Lectionary leanings - Epiphany 3C: 'Good' news?

'Good' news?

So, he’s back,
Mary’s golden child;
carpenter’s son—
at least, he may be,
the birth details were,
shall we say,
a little... sketchy.

The local boy, done well.
He’s made a name for himself
and so, when he stands to read,
then sits to teach,
we listen;
after all, we’re not close-minded folk.

Words of comfort spill forth
from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah.
A good passage, with its promises
of a happy, heavenly hereafter—
where even the ones clearly cursed by God
find welcome relief and restoration.

“The year of the Lord’s favour”
is a nice touch:
time for Jubilee
and resetting the clock,
settling old scores peaceably,
redistributing resources.

Yep, for those who didn’t lift a finger,
those who sat about and didn’t work,
it’s all going to be good news,
in the great by and by.

Of course, of course,
we all want justice,
but this side of heaven,
we do what we need
to get by,
make our mark,
give our children
a good head start,
a wee step up the ladder—
after all, God helps those who help themselves
and I’ve made very sure to help myself.

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

What, now??
I don’t think so, son,
some of us have way too much to lose.
How is this ‘good’ news?
Watch yourself:
that sort of talk will get you killed.
                        c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings: Epiphany 2C - 'You were ever about joy'

'You were ever about joy'

The first miracle

was turning water into wine –

you were ever hospitable.

Social embarrassment 

ironically saved

by transforming water 

for washing shame away

into heaven’s finest vintage.

No holding back,

no half-measures,

jars full to overflowing

meant for celebration.

The first miracle

was a celebration of abundance –

you were ever about joy.

In a feast

lately flowing with wine

the glory of the kingdom

danced in,

singing merrily of 

life in all its fulness.
               c.Nik Mac 2022

'Launching out' - a reflection on the baptism of Jesus

Launching out

They grow so fast. 

The new-born duly celebrated,
decorations are quickly packed away.
The hidden years flow by
until we see him,
a man of thirty,
standing by the River Jordan.

 
A new birth:
he will take the plunge,
immerse himself into his calling.

 
Having been the source
of good tidings so long ago,
the time has come
for spreading comfort and joy,
and speaking God’s freedom
in a time of oppression.

 
There will be upsets,
and noses put firmly out of joint.

 
The ending will be...
unexpected –
even though he’d tell his friends
to expect his imminent return.

 
But...
this first new day
must be marked.

 
He will slough off the sawdust
of a carpenter’s workshop,
follow his destiny.

 
As he stands dripping,
drenched in holy affirmation,
he trusts the One
he has followed
since before he can even remember.

 
Diving from high heaven,
a dove confirms
that all is well.

   c.Nik Mac

'Wrapped warm in love' - a wee poem

I enjoy trying to rise to the challenge of a villanelle - the form and structure can be a little maddening, but it's fun.

Here's one I wrote for Christmas:

Wrapped warm in love
The new-born child in her embrace
Sleeps softly now this first Yuletide,
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.

Born to save the human race,
In wholly humble dwelling bides
The new-born child in her embrace.

And angel-song fills heavenly space,
And God, on earth, is glorified,
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.

Shocked shepherds leave their flocks, make haste,
To see the One long-prophesied:
The new-born child in her embrace.

The holy in the commonplace –
The Word with humans now resides
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.

All gathered, look upon the face;
Enfleshed, God’s love is signified -
The new-born child in her embrace,
Wrapped warm in love: God’s act of grace.
   [c.Nik Mac]

'Have yourself an edgy little Christmas': a memory

Remembering a Christmas from long ago...  

She had wanted to be edgy, a wee bit trendy;
to deconstruct tired Christmas tree traditions.
Day by day, she walked the beach
eyes scanning shells and sand,
dismissing plastic bottles with peeling, faded labels,
ignoring soft pink jellyfish splayed out in hot summer sun.
Among the seaweed hummocks
she found what she was looking for,
felt the smoothness of sea-washed wood in her hand.
She nodded, pleased, gave a ‘this will do nicely’ smile.
Once dried and cleaned,
rustic natural charm was replaced –
overlaid by spray of glossy white paint.
Slung between two wall lamps by fishing line,
hung with assorted baubles, shining red,
driftwood that had once been part of something bigger
seemed to make the season strangely small.
There were presents, wrapped and stacked against the wall
but firm: ‘no room for a tree this year.’
It seemed oddly fitting:
in this deconstructed Christmas
there was little room for Jesus.

