The Second Sunday after the Epiphany-Year C

Epiphany 2C January 16, 2022 “I hope my babies can be in the wedding service.” A colleague who had been a priest for over 30 years was telling me a story of the latest wedding he had done in his church, and this is what the bride kept telling him over and over. “I hope my babies can be in the wedding service.” “Well, of course your babies can be in the wedding service,” he kept reassuring her. It did occur to him to wonder why this bride was so insistent on her babies being in the wedding while at the same time so insecure about it, but he quickly stowed those thoughts away. On the day of the wedding, the bride showed up with her babies proudly in tow—male and female chihuahuas dressed in a tux and a bridal gown. She proceeded to have them wheeled down the aisle in a baby carriage as a part of the wedding procession, much to the dismay of my friend who had assured her repeatedly that her babies could be in her wedding. He concluded that conversation by saying, “and that’s why, every time we have a wedding, here at St. Mark’s, I have to update the wedding customary. This week I added the line: “no chihuahuas.” Weddings are fraught with expectations. In these very public celebrations of new life and new family, the expectations of all the major players—bride and groom, their parents, sometimes their siblings and extended relatives and others-collide. It’s not uncommon that right around the time that we do our pre-marital counseling session on conflict for there to have been some significant conflict around the wedding—either between the bride and the groom or a member of the wedding party and a parent--which we spend time unpacking and discussing to learn more about how the couple handles both conflict and expectations of others. It’s interesting to me to see in our gospel passage for today a snapshot of similar dynamics at work in a wedding during Jesus’s own day. Jesus’s mother (who is never called by name in John’s gospel) learns that the wedding feast is about to run out of wine. This is a huge scandal and would reflect very poorly on the new couple and their families. Mary goes to Jesus and tells him the situation, and Jesus responds: “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” Mary doesn’t answer him, but instead tells the servants: “Do whatever he tells you.” And then he just does it. Jesus turns the water into wine and no one except the servants and his disciples even know that he has done it. I can’t help but wonder what shifts in Jesus in that moment after he answers Mary? Why does he decide that it is his concern and that ok, maybe the time is right for his first miracle? (One of my colleagues has suggested that maybe Jesus decided that it was easier to just go ahead and change the water into wine that to deal with his mamma after they got home.) It’s interesting, too, that this change in Jesus’s understanding of the timing of his mission happens in the gospel of John, where Jesus is so unemotional, unmovable, so focused on his mission, and more divine seeming than human. I’d like to understand what happens here when Mary’s expectations for Jesus collide with his own expectations and understanding of his mission. Last weekend, my family and I watched the Disney movie Encanto. Encanto is an animated film that tells the story of the Madrigal family, who received a lineage of unique, magical gifts for each of their offspring after their Columbian village was overrun by armed men in the dark of night. In addition to the magical gifts, the family is given a magical house, and they have decided to use all of these resources to protect the other members of their village and keep them safe from harm. The movie follows the story of Mirabel, the main character, who is the only member of the family to not receive a magical gift, and it explores the weight of expectations on key members of the family to use their gifts in a way that is of service to the family and the community. Mirabel isn’t able to live into the expectation of having a magical gift, so she overcompensates by trying to be super-helpful. Other characters feel burdened by the weight of expectations to use their gifts to the fullest, often to the sacrifice of their own wellness. And when facing the threat of losing their gifts, they begin to question their own self-worth. Mirabel’s oldest sister Luisa, whose gift is super-strength,has a whole song about this: “If I could shake the crushing weight of expectations Would that free some room up for joy? Or relaxation, or simple pleasure? Instead we measure this growing pressure Keeps growing, keep going 'Cause all we know is Pressure like a drip, drip, drip that'll never stop, woah Pressure that'll tip, tip, tip till you just go pop, woah Give it to your sister, it doesn't hurt and See if she can handle every family burden Watch as she buckles and bends but never breaks No mistakes” In Encanto, the characters realize that expectations of others do not have to define their identities or self-worth. They learn to evaluate expectations of their own and that they have received from others, (especially their Abuela, who is the head of the family) and to determine which ones should be kept and which ones could be discarded for them to be healthier and more whole. All this makes me wonder if Jesus’s change is less about succumbing to his mother’s expectations of him and more about reevaluating and shifting his own expectations of his ministry? In this season where all of our expectations for life continue to be disrupted and upended, this is a helpful reminder for all of us. What expectations of yourself do you have that are deeply engrained that you may need to reevaluate during this season? Where in your life are expectations crushing the possibility of more joy, more relaxation, more pleasure? What might be a way that God is calling you to change or grow in a way that is different from your expectations of how things should go?

