The Second Sunday after the Epiphany [Year A] - January 19, 2014 (John 1:29-42)

photo credit: EPO

On a steep hill, high above the city of Rio de Janeiro stands a gigantic statue of Jesus Christ. I’ve never seen it in person, but like most of you I’ve seen countless photos of it. It’s a famous world landmark. Officially it’s called “Christ the Redeemer,” and I find it really quite breathtaking: he stands tall and straight, looming above the city with his arms completely outstretched. This week, it was in the news that lightning struck the statue right on the tip of the right hand, causing a whole finger of the concrete and sandstone Jesus to fall off. Apparently It’s not the first time lightning has struck Christ the Redeemer. In fact, it’s happened so many times they’ve installed lightning rods around him, but this is the first time the damage has been this significant. No worries: they’re going to be able to re-attach his finger. What is cool, however, is that the lightning strike itself was caught on camera—right at the moment where the big bolt of white is zigging down from the sky to touch Jesus, almost like he’s drawing it to himself— as if to remind us, once again, of his power.

It’s a fascinating image and moment, and one that fits perfectly from these scenes of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry as he walks along the coastlines of Galilee and draws people toward him like he’s got some kind of electrical pull. We see him make his way through ordinary people’s lives, reminding people that God is powerful and on the move—he’s a roaming, roving Christ the Redeemer with that trademark wide embrace, reaching out and calling all people. 

John the Baptist bearing witness, Annebale Carracia

This same scene—that is, Jesus’ moving about and calling folks to follow him—occurs in every gospel, but in the gospel of John, it’s especially clear that Jesus’ ministry actually begins with John the Baptist. Jesus’ ministry and work on the stage of human history effectively starts when John, a popular but boisterous prophet who was a type of forerunner to Jesus loudly and points him out. Before Jesus has said or done anything in John’s gospel, John the Baptist has already started talking about him and telling those around him what Jesus is about.

That’s interesting, if you ask me: that before Jesus is noticed, even as he goes about in the towns and villages, someone else calls attention to him, someone else testifies to his presence and his identity. It’s what a prophet does, just as redeeming with outstretched arms is what a Savior does.

More importantly, notice that John the Baptist doesn’t mince words, doesn’t hem and haw when it comes to explaining who Jesus is and why he matters. Right off the bat John tells us four key things about him: Jesus is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Jesus somehow existed before John even though John seems to come first in timeline of history. Jesus brings the Holy Spirit, and Jesus is the Son of God. Bam! Kind of like a lightning strike! He leaves no doubt about who this Jesus is. This introduction and explanation of Jesus takes place over the course of two or three days. First John the Baptist is questioned as to whether he might be the Messiah. Instead, at his first opportunity, John finds Jesus and points to him. “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” he cries out, as if to urge his own disciples to leave and follow the Lord. Many old paintings depict John the Baptist with an elongated pointer finger because of how clearly he points and says, “Look!”

detail from "The Crucifixion" by Matthias Gruenewald (1512-1516)

Incidentally, the things John says happen to be some of the biggest issues of theology that the early church struggled to understand and communicate about Jesus. For example, it was critical very early on to explain that Jesus’ death somehow dealt with the world’s brokenness and estrangement from God, that his life of suffering and then his sacrificial death would save the world and set it free. His inseparable relationship with the very Spirit of God, which brought life to creation at the beginning of time and inspired the prophets, was another aspect of his identity that was important to point out. John also wants to make it clear that Jesus is not just another prophet, like himself. He is the very Son of God. As such, Jesus will be revealing parts of God’s nature that no one has ever before glimpsed. That’s a lot of information about Christ to cram in the first two days. For what it’s worth, John the Baptist’s claims about Jesus seem to get the job done. We are told John’s disciples leave him and begin following Jesus.

When the attention and action does finally shift from John to Jesus, however, things change rather abruptly. We go immediately from clear, definitive pronouncements to a very open and inquisitive approach to ministry. When John’s disciples begin following Jesus, he turns and asks them a fairly non-confrontational question, “What are you looking for?” or “What do you want?” When they say they want to know where he is staying, he invites them, drawing them in, “Come and see.” As it turns out, they not only take him up on the offer, but they stay throughout the whole day, even though it’s already late. Our translation says 4 o’clock in the afternoon. In the Greek it says, the tenth hour. The point is that they linger longer than one might expect. I imagine he spends time getting to know them, asking them questions, engaging them in dialogue. The impression they get is so favorable, so captivating, that they respond by bringing others to see him.