When the child grew up
and made her own way in the world,
she reconstructed what felt to her like Christmas.
No matter where she lived, 
how big or small her home,
there was always a tree to lay wrapped presents under –
room enough to remind her of that other gift:
of the babe wrapped in bands of cloth and laid within the manger.
   [c.Nik Mac]

'This year of cancelled things...' - Advent 1, yrB

Based on Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-37
'This year of cancelled things...'

Watching and waiting,
wary,
and weary with it.
Even so:
'Keep awake!'
comes the prophet's cry,
ringing out 
this year of cancelled things:
concerts and carnivals,
chit-chat and dreams crushed;
losses, collected like unwanted trophies.
Time, suspended,
turns hours into eternities
of fretful forgetfulness;
blue regret
paints our days.
'Stay alert,'
the prophet whispers,
as if we were not already in a state of hyper-vigilance.
Yet, beneath the whispered warning,
something else:
a sliver of light,
a shiver of encouragement 
in one small, wondered 'why?'
To keep awake,
to stay alert 
means
that there is more.
These are watchwords of hopefulness.
Dawn follows dark.
All will fade, and all will be made new.
In starlight's glimmer we glimpse
a pathway to a stable
full of promise
and hear, in the near,
footsteps
pregnant with possibility.
     c.Nik Mac 11/2020

Thresholds: an Advent memory

The ward is all bustle and busyness as I enter. M is there at the desk and we smile a greeting. A little banter and small talk, some seasonal chat, and then:
'Anyone in particular...' I trail off, enquiring.
'Yes. I wonder if you'd be willing to sit with Mrs B in Rm 3? It's...' she pauses, looking for words. 'Well, she's close now, and, I've phoned the family, but they just said to call back after it's done.'
Almost in unison, our eyes meet and eyebrows raise. Perhaps the implied judgement is harsh: who really knows what goes on in families?

With a small nod, and an 'of course,' I head to the room, accompanied by M. Over the short time I've been here, I've come to have immense respect for the medical staff. Their determination to do everything in their power not to let anyone die alone, if at all possible, is admirable. In the midst of machines and beeps, of needles and tubes, they are the beating heart of the ward. 
'I've tried to make her comfortable, put the radio on, y'know, to give her some small dignity. She's unconscious, but restless. We've given her morphine for the pain but...' An apologetic shrug of the shoulders finishes the sentence. We stand, pausing at the threshold, looking in upon the tiny human gathered into herself with pain. Classic FM is playing 'The Coventry Carol'. Sombre, haunting notes weave themselves in and around the room: Bye, bye lully, lullay. 

I catch myself taking a deep breath as I move across one threshold and into another: a liminal space where past, present, and future mix. Here, life and death reach out, fingertips seeming to meet with just the barest of touch. Hearing is generally the last of the senses to shut down. As I approach the bed and the unconscious Mrs B, I greet her softly:
'Hello, Mrs B, my name is Nik, I'm one of the chaplains. M asked me to come and to sit with you awhile. I hope that's okay.' I settle on the blue plastic chair at the bedside, glance across at M and we nod. She disappears along the corridor. The room is graced with a generous window, and so I describe the day and the doings that are going on outside. It is a glorious winter's day. High up, a dissipating vapour trail interrupts the clear blue sky. Closer to earth, a gentle wind eddies about bare tree branches, while an empty Gregg's bag is pushed in fits and starts along the path. Flashes of blue and orange float towards goal - the entrance to the other side of the hospital across the square. The timely exit of a nurse creates an opening and it's in. Not long after mid-day, and the soft sunlight fills the room. The music has moved on, and a chattering Mozart tinkles playfully, all bright and breezy.

Time slows. We two are floating on a raft, adrift somewhere between this world and the next. There are moments of calm as well as restlessness. Who is this woman, reduced so much by illness? I wonder about her life, her loves, dreams and hopes - who and what formed the person she has become? In this moment, however, with only a stranger beside her for company, she is only truly known to God. I suspect that it's the case for all of us. Occasionally, I speak, or gently touch a cold hand when the pain causes Mrs B to groan and shift fitfully on the bed. Mostly, we have moved into silence, with a reassurance: 'I'm here. I'm just by your side.'  I hope that if she is  aware in some way, that my presence is not intrusive, but welcome. Ancient words form a pattern in my mind and I realise that I am praying the Aaronic Blessing, pausing at length at the end of each bidding. There is the overwhelming sense that another has joined us on the raft, even as the silent prayer follows its course. A momentary jarring, as the strains of a pomp  and circumstance march parrumphs along its way energetically. Such an oddly mixed play-list. I let the thought pass. The march retreats into the background and we land on holy ground.

