The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany [Year A] - February 9, 2014 (Matthew 5:13-20 and Isaiah 58:1-9a)

On Christmas Eve, to make room for people to sit in the balcony, our hand bell choir moves all their equipment and music stands down to the right side of the narthex and plays from there. They set up all their hand-bell tables in a U-formation and Kevin directs from the middle. As it turns out, the sound reverberates in that space very nicely and since it’s not completely cut off from the sanctuary here we can hear the sound of the bells echoing throughout the church. The problem with this configuration has always been that during evening services that area gets very dark. In fact, it is so dark that the musicians have a hard time playing. In the past one ringer would always bring little lights for each music stand, but for whatever reason that was not available this year. So, what to do? It was, like, “Jesus, we know you’re the light of the world and all…but we can’t see our music.” Our property manager, overheard them talking about this one day in the office and on a trip to Home Depot came up with a brilliant solution: Miner’s headlamps! He bought about six of them and distributed them to the choir.

Now, I’m not a hand bell player, but I can’t imagine why they didn’t end up going with this option, can you? This would have been awesome! Apparently someone just brought in a floor lamp instead and they used that. But…check it out! Miner’s head lamps!  Imagine each person with their own, right there on their forehead, right about where a pastor’s oily finger once made the sign of the cross! It fits Jesus’ instruction almost perfectly: “Let your light so shine before others that you blind them with the piercing beam of your good works so that they may see their music and ring praises to your Father in heaven.”

Darkness was not just something the hand bell choir had to deal with on Christmas Eve. Darkness—and I mean pitch-black darkness—was an everyday reality for those who lived in Jesus’ time. In fact, I don’t think we in the 21^st century can quite appreciate just how dark it was back then. I read an article recently about some research that suggests that until the dawn of streetlights in the 19^th century, people typically went to bed around 8:00 every night. It was just too dark to do anything. Therefore, the presence of light—any light at all—was significant.

Moreover, most families lived in one-room houses back then. The stove and kitchen area was typically located outside but the eating area, the sleeping area, and the place where the animals could overnight was often one big space inside. In other words, there weren’t any interior walls or corners that could cast shadows. Therefore, you can see how the placement of one single oil lamp in the room would then illuminate everything, although that illumination would have still been weak. A simple oil lamp made of clay was not a miner’s headlamp, after all! By contrast, it provided a soft glow that probably didn’t give off enough light for anyone actually to do anything all that productive, but as long as no one obstructed the light, it at least allowed people to see the basic dimensions of the room in the dark—where the walls began, where any furniture was, where people lay sleeping. In a way, you could say the light gave the room shape and form, that it brought it to life.

Salt, the other metaphor that Jesus latches onto to explain what embodying his kingdom’s righteousness, functioned much the same way. Salt had many uses in ancient times—it was used as a preservative, as a fertilizer, and as something that gave flavor to food and brought out its best qualities. In addition to that, we know that pieces of stone known as salt plates were thrown into the dung pile, which is what was used in each house as fuel for the earthen stoves. These salt plates served as a type of catalyst to keep the dung burning. After a while these plates tended to lose their chemical properties—their “saltiness,” perhaps—and they’d be discarded. Bread bakers will assure you that salt is actually what gives bread its flavor. It’s not really the type of flour you use or the amount of fermentation the yeast provides that makes bread tasty. Those add to it, of course, but the key ingredient is the salt. So, regardless of which use of salt Jesus was referring to as he spoke about the kingdom, notice that salt is something that is added to something else in order to make it function better or taste the way it’s supposed to.

By using both salt and light as descriptions in his teachings, Jesus is saying that his followers’ life together—their ability to embody God’s righteousness—is the element that expands the world’s dimensions, an essential ingredient to the best life of the world. When they shine, for example, the world won’t be shrouded in darkness. The world will be able see what it really is, that it has a purpose and function. It can wake up and give glory to God. Their task, in other words, is not to become the room, the space, itself. Rather, they are live in a way that illuminates the room so that it may become visible and useful. Likewise, Jesus’ disciples aren’t expected to become the whole loaf of bread, or the whole dung pile, as the case may be. Instead, they become the element in the bread that makes it come to life. They give the world flavor; they enable it to live up to its true purpose. They become the catalyst in the burning fuel that helps the fire burn brighter and stronger.