Jesus calls the first disciples

There is an important lesson for the church, for followers of Christ, in these first chapters where Christ is being made known and starting things off. On the one hand, we need to be like John the Baptist, clear and consistent about who Jesus is and why he matters. On the other hand, we need to be open and inviting and focused on relationship-building when we’re engaged in the ministries of Jesus. When it comes to talking and teaching about Christ, the Lamb of God, clarity and boldness is helpful for everyone. When we vacillate in our message or get wishy-washy in the task of pointing to him, the mission of his movement suffers. This is why I’m encouraged by some of what our new presiding bishop, Elizabeth Eaton, has been saying. She wrote recently in The Lutheran, “If our life together consists primarily of being affirmed by God’s unconditional love and doing works of justice and charity without understanding that God has brought about the transformation of justified sinners through the costly grace of the crucified Christ, then we are not church.”^[1]

However, when it comes to actually serving as Christ does and sharing that ministry with others, it is always better when we follow Jesus’ example and give things time, engage them in dialogue.  Find out what people are looking for, what they want, what their lives are in search of rather than quickly shoving down their throats what we think they need. Judgmentalism and abruptness will not serve us well. Like Jesus, we need to show patience. Demonstrate compassion and hospitality. Realize this might involve staying until the 10^th hour with them, all the while providing an opening for the patience, compassion and hospitality he always shows us.

Slow as it may seem, Jesus shows us there is, in fact, electricity in this approach. Andrew and the other unnamed disciple are drawn in. Andrew then responds by going and getting his brother, Peter, who will go on to be a leader in the early church. It is still how the communion of Christ’s believers grows most effectively today, and how solid relationships of love and trust are built among God’s people. It’s why I tell people to visit a congregation at least four times before they decide you want to look elsewhere. This is why even things like short-term mission trips, as good as they are for getting us out of our comfort zones and providing service to communities that need it, can still be problematic. These kinds of interactions can come across as too abrupt and judgmental to those being served, unless great sensitivity is demonstrated.

I am thankful to say that, by and large, this kind of sensitivity and care is what we witnessed this past summer in the community we served in West Virginia. After the first couple of days of working in a day-camp like setting with the neighborhood kids, both our youth and I started to wonder what the point of the interaction was. Many of them wanted to be assigned other tasks of service, like building something or moving equipment. But, to give them credit, they stuck with it and got to form some relationships with them. Once some more meaningful dialogue started to occur between them and us—between the serving and the served—our youth began to witness some form of change in respect and interest level. The awkwardness of the first day’s “hellos” was replaced by outstretched arms giving hugs and wiping away tears when we left.

A church that can extend those arms of “Come and see” and a church that can, like John the Baptist, be clear about the person those arms are attached to, will be like a church who can stand atop a hill and let the storms of the world rage around us. We may lose a finger here or there, but God can re-attach it. Most importantly, though, we will be seen as a people who know the Redeemer of the world is in our midst, a people pointing to Jesus, the Lamb of God, whose arms are not just extended to call us to follow, but to suffer and die for us and take away the sin of the world. “Look!” the world will say, because it will be clear in our words and actions that God loves the world. It will be clear by the power of the Holy Spirit that this movement he has begun is still charged with that same merciful electricity.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

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[1] “Getting to What Really Matters,” the Reverend Elizabeth Eaton, in The Lutheran, January 2014

The Epiphany of Our Lord - January 5, 2014 (Matthew 2:1-12)

 

Several years ago right after Christmas I found some of those automatic timers that can be hooked onto lamps. We have a couple of dark, but well-travelled corners in our house where it is helpful to have some light, but leaving the lamps on all the time runs up the electricity bill. I fixed the timers on a few of those lamps and tried to arrange it so they’d come on during the night and go off when it was daytime. It didn’t take Melinda and me too long to realize that those timers needlessly complicate things—at least the el-cheapo versions I had bought do. Melinda started to remark that the light is never on when she needs it and then when she tries to turn it on herself it won’t click on because the timer is in control. One night she was making her way up the stairs with Clare in her arms and the light right in front of her went out, inexplicably, leaving her in the dark. Exasperated, she hollered out, “Honey, your light just went out again.” Maybe I’m just no good with technology, but we ended up deciding that it’s still just easier to reach down and turn the lights on or off when you need them.

