The Gift -- Christmas Eve

Luke 2:1-20

December 24, 2017

            What is the best gift you have ever received? What is the most wonderful present you’ve ever been given? What story can you tell about your best gift ever?

            My story about one of my best gifts takes place in 7^th grade. At the last Girl Scout meeting before Christmas, one of my leaders asked if any of us knew a gift we were getting for Christmas. A few of the girls spoke up and told about a special item of clothing they’d been asking for or some new piece of jewelry they really, really wanted. I tentatively raised my hand, and when my leader called on me, I said I knew about my one big present but I was afraid they would all think it was silly. The girls and my leaders assured me that no one would think that, and no one would make fun of me no matter what the gift was. I took a deep breath and said,

            “I’m getting my doll house.”

            You need to understand that my doll house was a gift that I had dreamed about and saved for a long time. For at least two years, I had saved every penny I earned or was given and bought some miniature piece of furniture or accessory to go into my future doll house. Family and neighbors knew that I was collecting items to decorate it, so I received gifts of tiny mixing bowls for the kitchen and a wee little set of books to go into a miniscule bookcase. So that fall when my mother found a lady in Franklin who built dollhouses, it was a big deal. And when we went to her shop and she let me pick out what I wanted for my floors and on the walls, it was an even bigger deal. And knowing that the doll house was going to be waiting for me under the Christmas tree was the biggest deal of all. I might have been the least cool seventh grader in Middle Tennessee, but I could not have cared less. I was getting my doll house.

            Until the Christmas of 1998, I would have said that was one of the best Christmas gifts I had ever received. But in 1998 I held my ten day old baby daughter in my arms and knew that the gift of my doll house had been topped. A little over two years later, Christmas came in July when my baby boy was born.

            You’re probably thinking that this is going to be a message about the true gift that we receive tonight. And it is. The coming of the Christ child is a gift unlike any other, but what does this gift mean? Is it a gift that you can only understand when you’ve had a child yourself? No. As much of a joy as it is to have a baby, this gift is more than just something only a parent can grasp.

Is the gift ushered in by Jesus’ birth one of salvation? Of course, God becoming one of us through the birth of his Son was and is a gift we can never repay. Not only did God choose to become like us, God chose not to be born to royalty, to wealth, to worldly power or empire, but to be born instead to the lowly and the marginalized, the poor, and the overlooked. Yes, that is a gift unlike any other.

            But I think there is another facet to this gift we receive on this night, this holy night.

We receive the gift of memory.

No, we do not have physical memories of a young couple finding no room in an inn or of a baby being born in a shelter designed for animals.

We cannot call to mind the sound of the heavens reverberating with angel song. We do not have a recollection of shepherds, another group of forgotten and overlooked people, rushing from the hillsides to see a baby.

So what is it we remember? What is this gift of memory we are given tonight and every Christmas Eve?

            We are reminded in this beautiful story of what God intended and intends for the world.

We are reminded of who God created us to be.

We are reminded that God called creation into being out of Love for Love and because of Love.

We are reminded that we are part of that creation. We have value and worth in God’s eyes.

We are reminded of our calling as God’s children, as those who seek to follow his Son.

We are reminded that although our world is so broken, so far from what God intended, Light still shines in the darkness.

We are reminded that as long as we have hope, as long as we keep even one candle lit, the darkness will not overcome the Light … or us.

Tonight we are given a gift. We are given a chance to remember and to see through God’s eyes.

Tonight we are given a gift, and this is one that will not break or lose its shine.

Tonight we remember that Love was born in our midst.

Tonight we remember that the Good News came into the world in the way we all do, in the birth of a baby, in the cry of a child.

Tonight, on this Holy Night, we remember our most precious and wonderful gift, Christ our Lord. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen and amen and amen.

Let It Be -- Fourth Sunday of Advent

Luke 1:26-38

December 24, 2017

            “Mary did you know that your baby boy will one day walk on water?

Mary did you know that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?

Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?

This child that you delivered will soon deliver you.”

            The first time I ever heard this song was on my now well-played Kathy Mattea Christmas Album. With all due respect to the group Pentatonix, Mattea’s version is my favorite. I admit that I did not give the larger theological implications of this song much thought. The question of whether or not Mary knew the fullness of her son’s identity was not an issue for me. When I listened to the lyrics, I just thought,

“This is such a pretty song, especially in Mattea’s rich alto. And the questions posed are interesting. They make me think both about this tiny baby and the larger scope of who he was and is.”

