From the Little Ones -- Fourth Sunday of Advent

Micah 5:2-5a

December 23, 2018

            I wonder sometimes if I am losing my ability to be surprised by the sadness and badness of the world around us. I am often shocked, horrified, appalled, saddened, angered, outraged, disgusted, dismayed and disappointed – but sadly, I’m losing my ability to be surprised. I don’t like that. It suggests to me that I am becoming cynical and skeptical and just plain tired. Another mass shooting – I’m angry and sad and horrified, but not surprised. Another viral video of racism on parade – I’m sickened and angry and frustrated, but not surprised. A horrific natural disaster – probably made more extreme by climate change – I’m worried and heartbroken and anxious, but not surprised. Terrorism, horrified but not surprised. Disgraceful government antics – disheartened and fed up, but not surprised.

Yesterday, I read on a Presbyterian website that our sisters and brothers at First Presbyterian Church had their church vandalized in the last few days. Someone or some ones broke in and went on a rampage. Musical instruments in the sanctuary were turned over and broken. The Christmas tree was knocked to the floor. Glass was broken. Holes were gouged in tiled walls. It was far more than an act of criminal mischief. There was hatred behind it. Again, I am horrified and appalled and confused by such hatred, but I am not terribly surprised. Considering the history our congregation has with acts like this, maybe you’re not surprised either.

I guess I’m just not surprised anymore by the ways in which hatred and ignorance and fear manifest themselves in our world. There is no way to hide from the darkness of the world that surrounds us. There is no way to avoid the brokenness of our world, of our species. We are caught up in it. We are also broken and wounded and hurting. So as sad as I am to admit it, I am not very often surprised by the dreadful ways our brokenness and sinfulness makes itself known. I don’t like to admit that, but I think it’s true. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not resigned to the brokenness. I am not immune to it. I rage against it. But I am not surprised.

            But here’s the thing, while the world’s brokenness may be unsurprising, our God is a God of surprise. There are many names for God, but if God has a middle name, it’s “Surprise!” It’s often said that since “Do not fear” is repeated 365 times in the scriptures, we have a daily reminder to let go of our fear. I love that and wholeheartedly subscribe to it. But to “do not fear,” I think we should add, “but be surprised.” God surprises us again and again and again by working through unexpected people in unlikely circumstances. God surprises us again and again by bringing good out of bad, order out of chaos, and hope out of what seems hopeless. God surprises over and over again by calling forth greatness, hope and salvation from the little ones.

            The darkness and brokenness of which I speak are not unique to us or to our particular context are they? Micah and the people he prophesied to were no strangers to the darkness. Our text from Micah is beautiful and poetic, but it is set in a larger context. If we read beyond the verses selected for us this morning, we will read about that darkness, about the ever-looming disaster that Micah and the people of Israel, of Judah faced. In other verses he told the people that Judah would be plowed into a field and that Jerusalem would lie in ruins. Micah knew and understood just how dark, just how broken the times in which he lived were. He did not mince his words about it either.

            Yet, surprise! In the midst of all this darkness and brokenness and destruction – much of which the leaders and the people brought on themselves – there is a word of hope.

            “But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel, whose origin is from old, from ancient days.”

            From Bethlehem, from one of the little clans of Judah, from one of the little ones, shall come one who is to rule in Israel. And although this hearkens greatly to King David, who was also from Bethlehem and a shepherd, the one who is to come will not lead as the former leaders, the former kings have done. This one will lead as a shepherd leads. This one will “stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.”

            This one will bring true security. This won’t be the kind of security that the world offers – financial accounts and video cameras. This will be the kind of security that only comes from God. This will be the kind of security that comes from the one who brings peace, who is peace.

            From the little ones will come God’s salvation. From the little ones will come the one who is peace. From the little ones will come the leader Micah and all the other people longed for, waited for, hoped for. From the little ones will come the one we too yearn and wait for, expectantly and with great hope. That is the word of hope we have from Micah, and that is the story we read in Luke. I’m assuming that God could not have chosen two more unlikely or unexpected people than Elizabeth and Mary. Elizabeth, an old woman and Mary a young one, were both expecting unlikely children in the most unlikely of circumstances. Elizabeth, who was long past her childbearing years, was not expecting a son to be named John. And when that baby, still tucked securely inside his mother’s womb, heard Mary’s voice, he leaped for joy. The Holy Spirit did not wait for John to be born to work in his life. Even in utero, John recognized the one, the One, who was to come.