For all the restlessness, when the moment comes, it is a relatively peaceful death. A long sigh, stillness. Seconds pass. An intake of breath, and out, and then she is gone. I place my hand on her now peaceful head, pray a blessing on her, then walk out to find M. As I leave, I realise that 'O come, O come, Emmanuel' is playing. I walk along the corridor with the verse sounding in my ear:
O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight...
Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel 
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Later, at home, as I light the Advent candles before dinner, I pause, think of Mrs B, her absent family, of M and the staff in the ward. I give thanks in this season of Advent for odd moments of grace in a strange world, liminal places, for the kindness and care of strangers, and for Mrs B - unknown to me, but in my own faith's understanding, known and named, and loved by God.
And, yes, for the curious privilege of this calling.

On the other side of Epiphany

Now that the old year has shuffled 'round the corner,  
and the new is just past a week young,
with the Magi finished visiting, and their faces turned homeward,
it is high time to pack away the vestiges of Christmas.
Empty boxes sit by tree stump, waiting to be filled with baubles,
bells, a replica Empire State Building, strings of light.
Colours of gold, purple, green - royalty, deity, life;
colourless white - purity.
I am slow in putting away the season of incarnation -
of Word made flesh and blood.
Unintentional lingering due to other calls on time.
Perhaps a subtle reminder that the message
of the child in the manger is one that can't be packed away -
that the work now begins, rather than finishes.
I'm minded of words uttered by the great American preacher Howard Thurman -
a chap who had a profound influence on Martin Luther King Jr.:

"When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart."

In the morning, before I dig the car out of the snow and head out
to visit folk, boxes containing Christmas will go back into hiding in the storage cupboard.
The message of new life, joy, liberation, and good news for all however, remains uncontained.

'First Coming': poems for Advent/ Christmas

So out of kilter with blog posting these days...

I suspect the following, glorious poem by one of my favourite writers
will be heard over Christmas.

First Coming     

He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.

He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He died with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine. He did not wait

till hearts were pure. In joy he came
to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.

He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.

We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice! 
                        -Madeleine L’Engle

Homily for Watchnight

I asked my folks for some bales of hay to get the 'feel' of a stable scene so we could do some
all-age, interactive worship on 4 Advent...this is what they came up with! :)

Really love the U A Fanthorpe poem - especially 'haphazard by starlight'.
Also really loved conducting Christmas worship for the first time as a shiny new minister.
Shattered, but ... wow!
And now, back to cooking Christmas dinner.  Happy Christmas folks.

Homily for Watchnight

Primary reading: John 1:1-14

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts
be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

BC/ AD - a poem by U A Fanthorpe:

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future's
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.  ...  ...

We gather together tonight, and as we gather,

we stand on a threshold...

this is the moment,

the time of the year

when we look back and remember

another moment:

the birth of a child long ago,

in a land far away.

A longed for child -

longed for by a nation...

to rescue

and to restore them;

A child of promise and power

and yet, a prince of peace.

A child, who according to our reading from

John’s gospel, bent the dimensions

of time and space -

for this child -

the Word made flesh -

was there in the beginning...

was there before the beginning of all things...

the Word, speaking all creation into being.

This is the moment when we gather

to remember the birth

of this child...

who was - who is - the light of all people,

the light which shines in the darkness

and has never been ...

can never be    extinguished.

In this     threshold moment,

amidst tinsel, and glitter, and twinkly lights,

(pointed to stable animals in display)

not to mention a flock of sheep,

a decent herd of cows,

and possibly more camels than you can

poke a stick at, 

we remember and celebrate

the child who was,

who is,       God.

It’s a moment in time

that changes time forever:

for after the birth of this child

things can never,

will never,

be the same again.

The meanings of words will be redefined,

as the Word of God breaks into the world

and the kingdom of heaven

is established on earth

in a backwater village called Bethlehem,

in a far-flung outpost of the Roman Empire.

Real power will be seen in vulnerability,

not might...

all-powerful God

breaking into finite human time and space

as all-vulnerable:

a baby in a manger -

God, dependant on the hospitality

of the human heart to take him in.

Old systems and structures,

old ways of doing things that benefit the few,

while oppressing the least,

will be challenged by the God-child born in the humblest, the least likely of dwellings.

Moments collide:

past and present -

and future,

for this child - and all he represents,

is still longed for:

there’s still rescue and restoration that’s needed;

there are still places in the world -

places in our hearts -

where peace has yet to come,

where the light must shine more brightly

to bring hope to those who see only darkness,

and where life-sapping, dehumanising structures

need challenged.

We stand on the threshold,

and as we do

the light that was coming into the world

is one who shows all people a new way of living -

even now:

a new way of living that is life-affirming ...

life-giving,

     love-giving...

for the child we wait for

is God’s love-letter to the world:

the Word who says

‘do not be afraid’

the Word who is a comfort to the weary,

consolation to those who grieve.