The First Sunday after the Epiphany-Year C

The First Sunday after the Epiphany-the Baptism of our Lord Year C January 9, 2022 “Everybody hurts, everybody hurts, everybody hurts…sometimes.” i REM lead singer Michael Stipe crooned these words over and over as 7 of us sat on the floor of my freshman year college dorm room listening to the song over and again and again. We were a biology lab small group working on our lab project to test the way that listening to sad music affected the biometric readings of the human body—the connections between the body and the emotions. I don’t remember the results of that experiment but here is what I do remember from that day. 1. The REM song Everybody Hurts is a really long, and really depressing song. 2. It is really, really awkward to be a 19 year old sitting on a dorm room floor during such a long, agonizing song which both lifts up the pathos of the human condition and also acknowledges the shared condition and burden of suffering with a bunch of random classmates, relative strangers, who you have been thrown together with in a lab assignment. ii I was reminded of the song and the experience this week, when I read a portion of the daily meditation written by author, theologian, and Franciscan priest Richard Rohr. Rohr’s meditation could have easily been titled “Everybody hurts.” Here is what he writes: “I am no masochist, and I surely have no martyr complex, but I do believe that the only way out of deep sadness is to go with it and through it. Sometimes I wonder if this is what we priests mean when we lift up bread and wine at the Eucharist or communion and say, “Through him, and with him, and in him.” I wonder if the only way to spiritually hold suffering—and not let it destroy us—is to recognize that we cannot do it alone. When I try to heroically do it alone, I slip into distractions, denials, and pretending—and I do not learn suffering’s softening lessons. But when I can find a shared meaning for something, especially if it allows me to love God and others in the same action, God can get me through it. I begin to trust the ambiguous process of life.” He continues, “When we carry our small suffering in solidarity with the one universal longing of all humanity, it helps keep us from self-pity or self-preoccupation. We know that we are all in this together, and it is just as hard for everybody else. Almost all people are carrying a great and secret hurt, even when they don’t know it. When we can make the shift to realize this, it softens the space around our overly defended hearts. It makes it hard to be cruel to anyone. Shared struggle somehow makes us one—in a way that easy comfort and entertainment never can.”iii Our reading from Isaiah today is a love song from God to God’s hurting people. They have been scattered and exiled far away from their home, assimilated into the foreign empire of Babylon. They are deeply fearful that they will become extinct; they are doubtful of their future as God’s chosen and cherished people because God seems to have abandoned them. The prophet here speaks on behalf of God and reassures God’s people that are loved and cherished and not abandoned; that their suffering will not be endless but will give birth to hope and new life. This year in reading this familiar scripture once again, I am struck by the poetry that the prophet uses: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.” I don’t think it’s an accident that the phrase “pass through the waters” calls to mind another time that God’s people were suffering and afraid, as the Egyptian army is bearing down on them to either recapture them and drag them back into slavery or even to kill them all. During that moment of fear and suffering, God proves that God is with them, working through Moses to part the waters of the Red Sea so God’s people can pass through them unharmed. Exodus 14:22 describes the event as the waters parting to create a dry path with walls of water on either side where the people walked—truly a terrifying experience but one through which they come out on the other side, into the first day of their life as a free people. Today in our liturgical year, we lift up the theme of Jesus’s baptism by John in the Jordan River. Every year on this first Sunday after the Epiphany, we read a gospel story about Jesus’s baptism, and it is a Sunday that is especially appropriate for either a baptism or for renewing our own baptismal vows. This Old Testament passage for today, coupled with the gospel passage which shows us Luke’s version of Jesus’s baptism, is a timely reminder of life’s hard places or as REM puts it, that “everybody hurts.” Our lives are a series of passing through the waters of hardship, fear, and suffering, through death (or a change), and into new life or resurrection. And God is with us in and through all of that, comforting us and reminding us that we belong to God and that we are precious in God’s sight. This is what we are baptized into; this is what we recall and remember when we renew our baptismal vows; this is what lift up before God when we gather around God’s altar: that even though we suffer and things may feel scary and hard right now, God will not allow us to stay in that spot for forever. We will pass through the waters and come out on the other side. Just before Christmas, I receive an email from my mom with the subject line: found prayer. Her brief email said that she had read this prayer on a blog that she follows and the writer said it had been sent out by her church. I’ve been praying it since just before Christmas and even though it is a new year, it still seems applicable. I’ll share it with you in closing. "God of the long and aching wait. This year has swelled with the grief and longing and loss of many. We want so much more than the present condition of this world. Where are you? There are seasons where it becomes difficult to believe in your nearness. Would you make it known to us now? That as we carry each other through this season, we would find the miracle in the mundane, tiny sacred flashes of good as we wait for a healing that lasts. Help us to dream. That we would find even our prayers grow large in this season, asking for those things which have seemed too good or naive. Help us to dream, not that we would pine for some mirage of how things used to be, but that we would hold space for visions of life where justice can breathe, where power is mobile, and where liberation leaves no one behind. Come, God. And we will wait." iv Amen. i. Here’s how to listen to the song and see the full lyrics (in case you need some comfortable melancholy or you were living under a rock in the early 90’s): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rOiW_xY-kc&t=5s ii. The song is described as having a comfortable melancholy and REM guitarist Peter Buck wrote in the album notes “that ‘the reason the lyrics are so atypically straightforward is because it was aimed at teenagers’, and ‘I've never watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but the idea that high school is a portal to hell seems pretty realistic to me." https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Everybody_Hurts iii. https://cac.org/it-cant-be-carried-alone-2022-01-04/ iv.Here’s the original blog post with the prayer: https://fabricpaperthread.blogspot.com/2021/12/almost-christmas.html