The magi—or the wise men, as our gospel text translates the word today—are drawn to the child Jesus by a strange light that turns on and off, inexplicably, in the sky above them. They don’t have control of it. Rather, it has control of them. It mystifies them, beginning somewhere in the East, in their country (or countries) of origin, luring them like the tornadoes lure the storm-trackers on the Weather Channel.

This strange starlight brings them from miles away, but they are mysterious figures, in and of themselves. We have come to call them wise men, or magi, or kings, but it unclear exactly who they are or who, if anyone, they represent. Most likely they were something akin to astrologers from the area of modern-day Iraq or Saudi Arabia, but even that is not certain. We have also long numbered them as three, just like the front of our bulletin does, but that’s only because three gifts are mentioned in the story. This could have been an entire entourage of star-trackers in a big middle eastern caravan.

Regardless of who or what these magi really are, their mysteriousness is part of the point. The mystique that surrounds their identity, even to this day and age, is exactly why Matthew wanted to make sure we knew this story. The point is that a group of total foreigners see an extraordinary star shining in the sky and are drawn to the place where it shuts off. After a brief detour to King Herod, during which all of Jerusalem gets worked into a tizzy, the wise men find the child Jesus and pay him homage with their gifts. Perhaps, as Martin Luther once suggested, the wise men went first to Jerusalem because it was the capital city, and where else would a king be born but near a royal palace? In this case, the royal city happens to be Bethlehem, not Jerusalem, which they discover after Herod’s own team of scholars discovers this passage from the prophet Micah. Once they start for Bethlehem, the star automatically clicks on again, and the wise men are filled with great joy. “Why did the star not take the wise men straight to Bethlehem without any necessity of consulting Scriptures?” Martin Luther asked. “Because God wanted to teach us that we should follow the Scriptures and not our own murky ideas.”^[1]

Matthew makes it clear from the very beginning of his gospel message that all people will be drawn to this light. Even though Matthew firmly places Jesus within the lineage of Israel, tracing his pedigree all the way back to Abraham, the first people to pay Jesus homage and recognize his royalty are not even Jesus’ own people. All people may claim Christ as their king. It doesn’t matter how mysterious or exotic or plain or ordinary your background is.

"Adoration of the Magi" detail on a tapestry (1894)

What has drawn you to Jesus? What leads you to seek his company and the company of fellow seekers? Whether or not you are able to claim he has some authority in your life, what continues to bring you here on a regular basis? When we reflect on the wise men’s trek from afar, we realize that each of us has our own journey across life’s desert to come face to face with the Lord. What has been the star for you? What is that light in the dark hallway that helps you make your way? It may be Holy Scripture. It may be the words and presence of a particular person who shared God’s love. Or it may be the life of forgiveness and selfless care as it’s embodied by the community of believers, which was so evident in the way you surrounded the Nye family yesterday.

One may say that a church needs to be many things. It needs, for example, to be a center of worship and community service. It needs to be a place where children and adults can learn more about Scripture and their faith tradition and how to forgive and love others. Above all, the church needs to be a place where all people are continually drawn in communion with Jesus Christ so they may pay homage to him. Whether or not the congregation is named Epiphany, the church always needs to be aware of its epiphany duty: that is, the church needs to humbly keep in mind that we are still, at our core, a stable way-station that is accepting gifts for God from total strangers.

No congregation ever really exists for the sake of the people who have already joined, for the sake of the people whose ancestors are on the charter or who have been on the roll for generations. Any congregation’s existence, no matter how strong or weak their programs may be, is based on meeting those who’ve not yet come to faith or who are lingering on the fringes of it, those interactions that the Holy Spirit enables. The church exists to draw in those who are seeking, to be a first taste of the communion of saints for those who realize that they’re sinners, (of which I count myself one). Imagine the kind of God who gathers all of his people together not simply for their own sake, but for the sake of the world that his Son may be known! That’s the God those magi were seeking.

