.”  And, like I said, Joseph follows the angel’s instructions.  He trusts this voice he hears in a dream.  He uproots his family and treks hundreds of miles across the desert to go to … who knows where?  It’s not like Joseph had family in Egypt.  He didn’t even have a plan.  Like Abraham and Moses, Joseph simply went where God told him to go. It’s trust I can barely fathom.

OK, then our reading picks back up again.  We don’t know what the Holy Family has been doing in Egypt, other than not being killed by King Herod.  But eventually, Herod dies, and Joseph has another dream.  The angel tells him Herod is dead, and it’s time for the Holy Family to go back where they came from – well, sort of back where they came from.  Joseph is figuring they’ll head back to Bethlehem, or at least somewhere in Judea, near Jerusalem.  But once they arrive, they learn that Herod has split his kingdom among the three sons he hadn’t killed yet, and the one now ruling Judea, Archelaus, is no better than his father.  So, what to do?

Well, if you’re Joseph, you go to sleep to find out.  Once more, God comes to him in a dream, telling him to take his family north to Galilee instead – still Jewish territory but with a different history and, now, a safer ruler.  And so, in Matthew’s Gospel, this is how the Holy Family ends up raising Jesus in Nazareth.

So, what do we take from this story of the Holy Family and their journeys?  One lesson I hear is that Scripture calls us to take refugees seriously.  In our day, these are people fleeing war and persecution in search of a better life.  For example, the refugees served by JVS, a local resettlement agency with whom St. Andrew’s partners – those refugees have been through a documentation process that’s beyond thorough, registering with our government, being carefully vetted, and usually waiting years before being resettled somewhere like Kansas City.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were living the refugee story, fleeing the harm of an oppressive regime.  So, today, welcoming refugees into a new land is being true to the teaching of our Scriptures.

But here’s the other lesson I hear in this story. It’s about Joseph, the saint who usually flies under the radar of the Sunday readings.  I see Joseph as an astonishing example of what many of us – maybe most of us – find to be a huge stumbling block in our relationship with God, and that’s trust.  If someone says to you, “Trust me,” what’s your first impulse?  And that reaction comes when it’s a real, live person asking for your trust.  How about when it’s a voice in a dream?  Spiritual discernment is notoriously tough; as parishioner Doc Worley used to say, it’s hard to know whether what’s keeping you up at night is the Holy Spirit or the chili you had for dinner.  Trusting that what we hear is the voice of God, taking the leap of faith – that just might be the hardest thing God asks of us.  And yet, here’s Joseph.  He hears from an angel in a dream not once, not twice, but four times.  And the response is always that Joseph follows the call the angel puts on his heart.

I say it that way because the heart is where seeds of divine trust blossom and grow.  As you’ve heard me say before, even our primary statement of faith asks us to look to our hearts, not to our heads, to nurture our relationship with the God who is Love.  Each week, we say the Nicene Creed.  And, for those of us who offer Morning or Evening Prayer –  each day, we say the Apostles’ Creed.  That sounds like an intellectual exercise, reciting the claims of these creeds, these fundamental statements we make as followers of Jesus.

But remember where that word “creed” comes from.  In Latin, it’s credo, which means, “I believe.”  But deeper down, credo comes from an Indo-European root that’s also the basis of the prefix cardio.  That ancient root means “heart,” not “head.”  For faith is not about agreeing with intellectual propositions.  Faith is about trusting the Love those propositions describe.  And to help myself do that, I cheat when I say the Apostles’ Creed by myself.  I don’t say, “I believe.”  I say, “I trust” – “I trust in God, the Father, the Almighty, creator of heaven and earth….”

Why do I do that?  Because our faith, Joseph’s faith, is all about the work of trust.  The practice of faith is to remind ourselves, over and over again, that the God who is Love has our back.  That’s good news, always.  But it’s especially good to remember late in the night, when we hear the angels calling us to take the leaps of faith that bring us life.