            And what about Mary? Mary, so young and at least to worldly eyes of no great importance, would bear the Savior into the world. Why would she be the one chosen? She had no rank, no office. She was not situated in a palace as a queen; instead she was a lowly young woman engaged to a carpenter. There seemed to be nothing very extraordinary about her. She was just an ordinary young woman preparing for an ordinary life. But surprise! Our God of surprises had other plans and other purposes.

            From this little one would come salvation. From this little one would come new hope and new creation. From this little one would come God’s great surprise.

            Maybe I have lost my ability to be surprised by the world and its brokenness, but if Micah’s words teach us anything it’s that we should never lose our ability to be surprised by God. Isn’t that what wonder really is? It’s always being willing to be surprised, to be elated by the unexpected and the unlikely? Micah’s word is a word of hope to a dark and broken world. From the little ones, the unexpected ones, the unlikely ones God’s purposes will be fulfilled, God’s will be done, God’s salvation will come. From the little ones. From the little ones.

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

Fields -- Christmas Eve Service

Luke 2:1-20

Isn’t it a wonder

that God went to the fields

instead of the palace?

Isn’t it strange

that God chose a

young woman

and a carpenter,

and a cattle stall?

Isn’t it amazing

that those heavenly hosts

filled the night sky with their songs for

shepherds not sovereigns?

Isn’t it a wonder

that God went to the fields

instead of the palace?

Of all the names we have

for God,

maybe Emmanuel

God-with-us

is most apt,

most fitting,

most right.

At least on this night

this holy night,

when God was born

as one of us.

This is the night

when mystery and matter meet.

This is the night

when a newborn’s cry

is another kind of heavenly song.

Making known

to the world

this world,

our world

that God is here.

We are not alone.

We are not abandoned.

We are not forgotten.

Do not be afraid.

Isn’t it a wonder

that God went to the fields

instead of the palace?

Who else lies

waiting in quiet fields

this night,

this holy night?

What others,

outsiders,

forgotten and lost ones,

lie waiting

in fields

and deserts,

alleys

and shelters

waiting to hear

an angel’s song?

Waiting to thrill

at the sound of good news,

glad tidings,

words of hope and joy and promise

for all?

God still goes to the fields

before the palace.

God still chooses

young women, old men,

carpenters and cleaners,

waitresses and truck drivers,

refugees and restless ones,

and shepherds before sovereigns.

Isn’t it a wonder?

Isn’t it amazing?

Isn’t it good news,

and glad tidings of great joy

that God is our Emmanuel.

God-with-us.

God. With. Us.

Amen.

In Our Midst -- Third Sunday of Advent

Zephaniah 3:14-20

December 16, 2018

            “My life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentation. I hear the clear, though far off hymn that hails a new creation. No storm can shake my inmost calm while to this Rock I’m clinging. Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

            One of the hardest parts of sermon writing for me is just getting started. How do I begin? What opening illustration do I use? What will my opening sentence, my first line be? I took enough journalism classes in college to know that the leading line of any story has to be what grabs your reader, your listeners, or, so it would seem, your congregation.

            So I spend a lot of time praying and thinking and pondering what a sermon needs to proclaim from beginning to end. And I was pondering this sermon, the words to the hymn, “My Life Flows On,” kept running through my head.

            “How can I keep from singing?”

            I probably heard this hymn as a child, but if so I didn’t pay much attention to it. But since the publication of Glory to God, our newest hymnal, I have become a huge fan of this hymn.

            “My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation. I hear the clear though far off hymn that hails a new creation.” “How can I keep from singing?”

            Scholar Deborah A. Block wrote,

            “In these weeks [of Advent] we hear from Malachi, Jeremiah, Zephaniah, Isaiah and Micah. The prophet is as much the voice of Advent as is the evangelist. Why? Prophets say what no one wants to hear, what no one wants to believe. Prophets point in directions no one wants to look. They hear God when everybody else has concluded God is silent. They see God where nobody else would guess that God is present. They feel God. Prophets feel God’s compassion for us, God’s anger with us, God’s joy in us. They dream God’s dreams and utter wake up calls; they hope God’s hopes and announce a new future; they will God’s will and live it against all odds. Prophets sing God’s song and sometimes interrupt the program with a change of tune.

