Still in the Wilderness Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On December 16th, 2018 Scripture: Luke 3:7-18 It’s the third Sunday in Advent: “Joy”! Time is running out, Christmas is almost here. Lights are now up, all over town. Shopping is becoming increasingly frantic. Holiday parties are in full swing. Christmas is almost here. And yet, in the Revised Common Lectionary, this Sunday, we are presented with John the Baptist. The one who prepares the way. The one who cries out in the wilderness. The one who is the announcer. And I’m left wondering: Where is Mary? Where are the shepherds? Is it not time to get on the road to Bethlehem? Should the manger scene be set, all ready for the baby Jesus? What are we doing, still out in the wilderness, with the wild honey-and-locust-eating John, giving us scary images of a mighty God with a winnowing fork in his hand? You see, the Revised Common Lectionary people (who put together our weekly readings) must have it wrong. They didn’t anticipate Christmas 2018. I used to enjoy those “look back on the year” programs that were on TV around this time of year. They’d show the highlights of the year almost passed, and we’d get sentimental looking back. If we were to put together one of those shows this year, I wonder what joyous things we’d celebrate. Maybe
And for our church, what joyous things would we celebrate? Perhaps
And yet, while there are the joyous events that can give us hope, a hard look at the year past includes some sobering facts, For example: - the 2018 wildfire season was the most destructive and deadly season on record in California.
- Also, 113 people were killed or injured in school shootings this year in the United States. We all remember the tragedy at Stoneman Douglas High School on Valentine’s Day. We all remember Santa Fe High School in Texas. And we remember attacks on places of worship: Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, and the attempted shooting on First Baptist Church in Jeffersontown, Kentucky.[2] - And, of course, closest to home: two of Quincy’s teenagers in a tragic car accident the day after Thanksgiving, one killed and the other seriously injured, resulting in grief throughout the community. - And, of course, closest to home: two of Quincy’s teenagers in a tragic car accident the day after Thanksgiving, one killed and the other seriously injured, resulting in grief throughout the community. This year, of all years, perhaps we are longing for the baby Jesus to be put in the manger. This is a year when we need him more than ever. This Advent season “How Long, Oh Lord?” might become our cry. How long before Christ’s compassion becomes a reality in all the world? How long before we are reunited with loved ones, lost to us by separation and by death? How long before humanity figures out how to care and protect this planet that is our home? Is this the year that these gifts will come with the infant Jesus? In the midst of the call for civil rights for African Americans, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. cried out “how long?” The response was “not long!” Dr. King was addressing marchers on the steps of the State Capitol in Montgomery, Alabama, after the completion of the final march on Selma on March 25th 1965. The three marches on Selma had been organized to demonstrate against the disenfranchisement of African Americans in the United States. Violence committed against the non-violent protestors during the first two marches caused a national outcry. And so, the third march was protected by members of the Alabama National Guard under federal command. When the protesters reached the Capitol, Dr. King delivered his “How long, not long” speech. The African American marchers could not wait for the justice that was to come. They were being separated and segregated, mistreated and downtrodden, and still their voices of outrage were being silenced. It had been a long hard struggle, the struggle continues even today, yet Selma was a milestone. Dr. King was aware of the impatience of people with his strategies of nonviolent resistance. And so he declared: “Somebody's asking, ‘How long … will prejudice blind the visions of men, darken their understanding, and drive bright-eyed wisdom from her sacred throne? Somebody's asking, ‘When will wounded justice, lying prostrate on the streets of Selma and Birmingham and communities all over the South, be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men?’” [3] The response was “not long.” Not long in God’s time. "How long? Not long, because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." We want to know how long? How long to the birth? How long to the manger? How long to holy innocence, flickering candles, silent night?And yet … and yet, this morning we have John the Baptist, preaching repentance in the wilderness. And maybe, Revised Common Lectionary people, it is because we are simply not ready. Not that we haven’t done our shopping or prepared our food. Not that we haven’t put up the tree, or strung lights all around. We’re not ready, because we’ve never been ready. Not this year, not the year before, or the year before that. In fact not even 2000 years before that. Humanity is not ready for what God would have us do to make all things right. Humanity is not ready to face our grief, aloneness and separation by participating in true communion with one another. - Not ready to lay down our weapons. - Not ready to welcome the stranger without fear. - Not ready to turn our faces in the direction of both Bethlehem and Jerusalem. - Not ready to usher in the kingdom of peace, love and justice. John