God becoming one of us

knowing us completely

feeling our pain, our joy;

sorrowing, celebrating,

laughing, weeping.

Feeling the dust on his feet

breathing the air we breathe...

God becoming one of us,

God being for us

and with us

God giving us the right to be his children

his own -

his beloved.

That is the message of Christmas:

in one word -

love -

as the old hymn goes:

‘Love came down at Christmas

Love all lovely, Love Divine;

Love was born at Christmas,

star and angels gave the sign’.

As we wait, poised to welcome the Christ-child

once more into our world,

and into our hearts,

the message of Christmas

is that we are loved by God

beyond our wildest imaginings,

and called by him to live in that love,

and to love others -

to bring light into the darkness,

to live life in all its fullness

for:

‘Love shall be our token,

love be yours and love be mine,

love to God and neighbour,

love for plea and gift and sign.’

It is this love -

God’s love    for us,

and our response to that love

that has the potential and the power

to heal and transform;

to restore and renew -

ourselves

our neighbours

the world.

It is this love,

shown in the child in the manger,

that enables us, in this moment -

together, with shepherds, and wise men -

to walk, haphazard by starlight

straight into the kingdom of heaven.

Amen.

'Meddling in politics' : a sermon for Advent 3b

Sermon - based on:                                                    

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11

Luke 1:46-55

Let us pray:

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

A friend of mine in Edinburgh texted me yesterday.

She was off Christmas shopping for her small grand-daughter.

On a mission in the Disney shop, she scoured the shelves looking for the desired item.

Not finding it, she found a member of staff instead and said:
‘I wonder if you can help me - I’m looking for Prince Charming?’

Quick as a whip came the reply:

‘Oh, aren’t we all!’ 

It’s only 11 more days until Christmas:

places are decked with boughs of holly - fa la la la la...

If you go up to the big shops, you’re met with wall to wall tinsel, glitter and Santas.

It’s only 11 more days until Christmas...

which means... we still have 10 more days of Advent -

a season which can occasionally get a little overlooked in amongst all the decorations.

I confess that Im an unashamed fan of Advent:

I love it. 

The preparation,

the waiting,

allowing the anticipation

to build up over the weeks.

I love the first Sunday of Advent and hearing -

and singing -

that old hymn

O come, O come, Emmanuel,

which ushers in the beginning of Advent-tide.

It gets me every time - spine-tingly stuff.

As the weeks pass

I love the gradual in-breaking of light in the darkness:

of hope...

at first, a wee flicker -

a reminder to lift up your heads

to look up

to look out

to see the signs promising new birth

the promise of a messiah

a deliverer...

That light becoming clearer, stronger,

as we hear the cries of prophets,

like Isaiah, and John the Baptist

urging us to prepare:

     ‘don’t dilly-dally: he’s coming,

the One we’ve yearned for:

the One who will rescue and redeem.

Get your houses, and hearts in order’...

And this week?

       the flicker has grown to a blazing, angelic light:

earthly messengers make way for the heavenly messenger,

the angel, Gabriel.

Having announced to Mary that she’ll bear the promised Messiah -

a sign of which, will be the birth of John the Baptist

to the elderly Zechariah and Elizabeth,

the angel leaves a stunned young Mary...

who quickly makes ready to go and visit her relatives -

possibly to see for herself if what the angel had said was true.

Had she been dreaming?

Or was this seemingly unlikely announcement

actually... going    to     happen?

When she arrives, she knows this was no dream:

she meets a very pregnant Elizabeth -

whose child leaps for joy in the womb:

Overwhelmed, and rejoicing,

Mary then sings out that

great song of praise we know as the Magnificat.

Mary’s song follows in a tradition of women who play key roles in the bible - and who sing songs of joy, and liberation from oppression:

• Miriam, the sister of Moses, who sings of liberation from the Egyptians after the crossing of the Red Sea;
• the prophet and judge, Deborah, singing of victory against the Canaanites - and the death of their general, Sisera;
• Hannah, mother of Samuel, singing for joy as she dedicates him to God’s service - the boy who would grow up into a great priest, and anoint David as king during the wars with the Philistines - David, who would defeat Goliath - the man no other Israelite could overcome.

And Mary - young, faithful, and obedient to God’s call - sings her song in the time of the Roman occupation -

and looks ahead to God liberating his people once more.

Mary’s song of joy also picks up on the theme of the prophet Isaiah:

both describe the characteristics -

the attributes of the One coming to deliver his people.

Both making incredibly political statements while doing so.