What Jesus Wants for Christmas

Sermon for Christmas Eve
Luke 2:1-14

I want to start tonight by ruining the mental picture most of us bring to the story we just heard.  Mary and Joseph come to Bethlehem along with hundreds of other people, following the emperor’s order to go to their hometowns to be counted.  Mary is at the end of her pregnancy, and I hope she really did ride on a donkey or something because, as Mtr. Jean said on Sunday, it’s a 90-mile, arduous hike from Nazareth, across arid plains, and then up 2,700 feet of steep hills to Bethlehem.  But because of the crowds, Joseph and Mary find … what is it the story says?  They find “there was no place for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7).

So, what do we picture when we hear that?  A Bethlehem street lined with cheap motels, all with “no vacancy” signs?  Well, no – at least we know it wasn’t that.  Maybe we picture Ye Olde Inn from Shakespeare’s England, with a pub on the first floor?  Or maybe a ramshackle Old West bunkhouse, managed by a kindly, grizzled old innkeeper?  

Well, it turns out, the “inn” wasn’t like any of those because this place Mary and Joseph stopped wasn’t an “inn” at all.  We have that mental image because of maybe the most famous bad translation in history.  It happened in the early 1500s in one of the first English-language Bibles,¹ and it remains with us still.

The word translated as “inn” is kataluma in Greek, and it means a space for guests.  Here’s what that would have looked like in Bethlehem.  First, you have to know that, on the limestone hills there, people didn’t live in wooden houses or keep their animals in wooden barns because they didn’t have many trees.  What they did have was rocks, mud, and caves.  When I went to Bethlehem, we visited a cave thought to have been similar to a family’s house in Jesus’ day.  As you entered a cave house, you’d find a large space for the family to sleep; and in the back of the cave would be a smaller space, maybe hollowed out, where the family would bring in the livestock to protect them from predators at night.  And on the hill over the cave, a family might put up a small structure where extended-family members or friends or travelers could stay.  

It was this kind of small structure above the cave, the kataluma, that had no room when Mary and Joseph arrived at his family home.  Too many other family members had gotten there first as they followed the emperor’s order, and the space for guests was full.  So, Mary and Joseph had to bunk with the animals in the back of the cave underneath – which I imagine Mary didn’t mind too much.  At least she got a little privacy, as well as a feed trough where the baby could rest without lying in the animals’ muck on the floor.

So, now that I’ve ruined the nativity scenes on your Christmas cards, why am I telling you this? Because I think it matters where Mary and Joseph were staying and where the baby Jesus spent his first night.

Our image of the holy family looking for a room at a Rodeway Inn reflects our culture and our wiring.  If we’re looking for a place to stay, we take care of that on our own, finding somewhere we can join other travelers who’ve walled themselves off from each other in little rooms with locked doors.  It’s the answer we’ve come up with, one that fits our rampant individualism.  

But that’s not the world God entered 2,000 years ago in Palestine.  Instead, as Mary and Joseph came to the old homestead to bunk with the relatives, God came knocking right there, in the midst of everything this very normal family was going through.  They’d all come to Bethlehem because the emperor told them to; so, there they were, shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the cave and its guest room above.  And in the midst of that extended family’s messy life – getting dinner ready, tending the livestock, corralling the kids, caring for the elders – in the midst of everyday life, God came knocking.  “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood” as one of them (John 1:14 The Message).

OK.  Other than historical curiosity, why does this matter?  Because Jesus still comes to us now in the midst of our day-to-day lives, bringing hope where we least expect it, knocking on the door and asking to be invited in.

Well, when the Sovereign and Savior of the world comes knocking, it might be good if we had something to offer him.  In a couple of weeks, we’ll remember the magi offering the Christ child their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  In the moment, those were perfect gifts for God’s king – rich treasure that symbolized both the honor of the nations and Jesus’ vocation as “king and God and sacrifice,” as the carol puts it.²  But when Jesus the King comes to us today, what kind of gift do you think he’s looking for?

Well, our culture says a king would be looking for markers of wealth and privilege and success – gifts only the finest could offer.  But this king comes among the rest of us, too, folks just doing their best with the life they’re given.

