Mary's Great Yes

“Something About Mary”

Luke 1:26-38

December 18, 2011

            Was she scared?

            Was she excited?

            Was she worried or dubious or bewildered? 

            Was she resentful, maybe even a little angry?

            Was she scared?

            Every year when we come to this particular Sunday, the Sunday in Advent most often referred to as Mary Sunday, I ask these questions.  I can’t help myself.  I just do.  Because I can’t help but put myself into her shoes and wonder about what she wondered.  And the first thing I wonder is, “was she scared?”

            As good Protestants, Mary is not someone that historically we’ve given much thought to.  It’s not that we disregard Mary so much as we have striven to not be Catholic about her.  Please understand I am not slamming all things Catholic. Nor am I trying to dis Catholicism.  But I think that in the Protestant tradition, while Mary is understood for her importance in the story of Jesus – how can she not be?  She’s his mother! – we have not gone so far as to revere her.  Mary is not to be revered.  No human being is to be revered.  Only God in Christ may be revered.  Mary is lovely and important and obviously necessary to the story.  But there’s no supposed Mary worship going on here, people!  That’s not the Protestant way.

            I’m not advocating Mary worship either.  But I can’t help but wonder if religious history, whether Catholic or Protestant, has done her a disservice. 

            The pictures and images of Mary that I grew up with were probably similar to the ones many of you had growing up.  Mary in blue robes, blonde hair and blue eyes.  She always looks peaceful, serene, beatific.  She is staring blissfully at her baby in the manger, completely at peace with her role in God’s unfolding drama. 

            And for a large chunk of my early life, I accepted that image of Mary.  Until I began to wonder if she was scared. That and I studied world civilizations, as well as traveled to the Middle East and realized that the blonde, blue-eyed image just doesn’t fit.  My wondering is not something new either.  More and more I read commentators and scholars and other preachers who also ponder about her fear. 

It stands to reason that she was scared.  She was just a teenager after all.  From an unremarkable little village called Galilee.  She was going about her daily life, engaged to a nice young carpenter named Joseph, when she received a visit from an angel.  Angelic visits were not common occurrences, even in those times, and they often produced dramatic effects on the person who was visited. 

            Consider Elizabeth’s story.  It is the parentheses around the annunciation story.  And Elizabeth’s husband, Zechariah, was literally left dumbstruck by his questioning of his angelic visitor.  So I’m assuming that being visited by an angel is a pretty powerful thing to have happen in your life.  It would figure then that Mary was probably scared. 

            The Greek word that the New Revised Standard Version translates as pondered here is not the same word used in the second chapter of Luke’s gospel.  Here Mary questions the angel’s greeting.  She reflects on it and debates it.  Why would an angel come to her?  Why would an angel come to her and greet her in this way?  As the favored one?

            Mary was this lowly teenage girl from a backwater town in Nazareth.  Why would God favor her?  Why would she be regarded?  Why would she be singled out in this way? 

            Thinking about Mary in these terms gives rise to the next question I ask when I wonder about Mary.  Could she have said no?  Did she have a choice?  If she was debating why the angel would greet her like this, could she have also thought, “I don’t want this?”  “Thanks God, but no thanks.” 

            Again, I think that’s where both sides of the Christian tradition have done a disservice to Mary by making her look so peaceful, so blissfully happy about the whole thing.  Maybe she wasn’t.

            I’m a good Protestant and as a good Protestant I believe wholeheartedly in free will.  I don’t think I’m alone in that.  But free will seems to fly out the window when it comes to our understanding of Mary.  We don’t like to think about the possibility of Mary saying, “no.”  But if she had free will, she had a choice.  Otherwise she was just a pawn.  Yet God’s regarding her, just as God regards all of us, makes Mary much more than a pawn. 

            So this week I went on a search, trying to learn something about Mary.  I first hoped to find liturgy that included her and I didn’t come up with a lot.  But what I did find was art.  Some of it was the art I was all too familiar with. Blue robes, blonde hair, blue eyes, blissful smile.  But some of it was art I hadn’t encountered or experienced before. 

            I watched one video of an artist painting Mary’s face at the time of the Annunciation.  She looks astonished and scared and awed at what she is hearing.  As I watched the painting unfold I thought at first that the artist was putting wings on either side of her head, but when the painting was completed, the wings were actually her hands.  They framed her face and added to her look of shock and amazement. It was the Mary I imagine, especially the ones I see when I ask these questions about her.

I was moved by this picture, but I was completely undone by the next one I found.