I often hear the comment that religion and politics shouldn’t mix -

that people of faith shouldn’t meddle in politics:

leave it well alone.

....    And every time I hear it,

I immediately think of the Magnificat - Mary’s song;

and of the many statements that Isaiah,

and the various prophets of the bible make,

in fact, the bible      is   riddled with politics -

not party politics as we understand,

not the gesture politics of point-scoring,

but the real stuff:

the politics concerned with the commonweal -

caring for people and forging a society that seeks the best for all -

creating a place where every human being is treated with dignity

and encouraged to flourish and blossom:

as Isaiah’s oaks of righteousness,

they will be a planting of the Lord for all to see.

Don’t meddle in politics?

We have a God who can’t help but meddle - get involved - in politics:

a God who intervenes and liberates his people from captivity;

a God who demonstrates throughout the pages of the bible

a distinct bias towards the poor, the marginalised, the alien and the stranger.

And, to quote a current internet meme:

if anyone asks you:

‘what would Jesus do?’

remind them that flipping over tables and chasing people with a whip is within the bounds of possibilities...

That particular political challenge to the religious authorities alarmed the political movers and shakers as well...

it prompted Jesus’ arrest and execution:

Jesus’ death was a political one.

So, if we’re created in God’s image

and called to follow Jesus, his Son,

it would be more surprising if people of faith

didn’t get involved in politics.

Again, not necessarily party politics -

although challenging the system from within has a noble tradition -

but the sort of politics that questions

systemic systems of oppression;

that questions the meteoric rise in food banks in the UK

and the ever-widening gap between the richest and the poorest people in society;

that questions the scapegoating of the most vulnerable

and casts a quizzical eye at tax loopholes,

zero contract work hours;

that questions the blunt instrument of government that 

doesn’t distinguish between everyday immigrants

and asylum seekers who may be executed if sent back home.

Mary’s song, Isaiah’s prophecy, are hugely political statements:

they challenge the status quo of economic Darwinism - 

that the ones with the greatest social advantages always win. 

They sing and prophesy of God’s economy:

where the invisible are seen and raised high;

where the powerful are brought down from their thrones;

where the broken-hearted,

the bereaved,

will be comforted

restored

and in turn

will restore and renew and build up the devastated ones

the devastated places.

The song, the prophecy, is about salvation in the widest possible terms:

salvation is not merely ‘pie in the sky when you die’ -

it is also about here and now.

I’m reminded of the Christian Aid motto:
‘we believe in life before death’.

What is salvation? 

It’s good news:

it’s about healing, liberty, release, comfort.

It’s about ‘the year of the Lord’s favour’ - this is a reference 

to the Jewish practice of a having a ‘jubilee’ year -

a year in which debts were wiped away, slaves were freed,

fields were allowed to rest,

land was returned to original owners.

Salvation is about restoration -

a restored city, an abundant garden -

in the Isaiah text;

it’s about re-evaluation:

putting value on those deemed worthless,

raising the humble,

noticing the unnoticed - this from the Magnificat.

Salvation is - should be - transformative:

as we are transformed, so we, in turn,

become instruments of transformation.

In this way, salvation is missional:

our texts observe that all who see God’s people will acknowledge that they are a people whom God has blessed:

‘righteousness and praise spring up before all nations.’

Salvation is also about the hereafter -

but, in the present,

we all have the good work of helping to bring in God’s transformational justice to the world.

As Mary said ‘yes’ to God,

so that is our choice - as Christ’s body -

to say ‘yes’ to being the people of the good news.

For, ‘to be missional is to live as people of good news, liberation, justice, and comfort

in such a way that the world may take notice

and be drawn to the ways of God...

So long as Christians live as divided people, known to the world as those who judge, fight, and exclude, the church will fail to be missional, no matter how much money it gives and how many missionaries it sends.’

[Scott Bader-Saye Feasting on the Word]

As God’s people -

good news people -

we are joy-bringers.

As we rejoice and delight in the Lord,

so that joy is shared with others.

In this Advent season,

as we rush towards Christmas

we look forward -

not so much to the coming of Prince Charming

but to our Prince of peace

our Liberator Lord,

and as we do so,

we find our own songs of joy -

and in this way, that first flickering light

continues to grow and glow,

and burn even brighter.

Amen.

'O that you would tear down the heavens!' A sermon for Advent 1B

High time I got to blogging again!  Slightly distracted over the last several weeks, having moved and been inducted into new charge... *big grin*

This morning's sermon to kick off Advent - and possibly my favourite Advent reading.