OK, well, our political system says a king would be looking for a power base – people to support his rule and follow his commands.  But this king says “no” to every offer of political power, disappointing his followers who want him to kick the Romans out.

OK, well, our religious establishment says a king would be looking for obedience – a righteousness most often based on fear of judgment.  But this king refuses to coerce people to follow him, honoring the free will that comes with being made in the image and likeness of God.

So, when Jesus comes knocking today, bringing hope where you least expect it, what kind of a gift do you think he’s looking for from you?  Ever more and harder work?  Spiritual perfection?  Unfailing kindness and concern for others?

A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned to you that, when I offer the Confession of Sin to begin my daily prayers, I feel like I’m being asked to catalog the ways I let God down the day before.  Well, when I met with my spiritual director, we talked about this; and she asked the obvious question: “When you do that, what kinds of sins come to mind for you?”  And I said, well, usually what comes to mind are my deficiencies of love: not wanting to pick up the phone and call somebody, or not remembering some significant time in someone’s life, or not wanting to go to one more blessed parish event.  And my spiritual director said, “I’m not sure those are sins exactly.  Maybe they’re just aspects of who you are.  Maybe those aren’t so much sins to confess as parts of yourself to give to God and see what God might do with them.”

When Jesus comes knocking on our doors, I think what he’s looking for is the gift of a true and honest heart, a heart seeking to be healed.  He’s not looking for ever-harder work toward perfection but for the gift of … well … you and the life you inhabit.  

And I got to see a great example of this just last week.  Out of the blue, I heard from an old friend, someone I knew as a parishioner years ago in Springfield.  She had come to our little congregation broken, beaten down by a history of religious leaders making her feel unworthy of love and trying to manipulate her into following them.  She felt disrespected and dismissed, and it fed her deeper feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness.  But in that little congregation of other regular folks doing their best to find God in the midst of life, my friend found a community that welcomed her.  She came to see that those people were grateful for her tremendous gifts of compassion and intelligence.  

Now, her journey wasn’t easy.  Decades of mistrusting churches and their leaders made her path of spiritual growth more like one step up and two steps back.  But my friend wrote to me last week reflecting on how that experience in our little congregation had led her to offer herself to God – warts and all – in order to see what God might have in mind for her.  And now, 20 years later, she was telling me she’d earned her doctorate in psychology and had been helping students for years learn about living into the wholeness and well-being God intends for them.

The key to my friend’s story isn’t that she figured out God’s magic formula for success.  It was that she kept coming, kept opening the door when Jesus knocked, kept up the conversation, kept showing up with other fellow travelers who didn’t have the answers either.  My friend kept offering Jesus the one thing she had to give: herself.  She put herself in the offering plate and brought herself to the altar, over and over again, inviting our Savior to come and take flesh and dwell in her.  She kept showing up, asking God to strengthen the things that were good, and heal the things that were broken, and turn her away from the things that dragged her down.

This Savior we worship tonight didn’t come to criticize us or manipulate us.  This Savior didn’t come to demand we work harder.  This Savior certainly didn’t come to soak up the world’s glory.  This Savior came to move into the neighborhood and dwell among us, even dwell within us.  This Savior came to ask for the greatest Christmas gift you can offer, which is the gift of yourself – nothing more and nothing less, for there’s nothing greater you can give.

[Choir sings verse 4 of “In the bleak midwinter.”]

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
if I were a wise man, I would do my part;
yet what I can I give him—give my heart.³

1.      Interestingly, in the first English translation of Scripture, by John Wycliffe in 1382, kataluma is translated “chaumbir” (https://textusreceptusbibles.com/Wycliffe/42/2), close to the Greek’s intent. But in William Tyndale’s translations of Scripture (1522-1525, work that led English King Henry VIII to have Wycliffe burned at the stake), kataluma is given as “ynne” (https://textusreceptusbibles.com/Tyndale/42/2). That translation was retained in England’s official Great Bible of 1539 (https://textusreceptusbibles.com/Great/42/2) and the Geneva Bible of 1560 (https://textusreceptusbibles.com/Geneva/42/2). The Bishops Bible of 1568 used “inne,” as did the King James Bible of 1611. And so it continues, with “inn” used in the New Revised Standard Version today.