            The Announciation by the artist Daniel Bonnell shows us only Mary’s back.  She is facing the angel Gabriel.  Mary has black hair and it hangs in a braid down her back.  Her dress is nondescript and simple, heightening the fact that she was a young girl from nowhere special.  To me she looks both vulnerable and brave all at the same time. It must have been terrifying to stand there, facing that glory, wondering what was happening.  It had to have been terrifyingly wonderful to be regarded in that way.  It must have been lonely to stand there.  Gabriel’s hands are on either side of his face.  His head is tilted to one side.  Is he protecting himself or is this a posture of blessing? 

The painting is done in deep tones, with swirling, brushstrokes.  The colors feel dark except for the light that seems to shine around Mary and the ray of light that extends behind her.  It looks as though the angel is not just an angel, but a doorway or a window; a gateway between this world and someplace else.  Gazing at it makes you feel as though in the moment that Gabriel gives Mary this news the lines between heaven and earth were blurred completely. 

            Mary is facing that gateway, and I realized as I looked at it that Mary wasn’t being asked to step through into someplace else.  Mary was being asked to let God in.  Mary wasn’t going to walk through that opening into perfection and bliss and eternal happiness.  God was going to come through, come in to imperfection and pain and sorrow and heartbreak and even just the everyday banalities of life. 

            Mary was told that through her God was coming in, as one of us, for us, because of us.  So if Mary had a choice, if Mary could have said either no or yes, think about what she said yes to.  Think about that, really ponder that! 

She said yes to God entering in to our world, our lives, our pain, our hopes, our fears.  She said yes to that, yes to God.  Maybe she didn’t fully grasp the reality of what would happen, who of us could, but she said yes to God coming into our world as us.  Isn’t that what the incarnation means?  Isn’t that what we wait for and hope for and celebrate?  Isn’t that what we most desperately need?  God coming into our reality, our pain.  God understanding us more completely than we can understand ourselves because God is, in fact, one of us.

            Some may believe that in the terrible pain of life, God is absent, and understandably so.  When terrible, incomprehensible things happen, God feels gone.  But what I understand more and more is that Mary’s yes opened the door for God with us, God truly with us.  And that is God with us in our heartbreak as much as God is with us in our joy. 

            Mary said “yes.”  And God was ushered in.

            I think it’s important for us to remember that saying yes to God did not make Mary’s life easier.  Just giving birth was an ordeal.  Anyone who has given birth knows that ordeal is built into the process.  But Mary’s was particularly difficult.  She had to travel.  No one would take her in.  She had her baby in the midst of farm animals.  I lived in Iowa for 11 years, surrounded by farms and farming communities.  They are vital, necessary places, but let’s face it, they smell.  And that’s where Jesus was born.

            Mary was told that the sword that pierced the side of her son would also pierce her own heart.  She watched her boy live and she watched her boy die.  Mary’s heart was pierced.  But God was with her, incarnate in her life, in her joys and hopes and pain, just as God is incarnate in all our lives. 

            As one scholar succinctly wrote, it is “God’s impossible possibility.”

            Mary’s “yes” ushered God in. 

            God incarnate changes everything.  The world is reordered and turned upside down and reversed.  What we think of as reasonable and true to the natural course of things no longer fits reality.  God’s incarnation changed everything. It changes everything.  Again and again and again.

            Mary’s “yes” ushered God in. 

She must have been scared.

She must have been. 

            Alleluia.  Amen.

---

                                                            

Dr. Karoline Lewis, WorkingPreacher.org

Testify

“Testify to the Light”

John 1:6-8, 19-28

December 11, 2011/Third Sunday of Advent

            I know what it means to be afraid of the dark.  I was afraid of it when I was a little girl.  I don’t remember being too worried about the possibility of monsters under my bed, but I was terrified of the horrible creatures that might lurk in my closet.  Keeping at least one light on kept the monsters away.  I don’t remember when I finally made the transition from nightlight to no light, but it did occur.

            I got a vivid reminder of what it means to be afraid of the dark when our family spent the summer of 2006 living and working at a camp in rural Michigan.  Matt was on a sabbatical and the camp we retreated to was a Presbyterian camp directed by my friend, Chris Gannon.  I served as the program director and Matt was the camp chaplain.  The mission of the camp was to provide a positive camping experience for people, children and adults, with special needs and children from disadvantaged homes and neighborhoods.  In our orientation with the other staff members, Chris reminded us that many of the kids who attended that camp came from inner city Detroit.  If you want to know what inner city looks like, go to Detroit.  Coming from the inner city meant that many of them would not know what full blown dark was like.  In their urban environment, there was never an absence of light.  And night at the camp was a dark experience. 