These verses from the prophet Zephaniah are an interruption in the program. They are a change of tune. If we left out these verses, Zephaniah would be more a prophet of lamentation and despair than rejoicing. But these verses? This song? This is a song of joy. Zephaniah is not a regular in our worship. While we may read texts from Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Micah and Amos on a more usual basis, Zephaniah only appears twice in our lectionary cycle, and this Sunday is one of them. The infrequency of readings from this prophet does not make his words less important; on the contrary, when they appear we should pay more attention.

Zephaniah heard his prophetic call and found his prophetic voice in the reign of King Josiah of Judah. According to scholars, King Josiah is remembered in Israel’s history as the last good king, on par with King David. However, Zephaniah saw a different reality. He saw corruption, idolatry and injustice. As prophets do, he proclaimed to any who would listen that God’s punishment for these sins would be on a cosmic scale. It doesn’t take a prophetic call to know that eventually we all reap what we sow, and Zephaniah saw a harvest of great calamity.

But Zephaniah also saw something else; a time when even God would sing a song of rejoicing.

“On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem: Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; he will rejoice over you with gladness, he will renew you in his love; he will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.”

            Even God will sing, and this song from Zephaniah calls us to sing as well; to rejoice, to exult, to let go of our fear, and to trust that God is in our midst. Zephaniah states that last promise twice. God is in our midst. God is in our midst. The original audience who heard these words must have felt a mix of skepticism and hope. Things were pretty bad. It would be easy to believe that God was not only absent, but had abandoned them to themselves forever. But Zephaniah proclaimed that the people were to sing with joy, to rejoice, because not only was God in their midst, God would sing with them. God would exult with them. God was in their midst, and God would join in the triumph song.

            We may not be on the verge of a Babylonian invasion as the people were in Zephaniah’s time, but with the world as it is, it’s not hard to believe that disaster looms on the edge of our own horizon. Injustice is rife. Corruption is real. We are masters at creating our own idols. There seem a billion and one reasons not to sing, and a billion and two more not to rejoice, but the promise of Zephaniah that God was in the midst of the people of Judah is true for us as well. God is in our midst. God is not silent or on a prolonged leave of absence. God is in our midst.

            How do we know that God is in our midst? Is it because we recognize God in the kindness of one stranger helping another? Is it because we see God when the morning arrives right on time after a long, dark night of the soul? Is it because we meet God in a word of hope when we think that all is really hopeless? How do we know that God is in our midst, even when we cannot see God, even when we don’t recognize God? We trust and we hope and we believe, and we accept that the moments of joy we experience – even when they are brief – are of God and from God.

            We accept that the moments of joy we experience – even when they are brief – are of God and from God.

            That’s what today is – a day of joy. It is the third Sunday of Advent and it is the day of rejoicing. If you look at the light display done so beautifully by Jayne in our window, you’ll see that the pink candle is lit. That’s the symbol for joy. It is as if joy interrupts and inserts itself on this day. Joy and its song interrupt our regular programming and insert a new tune.

            God is in our midst, how can we keep from rejoicing? God is in our midst, how can we keep from celebrating? God is in our midst, how can we keep from singing? God is in our midst and God is singing with us.

            “My life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentation. I hear the clear, though far off hymn that hails a new creation. No storm can shake my inmost calm while to this Rock I’m clinging. Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

            God is in our midst! Give praise! Give thanks! Rejoice! How can we keep from singing? How can we keep from singing? Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia! Amen.”

The Days Are Surely Coming -- First Sunday of Advent

Jeremiah 33:14-16

December 2, 2018

            “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

“A pot. A pan. A broom. A hat.”

“Someone should have set a match to this place years ago.”

“A bench. A tree. So what’s a stove? Or a house?”

“People who pass through Anatevka don’t even know they’ve been here.”

“A stick of wood. A piece of cloth.”

“What do we leave? Nothing much. Only Anatevka.”

            Others may cry at the song “Sunrise, Sunset,” with its lyrics about children growing up in a flash, in a blink of an eye, and I do too – especially the older I get. But no song can move me to tears as readily as “Anatevka.”

For those who may not be so familiar with these songs, they are from the musical Fiddler on the Roof. Fiddler tells the story of Jewish residents living in the little village of Anatevka in late 19^th century Russia. In particular it tells the story of Tevya, the poor milkman, and his wife Golde, a woman who does not suffer fools, especially her husband, and their five daughters. The story of the daughters focuses on the three eldest: Tzeitel, Hodel and Chava. With all the amazing musicals that have been written since the premier of “Fiddler on the Roof,” and there have been many, Fiddler is still one of my favorites. Someday I’ll see it on Broadway, but for now I find comfort in the movie version.