There is some anxiety within individual congregations and in denominations as a whole about declines in membership and activity and influence. Some church leaders have noted that this anxiety and sense of urgency can lead congregations to take too many measures of self-preservation—for example, prioritizing certain ministries or developing certain habits that keep members happy or comfortable over ones that reach out to newcomers and welcome them in. To be quite honest, I think any congregation can fall into this trap at just about any time, and, to complicate matters, it’s not always so clear-cut which ministries and programs are all about self-preservation and which ones really grow out of pure intentions to spread the word about Christ.

"Adoration of the Magi" by Paolo Verone (1573)

Whatever the scenario, one former Episcopal pastor, Barbara Brown Taylor, has wisely observed that “at least one reason for the urgency,” even when it ends up being about self-preservation, is because people know that “the church is the place of divine transformation. It is the place where people say yes both to God and to one another. The church is where Christ turns our water into wine.”^[2] I would add: the church is where strangers from afar are made brothers and sisters of the one true King. After all, the wise men did go home by another way. They were transformed by what they encountered in that first epiphany way-station.

Remembering our epiphany duty and enabling these holy encounters is a mighty task for any congregation, and we can sense urgency in everything we do, but when we let it be Jesus who shines—not some nifty little gizmo or gadget ministry or some murky idea of our own—the light will not go out.

When all of us help each of us remember that it is chiefly Jesus who is being offered here for the sake of the community, for the sake of the world, then we will never really have to worry about our survival, and we will never have to be ashamed of what he calls us to do.

When we take to heart that every little interaction that each of us has, that every little word we say to each other can be a holy reflection of the gift in Jesus—or it can be like Herod’s scheming and turning people away—then we are taking seriously our task as church.

When we realize this congregation, like all the others, exists primarily for the sake of those who are still making their way through the wilderness, then, as the writer of Ephesians says, the “wisdom of God in its rich variety will be made known through us” to the entire universe.

And when we think that the little light of grace and glory goes blinking and fluttering inexplicably from time to time, it is not because Christ has left the building, or because we need to shout out, “Honey, your light has gone off again!” More often than not things have gone dark because we’ve taken our eyes off that Brightest and Best of the stars of the morning.

 

Amen.

 

 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.              

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[1] Martin Luther, “Herod,” in Martin Luther’s Christmas Book, ed. by Roland H. Bainton. P52

[2] Barbara Brown Taylor, “The poured-out church,” in Christian Century. May 29, 2009

Christmas Eve - December 24, 2013 (Luke 2:1-20)

 

One day late this past summer a young child who is a member of this congregation was entertaining his grandparents for a visit. The three of them were playing Wii together in the living room. At a seemingly random point in the middle of the game, this child looked up at his grandmother and asked, completely out of the blue, “Meemaw, remember on Christmas Eve when we were in church? You and Paw Paw were there, and so were Grandma and Grandpa from Lynchburg?”

“Yes,” she answered, pausing with the Wii controller in her hand.

“And my parents and my brother were there too?” he continued. “We were all of us there, sitting together in one pew? Do you remember that?” he asked.

“Yes, I remember that.” his grandmother answered again.

“I felt so safe,” he said, and looked back at the game on the television screen.

Bam! Just like that! Out of the blue on one summer afternoon, months after the fact—it was still with him. His two grandparents traded meaningful glances with each other, realizing immediately the significance of such an arbitrary statement from a child who had been adopted just a few years earlier out of relatively precarious circumstances in a foreign country. He had been left on the street at the age of ten weeks. But this night had made a lasting impression. He had felt safe. Here. With these people. Maybe that child is here again, tonight, nestled in a pew with his Meemaw and Pop-pop and the rest of his loved ones and feeling safe all over again.

That’s really the crux of all this, isn’t it? Feeling safe. Knowing security. Behind all the poinsettias, underneath all the candlelight, that’s the real essence of our gathering here, and singing these hymns, hearing these words: safety. Feeling somehow taken care of. Otherwise our circumstances may be precarious—maybe it’s been a rough year, or you expect a rough year to come, maybe we have no one with whom to share our pew or there’s someone missing from it for the first time this year—but tonight the message is safety. Tonight it is “Peace on earth.” Tonight it is “Do not be afraid.”