2nd Sunday after Christmas Year C

2nd Sunday after Christmas-Year C January 2, 2022 Today we find ourselves in a strange time. It’s the second day of a brand new year, and it’s the 9th day out of the 12 day season of Christmas, the short season in our church year that falls between Christmas day and the feast day of Epiphany-January 6th. As our new year begins, I’ve been thinking about the people in our Old Testament reading for this week. These are the people that Jeremiah has been preaching to that God is going to give them what is coming to them, that because they have turned away from God and worshipped other gods, then they will be taken out of the promised land by foreign invaders and scattered. But today’s lesson has God speaking words of hope through the prophet, proclaiming that God will regather God’s scattered people and that they will be returned to their promised land where they will sing a new song. I’ve been thinking about new songs and about how people become inspired to sing new songs even when the new, promised thing has not yet arrived. As we enter 2022, I find myself weary; it’s hard to feel optimistic in the face of continued challenges and difficulties. I would like to be able to sing a new song, but I don’t even really know where or how to begin. The theologian and poet Howard Thurman has a poem about all this. It’s titled I will sing a new song and here is what it says: I Will Sing a New Song The old song of my spirit has wearied itself out. It has long ago been learned by heart; It repeats itself over and over, Bringing no added joy to my days or lift to my spirit. I will sing a new song. I must learn the new song for the new needs. I must fashion new words born of all the new growth of my life – of my mind – of my spirit. I must prepare for new melodies that have never been mine before, That all that is within me may lift my voice unto God. Therefore, I shall rejoice with each new day And delight my spirit in each fresh unfolding.i “I will sing, this day, a new song unto the Lord./ I must learn the new song for the new needs./ I must fashion new words born of all the new growth/ of my life – of my mind – of my spirit./I must prepare for new melodies that have/ never been mine before,/That all that is within me may lift my voice unto God.” Where in my life has there been new growth lately? Perhaps that is the place to begin looking, where God is preparing this new song for new needs that I am called to sing with my life? Where have I encountered the holy in my life during these wearisome days? What are the ordinary and the extraordinary ways in which the light of Christ has appeared in my life? In closing, I’ll share with you a meditation on the wise men who we see in our gospel reading for today and how they might inspire us to seek the Christ child in our lives and in our world, and how this might inspire the new song that God is inviting us to sing in our lives during this season. Seeking Magi from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” —Matthew 2.1-2 They weren’t searching for treasure. They weren’t hoping to meet emperors or movie stars. They must have declined 100 invitations to digress and temptations to turn around. They likely encountered the cutest kids in the world— but not the one they sought. In your dealings, your duties digressions, it’s easy to look for trouble, look for the advantage, look for fault, look for comfort. It’s easy to settle for sentiment, for fitting in, for happiness. Don’t. Resist the distractions. Seek the holy. Seek the divine, even in those who do not know it in themselves. Seek the hopeful even in the dull and despairing. Notice those moments of courageous love, of suffering wisdom and gentle resolve. The Christ child—the vulnerable presence of God— is among us. Look. Look deeper.ii i. Howard Thurman, The Mood of Christmas & Other Celebrations ii. By Steve Garnaas-Holmes. https://unfoldinglight.net/2021/12/28/seeking/