2.      “We three kings of Orient are,” The Hymnal 1982, 128, verse 5.

3.      “In the bleak midwinter,” The Hymnal 1982, 112, verse 4.

How Can I Practice Hope?

Sermon for Advent II, Dec. 8, 2024
Luke 3:1-6

As we cascade toward Christmas, we find ourselves at week 2 of this Advent season of “Hope Together.”  Last week, Mtr. Jean spoke about how we can find hope in tough times.  This week, our preaching series asks about our role: How can I practice hope?

And for the star of our show, this Sunday and next, we get the hairy prophet John the Baptist – “Creepy John,” if you’re a fan of The Chosen.  Back in the day, John must have made quite a splash, because all the Gospel writers found it necessary to deal with him.  He sure must have seemed like the messiah, because John keeps saying, “No, someone else much more powerful is on his way.”  So, in Advent – as we prepare ourselves to receive God wriggling in a feedbox, and as we prepare ourselves to receive God returning in judgment to set the world to rights – we first hear John the Baptist asking us to look deep within.

What John’s calling us to experience is “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Luke 3:3).  Now, I don’t know about you, but when I think about someone telling me to “repent,” I picture a self-satisfied preacher highlighting my failings and poor choices, and demanding that I turn away from them.  It’s the dubious Good News of the billboards.  You’ve seen things like this on the highway before, right?  “Prepare to meet God!  Or, “Get Right With God!”  Or, “Repent – Jesus is Coming!”

Now, I’d say those messages aren’t wrong exactly.  Jesus is coming, and we will be held accountable for the choices we make.  We do need to repent.  And at the same time, we need to be clear about what that means.

I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I may not be the only one who hears “Repent!” as a call to feel bad about how I’ve let God down this time.  And it’s not just the billboards that can make us feel that way.  Every morning, I listen to Morning Prayer on a podcast as I walk the dog.  And every morning, right off the bat, the officiant says, “Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor.”  And every morning, I pause the podcast to think about how I failed yesterday.  And every morning, I manage to feel bad about myself.

But repentance actually isn’t about feeling bad about yourself.  In Scripture, the “repentance” that leads to forgiveness of sins isn’t just about remorse.  It’s about change.  It comes from the Greek work metanoia, which means a change of mind that leads to “a profound moral and spiritual transformation.”¹  So, to repent is to change your mind in such a way that it changes your heart, too.

I’d like to suggest that we try on a particular change of mind this Advent.  It starts with looking at ourselves with true humility – being aware of both our failings and our goodness without veering off toward one or the other, neither spiritual arrogance nor self-loathing.  So, when we look in the mirror, who do we see?  Someone who needs a lot of work?  Or someone worthy of being called God’s beloved?  What if the answer were, “Yes”?

If we repented that way – if we changed our minds to change our hearts that way – I think we might hear John the Baptist with new ears.  John says,

“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; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” (Luke 3:4-5).

On one level – in Israel’s history, when the people were exiled in Babylon – those words from the prophets meant Yahweh was coming to plow over not just foreign kings and their armies but even the desert wilderness itself to carve out a pathway for the people to return to the Promised Land.  On another level, in John the Baptist’s day, it meant God was about to vanquish the imperial and spiritual powers holding the Jews in subjugation. 

And, John would have said, those words from the prophets meant the people needed to get ready by changing their minds to change their hearts, opening themselves to God’s power and the hope it held for them.  Those crowds coming to John for baptism needed to change so they could participate in God’s work to change the world.  To welcome the One who would save them, they needed to stop doing what held them back – stop ignoring God, stop harming others, stop participating in Rome’s oppressive system.  But those crowds coming for baptism also needed to change how they saw themselves: that if God was about to send their Savior, that meant they were worthy of being saved.  Did they each have work to do?  Absolutely.  And, John says, God loves you deeply and seeks your well-being … enough to come in person to save you.