In fact, some biblical scholars count that as the most common commandment in the entire Bible: Do not fear. We might think it would be “Love God” or “Love your neighbor as yourself” or “Follow me.” But, in fact, God says “Do not be afraid. You’re safe…” more than anything else. On the first Christmas, years ago, God used angels to communicate the commandment, and tonight we repeat the sounding joy again. Things may be in turmoil all around, but tonight we trust the message once more: “Do not be afraid.” Christ is born. We feel safe.

Gaddi Taddeo (14th century)

It’s all a little ironic, because that first night began in fear. Maybe Bethlehem really was still and calm, as the hymns suggest, but I’m sure there was fear in the streets about the Emperor’s big census and what that meant for the occupied Jewish population. Maybe Mary and Joseph were as cool as two cucumbers as she went into labor, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some concern about their baby’s safety when the inn turned out to be full and they had birth him in something like a stable.

For sure the shepherds were afraid. We know that. That’s one thing Scripture is certain to point out. Yet they, of all people, were unlikely to experience much fear, if you think about it—watching over their flocks by night, guarding against thieves or wolves or any number of fearsome things—but this night they did. Most likely chosen for their profession for their hardiness, the shepherds were terrified when it all started to go down, “sore afraid” as the old King James Version puts it. First, the solo angel and the glory of the Lord surrounding them, and then a whole company of heavenly messengers, bending down to ensure they understood: this message is about safety. This news is good. In fact, it involves peace and great joy for all people. And the sign for them, since they’re likely going to need one? Something completely non-threatening: a baby in a manger. And so they go…they go and gather, cozying right up to the others in the stable’s pew. Do not be afraid. Christ is born. You are safe.

We would be “sore” mistaken, however, to think that the message of the angels means safety for everyone. In fact, safety will really not be feature of this baby’s life at all. Precariousness is all he will really know: born in a feedbox only to become a refugee, according to Matthew’s gospel, to flee King Herod’s wrath. As he grows up, he frequents the shifty towns along the shoreline of Lake Galilee, never really finding a place to call his own. He is a houseguest of Pharisees and tax-collectors alike, running into constant trouble with the Temple authorities, escaping angry mobs by the skin of his teeth. Eventually his life will come to a gruesome end, hung on a rough-hewn cross like any common criminal. Few people really stand up or speak up for him, and when it’s all said and done, his dead body is placed in a borrowed tomb.

I

"The Adoration of the Shepherds" Guido Reni (1600s)

n fact, when we stop and look back at how it all plays out, this whole peculiar story of suffering and healing, of his dying and rising, we can see that this good news of great joy isn’t going to be all that good for the main person involved. Yet God has intended whatever he does to be great for us. The angels are still on message. There is no need to be sore afraid: the length and depth of Jesus’ life is lived for you and me. The only reason why we can be safe tonight—and any night—is because Jesus comes to experience human danger. The only real foundation underneath any of our security is the news that God comes to dwell as one of us. The only basis we have for not being afraid in our lives is that the Almighty comes to be born in a very precarious situation and live a very vulnerable life and die a very humiliating death. Jesus comes to make himself remarkably unsafe beginning this very day in order that we may be saved through the length of ours.

Apparently things are still a little precarious for Jesus. I came across an article this week about congregations across the country who have gotten tired of people making off with their outdoor nativity scene characters. It’s even somewhat of a contest in some locations: teenagers compete to see how many baby Jesuses they can swipe in one night. In response, a security firm has begun providing free GPS trackers for churches to install in their baby Jesus figurines so they can track them down, like some new-aged Star of Bethlehem that magnetically draws him back to these miniature manger scenes all over the place. By the way, we may or may not have installed on in ours…in case anyone has any ideas.

The story caught my eye, however, not because of its novelty, but because, in some ways, I think that Jesus is supposed to be carried off into the world. Maybe not as stolen goods, per se, but that’s really why he came. Jesus is now supposed to be wandering about, getting his hands a little dirty, venturing into the scary corners of this earth, and it’s you and I who are to help get him there. It’s you and I who are supposed to go forth from here and spread the news of what we’ve heard and seen.

Let us fight the tendency, then, to keep this message of his safety and security to ourselves, to do nothing but crowd into our cozy pews and love up on each other for a night or two and then wait for another year to roll around. Let us resist the urge to draw the peace of Christ from wherever it goes back to within the walls of our churches or the confines of our hearts. Let us instead take a cue from the shepherds who begin the evening in fear and spend it in awe, but then end it in taking the news out there. Let’s try to carry the love of Jesus into so many places in this world that the Jesus-satellite tracking system gets downright overwhelmed and crashes to earth. “We bring good news of great joy for all the people.”

Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Good news. Great joy. Now. And on a random day late next summer. We who have seen and felt it are now free to steal Jesus away and announce his Word for all people: Don’t be afraid. Christ is born. You are safe.

 

Thanks be to God!

 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

The Third Sunday in Advent [Year A] - December 15, 2013 (Matthew 11:2-11)

 

Millions across the globe this week paused to consider the life and witness of one of the giants of the last century. Nelson Mandela, former revolutionary and anti-apartheid activist, died two weeks ago and was buried yesterday in his hometown, following a memorial service on Tuesday that drew so many people it had to be held in a soccer stadium. Regardless of where you stood on the man and his legacy and his one-time unwillingness to renounce violence to achieve his aims, Mandela was an will remain known as the person who symbolized his country’s struggle for justice and freedom. It was an amazing life that spanned the better part of ten decades and saw him rise from relative obscurity in a small village to become the first black president in a very racially divided South Africa and go on to share a part of the Nobel Peace Prize.

What I think most people find compelling about Mandela’s life is the twenty-seven years he spent in prison serving what was supposed to be a life sentence for speaking out against the oppression and injustices of the ruling elite. He suffered mightily for sharing his vision and speaking out for the cause of freedom. It’s somewhat of a miracle that during those long years in forced labor in the limestone quarries that his heart did not become as hard as the rock he was forced to dig. And while people are fascinated by that awe-inspiring graciousness—his ability eventually to forgive his captors—I’m sure for him the time in prison was excruciating. I’m sure that for him it was gut-wrenching to sit there behind those stone walls, behind those iron bars, and wonder what was going on out there in South African society. Was it truly changing? Were the steps of freedom and equality for all races still marching forward without him? Which new leaders were taking up the cause of justice, and, of course, would his own captivity ever end? While he sat in prison I’m sure these questions occupied his thoughts. Mandela ended up dying this month with much of his vision realized, although that country (and all countries, for that matter) still has a long way to go.

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Today, millions of Christians gather to pause and consider the life and witness of one of the giants of the first century. John the Baptist, revolutionary prophet and agitator of the powerful elite, appears in our Scripture texts this morning very much like Nelson Mandela, in prison and awaiting execution. Regardless of where you stand on the man and his willingness to use shouting and other outlandish tactics to achieve his aims, John the Baptist remains known, among other things, as one of the people who symbolizes the Jewish people’s disgust with the Roman military regime. Enormously popular in his day, John gave voice to the people’s anger at the religious elites, and to the dissatisfaction with the apathy of all of God’s people when it came to living in hopeful expectation of God’s reign. He was ready for God’s kingdom to come and he was willing to speak out for it.

In the earliest days of his career, John the Baptist had been out in the wilderness, on the outskirts of society, preaching about the arrival of the Promised Messiah and baptizing people as they repented of their sins. He had also taken issue with the corruption of Herod Antipas and his family, speaking out against their injustices and indiscretions. They had him captured and thrown in prison…a reminder to all that there are often harsh consequences to standing up for God’s justice!

This morning we see that John, like Mandela many centuries later, is starting to wonder what is going on outside that prison’s stone walls and iron bars. John the Baptist is starting to wonder whether things in the world were truly changing. Was this new leader, Jesus the Messiah, taking up the cause of justice and ushering in God’s kingdom? Was Jesus the one they had all been waiting for in God’s revolution to overthrow the powers of evil or should they wait for another? I also bet John was wondering if his own captivity would ever end. After all, if the Messiah comes to give sight to the blind and set the prisoners free, then that would have some very positive outcomes for John. So with an urgency that we can only imagine, John sends his disciples to Jesus wanting to know what’s up. Is there hope for a new world? For God’s sake, when will it be here?

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Millions of Jesus’ followers pause each and every day to reflect upon their own lives in this twenty-first century. Regardless of where we stand on our own accomplishments and achievements, we have to admit that our lives are important. They may not loom as large as Nelson Mandela’s or John the Baptist’s, but they do matter. Our lives, no matter how insignificant they seem, are avenues for God’s peace and mercy to break into the world.