            However the question as to whether Mary knew who her son would be or not is a much larger issue, perhaps even controversy, than I realized. Every year about this time I see emphatic statements on social media, “Mary knew!” I think this goes beyond either loving or hating this song. I think it goes to a deeper theological question about Mary; who she was and the part she played in bringing Jesus into the world – literally and figuratively.

            So I am going to wade into the controversy and say definitively … that it is both! Mary knew! And Mary didn’t know! I don’t think she knew fully, at least, the scope of her son’s truth. So what did she know? First, she knew what Gabriel told her.

             Gabriel was sent to Mary by God, and he began this tremendous announcement by saying,

            “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you!”

            In what is perhaps the greatest understatement of all time, Luke wrote that Mary was

“much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.”

I too would have been perplexed … and baffled … and confounded … and terrified. Did Mary turn around to see if her heavenly visitor was addressing someone behind her? Did she pale and begin to shake when she realized he was speaking to her? Did she grow faint or bow low to the ground in terror? Perhaps she visibly changed, because Gabriel’s next words were,

            “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

            Mary did not, could not fathom how this would happen because she was a young girl, a virgin. The angel explained to her that through the power of the Holy Spirit she would conceive, and because the child she would carry was created this way, he would be called the “Son of God.”

            There you go; Mary knew. Gabriel told her that she was going to give birth, through the power of the Holy Spirit, to the Son of God. Her child would be great. He would be given the throne of his ancestor David. His kingdom would have no end. She, a lowly, poor, insignificant young girl, was favored by God. She would bear the Son of God into the world. Mary knew.

            I understand how important it is theologically and spiritually that Mary knew. Mary was not just an empty vessel or a mindless pawn that God used to fulfill God’s purposes. Mary was a flesh and blood person. She had a mind and a heart. She had a will. She had a voice and a conscience. Mary heard the angel’s words. She asked the angel questions, and she responded favorably. Mary knew she was going to have a baby, and that this baby was born of God and destined for an unimaginable greatness. She was favored by God and this baby would be God’s own. Mary knew.

            But Mary was a flesh and blood person, which meant that she had limits. She was finite. She could only grasp so much. Gabriel gave her a general outline of who her son would be. The fullness of his identity, his truth would be revealed over time. Mary was a flesh and blood human being. She knew she was favored by God. She knew she would have a child who was special, who was God’s child, but beyond that, could she truly see what was to come? Could she truly comprehend what being God’s child would mean? Could she envision how his life and her own would unfold? Did she know, really know what lay ahead? No. How could she? How could anyone? Mary was a limited, finite human being. In that moment when Gabriel came to her and gave her this amazing, overwhelming great news, I just cannot imagine that she could fully know everything that news meant. Mary did not know.

            Mary both knew and didn’t know. It seems to me that what’s really important, really necessary about this passage is not so much the depth or expanse of what she understood at that moment; what matters is how she responded.

Mary said, “Yes.”

As I said before, Mary was a flesh and blood human being with a mind, a heart, and will. We Presbyterians believe both in predestination and in free will. Free will suggests that Mary could have said, “No.” Think about that. Isn’t it possible that Mary could have said, “No?” She had a will. She had a mind. She was not just an empty vessel to be used by God. God became one of us because God values not just our souls but our flesh. Wouldn’t God have valued this young woman enough to hear her “No?”

            But that’s what makes this story so amazing, even beyond this visit from an angel. Mary said, “Yes.” And listen to her yes.

            “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

            Here am I; those are the same opening words Isaiah spoke in response to God’s call.

            “Whom shall I send?” “Here am I, send me.”

            Mary’s response is no less a response to a calling from God. She said “Yes” to God’s call. She said “Yes” to God’s purposes. She may not have known fully what was to come, but then again do any of us know that when we answer God’s call? Mary knew enough. She knew enough. And what’s more important than how much she knew is how completely she trusted.

            She trusted God and she said, “Yes.” She trusted God and she said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Let it be with me.

            Here am I.

            It seems to me that our Roman Catholic sisters and brothers got it right when they elevated Mary. As a stalwart protestant, I am not advocating that we imitate Catholicism in our reverence of her. Yet I think we need to stop relegating her to this one Sunday of the year: the Annunciation, Mary’s Sunday. It seems to me that Mary is a role model for all of us when it comes to answering God’s call. She embodies what it means to trust God. She models what it means to step up, to say “Yes,” to show the courage to say, “Here am I; let it be with me.”