In giving these instructions, Jesus wasn’t really saying anything new to God’s people. Ancient Israel, you see, was supposed to live as a light to the nations. From their very beginning they had been called out of relative obscurity, given a life as an often scrappy little group of people and yet placed on the lampstand of Jerusalem for all to see. Their goal was never to try to take over the world and expand their borders so they might include everyone. It was to live in holiness and righteousness in such a way that others may know that their God was the real Sovereign who loved the world and wanted to save it. Their light would shine when they embodied the mercy and lovingkindness of God’s law. 

The prophet Isaiah points out what that looks like very clearly this morning: when they, for example, share their bread with the hungry and do something to take care of the homeless and needy. It isn’t pious acts of religiosity or efforts at world domination that will be salt and light. It is humble living out of God’s rule of justice and peace for everyone. It is that kind of righteousness that makes them the key ingredient, the bright light, for creation.

This is the pattern that Jesus lays out for his own followers in his teachings, in his life, and ultimately through his death on the cross. The truth of this community’s relationships with God and then with each other—how they deal with conflict, for example, how they practice forgiveness and mercy, how they care for the least among them, how they lay down their lives for each other—would shed light on what humanity could be. It would disperse the shadows of sinfulness that had been lurking for so long.

There are a lot of challenges to being salt and light for the world, but one of the greatest is fighting that urge to become the whole room or the whole loaf. This is not to say that Jesus’ community should not welcome new followers or grow in size and influence. But it does suggest that we need to focus on ways to be in the world rather than withdrawing from it to exist to ourselves or dominating it in order to create some type of Christian super-state. Those are temptations that the Church has all too often given into. Jesus words are a good reminder that even though he calls us to what seems like minority status, we should not feel small and insignificant and ineffective. God still has given those in his kingdom the ability to function as that which allows the world to see God’s glory and be blessed by his righteousness. That all seems kind of obvious, but it’s critically important to remember that God’s light does not just shine as we do ministry and tend to the needs of each other when we’re in these four walls. The life we share in Jesus Christ is not just something we pass back and forth with each other in a self-serving manner.

As a pastor, I love it, of course, when there are a lot of kids at a youth group event or high participation in some service project one of our teams has organized. And I’m thankful for the support from parents and other family members that have allowed our youth programs at Epiphany to expand and include more and more people. However, Jesus words about salt and light are a strong reminder to me that Jesus doesn’t just call us to participation in church events. After all, that was one thing the scribes and the Pharisees were probably really good at: church attendance. Rather, Jesus calls us to be salt of the earth and light of the world. If a youth is unable to attend a particular event, it may be that person is called to be a little salt on the football team that day. Or shine a little light of Jesus’ righteousness at play practice. Or add a little of God’s good flavor at band rehearsal.  It means to shine in that cubicle at work, to practice acts of faith and sacrificial love throughout the day, wherever we are. 

Did anyone watch the Opening Ceremony for the Olympics the other night? I could take or leave the fancy choreography of the floor show, but I do always like to see how they light the Olympic flame. There’s always some kind of dramatic pageantry that goes along with it. I’ll never forget the games in Barcelona where the archer shot a flaming arrow into the cauldron. That’s why the way they staged the flame-lighting in Sochi the other night caught me a little off-guard. The Olympic flame was cleverly placed outside the stadium where the opening ceremonies were held. When the time came for the flame to be lit, the torch bearers simply left the stadium! Rather unceremoniously, they walked right out the doors and into the open area outside. All those thousands of spectators were left back inside by themselves. 

It wasn’t a very dramatic end to all the torch-passing at all, but it certainly served as an example of what God intends for his followers to do with this light of righteousness: it’s meant for the world. It’s eventually meant to go out there. We share the Lord’s light with each other here. We are replenished by the bread and the wine and the font of new life. But, ultimately, we are the light of the world, too. And whether it burns in you like a small oil lamp…or a the piercing beam of a miner’s headlamp…the point is to carry it out there, to open their dimensions, and let the world know who has created it and what it really is called to be.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

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.