And yet, we are imprisoned. They are not prisons of stone walls and iron bars, but they are prisons of doubt and fear and apathy. On the one hand, we know and trust that Jesus’ birth among us has brought us freedom. It has released us from sin’s slavery and we have tasted that new life. But on the other hand many of us still take offense to Jesus’ claims that God’s kingdom has come, or is coming. We look around and say, “OK, Jesus, I hear you…but what about Sandy Hook Elementary School? What about chemical weapons in Syria? What about the systems of racism and economics that still oppress so many people? If the kingdom you bring is so good, Jesus, when will we be released from these prisons, too? Are you the hope of God’s reign, or not?”

Understanding this tension—or at least acknowledging it—is a fundamental part of Christian faith. Even at times when our faith in God’s power is strong and vibrant, we still feel a frustration, like John did, that this revolution of love is not happening quickly enough. We are impatient with its progress. We grow tired of the fight. Disillusioned, we go to Scripture, to worship, to the leaders of the faith to be moved and motivated, to hear again about this redemption and receive some inspiration, but then get discouraged when vindication doesn’t arrive in the form we anticipate or in the manner we expect. This is what it means to take offense at Jesus and his kingdom, and based on Jesus’ own words this morning to John, it sounds that Jesus might expect this reaction from us from time to time. I think Jesus fully realizes we grow weary of living in this tension where one age of sin and death and violence is so slowly giving way to God’s reign of righteousness, where the kingdom of darkness is so gradually being overtaken by God’s kingdom of light. We long so desperately for the arrival of that kingdom, as the prophet Isaiah describes, where the blind receive their sight and the lame walk and the poor have good news brought to them.

When John’s disciples reach Jesus with his questions of impatience, Jesus responds by telling them to return to John with the news of what is happening, news of what Jesus has done. He sends them back with news of reassurance. As it turns out, some of the blind have regained their sight, not counting the thousands who’ve been given the new eyes of faith. The feeble knees have become strong. Those bowed down under the burdens of sin have been lifted up. Furthermore, the poor—both the literal poor and the poor in spirit—have had good news brought to them. They are like little dispatches from the front lines of the movement. In Jesus Christ, God’s kingdom is on its way.

In this time of hopeful expectation, we must remember we are not the only ones who feel torn by the tension and we are not the only ones who cry out from our prisons of fear and dread. Jesus, himself, feels the tearing of it more completely that anyone else. On the cross, Jesus’ own body is torn with this tension, crushed by the weight of our impatience and our discouragement. In so many ways we reject very vision of the hope he brings and how he brings it, and yet he still dies so that we might have it rather than withholding it from us. We must not forget that as we grow frustrated with this kingdom’s full arrival, we have one great message that John the Baptist never heard: Jesus is risen. The very one who is torn for us, who feels that awful tension of the revolution’s resistance—that one rises on the third day for you and me.

So, in this meantime, as this wait grows at times excruciatingly tense, let us find ourselves, at least every once in a while, in the role of those messengers that Jesus sends back to John. You know what that makes us? Chaplains! Chaplains are those who visit people in prison. Let us be chaplains, gathering again for in worship, at youth group, in Bible study, in private conversation to share with each other our little dispatches from the front lines to reassure ourselves that God’s kingdom coming. Let us renew each other’s faith in Jesus’ arrival among us with the good news we hear and know about now.

HHOPE pantry volunteers, Dec 14

I’ve got one such dispatch: yesterday our HHOPE pantry distributed food to thirty families, which is close to their all-time record. If you didn’t have the chance to stop by church yesterday, let me tell you that a long line of people in cars waited patiently for bags of groceries that you helped provide. The volunteers were joyful and ready to receive them, and the guests were grateful and polite. Impressed with the volunteers’ hospitality, one guest, in fact, asked our HHOPE team leader about the level of government assistance our pantry receives. “None,” our volunteer informed the guest. “All of this food is provided directly by the people of this congregation.” Apparently the woman almost broke into tears at news of such generosity.

That right there, my friends, is enough good news to this John the Baptist who from time to time needs to hear the revolution is still going strong. Come again this afternoon for the children’s program and you’ll hear the good news again proclaimed on the lips of our littlest chaplains: The lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. It is all but an echo of the best news of all: Jesus is Lord. He is risen!

 

 

Thanks be to God!

 

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.