Christmas Eve 2021

Christmas Eve 2021 “The world can be divided into two types of people: those who love Ted Lasso and those who haven’t seen it yet.”i If you’ve been following us here at St. Thomas this past year, you will know that I was late (and a little reluctant) to watch the Emmy-winning Apple TV show titled after its main character Ted Lasso. My friend and colleague here discovered the show pretty early and after her initial enthusiastic recommendation, she would periodically say, “Have you watched it yet?” This summer just as the 2nd season was coming out, I finally succumbed to her gentle yet zealous encouragements to “just watch it, you’ll see!” Here is what I found. Ted Lasso is an American college level football coach who is hired to coach for a premier soccer league in England. He’s never played soccer before, doesn’t really understand all the rules, and he has all sorts of misadventures because of the differences in how we use the English language and in the different culture. But here’s the thing. The show isn’t really about soccer. It’s about humanity—what forces drive and motivate us and about how we are all a strange mix of light and dark, of hope and self-interest, of kindness and smallness. Ted is this intriguing character because he carries in him an unrelenting optimism that sees potential in people and helps invoke the best out of most of the people around him. In the first episode, on his first day of work at his new job at fictional AFC Richmond Football club, Ted walks into the locker room and then tapes up a handwritten sign on a yellow piece of paper. The sign reads “Believe.” Throughout the two seasons, Ted refers to the sign occasionally, sometimes just by tapping it with his hand as the players watch him walk through the doorway into his office. And I think, when you boil it all down, the success of Ted Lasso in this current moment in our common life is that we all are desperately looking for, longing for, something or someone to believe in. We long to remember how the light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it. We look for the hope of the promise that kindness, vulnerability, and forgiveness can change the world. This time of year, we hear a lot about believing. We watch movies about how the power of belief can help bring about magic in this old, tired world. One meditation on Belief says it this way: “This time of year we’re told to “believe.” But what does that mean? Judging from the movies to believe means to believe in magic, or Santa, or romance, to be optimistically wishful and naïve. In many Christian circles to believe means to think, as in believing certain doctrines are true. But the word “believe” comes from old English, rooted in German, belieben—to love. In scripture to believe means to give your heart: to lovingly entrust yourself, not to an idea but to a person.” ii We know the people who walked in darkness; we are them. We long to give our hearts to something or someone, to put our trust in something greater than ourselves. The Medieval mystic Meister Eckhart wrote, “we are all meant to be mothers for God, for God is always needing to be born.” In order for Jesus to be born on this night so many years ago, his mother Mary first had to say yes to God’s invitation. She had to give her heart to God, to put her trust in God in an unexpected and unprecedented way. Joseph, also, was given a chance, a dream, a moment when his initial no to being the father of Jesus changed to become a yes, and he, too, gave his heart and his trust to God. That is the gift of this most holy night—the old, familiar story reminds us of how normal people, not so different from us, said yes when God’s messenger showed up in their lives asking for them to believe, inviting them to believe, to trust, to give their hearts and to help give birth to God. It’s a reminder of how regular people—Mary, Joseph, the shepherds—witness and participate in the birth of Emmanuel/God with us and how they gave their hearts to him, upending both their own lives and the entire world. This year-maybe above all years-we have longed to believe in something, in someone. We have longed to give our hearts to someone or some cause that is worthy. We have longed to be saved from ourselves and all the craziness that is going on in the world around us. The gift of this night is the reminder that through the birth of Emmanuel-God with us-God shows us that God is with us, that God invites us to give our heart, our trust, ourselves to God. And when enough of us say yes to God, God will change the world. It has already happened, and it will happen again. Ti. his line is taken from an article for Mr. Porter by Dan Rookwood: Fashion: Swearing Is Caring: A Few Choice Words From The Breakout Star Of Ted Lasso | The Journal | MR PORTER ii. https://unfoldinglight.net/2021/12/17/believe/