SERMON ‘O, that you would tear down the heavens’ 

Isaiah 64: 1-9

let us pray:

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,

and ransom captive Israel,

that mourns in lonely exile here

until the Son of God appear...

It’s the first Sunday of Advent:

the beginning of a new church year.

New life

Hope renewed.

From Advent last year,

through to Christ the King Sunday last week,

we’ve moved through the various church seasons - the liturgical calendar -

and, as we’ve done so, as a community,

age-old, familiar stories from the bible have been heard.

Our Gospel readings will have covered the birth, life, ministry,

death and resurrection of Jesus

Other readings from the New Testament will have focused upon the community of followers,

and of making sense of what it is to follow Jesus.

Over the course of Old Testament readings through the year,

we’ll have been reminded

of the journey of the people of Israel:

from wandering in the wilderness,

to the establishment of a nation,

to the overthrow of that nation

and of exile and return.

There have been stories of great leaders chosen by God;

and stories of God’s prophets -

calling some of these same leaders

to follow and trust God more closely...

to lead the people wisely and well.

Overall, in both Old and New Testaments,

we, as God’s people have journeyed with God’s people - through the ages,

journeying together as we try to understand who this God is that we follow,

and how to live - how to be - his people.

Our Old Testament reading this morning is set in a time

when God’s people find themselves in dire circumstances: 

when all around them feels dark;

where the flicker of hope is all but extinguished.

The nation of Israel has been comprehensively defeated

by the new superpower in the neighbourhood, the Babylonians. 

Those who are deemed valuable:

the elite of the nation,

the best and the brightest,

have been summarily marched off to the great city of Babylon to live out their years in exile.

Throughout this approximately 70 year period, the prophet Isaiah, and his followers, act as God’s messengers to the defeated, despairing people of God -

as voices of hope when all seems hopeless.

Voices holding the people of God.

and God

to account.

This particular passage is a cry of rage and lament;

the prophet’s plaintive call to God to act -

‘O that you would tear open the heavens and come down’

It’s a cry calling upon God to make himself known

to his people

and their captors.

The prophet asserts that

by redeeming - rescuing Israel -

God’s name,

God’s power

will be made known.

In the midst of lonely exile in Babylon

feeling abandoned by God

God’s people wait,

wait for him to appear.

But why, even when feeling abandoned,

is there a hope

an expectation

that God might appear to them?

That God might just rescue them?

O come, O come thou Lord of might,

who to thy tribes on Sinai’s height,

in ancient times didst give the law

in cloud and majesty and awe...

As Isaiah calls upon God

to tear open the heavens and come down,

he reminds the exiles of their past -

And, it would appear, he also reminds God.

There’s some history here.

There’s a relationship that needs to be looked at:

there’s a covenant - an agreement -

binding God and his people together.

While God’s people are to honour, serve, worship, love, and be faithful to God...

The Lord of might - mysterious, majestic, and awesome,

is bound:

bound to protect and to lead his people.

Isaiah reminds God:
‘you did awesome things’

One such awesome thing is found in the

giving of the law on Mount Sinai -

the law showing how to love God

and to love neighbour -

and through doing so,

to create an ordered, harmonious community:

the peaceable kingdom...

a foretaste of the kingdom of heaven.

Isaiah recalls the unexpectedness of God -

the awesome God who,

when giving the Law

does indeed come down from the heavens

breaks through into finite time and space

and makes himself more fully known

on the mountain...

and, as he does,

causes the mountains to quake

and to tremble...

Isaiah says to God:

 ‘You’ve done this before..

come and do it again...

act on behalf of those who wait for you’

To the people waiting in near-darkness

a spark of hope is being kindled.

O come, thou Rod of Jesse,

free thine own from Satan’s tyranny;

from depths of hell thy people save,

and give them victory o’er the grave...

Will God free them? 

He has done so in the past -

he can do so now

and in the future.

From the depths of hell that is exile in Babylon

there will be a return to the Promised Land...

But there will also be more waiting -

the people of God will continue to await the promise of a coming Messiah

and the fulfilment of all things once they arrive back to Palestine...

Several hundreds of years later,

far away from Babylon,

and in a backwater of the Holy Land itself - Bethlehem -

the cry of Isaiah echoes through the land -

God tears down the heavens and comes down:

the promised Rod of Jesse.

A mighty deliverer -

gurgling in a manger.

The expected appearance:

so thoroughly unexpected.

The promise of hope

made flesh and bone...

to rescue God’s people from the tyranny and fear of death,

as he overcomes it

by his own death, and resurrection:

the resurrection life that kindles hope

of a new life for all humanity.

O come, thou Key of David, come,

and open wide our heavenly home;

make safe the way that leads on high,

and close the path to misery...