            Part of my duties as program director was to make rounds at night, checking in with the counselors at each cabin.  I relied on my flashlight to walk from cabin to cabin, partly because I didn’t want to stumble over something and also because of my enduring fear of snakes.  I definitely didn’t want to stumble over one of them.  But by the end of our time there, I could walk to the cabins and back to the lodge using only the light of the night sky to guide me. 

            I realized that if I was patient and allowed my eyes to adjust, the light from the heavens was more than enough. 

            Most adults would describe being afraid of the dark as something that only afflicts children, but many of us live as though the darkness is exactly what we’re afraid of.  I still make use of nightlights.  We have one in our hallway in case someone has to get up in the night.  Usually that’s me.  I keep a little light on in the kitchen every night, again in case someone – usually me – is up during the darkest hours. 

            But even if I didn’t employ nightlights, I think there would be plenty of light coming from outside our house to see by.  And I’m not talking about the moon and the stars.  There are streetlights.  There is a tall light in our backyard that goes on automatically at night.  There are the lights that come from the city of Shawnee itself.  I realize that Shawnee is not the same as major metropolitan areas like New York or Los Angeles, but there is still a significant amount of artificial light happening during the night around here that seeing is not a problem.

            But what does all of this light do to us?  There is a growing body of scientific evidence that considers the large amount of artificial light we produce to be light pollution.  And just as the name pollution implies, light pollution has negative consequences on the natural world.

            One creature that is affected by light pollution is the sea turtle.  Who knew?  But yes the sea turtle, already a creature that has many odds stacked against it, is struggling because of light pollution.  Female sea turtles return to the same beaches year after year to lay their eggs.  Human development on those beaches is one problem that they face.  We humans just keep encroaching on their habitat.  But it turns out that the light from the human development on those beaches disorients them.  As they’re swimming in from the sea, they use the dark shape of the beach to guide them.  The lights confuse them and they have a hard time going from the sea to land to lay their eggs.  I know in our minds this seems counter-intuitive.  Shouldn’t the lights help them find their way?  But it doesn’t work like that. 

            It’s also affecting the baby sea turtles trying to swim back out to sea.  Again, the artificial light is disorienting.  In other words, all the lights that we have are messing with the sea turtles. 

            Maybe that seems like a relatively small blip in the greater scheme of things, and I’m sure that many of you are wondering at this crunchy-granola type pastor that you called, but the reality is that light pollution is affecting a wide variety of creatures, and that includes us.

            An earthquake struck the Los Angeles area in the mid 1990’s, knocking out the power grid that keeps greater LA bathed in light.  Once the darkness had settled, people began calling emergency services, afraid, because of a strange glow in the night sky. 

            It was the Milky Way. 

            Many people had never witnessed that before because the artificial lights of Los Angeles or any city kept the heavens from being viewed.  And what’s more, scientists believe that 80 to 90 percent of people in major cities have actually lost their ability to see the Milky Way.  It’s not just that our lights block it from us.  We can no longer see it.

            We have surrounded ourselves with light, but we can no longer see.

            “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. 7 He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. 8 He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.”
            Into the darkness came John.  He was not the Light, but he testified to the Light.  He pointed to the Light.  He knew that the Light of the world was upon them.  But could they see it?

            Karoline Lewis, preaching professor at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota, writes that this is not the John we saw last week.  Last week we got a glimpse of John the Baptizer.  John, with the camel hair clothing and that wacky diet of honey and locusts, who came preaching a baptism of repentance.    Last week it was prepare the way.  Get ready.  Prepare.

            This week we see John the Witness.  This week we see the John who testified to the Light.  The Light is here, it is shining on us.  Do we see it?  As Lewis put it, this is a cosmic event.  God is reordering the world and all creation.  But we need a human to point that way.  That human is John. 

            John, in his testimony, very succinctly tells his questioners who he is not.  He is not the Messiah.  He is not Elijah. He is not the prophet.  He is not the one who brings the Light.  He testifies to it.  He is the voice crying out in the wilderness.  He testifies to the Light. 

            He testifies to the Light because we know the people walk in darkness. 

            What does it mean to walk in darkness?

            Obviously the people who lived at the time of Jesus lived in more literal darkness.  I’m sure they had no problem seeing the Milky Way, because there was no abundance of artificial light to block it.  They would have had the light of fire and oil lamps.  But they would not have had the great lights that project into our own night sky.