Blue Christmas 2021

Blue Christmas 2021 December 15, 2021 Years ago, I was visiting a parishioner in the hospital. When I walked into her room, she looked up at me from where she was slumped in her chair; her eyes were shadowed with pain, and she said, “I know God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, but this feels like too much.” I flinched and opened my mouth to respond, and then I thought better of it because hospital rooms and funeral homes are not the places a priest should be arguing theology with her people when they are hurting. But I suspect, there are some of you here tonight who have been wounded by someone saying those words to you in the face of suffering or tragedy—that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle-and so I want to spend a couple of minutes tonight reflecting on what we do believe about God in the midst of suffering. Spoiler alert: the God that is captured in that horrible saying is not the God I believe in or follow. (I don’t think I have to say this to y’all, but I’m going to say it anyway, just in case. It is better to stay silent in the face of suffering—both someone else’s or your own—than to say to someone else or yourself that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.) When I was pregnant with our daughter, my husband David and I went with some friends to see a Cirque de Soleil performance. Before the performance started, they had these clowns wandering through the audience as entertainment. Somehow, I caught the attention of one of the clowns, and he came over with a giant stack of empty wrapped packages. He proceeded to entertain the crowd by trying to stack package upon package in my lap, which also contained the medium-sized baby bump that was Mary Margaret. And what added to the show was my fiercely protective husband seated next to me, who kept taking package by package off my lap into his own while he and the clown made angry gestures at one another. Friends, God is not like some clown putting on a show and piling things up in the laps of already hurting and vulnerable people. God is the one who loves us, sitting right next to us, trying to help us bear some of the burden. We see this at work in both the Isaiah reading and the gospel reading for tonight. God’s chosen people of Israel are hurting, and God reminds them, that God is strong and righteous and ready and eager to help them. In the gospel, John the Baptist hears about Jesus while imprisoned and sends his disciples to find out if Jesus is really the messiah. In typical Jesus fashion, Jesus answers the question enigmatically saying, “Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them.” Those who are weak or vulnerable are being restored to strength; those who are hurting are being comforted. This is spoken by Emmanuel, God with us—who has no interest in testing the limits of “what we can handle.” God created us to be in relationship with God and each other. Bad things happen, sometimes because of our own decisions or the decisions of those we love and sometimes they just happen—we don’t know why. But the God of love who sent Emmanuel to be with us does not want us to suffer. God longs to be fully reconciled with us and for us to live our lives in peace and whole-heartedness, and God is willing to come along-side each one of us to help us bear our burdens and sorrows. There’s a story I read this week that is attributed to the writer Elizabeth Gilbert. It gets to the heart of why we are here tonight, why we gather, what God promises to do for us, and what we are called to do for one another. Here’s what she writes: “Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour. Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated with one another, with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here. But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom. ‘Folks,’ he said, ‘I know you have had a rough day and you are frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here is what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight, just leave them with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I will open the window and throw your troubles in the water.’ It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who had been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious? Oh, he was serious. At the next stop, just as promised, the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river. We live in a hard world, my friends. Sometimes it is extra difficult to be a human being. Sometimes you have a bad day. Sometimes you have a bad day that lasts for several years. You struggle and fail. You lose jobs, money, friends, faith, and love. You witness horrible events unfolding in the news, and you become fearful and withdrawn. There are times when everything seems cloaked in darkness. You long for the light but don’t know where to find it. But what if you are the light? What if you are the very agent of illumination that a dark situation begs for? That’s what this bus driver taught me, that anyone can be the light, at any moment. This guy wasn’t some big power player. He wasn’t a spiritual leader. He wasn’t some media-savvy influencer. He was a bus driver, one of society’s most invisible workers. But he possessed real power, and he used it beautifully for our benefit. When life feels especially grim, or when I feel particularly powerless in the face of the world’s troubles, I think of this man and ask myself, ‘What can I do, right now, to be the light?’ Of course, I can’t personally end all wars, or solve global warming, or transform vexing people into entirely different creatures. I definitely can’t control traffic. But I do have some influence on everyone I brush up against, even if we never speak or learn each other’s name.” She concludes, “No matter who you are, or where you are, or how mundane or tough your situation may seem, I believe you can illuminate your world. In fact, I believe this is the only way the world will ever be illuminated, one bright act of grace at a time, all the way to the river."