What are we waiting for?

We wait for Jesus, the Key of David...

who will come again

and fling open the gates to our heart’s home;

for Jesus, who leads us safely to a place of rejoicing,

a place of hope.

We need not fear

for we are not doomed to destruction and loss:

God loved the world in this way -

that hope was born among us -

divine and yet human -

that whoever believes in the Son will not perish,

but have life everlasting.

We need not fear

for we don’t have to accept that hunger and poverty and injustice will always win...

We have hope -

for the one in whom we trust

and for who we wait

has come to give life, life abundantly, justly.

We need not fear

for violence and hatred will not prevail -

for unto us, a child is born,

unto us, a Son is given

and the government shall be upon his shoulder,

his name shall be called wonderful councillor, mighty God, the Everlasting, the Prince of peace.[1]

We need not fear,

for there is hope and light and life:

the day, the hour is coming...

Soon and very soon

we are going to see our king -

tearing open the heavens,

breaking into human history,

walking among us

with us:

God, in Jesus;

God who is for us.

This is our hope,

this is what we watch and wait for over Advent -

we await the one who is the ground of our being

the one closer to us than breathing.

As we wait to remember,

and celebrate anew the coming of the Christ child,

have courage

be not afraid,

the light of hope will never be put out...

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer

our spirits by thine Advent here;

disperse the gloomy clouds of night,

and death’s dark shadows put to flight...

Rejoice!  Rejoice!  Emmanuel

shall come to thee, O Israel.

Amen.

 [1] riffing on a theme from Daniel Berrigan’s ‘Advent Credo’

Star-followers and Star words

This morning in worship we reflected upon journeys, star-followers, and paying homage to the Child in the manger; Parish by the Sea paused to consider Epiphany.  Beyond being the last chance saloon for getting in a few more carols before we pack them away for another year, Epiphany itself offers the opportunity for wondering and wandering at the beginnings of a new year: wondering at the incomprehensible thought of God revealing Godself in flesh and blood and bone; and in response, wandering where the Star-child might lead us.
Where will our wonderings and wanderings take us this year?
That's an unfolding revelation.
Perhaps to assist both, some form of intentionality might be useful?
Well, it might for me, at least.

Over at the fabulous blog Glass Overflowing, Marci has been handing out star words to her congregation [and anyone who asks her nicely!] as tools for reflection to be used across the year.  Given my own reflections have been somewhat undisciplined and haphazard of late, I decided to opt in - after all, it would not do to have written a thesis on discipline and not pay any attention to the matter.
And my word?  'renewal'

Given the potential for certain life changes come the end of September, what might need taken out and looked at in the revealing light of day...what might need new life breathed into it...?
Let's see where the Star-child beckons, and how the star word might prompt new green shoots.
Happy 're'new year.

'there are children here somewhere, I can smell them'

'A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, 

Rachel weeping for her children; 

she refused to be consoled, for they are no more.' Mt 2:18

The Sunday immediately following Christmas is, if following the Revised Common Lectionary at least, a somewhat delicate and tricky matter.  Unless opting for a service of Lessons and Carols [good call for the exhausted preacher - and what we did at Parish by the Sea] we move from the hope of the Christ child to the horror of Holy Innocents.  It's a time when we remember Herod's decree to slaughter all male children under two years of age; this upon hearing of the birth of a new King of the Jews. 

I got to wondering about this particular 'terrible text' of the bible after reading a statement by a friend on facebook about the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Quite frankly, I really struggled with the content - or, perhaps, more correctly, where that content took me in my own thoughts through no actual fault of my friend.  Perhaps, given the subject matter, struggle is the only appropriate response.  The trigger prompting my move beyond what friend has posted was something along the lines of remembering 'all such children for whom their Creator was jealous, who are now at home with Him...'  

Initially, it was the word 'jealous'; an odd word to use and yet utterly Old Testament biblical.  But it set me off thinking about responses by people in cases where a child, or children, die; of comments made to help console friends or strangers in their grief:          

'God must have needed another angel in heaven'
'God looked at all the wee ones in the world and chose yours'

or the dire poem that contains the following:
'Perhaps God tires of calling the aged to his fold,
So he picks a rosebud, before it can grow old.
God knows how much we need them, and so he takes but few
To make the land of Heaven more beautiful to view.'
          etc. etc. etc.

Beyond a theology concerning angels - angelology, if you will - and of what Christians believe happens when they die, which is not to be transformed into an angel but rather, the resurrection of the body [we don't change species / I'm thinking here of the Apostles Creed], I wonder at this understanding of a God who is not unlike a divine version of the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: 'there are children here somewhere, I can smell them.'  