            But the literal meaning of darkness only sits on the surface.  Their darkness went to their very soul.  Their world was ordered by the Law, but it was a dark world because they could not see how God was working in their midst.  Oh sure, they had the words of the prophets, warnings, predictions.  They waited for a Messiah.  They prayed and sacrificed and did what they thought God wanted them to do.  Yet the darkness was pervasive. 

            The people who walk in darkness have seen a great Light. 

            John came to testify to the Light.

            We have so much light, perhaps too much light that it is challenging to recognize how these words might speak to us. 

            With so much light all around us, how can we possibly walk in darkness? 

            Yet the darkness is pervasive. 

            So what darkness do we walk in?  Is the darkness our fears?  Is it our lostness?  Is it our brokenness?  Is it our loneliness?  Is it our ability to forget that just by being human we have inextricable bonds with every other human being?  Is it our willingness to put ourselves above God?  Is it our knack for thinking we need no one but ourselves?  Is it that we try to replace the Light with a capital L with all the other small lowercase lights out there? 

The darkness is pervasive, but the good news of the gospel is that Jesus is the Light of the World.  Jesus, the Word of God incarnate, Jesus, the Son of God, Jesus, the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, is the Light of the World.  And that is a Light that does not pollute or skew our vision.  The Light of the World cannot be extinguished.  The Light of the World is not overcome by the darkness of the world, no matter how powerful that darkness seems to be.  The Light of the World is in our midst.  John testified to it.  And so must we.  We are a people who spend our days and our nights walking in great darkness.  But we have seen a great light. 

Testify. 

Alleluia!  Amen.

Just Smile and Nod

I embarrass my almost 13-year-old daughter.

Shocking, I know, but true.

Let me tell you a story.  Picture it, Shawnee, Oklahoma, 2011.  A few nights ago Child Number 1 auditioned for a part in our local theaters' upcoming Spring musical extravaganza.  She was a little young to audition, but they let her anyway, and I was beyond proud of her for taking the risk.  This is what she says she wants to do with her life, so I figure she better get used to going on auditions sooner rather than later.

The first step (no pun intended) of the audition was dancing.  She was put in a group, was quickly taught a dance routine, then performed the dance for the director and choreographer and other head honcho type people.  After the dance, she went to another room to sing her prepared piece.

Once the audition was done, we were waiting in the green room for a few minutes and I decided to try a few of the dance steps she was taught.  No one else was with us.  No other people were there, potentially judging us.  It was a private moment, just daughter and dancing mother.

But my eldest pleaded with me to stop dancing.  It was embarrassing.  I argued that since no one else was looking, what was the big deal?  That's when she spoke her truth.

"Mom, you embarrass me!"

Ah.  At that moment I realized I have entered a new phase of parenting.  My daughter is embarrassed by me, not because of anything I do, say, or dance.  It is merely my existence on this earth that causes her shame. 

And outside of the dancing, I don't really see myself as all that embarrassing.  I don't wear mumu style housecoats in or out of the house.  My hair is never in curlers.  I actually think of myself as a pretty hip mom.  But I am an embarrassment nonetheless.

I guess that kind of truth should hurt, but strangely enough, I'm okay with it.  Well, maybe not fully okay, but I've been expecting it.

Because even though  it's been many decades, I was also a 13-year-old daughter once, and my parents were the humiliating bane of my existence.  Especially my mother.  The classic example of my own embarrassment at her very presence in the world was the letter my fellow students and I were asked to write to our parents inviting them to the school's Open House.  I suspect now it was a ploy on our teacher's part to have us do some of her work while we were supposedly getting letter writing experience.  But that is neither here nor there.

In my letter I politely invited my parents to attend the Open House on such and such date at such and such time.  All very well and good, until I added a special post script.  It read something like this.

"P.S.  Mom, please try to wear something nice." 

I know this is a real letter, really sent by me, because my mom saved it along with my artwork and other childhood paraphernalia.  It's something we laugh about.  I think she laughed about it back then as well.  At least I hope she did.  Because she was also a pretty hip mom.  She didn't wear mumu's or housecoats either, although I do remember a few curlers -- that and wads of tissues in her purse with lipstick smeared on them, but they were still good because it was only lipstick.  My mom worked full time when a lot of moms didn't.  She was capable and competent, loving, but tough when she needed to be.  I've inherited some of her better traits and a few I prefer not to discuss.  Just like my daughter has inherited both good and bad from me.