Advent 3C

Advent 3C_2021 December 12, 2021 “What, then, should we do?” John the Baptist has burst onto the Advent scene in full force today, calling his listeners (and maybe, us?) “a brood of vipers” and challenging them to repent to prepare for the coming of God’s messiah. “What, then, should we do?” They ask him not once, not twice, but three different times. And it could just as easily be us asking the question with sincerity, a little bit of hope, and a whole lotta longing. We wouldn’t mind repenting, we’re just not really sure how to do it. “What, then, should we do?” The Old Testament scholar Walter Bruegemann writes this about prophets: “A prophet is someone that tries to articulate the world as though God were really active in the world. And, that means on the one hand, to identify those parts of our world order that are contradictory to God, and on the other hand, it means to talk about the will and purpose that God has for the world that will indeed come to fruition even in circumstances that we can’t imagine. So, what that gives you is both judgement and hope.”i. So, when the people come to John the Baptist in today’s gospel reading, and they continue to ask him again and again…”What then should we do?”, John’s great gift is that he is a person of vision who knows exactly who he is (not the Messiah but the one pointing to him) and that he has a very clear understanding of who his listeners are and clear vision who they could potentially be. He sees the shortcomings and the possibilities of each of them and of the world around them. He tells each one what they need to do in order to bear fruits worthy of repentance, and each prescription has to do with looking outside of themselves and their own issues and treating others with justice and mercy, gentleness and charity. The poet Audre Lord wrote to her friend and fellow poet, Adrienne Rich: “Once you live any piece of your vision, it opens you to a constant onslaught of necessities, of horrors, but of wonders too, of possibilities.”ii That is what John the Baptist offers his hearers: “possibilities”. It is the possibility of the good news—how we can be, how we will be changed for the better. The prophet invites his audience to open their eyes to the challenges and the possibilities of the world around them and to live more fully into the hope, the possibilities. He invites each one to become a little prophet in their own lives, holding in tension the challenge and the possibility and becoming a part of the Kingdom of God in how they contribute to bringing the possible to fruition. What, then, should we do? May we open our eyes to the world around us-to both the challenges and the possibilities. May we hear the invitation of the prophet to let go of those parts of ourselves, those “things that we do again and again that do not help deepen life.”iii And may we offer to God and the world around us “the fruits worthy of repentance”-obeying the call to look outside of ourselves and our own issues and treating others with justice and mercy, gentleness and charity. May we be God’s agents of hope and of possibility in a world where we believe God continues to act. i. Walter Brueggemann and Kenyatta Gilbert, What Does It Mean To Be Prophetic Today? From the daily email of Inward/Outward Together—Church of Our Savior Washington DC ii. From a sermon I preached at St. Peter’s by-the-Sea, Gulfport, MS on December 13, 2009 iii. https://unfoldinglight.net/2021/12/06/pruning/