            Mary was a real person with a real spirit, a real will and mind and heart. She was young, she was poor, she was female, and those factors made her vulnerable. She would have been considered insignificant by the powers and principalities of that time and place. But her courage was as great as any warrior of her day or ours. Whatever Mary knew, whatever Mary didn’t know, she knew enough and she trusted more. She said, “Yes.” She said, “Here am I; let it be with me.” Let it be with me. Let it be.

            Let all of us, God’s children, say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Witness to the Light -- Third Sunday in Advent

John 1: 6-8, 19-28

December 17, 2017

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” It’s never really occurred to me before how ordinary this sentence sounds; compared with so many other sentences in John’s gospel that is. The very first sentence of John’s gospel is, of course, beautiful poetry,

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Gorgeous! But it’s definitely not ordinary.

Verse 14, which we do not read today, is also another poetic masterpiece,

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

I may be frustrated at times with John’s gospel, but those nine words have the power to bring me to my knees. Definitely. Not. Ordinary.

But verse 6 sounds more ordinary than these others.  

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.”

Perhaps ordinary is not the right word; maybe straightforward is what I’m searching for. John’s gospel, with its multiple layers of meaning in every verse, with its metaphor and imagery, is rarely straightforward. But verse 6 is. It sounds like the beginning of a wonderful story. It sounds like, well it sounds almost, kind of ordinary.

You’re probably thinking, “It would be ordinary, Amy, if it weren’t for the subject. You know, John?! The guy who wore camel’s hair and ate locusts! That guy from the wilderness who, to put it mildly, was a little off center. He was the one who baptized Jesus for heaven’s sake! How could a sentence about John the Baptizer be ordinary?”

It’s true, John was no ordinary character. The various gospel accounts of him tell us that he was Jesus’ cousin, son of Elizabeth and Zechariah. Some historians speculate that he may have been an Essene, a member of that ascetic, mystical Jewish sect. And if we know nothing else about him, we know him as the Baptizer, the one who baptized Jesus. Except in John’s gospel he does not baptize Jesus. In John’s gospel, he really isn’t the Baptizer at all. He does do some baptisms, as we read in the last part of our passage, but Jesus is not one he baptizes. In John’s gospel, he is John the Witness. He is John the one who is sent to the witness to the light. He is not the light, but he points to the light.

This last part is almost a disclaimer. He is not the light. That is made very clear. In our later verses, this is reiterated when the priests and the Levites come to question John about his identity.

“Who are you?”

He answered them in the negative; who he was not.

“I am not the Messiah.”

They persisted. Are you Elijah? Are you the prophet? We need an answer to give the people who sent us. At that, John quoted Isaiah.

“I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’” as the prophet Isaiah said.”

John made it clear who he was not. And the gospel makes it clear who he was. He was the one sent by God as a witness to testify to the light. Don’t get him confused with the light. That is not who he was. He was the witness. He was the one sent by God to witness to the light; John the Witness.

What does it mean to witness? If we are a witness in court, presumably we tell what we know or what we have seen. Many years ago when I was in college, I was involved in a fender bender on the way home from my summer job. It wasn’t my fault. Really. While the other driver and I were waiting for the police to come, and we were exchanging phone numbers and insurance and all the other things you do when you’ve had an accident, another driver stopped. She came up to me and gave me her phone number. She said to call her if I needed to. She saw the whole thing, she said. She was a witness.

John was one sent from God as a witness to the light. He was sent to tell the truth about Jesus, the Light of God, the Word made flesh, the Messiah. He was sent to testify to Jesus’ true identity. John was sent from God to tell people the truth about Jesus, God’s Son, and in doing so to make the people ready. He was that one crying out in the wilderness to prepare the way for the Lord.

It would seem that John really was no ordinary man, yet I maintain that verse six is a wonderfully ordinary sentence. It is a wonderfully ordinary and captivating beginning to a story unlike any other. Why is it ordinary? Because whether John was an ordinary person or a wild man from the wilderness is not the point.

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was Bob.”

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was Glenn or Bill or Mark or Thomas or Vic.”

“There was a woman sent from God, whose name was Alice or Lynn or Peg, Kathy or Wanda.”

Take out John and insert your own name. We are all sent from God to witness, perhaps not in the way John did, but we are called and we are sent. We are all called to witness.