the Baptist reminds us, yet again, that while we prepare for the baby in the manger, that child has already been. John prepares his people for Christ, but John also looks forward to what that child’s coming will ultimately mean. John’s vision was a collapse of time. The time between Jesus coming to the world as a vulnerable infant, and the era of justice and peace passing by like the blink of an eye. John’s work is to prepare his followers who gather in great crowds to hear him preach. If we listen he will also prepare us. He’ll tell us, once again - because we are so slow - here is the way you should live: If you have food, clothing, warmth: share. If you have authority, administrative or physical power, that’s a serious responsibility, use it for the coming of God’s reign. When it seems that all creation is crying out for the Lord to come quickly, to deliver those who are suffering --- we might well wonder what is the delay? And yet, in tension with Dr. King’s cry of “how long?/not long,” there is that part of us that wants to push that moment back. Blue Grass singer Bob Amos asks “will he wait a little longer?” (to give us time to gather in). The coming of the reign of justice and peace, the reign of God, scares us. John’s image of the mighty One with the winnowing fork in hand is worrisome because we know we are not ready. We know that we have behaviors, habits, attitudes, and privileges that would be thrown into the fire. What will happen to my extra coats, stored away for comfort in every season? What will happen to those of us with undeserved authority and power? Who, without our even realizing it, is dependent on our generosity, our behavior, our whims? When I ride on the T do I notice the needs of others around me, and try to assist? When I go to the grocery story, how do my choices impact those on the lowest rung of the economic ladder? And what are the thoughts and feelings that do not orient us toward God? What about our resentments … our unresolved anger … our shame … or our need to always win the argument? What about our internet and viewing habits? What about the substances that appease our appetites, but keep us from connection and community? Are we ready to throw these things into the fire? Even as we are not ready, my suspicion is that God is not ready either. In spite of all John’s imagery of the threshing floor and unquenchable fire, God does not want to call “time” until every single one of God’s children has returned home, like the prodigal. And so the “How long?”/”Not long” longing exists in tension with “Will [God] wait a little longer?” Joy is an enigmatic quality in the midst of this tension. May we rejoice that it will not be long – in God’s time – before the moral arc of the universe meets justice. And yet, it is long enough – because God is willing to wait – to receive us. And that is also reason for joy. And so, this third Sunday in Advent, let’s ask for the courage to turn toward God, as John would have us do. When it feels too scary, let’s take it a step at a time and follow his simple instructions. Give warmth to those who are cold, food to those who are hungry, and use any power and authority we may have for God’s purposes. May all God’s people say, Amen [1] https://www.actionagainsthunger.org/story/world-refugee-day-2018-number-forcibly-displaced-people-reaches-record-high?utm_source=googlegrants&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=%2Bworld%20%2Brefugee&utm_campaign=grants&gclid=CjwKCAiAo8jgBRAVEiwAJUXKqJab1RE_wBcQjk-yzc8IiDYj1fqC0h7u7f49vCXCH8Lk_1R8duvryBoCZaMQAvD_BwE [2] https://www.bbc.com/news/business-46507514 [3] http://www.legacy.com/news/explore-history/article/mlk-our-god-is-marching-on-how-long-not-long
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The Incubation of Hopes for Peace Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church on December 9th 2018 Scripture: Luke 1:68-79 The psalm we read today is not from the book of psalms, it is from Luke’s gospel. It is the song sung by Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, and it is a song of praise and prophecy. Zechariah’s psalm, is known as the Benedictus – for its beginning “blessed be the Lord God of Israel.” It is one of the four canticles the gospel of Luke uses to punctuate the birth stories of John the Baptist and Jesus. In our reading we heard the song, but we did not hear how it came about, and so, here is the backstory. Zechariah stands before the altar in the holy of holies of the Jerusalem temple. This is possibly the pinnacle of his life as a member of the priestly division of Abijah. He has been chosen, by lot, to go into the temple and burn incense. He has spent his entire life preparing for this great honor and responsibility. He focuses intensely performing the duty correctly, consistent with his life of obedience to God’s decrees. He is not expecting anything untoward to happen. Least of all, the appearance of the angel of the Lord, Gabriel, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John.” Years ago Zechariah and Elizabeth had hoped for children, even just one child. They had hoped and prayed, and anticipated. They’d planned their busy household. They’d imagined girls singing and dancing around the home, learning the how to prepare foods according to the law, from Elizabeth. And they’d imagined boys, laughing and tumbling, learning their letters and then going to synagogue to study the scriptures with Zechariah. And then, as time had gone by and nothing happened, they’d stopped imagining and stopped praying. They’d settled for one another’s company in their quiet household. And they