How do we balance theological understandings concerning our image of God and our beliefs around what happens when we die with providing a helpful and appropriate pastoral response to those who are in the midst of grieving the loss of a child?  Personally, God walking with folk in the place of pain is more comfort to me than the thought that God decided he needed another wee soul in heaven to brighten it up [what kind of cruel and capricious God does that?]...some folk, on the other hand, apparently derive comfort from this [here perhaps seeing God's particular care and a way to make meaning out of death].  How best to minister to folk who hold a viewpoint that may be very much at odds with one's own?  Lots to chew on - this is only the beginning of a conversation.  I think I wanted to post while it was still fresh!

A prayer: For those who are not busy, but wish they were

There are so many posts, as is totally right and as should be at this time of year for many, about stress and busyness and the near-meltdown that the run-up to Christmas can bring.  Not all are caught up in the maelstrom and the seeming madness, however.  Sometimes it feels that there is an enforced conspiracy of silence - of nodding politely at others' comments about how busy they are, how many will come, what preparations are left to provide the 'perfect' day...letting them talk and fobbing off 'what are you doing?'
In the midst of it all, in visits with those who are grieving, and those who are dying, those who are single, and those who have no family... a prayer:

For those who are not busy, but wish they were;
For those who wish they had someone to buy and wrap presents for, but do not;
For those who miss the hospitality of preparing a banquet for others to share;
For those who feel sidelined by this coming Christmas Day
as they hear the ceaseless message: 'it's all about the children'...
Remind us:
Lord, in the quiet spaces you are everpresent;
Lord, in the lonely places, you are our gift and our comfort;
That it is you, Lord, who prepares a banquet where all can share.
And on this coming day, in both busyness and quiet,
remind us once more:
It is all about the Child -
Immanuel - God with us.
Amen.

the 'Addams' Advent 3...or 2

I awoke this morning, having subconsciously processed the gospel texts for both last and this coming Sunday into the beginnings of a most annoying ear-worm.
Sunday will be Advent 3, and the gospel text will feature our fierce friend Johnny the Baptist.
But wait.  Didn't we have him last week?
Well yes.
Think of this week's gospel text as the sequel - John in prison going 'ahhh, hang on...'
Given I'm preaching this week, it's clear the boy has been on my mind.
Oh, yes, the ear-worm:
think of the tune to 'The Addams Family' ...
fingers clicking?
Then I'll begin.

He's scary and he's hairy,
The second cuz of Mary...
and there it stayed, until I noted said ear-worm on the RevGals facebook page.
In a glorious sisterly collaboration with Cindi, Martha, Annabel, and a cast of others interjecting with amusing and bemused comments... herewith 'The Addams Advent 3' [well mostly 2, but who's counting?]

da da da dah *click click*
da da da dah *click click*
da da da dah
da da da dah
da da da dah *click click*  etc!

He's scary and he's hairy,
The second cuz of Mary,
He's not too fond of dairy -
Our beloved Johnny B...

He doesn't have much money:
He's eating bugs and honey
He probably smells funny -
Our beloved Johnny B...

He's into independence
He's calling for repentance
I can't write one more sentence...
On beloved Johnny B...

The Pharisees will go up,
The Sadducees will show up,
And at them he'll blow up -
Our beloved Johnny B...

[bring on the vipers...!!]

The vipers are so creepy
They always make me weepy:
They scare me in my sleepy
When preached by Johnny B...

[alternative vipers!!]

Our Johnny, getting hyper
cries 'Repent, you brood of vipers!'
The Pharisees need diapers -
He's quite scary, Johnny B.

When Jesus wants a dippin'
John B's wig will be a'flippin'
But J-man comes out drippin'
Bedunked by Johnny B...

Much later in his story
It's gonna get quite gory
But Jesus' words assure him:
He's God's beloved Johnny B.

Salome shakes a titty
She really is quite pretty.
Alas, she shows no pity
For poor old Johnny B.

When Herod is rewedded
Herodias is bedded,
And John B is beheaded
And that's the end of Advent 3

---------------------------
Postcript [or the 'but wait, there's more' bit]
There was a tangential 'Girl from Ipanema' comment made.  Taking up the challenge I wrote:

Tall and tanned, unstrung, lives roughly
the boy in camel hair's baptisin'
and when he dunks 'em, each person he's dunkin' goes 'ahhhh'...
----------------------------------------

So.
What, I think, is clear from all of this nonsense is that I am truly no longer bowed down by the thesis...
the jury is out as to whether this is a good, or a bad, thing.
Also, after a very mixed day of good, but shattering visiting, some holy humour was just the tonic I needed.