How are we called to witness? While you are pondering that question, let me add one more thing. The Greek word for witness is martyrion which gives us our English word, martyr. One who witnesses is a martyr. While I have not done a full word study on how our understanding of the two words has evolved over the centuries, I find it interesting that these words share a common root. It seems to me that if we are called to witness to Jesus, to tell our truth about him, then there is a certain element of risk implied. We may be martyred for our witness, for our truth telling; perhaps not physically, but in other ways. Not only may we not be believed, but we may be mocked, shunned, disparaged or just downright shamed. More than once I have hesitated telling a stranger my vocation because I dread the response.

Yet, just as there is a cost that comes with discipleship, there is also a danger that comes with being a witness, with truth telling, with testifying to the light. Maybe that’s why we want to believe that is only extraordinary people who are called to witness to the light. But the funny thing about God is that God tends to call ordinary people like you, like me, to do extraordinary things. God works through unlikely people and unlikely circumstances. That’s what we celebrate during this season. That’s what we are waiting for: for God to work the extraordinary through the ordinary, to work the divine and the glorious through the most lowly. That’s what the incarnation is, the Word becoming flesh: our flesh, our ordinary, lowly, frail and fragile flesh.

John the Witness was an ordinary man sent from God to testify to the Light. We are ordinary people sent from God to testify to the Light. We are called to be witnesses, to share our truth, to offer our testimony. We are called to do extraordinary things, not because we have exceptional power that other people don’t, but because we trust that God is working through us and is with us. It seems to me that’s what John understood. He trusted that God was working with him and through him, and he never stopped doing what God called him to do. Not once. He never stopped witnessing to the Light.

There was an ordinary man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all people might believe through his telling.

Let all God’s children, God’s witnesses, say “Alleluia!” Amen. 

Good News -- Second Sunday of Advent

Mark 1:1-8 (Isaiah 40:1-11)

December 10, 2017

            The first day of kindergarten for Zach was an exciting one. I tell this story with his permission. I was concerned about sending him to kindergarten because he has a summer birthday. The thinking in the schools where we lived was that boys with summer birthdays – meaning they turned 5 just before they started school – were generally not as mature or as prepared to begin school as kids who were a little bit older. We had been warned by a teacher about sending him to school just yet because he was young, and he was shy at first. He needed time to get to know the other kids and his circumstances before he would just jump into something. That was just Zach, I told the teacher. He was naturally shy at first, and needed to get to know his surroundings. If we waited for him to change, he would never start school.

            So I was nervous. Plus, I already knew how wrenching it was to send a child off to Kindergarten. We drove by the school grounds on Phoebe’s first day, so I could make sure the school was still standing and that my little girl was safe. Zach was, is my baby. Sending him off to kindergarten was its own kind of bittersweet. But Zach was so excited about starting school. He could not wait! So we did what you do to get ready; the night before we had his clothes picked out and ready. We had purchased all of the required supplies. He had his little backpack. That morning I went into his room to wake him up, saying,

            “Zach, it’s the first day of kindergarten. It’s time to get up.”

            The first day of kindergarten! He jumped out of bed. He got dressed with no prompting or pushing from me. He ate a good, healthy breakfast. Then we loaded into the car, and went to school. I admit to wiping away a few tears when I left that morning. My baby was in kindergarten.

            Zach came home that night just as excited as he was in the morning. It was a great day. He made friends. He played. He loved kindergarten! My relief was palpable. I went to bed calm and confident that sending Zach to kindergarten, even though he had just turned 5, was the right decision. The next morning I went into his room, prepared for the same excitement as the day before. I said,

            “Zach, it’s time to get up! It’s time to go to kindergarten!”

            He rolled over and looked at me with shock.

            “You mean I have to go again?”

            Somehow Zach had not understood that kindergarten was more than just a one day extravaganza. Kindergarten was just the beginning. It was just the beginning of years of school yet to come. That first day of kindergarten was just the beginning, and it was the first and last time Zach ever really enjoyed getting up for school.

            Mark’s gospel does not use the word “just” in the first verse of this first chapter, but to me it is implied. I know that what is written is “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the son of God,” but I hear, “This is just the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the son of God.”

            Mark was not one to waste words. There is no birth story in his gospel. There are no choirs of angels, no heralding from the heavens. There are no shepherds guarding their sheep or wise ones compelled to travel from the East. Unlike another poetic entrance into the story of Jesus, Mark does not have time for lush imagery. We will read the word “immediately,” in Mark’s gospel again and again, because for Mark this story is urgent. There is work to be done and good news to share. Jesus, in Mark’s earthy gospel, was on the move, so Mark’s account had to get right down to business.