Today, if our minds and our hearts changed that way – if we really believed God loves us deeply and seeks our well-being – how would that change our preparation for the coming of Christ?  Here’s a crazy thought:  Maybe we’d prioritize our well-being more like God does.

But wait – isn’t that self-indulgence, to prioritize our well-being?  No.  It’s recognizing the value in which God holds you and the relationship God wants to have with you.  In two and a half weeks, the Sovereign of the Universe is coming to be born as one of us, to walk alongside us through the joys and sorrows of being human.  And, down the road, the Sovereign of the Universe is coming to restore earth and heaven to the unity God intended in the beginning and to welcome you into it forever.  Our hope is rooted in the fact that God wants nothing so much as for you to sign on, to recognize how worthy you are of being saved.  Well, if that’s true, if you’re worth that, then fostering your well-being isn’t self-indulgence.  It’s revealing the image of God you bear.

Well, if we’re going to prioritize our well-being, some of that’s physical, right?  But 18 days before Christmas probably isn’t the time to call any of us to eat better, drink less, exercise more, and rest.  OK, says pragmatic John the Baptist, let’s start with what might come more naturally this time of year.  Take these 18 days to prioritize your spiritual well-being.  Change your mind and your heart by opening yourself to what God’s doing with you and where God’s leading you.

What would that look like?  Well, I had a moment of clarity one morning recently, beginning my walk with the dog.  Before we head out, I put in my earbuds; and I start the Morning Prayer podcast as we head down the street.  Often, maybe more often than not, about three houses down the street, my earbuds cut out and disconnect from the podcast.  I don’t know why, and I let it frustrate me every blessed time it happens.  But one morning recently, I heard the electronic voice in my ears saying something new when it lost the signal, again.  Here’s what the voice says:  “Disconnected.  Pairing.  Connected.”  That may be an annoying message about my earbuds, but it’s also a pretty good model for prioritizing our spiritual well-being over the next 18 days.

So, first is “disconnected.”  Recognize where and how you’re disconnected from God.  What patterns aren’t working for you anymore?  What’s getting in the way of reaching out to God for conversation?  Where’s your energy going instead?

Then comes “pairing.”  Give yourself the Advent gift of “pairing” with the God who’s trying to come alongside you.  You’ll find some suggestions on the Advent page of our website:  Maybe read a daily devotional.  Maybe make space to say your prayers each day.  Maybe put an Advent-music playlist on your phone.  Maybe simply sit somewhere beautiful and quiet for a few minutes each day, and see what God does with your gift of time.  And, as I said in this week’s article in the Messenger, try journaling a little, using the booklets in the entryway to reflect on what you’re hearing, and share a few insights with the rest of us.

Then, finally, comes “connected.”  Pay attention when moments of God’s peace or insight come.  Notice what practices work for you and what practices don’t.  Feel free to pitch what isn’t helpful, but hold onto what works as the Holy Spirit’s Christmas gift to you.

Here’s one last thought:  It’ll be easier to prioritize our spiritual well-being this Advent if we’re clear about who it is we’re waiting for.  I mean, we know it’s Jesus, our Lord and Savior.  But who is that, in the minds and hearts of each of us?  If we’re expecting a judge who focuses on our faults and weaknesses, we’ll do our best to cover them up – often by pointing them out in others.  Or, if we’re expecting a baby in a manger whose birth makes us happy without threatening to change us, we’ll get a few days off and then just go back to the grind.  But what if you expected someone else? – someone who valued you, and walked alongside you, and wanted to guide your path?  Who would that Savior be?  What would you call him?  Parent?  Coach?  Friend?  Partner?  Whatever word feels right, that’s someone worth changing your mind and your heart for.

1.       “3341. metanoia.” Bible Hub. Available at: https://biblehub.com/greek/3341.htm. Accessed Dec. 6, 2024.