The Second Sunday of Advent-Year C

Advent 2C December 5, 2021 It was like something out of a nightmare. The New York City Subway had dumped us out into a futuristic concourse with no windows or exit signs. We had no idea where we were, if we were above or below ground, or how to get out. And everything was this unnatural white color. Many around us moved with purpose as if they knew exactly where they were going, while other kindred spirits wandered around aimlessly in the futuristic wilderness trying to find the exit that would get us to the World Trade Center Memorial. Finally, after we had walked from one end to the other, I saw it, a light shining on it as if illuminated from heaven. A map. We rushed eagerly forward and searched for the sign that would help set us free: the tiny star in the circle with those blessed words “You Are Here.” But here’s the thing, even after we saw where we were, we couldn’t make sense of the map or of the landscape around us, so we couldn’t figure out how to get out. So, we wandered a bit more until we happened upon an escalator to take us up to the surface and out to freedom. Our gospel reading today from Luke’s gospel is the gospel equivalent to the star in the circle with the words “you are here.”i. Luke is writing in a very specific time, in a very specific context, to a very specific people. And he is showing them, and us, exactly where they are in the moment before Jesus’s birth. He’s giving them a map of the landscape and helping them orient only to tell them that God is about to change the landscape in dramatic ways—"Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth…” So what do we do, how do we find our way when given a map and then being told that the landscape is about to change dramatically? That’s where Zechariah comes in. Our lectionary gives us another portion of Luke’s gospel today in place of the Psalm. It’s known as Canticle 16 or the Song of Zechariah in our Prayer Book, and I’m really grateful for its presence in our readings today because Zechariah is an interesting character who is not so different from us. We don’t see this in the portion for today, but Luke gives us another “you are here” moment in the telling of the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth. He writes, “In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was a descendant of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.” One day, Zechariah was minding his own business, doing his priestly work and offering incense in the holy of holies in the temple, and the Angel Gabriel appears at the altar. (If we learn anything from Luke’s gospel it is that the Angel Gabriel as God’s messenger is one of the ways that God dramatically changes the landscape in an instant.) Gabriel tells Zechariah that he and Elizabeth are going to have a son who will be a prophet like Elijah, filled with the Holy Spirit. And his job will be to “make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” But Zechariah scoffs and questions Gabriel saying, “‘How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.’ And Gabriel, knowing that Zechariah needs a little help in changing the landscape, replies, “‘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.’” So Zechariah is silenced for at least nine months, and in that silence and space, his own landscape changes. After John is born and he can speak again, Zechariah is filled with the Holy Spirit and he sings this song that we have recited together today—a song that remembers God’s goodness to God’s people and promises more good things to come in the immediate future. In his months of silence, Zechariah recognizes where he actually is and allows God to change the landscape all around him. As one of my colleagues put it, “If you never prepare for something new, you’ll never be ready for anything new. Zechariah is this old priest who learns he’s going to have a child and he scoffs. He isn’t ready for something new, so he’s struck silent to be able to prepare.”ii And the amazing thing is that Zechariah uses that time to prepare for John’s birth and in that process, he becomes clearer on the nature of the God who he loves and serves. Change happens. The landscape can shift around us suddenly in an instant—like with an unexpected diagnosis, with the unexpected death of someone we love, with our world shutting down over the course of a weekend in 2020. And the landscape can also shift gradually as we wait and watch as our oldest child prepares to leave for college, as we pray and discern if it’s time to move out of our lovely home that is filled with so many memories and comforts into a place where we can age more easily and gracefully. The gift of Advent is that it is a season that invites us to prepare for change, to prepare for a change in landscape. It’s an opportunity for us to find the star on the map of our spiritual lives that says, “You are here,” and to take inventory as we begin to open our hearts to expect and prepare for change. Your invitation this week is to think about this. On the map of your life, with the star in the circle that says “you are here”, where exactly is that? Name that place to yourself or to someone you love and trust. And begin asking God to help you prepare for change. i. This idea came from my friend the Rev Jen Deaton. She shared it with our preaching group on December 1 and asked us to reflect on the question of what “you are here” star with a circle looks like in this moment of our life. ii. This comment came from my friend The Rev Kevin Goodman in the same conversation as listed above.