            This is what the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, was about. The prophet Isaiah told of a messenger who would be sent ahead to prepare the way. He would be one crying out in the wilderness,

            “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.”

            And that one was John the baptizer; a strange dude who dined on insects and wore scratchy, coarse clothing. John came out of the wilderness “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.”

            In Mark’s beginning, there was no need for a back story about Jesus. The prophecies of old were back story enough. John the baptizer was not the messiah, but he was the messenger foretold. He came to get the word out about the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. He came to let the people know that God’s promises were still alive and well and being fulfilled. He came to let people know that God was still at work in the world and in their midst, just as Isaiah had prophesied. He came to share the good news, and this was just the beginning.

            Just the beginning; key words I think, critical words. It is easy, sometimes, to think of the story of Jesus as ancient history. After all, his birth happened over 2,000 years ago. Whether we mean to or not, we often celebrate it as a remembrance; a fond memory. We wax nostalgic about years gone by. We relive old times in the church and in our families. But the truth is that every Advent we prepare for something that is happening new, in the present, right now. It isn’t that Jesus the man will be born as a baby in a distant land once again – or maybe he will be. It is that God’s promises are still at play. They are still active and being fulfilled. That is the comfort we hear in Isaiah.

            “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.”

            Not only did God speak comfort to Israel through Isaiah, God issued a new call. Get up to a high mountain. Lift up your voice with glad tidings and with strength. Lift up your voice, Jerusalem and tell the cities of Judah, “Here is your God!”

            We sometimes miss that this is a dialogue happening between God and Isaiah. At first Isaiah seems to see no point in speaking to the people, in telling them to prepare a way in the wilderness, because people are inconstant. They are like the grass in the field. They flower, they wither, they die.

            But God responded by telling him to share the good news anyway. The good news is not dependent on the constancy of the people. The good news of God is not dependent on circumstances – after all God spoke these words to a people in exile. The good news goes beyond any human endeavor and any human limitations.

            Even in exile, even when the people are fickle and random and inconstant, preach the good news, share the glad tidings. Comfort, o comfort my people. The time and space between Isaiah and Mark become nothing, because Mark furthers the message of the prophet. This is just the beginning of the good news…

            While we may not be living in exile like the people of Israel, nor are we confronted with a strange messenger such as John the baptizer, how much, how badly do we need to hear that the good news of God is just beginning? How badly do we need to be reminded that God’s promises for us, for all creation are still alive, still being fulfilled, and there is still more to come?

            We may not be in exile, but the world around us seems no less threatening, hostile and strange than it must have seemed to the Israelites. We may not be living under direct oppression, but unjust rulers still rule and the powers and principalities still wage war against the kingdom of God. Greed, cruelty and hatred, still seem to win the day over love and kindness. We need God’s words of comfort as much as the people of Israel did.

            But if the good news is not an ancient story, if the good news is not just something in the past, over and done with in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus; if, in fact, this is just the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, then we are not without hope. In truth, hope is alive and well and here in our midst. Because the good news is a story of hope and God’s promises are about hope. Hope lies at the heart of the gospel, and this is just the beginning. That is good news indeed. That is good news. It’s just the beginning.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Watching and Waiting -- First Sunday of Advent

Mark 13:24-37

December 3, 2017

            I don’t do needlepoint or embroider or cross stitch, but if I did, I think I would create a sampler that I would frame and put in a prominent place in my home. On that sampler would be this simple phrase,

            “Life is too short …”

            I realize that this is the beginning of the cliché, “life is too short to hold a grudge.” But a cliché becomes that because it is based on a truth. And isn’t it true that life is too short to hold a grudge? If there is something good about growing older – actually, there are a lot of good things about growing older – it is that I’ve realized a little bit more just how short life actually is. The reason my sampler would only showcase the words, “life is too short,” and not fill in the rest of the sentence is because life is too short for so many things. So here is a short – pun intended – list of some of the things life is too short for.

            Life is too short to hold a grudge.

            Life is too short to be angry or worried or stressed all the time.

            Life is too short to be paralyzed by fear and anxiety.

            Life is just too short to not do those things that you’ve always wanted to do.

            Life is too short not to be with the people you love most.

            Please know that I do not live up to my list. There are so many examples of how this is true and so little time, but here is one. My one creative expression is writing, and I have been trying to write a book since I was about 10. I have countless beginnings of books, yet no finished ones. Why? Because I get paralyzed by my fear that it just won’t be good enough. Well, guess what? Life is too short, so write the book already! Who cares if it isn’t the Great American Novel? Write it anyway, because life is too short not to do what you’ve always dreamed of doing.