had thought they were content. Now, here is a terrifying apparition, telling Zechariah that his prayer has been heard. He’s not even sure he wants that prayer anymore. He and Elizabeth have grown old. What would they do with a crying baby, a mischievous toddler, an energetic child? None the less, the angel goes on. “He will be great in the sight of the Lord, filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born … he will be great in the sight of the Lord … even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit. He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord." “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years." Zechariah dares to question the mighty apparition. “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur." And so, Zechariah the priest is silenced by the angel. It is a prolonged silence, the length of Elizabeth’s pregnancy and until the time of the child’s circumcision and naming. It was a particularly quiet time in their household. The child was growing and forming in Elizabeth’s womb: incubating. Her aging body was stretching and aching. She raised her swollen feet each evening, working on the swaddles and tiny clothes she would need. And she had the joy of greeting her young cousin, Mary, come to stay in their home. They kept their voices low, to avoid disturbing Zechariah in his strange exile. They hushed their chatter and laughter, both finding themselves in the same surprising condition. And at the same time, something was incubating in Zechariah. Something was forming in the silence, as his spirit stretched and ached. His consciousness began to grasp the gifts and the responsibilities that would come with this infant son. So far, only he knew what this child was destined for. A couple of weeks ago, I attended a short overnight retreat in the mountains of the Adirondacks. It was the week that a Nor’easter hit the region. I left home early in the morning and drove west through pouring rain. Then I discovered snow, as I worked my way north of I-90. Fortunately the roads were clear until the last short stretch into the camp at Lake Pleasant. Other attendees had already arrived and were gathered around fire in the lodge. I crunched my way through the snow, carrying in my bag. I realized I had traveled from a noisy, hectic fall into a silent winter in those few hours. I got to know my companions during the scheduled program and over lunch and dinner. I was ready for rest, and also to distance myself from busy-ness at home. Our topic for discussion was ministry in “these times.” Following dinner and another short session, our retreat leader invited us into a time of silence. We would keep silence from about 7:30 that evening through until 9 the next morning. We’d move quietly about the lodge, giving one another the space we needed to be fully present to whatever God was saying to us. I’d practiced silence before for longer periods, and so I had no reservations about this experience. I was a little disappointed that I would sleep through most of it. Even so, the hour or two to settle before going to sleep was enough. I woke the next morning, with time to drink tea and eat breakfast, do my morning stretching routine, and meditate on my daily Bible passage all in silence. I had walked slowly, silently in solitude in the woods, listening to the wind in the trees and the snow crunch beneath my feet. We resumed our program that morning, in an atmosphere of settled quietness. We talked about the things of these times that were causing us to lament: struggling congregations; epidemics of addiction, depression and suicide in our communities; environmental disasters; the inability of people across the political spectrum to talk to one another peacefully. Then our leader invited us to take some time alone to write a psalm of lament. We were provided with the structure: address and opening cry; lament; confession of trust; petition and praise or vow to praise. I went to my room at sat at the little desk and began to write. The thoughts and themes of the two days came together and words poured out. In 45 minutes I was done. When the group re-gathered we shared our psalms in pairs. My partner seemed so moved by the psalm that I accepted the invitation to share it with the group. When I had finished, they sat in stunned silence, and I began to worry. Was the psalm over dramatic? Was I presumptuous, thinking I could compose a psalm in that short time? But no, the group members sighed, asked if they could have copies for themselves. Just last week I heard from a pastor who wanted to share the psalm in worship. I guess that the time of silence had incubated words in me, which spoke to each person on the retreat. My gift was a psalm of lament for these times. Although Zechariah’s song is not a typical psalm of lament, he might well have lamented in those times in which he and Elizabeth were living. Roman soldiers patrolled the streets. Religious rituals were permitted, but the imperial powers were always looking over their shoulders, for signs of rebellion. The Jews were charged crushing taxes by the Romans for the privilege of keeping their own religion. And yet there was a continual erosion of Jewish practices and values, as Roman emblems and idols crept into the temple. Meanwhile, zealots plotted acts of violence against the occupiers. Perhaps this was all too much for the elderly priest, who simply wanted to be left alone to perform his duties in peace. And, yet, now – in this strange exile of silence – as his baby son was growing, a song was incubating. It was a song of joy and praise, a recognition of what God was