             “Anatevka” is sung toward the end of the movie. The villagers have experienced the highs of a wedding and new babies and the low of a small pogrom. I use the adjective small, because in the movie it is a described as a “demonstration.” Although most of the villagers were unable to read, news of violent and increasing pogroms against other Jews in the country spread fast. Anti-Semitism was alive and well – then and now. Now the people have gotten word that they are to be evicted from the only home they have ever known. One man asks their beloved rabbi the question:

            “Rabbi, we’ve waited so long for the Messiah, wouldn’t now be a good time for him to come?”

            The Rabbi responds with great stoicism and resolve,

            “Now we’ll have to wait for him someplace else.”

            As the villagers try to wrap their heads around this new reality, they show the same stoic acceptance as the Rabbi. Anatevka. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. A pot. A pan. A broom. A hat. What do we leave? Nothing much. Only Anatevka.

            What is so beautiful and powerful about this song to me, is that while it is sung with resignation, implicit in the lyrics and in the performance is longing. They long for what they will no longer have. They long for the home they are leaving, even while they still stand within its boundaries. They long for something that seems will never be theirs: a home that lasts, a place all their own, a home that cannot be taken or moved. They can imagine this home. They can see it in their minds’ eye: home.

            The people of Anatevka were exiles in the middle of the only place they’d ever known. It would seem that this is one of many ways they stood on the shoulders of their ancestors; they who were also exiles. The people of Judah and Israel were exiled from their land, exiled from their homes, exiled it would seem even from their God. God who had brought them out of the land of Egypt must have seemed very far away, as they learned how to adapt to a different culture, a different way of being and doing. Lets not forget that the reason the people of Israel and Judah were in exile was because of their own transgressions. Defeat and exile by the Babylonians was seen as punishment for their sins. The prophets, Isaiah, Amos, Ezekiel, Malachi, Micah, Daniel, Hosea, and Jeremiah all warn the people over and over again to consider the consequences of what they do, how they live, how they treat others. To be a prophet was not necessarily to be gifted with the ability to predict the future. To be a prophet was to hear God speaking, yes, but it was also to interpret God’s word in the midst of circumstances. You treat the poor, the widow and the orphan, unjustly and cruelly, that will come back to you. You exploit the land and your neighbor; that will come back to you. You turn your backs on the one true God and worship false idols and bow to foreign gods; that will come back to you. And when it does come back to you, when your sins and transgressions finally catch up with you, you will find yourselves in a strange place, in a strange life, and you will long for home. You will long for God.

            Most of Jeremiah is about the punishment of the people’s transgressions. As one scholar put it, the punishment is so severe that even God laments. None of the warnings were heeded, and now the people suffer. They face their apparent extinction. But in the midst of this terrible suffering, there are verses of hope. There are words of comfort. Even though their entire world is crumbling down around them, they are called to imagine another way, another life. They are called to hope.

            “The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and to the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: ‘The Lord is our righteousness.’”

            The days are surely coming. We are now in the season of Advent; as Alice wrote in her newsletter article, we are in the sacred New Year. Advent does not respect the logical progression of time as we understand it. It looks to the future, even as it lifts up the past. We find our reasons to be faithful in memory, but we also look forward to the days that are surely coming. Advent encompasses what is called the prophetic imagination. Jeremiah, along with the other prophets in our scriptures, calls us to imagine what the world can look like and what it will look like. We are called in this passage from Jeremiah, not only to trust that the days are surely coming, but to imagine those days; to see them clearly and vividly and hopefully.

            The days are surely coming, can you imagine it? The days are surely coming, can you see it? The days are surely coming; can you feel your hope rising up out of the ashes of the world that seems to crumbling all around us? The days are surely coming, when a righteous Branch will spring forth from a burned out old stump. The days are surely coming, can you imagine?

            Just as the people of Anatevka longed for home, and just as the people of Judah and Israel longed for home, Advent is our time to long for what can be. Advent is our time to imagine what will be. Advent is our time to unleash our hope, to let it loose and wild in the world. Advent is our time to imagine a world with no need for refuge because all have a home, no need for food programs, because all have enough to eat, no need for defense budgets, because wars will be fought no more. Advent is a time to imagine and to hope and trust that the days are surely coming. Thanks be to God. Amen.