            Life is too short. In a roundabout, indirect way, that seems to be what this passage from Mark is about. That seems a strange thing to say, considering the fact that this passage is known as a “little apocalypse.” From the beginning of chapter 13 to the end, Jesus was telling the disciples about what would come. In the beginning verses, he told the disciples about the destruction of the temple. Then he warned James, John and Andrew about being led astray; about not being alarmed when they hear of wars and rumors of wars. Jesus told them that there will be earthquakes and famines, but this would be just the beginning of the “birth pangs.”

            Jesus told them of the great tribulation, of false messiahs and false prophets. Those snake oil salesmen will try to fool the people with signs and omens, but Jesus warned them to be alert.

            Then we come to our verses. Jesus told them of signs in the heavens.

            “But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.”

            It sounds like something out of a movie. In fact, many a movie has been made about the end of the world. The latest special effects have been employed to show destruction and annihilation, whether that annihilation comes from aliens or nuclear war or from the prophecies of the end times finally coming to fruition. In the end, the end will be big and loud and devastating.

            At first it would seem that the apocalypse described here goes right along with that. When Jesus comes again, when the Son of Man returns, it is going to be one blockbuster of an ending. But as one of my colleagues wrote, God has a funny way of bringing beginnings from endings and endings from beginnings. One seems to always lead into the other.

            Jesus finished these words of warning with an illustration about watchfulness. Keep alert. The only who knows when any of these things will happen, when this time of ending and new beginning will occur is the Father. So keep alert. Think about a master who goes on a trip and leaves his slaves in charge of the house. They do not know when the master will return, so they must continue to do their work as though the master will arrive at any minute. There is no room, and there is no time for dozing off. You have to keep awake.

            Watch. Wait. Keep awake. Jesus wanted the disciples to understand the importance and the power of staying awake. He wanted them to really get just how vital it was to stay awake, because just a short time after this they would wait in the garden with him, and they would not stay awake.

            But it seems to me that Jesus wanted the disciples to understand that the importance of staying awake was more than just not being asleep. When Phoebe was little, she would announce that she was awake not by calling out, “I’m awake, Mommy.” Instead, she would say, “I’m not sleeping anymore!”

            But not sleeping and being awake, really awake, may be two different things. The problem with the way we interpret apocalyptic texts such as this one is that we think they exhort us to only consider the future. How will Jesus come? When will Jesus come? And what will Jesus’ coming mean for us?

            However, maybe apocalyptic texts are really calling us to wake up to the present; to see life as we are living it, to recognize just how truly short life is. Instead of focusing on this dramatic ending that may or may not be just around the corner, perhaps we should be focusing on the here and the now. Jesus told the disciples to stay awake, and I suspect that we are being called not only to stay awake, but to wake up.

            Maybe the point of this text on this day, this first Sunday of Advent, is not just about pointing us toward the ending or reminding us of the beginning, but to open our eyes to the right now, to this moment, to this beautiful, irreplaceable moment.

            In Thornton Wilder's play, “Our Town,” there is an incredible scene toward the end of the play when one of the main characters, Emily, who has died, discovers that she can revisit a day in her life. Through the help of the Stage Manager, she chooses one day to return to, thinking that she can just step back into who she was as a young girl in her home with her family. But she cannot return to that moment, because she now sees everything. She sees all that she missed. She sees all that everyone misses. And she cannot reach through to the people she loves to tell them, to show them what they are incapable of seeing or not seeing.

             “Oh, Mama, look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I'm dead. You're a grandmother, Mama! Wally's dead, too. His appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it - don't you remember? But, just for a moment now we're all together. Mama, just for a moment we're happy. Let's really look at one another!...I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another. I didn't realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back -- up the hill -- to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Good-bye, Good-bye world. Good-bye, Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every, every minute?”

            Wake up! In this season of preparation for the birth of a child, wake up! Wake up to the reality that God comes to us in so many, unexpected ways. God comes to us in the vulnerable, in the poor, in the helpless, in the homeless.

            Wake up! Look around you. Sisters and brothers, we are hope embodied.

We are hope embodied.

We believe God is still calling us, still working through us, still moving in our midst.

            Wake up! Watch and wait for the coming of Christ, but instead of keeping your eyes trained only on the future, turn them to the now, to the present. Wake up and see God here, in this moment, in this place, in one another. Realize life while you live it. God is coming, true, but God is here now. So be here now. Watch. Wait. Wake up.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.