about to do among his people. And so, we might ponder, what God is doing among God’s people in “these times.” Our times are long after the time of John and Jesus. And yet we live in in-between times. We live between the coming of Jesus in the flesh and his return when all things will be made right. It is expected that we would lament. These are not yet the times of fulfillment, we are still in times of struggle. But, even in these times there are silences in which words of praise and hopes for peace are incubated. Last Thursday I arrived a little early for my session of “spirituality” at the acute treatment center, just down the street from here. Pr. Alissa and I do a twice monthly “spirituality group” at Gavin House, with the women and men who are in recovery from drug and alcohol addictions. While I was waiting for Alissa, I sat and talked with the security guard, Dave. He told me how glad he was to know that our church provides hospitality for the Alcoholics Anonymous groups that meet in this building. Then he reminded me of the good work that you and I are doing in the world. We need that encouragement, because sometimes the work is, well, discouraging. Sometimes all those things of “these times” that cause us to lament seem insurmountable. Dave reminded me how much everyone needs the pause of worship, prayer and meditation. I sighed. “It’s so true,” I said, “but sadly most people do not know their need.” We talked of the pace of the culture, about how everyone is too busy. Dave shared with me his practice of reading and meditation, morning and night. And then Alissa and I went, to create space, silence and meditation with those men and women. It was the space for tears to fall, and sobs of lament to rise up. And somewhere, deep in that collective spacious silence, something was incubating: words of lament, songs of praise, and tiny hopes for peace beginning to be birthed. May all God’s people say, Amen Hope is a Candle Lit by the Prophets Preached on December 2nd 2018 at Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Jeremiah 33:14-16 It is always appropriate that the first candle of Advent is for hope. So often, by the time we reach this season hope is all we have left. And this year, more than ever, I think that Advent is going to be that kind of season. Today, we are finding our message of hope in the Old Testament scripture passage we heard today from the book of Jeremiah. It is astonishing that Jeremiah, writing from a prison cell, can preach a message of hope. And yet he does. The reason for his imprisonment is that he is too committed to speaking the truth. He has warned the delusional King Zedekiah that the enormous power of Babylonian Chaldeans cannot be pushed back. Jerusalem is still standing, but its fall is imminent. Many members of the elite class have already been taken into exile in Babylon. Soon there will be just a handful left in Jerusalem, a remnant. And the city will be destroyed. It is at this moment, writing to those exiles far off in Babylon, that Jeremiah reminds them of God’s promises. God’s promises. What kind of sense does that make, when all seems lost? What does God even promise? A few years ago, I was writing a special paper to present to the United Church of Christ Committee on Ministry. It was a statement of my theology and beliefs, that would – hopefully – qualify me for ordination in the UCC. I put this paper together by writing a few paragraphs on each section of the United Church of Christ Statement of Faith. The section that challenged me the most was this one: “God promises to all who trust in the gospel forgiveness of sins and fullness of grace, courage in the struggle for justice and peace, the presence of the Holy Spirit in trial and rejoicing, and eternal life in that kingdom which has no end.” I responded “All the promises named in the statement of faith are intangibles: Forgiveness , fullness of grace, courage, God’s presence in trial and rejoicing, and eternal life in the kingdom.” How are these intangibles supposed to help – to quote our final hymn – when the storms of life are raging? How are they supposed to help when we hear the very worst news, that a young man – full of promise, yes promise – has been killed in a tragic car accident. And that his buddy beside him landed in the ICU. Parents whose children have died in car accidents, or due to drug overdoses, or by gang warfare, or by being shot in the shopping mall, may be forgiven for thinking that God has abandoned them. When tragedy strikes, we often hear the lament “how could God allow this?” God’s promises seem futile and far away in the face of such a loss. William Sloane Coffin, a renowned protestant minister and chaplain of Yale University, experienced this kind of loss first hand. At the age of 23, his son, Alexander, was returning a tennis game with a friend when his car plunged into a South Boston channel shortly after midnight. Coffin was pronounced dead at New England Medical Center at 2:25 a.m. He had been recovered from the channel by fire department divers. [1] People tried to comfort Rev. Sloane Coffin by telling him that Alex’s death was somehow the will of God. This did not go down well with him. Ten days after Alex’s death, Rev. Coffin preached a eulogy for Alex at Riverside Church in New York. He said: “For some reason, nothing so infuriates me as the incapacity of seemingly intelligent people to get it through their heads that God doesn't go around this world with his fingers on triggers, his fists around knives, his hands on steering wheels. God is dead set against all unnatural deaths … The one thing that should never be said when someone dies is ‘It is the will of God.’ Never do we know enough to say that. My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God's heart was the first of all our hearts to break.” [2] The people of Judah, taken off into exile while their home is being destroyed, may also be led to believe that God has abandoned them. They may think that this is the act of a mean and vindictive God. They may think that this is God’s will and God’s punishment for them. But God speaks through Jeremiah, words of comfort and hope, to remind them of God’s promise to them. This message recalls the covenant God made with Moses at Mount Sinai when the commandments were given. The people’s side of the covenant was to remain faithful to the YHWH by following the commandments. YHWH’s side of the promise was quite simple: “I will be your God, and you will be my people.” God had brought the people out of slavery in Egypt and now had promised presence and relationship, through their trials and their rejoicing. “I will be your God, and you will be my people.” Sometimes this doesn’t sound like much of a promise … until I recall my friends, Bill and Jo, who adopted a son about 10 years ago. Brendon came into his new family with complex problems from his family of origin. But, my friends were determined to go ahead with the adoption. They simply wanted to be a family. And so, following a period of fostering, the family stood before the judge and declared to Brendon “I will be your mom” and “I will be your dad” and “you will be our son.” The years since that time have been full of trials, but also rejoicing. The nurturing that Brendon missed in his early years is not easily reclaimed. Right and wrong, cause and effect mean little to him. And now that he has entered the teenaged years, there are the regular trials of issues at school and visits from the police. And there are times of rejoicing, when Brendon makes a new friend, or shows an act of kindness. This is not a journey for the fainthearted. And yet Jo and Bill kept their promise, “I will be your mom, I will be your dad, and you will be our son” through it all. Another example of this powerful promise of presence comes from the book “Tattoos on the Heart” by Father Gregory Boyle. I had heard Father Boyle speak some years ago, at a conference on prison ministries at Boston College. He had recently published the book and had obviously traveled to many speaking engagements. He sounded weary. “I’m looking forward to going home to be with my family,” he said. For a moment I pictured a cozy scene of a wife and maybe 3 or 4 children welcoming home the Father. But, err … he’s a Catholic Priest. No, Father G, as he’s known, was talking about the “home boys” and “home girls” he had worked with for a couple of decades in the slums of Los Angeles. They were his family. The book tells of the love of this man for his frustrating and heart-breaking family. Father Boyle rescues teenaged boys and girls from a life of gang violence by loving them. In many cases he saves their lives. “Gang violence is about a lethal absence of hope,” Father Boyle has said. “Nobody has ever met a hopeful kid who joined a gang.” [3] He created a business “Home Boy Industries” to make silkscreen printed T shirts. He employs the least employable. Kids who’ve had no parenting and no schooling, who don’t know how to get up on time for work or how to speak without using obscenities. He loves them by letting them know that they matter: to him and to God. In this way he instills hope in many young men and women who would have been lost to gang violence and drug addiction. This work comes at an enormous price. As often as he baptizes and marries the young ones he serves, he also buries them. When a “homie” turns his life around he is most vulnerable to being shot and killed by a rival gang. The young man who’d escaped the neighborhood and gone to college, was taken down when he was back on a visit for the holidays. And there was another one who was home on leave from the military, having survived his tour of duty. The gangs did not care. And yet, with the many trials, there are triumphs worth rejoicing. G. had visited a homie named “Grumpy” in prison and offered free removal of his gang insignia tattoos when he was released. Grumpy had rudely refused and resisted. And yet, months later, they met by chance, Grumpy had had a change of heart – “I’ll meet you on Wednesday when I get out, I want my [gang related] tattoos off” he said. These are the kinds of things that caused God and Father G. to rejoice. Boyle quotes Emily Dickinson, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, that sings the song without the words and never stops at all.” [4] Jeremiah writes to the people of Judah, to tell them that the days are surely coming when a righteous branch will spring up for David, the former King. This branch will reaffirm the promise of God: “I will be your God and you will be my people.” For Christians, this promise is the coming of Jesus: God with us, Emmanuel. Through it all, the heart break, the frustrations and the triumphs that cause us to rejoice. God with us. That is the promise and that is the hope of the one candle. Let all God’s people say, Amen. [1] https://www.upi.com/Archives/1983/01/11/William-Sloane-Coffins-son-dies-in-Boston-car-accident/1492411109200/ [2] https://www.beliefnet.com/love-family/1999/12/eulogy-for-alex.aspx [3] https://www.homeboyindustries.org/fatherg/ [4] Boyle, Gregory. Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion (p. 127). Free Press. Kindle Edition |
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