I guess that's the crazy blessing  and curse of parenting.  Just as we see our children as individuals, unique in their own genetic makeup, we also see bits and pieces of ourselves floating in their DNA soup.  And those bits and pieces scare us, because we know the mistakes we made, and the hurts and heartbreaks we endured.  More than anything else in the world, we want to protect our children from those same hard knocks.  But there's no real protection from life is there?  Not if you actually want them to live.

I hope one day my daughter looks back and realizes I wasn't all that bad as a mom.  My mom miraculously grew wiser the older I got, and maybe that will be true for Phoebe as well.  But if not, I'll deal with the fact that she secretly wishes her real parents, the cool ones, would come and find her because obviously the hospital must have switched her at birth.

I also hope that I will be able to savor that brief period of time in my children's lives when I'm not embarrassing.  From the time they're about 25 until the time when I hear my grandkids whisper, "Mom, why does Gramma say such weird things?"  and "I don't know.  Gramma's losing it.  Just smile and nod."

The Beginning

“In The Beginning”

Mark 1:1-8

December 4, 2011/Second Sunday of Advent

“In the beginning

There was the cold and the night
Prophets and angels gave us the fire and the light
Man was triumphant
Armed with the faith and the will
Even the darkest ages couldn't kill”[1]

            This is the beginning of a song by Billy Joel called 2000 Years.  I thought I knew most of Joel’s work until a friend of mine gave this song to me.  When I chose the title for my sermon this week – which is a traumatic experience for me most weeks because I tend to be title impaired – this song kept running through my head.

            So I listened to it several times, and finally Googled the lyrics so I’d get them just right.  I particularly like the line about the prophets and the angels giving us the fire and the light.  I don’t know that Billy Joel was referencing any particular prophet or angel, but certainly the prophets and angels we find in scripture bring fire and light.  Certainly we are in the season of the church year when prophets and angels take on new meaning.

            We’ll be hearing more from angels in a few weeks, but today our words come from prophets.  Specifically we hear the words spoken by God to the prophet Isaiah and from John the Baptizer. 

            I think it’s safe to say that John the Baptist brings a little fire.  Mark’s version of John reads a little less fiery than some of the other gospels.  We don’t get the phrase “brood of vipers” from Mark’s version of John, but I believe that the fiery intent is still there. 

            In fact, in comparison to the other three gospels, Mark’s opening is different all the way around.[2]  One commentator made the statement that he used to think that Mark was lacking in creativity because it started in such a boring kind of way.   “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”  This scholar believed that was a pretty lame way to get started.[3] 

            So let’s think about how the other gospels start the story.  Matthew’s:  “An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham. “  Or Luke’s:  “Since many have undertaken to set down an orderly account of the events that have been fulfilled among us…”  And how can we ever forget the beginning of John’s gospel, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” 

            In comparison, then, I guess Mark’s opening lines do sound a little tame.  But then again, maybe they aren’t.  Mark is the only one of the four gospels that calls itself a gospel.  Mark announces from the very beginning that this work is a gospel.  It is a work of good news about the One who brings good news, the One who is, actually, good news in human form.  Jesus Christ.[4]

            There is no second guessing what Mark is trying to get across here.  Jesus Christ is the Messiah we have been waiting for.  He is the Good News.  He is the Son of God. 

            So in the beginning of the gospel we know exactly who Mark believes Jesus to be, and it is urgent that all those who hear, who read, who listen believe that as well.  As we work our way through this gospel over the next year, we will see that there is an urgency to Mark’s gospel.  He uses the word “immediately” over and over again to show that the events happening with and to and because of Jesus Christ the Son of God were of vital importance and taking place right then in their immediate midst.

            There is an air of expectancy, of great anticipation to Mark’s gospel and that is evident in these opening verses and in the story he tells of John the Baptist. 

            In the beginning is Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  No subtlety, no pretense.  Just what it is.  This is the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

            And true to fashion, Mark doesn’t talk about the birth of Jesus.  There are no mangers or shepherds or heavenly hosts singing alleluias.  He moves right ahead to John the Baptist.  Remember the words of Isaiah?  A messenger who will come from the wilderness?  Crying out to “prepare the way of the Lord”? 

            Well here he is.  John the Baptizer.  John appeared in the wilderness.  John, whose dress and diet were strange.  John, whose message was “Repent.”  John came from the wilderness, just as Isaiah prophesied, and called for repentance in the form of baptism for the forgiveness of sins.  And according to Mark, all the people in the Judean countryside and all of the people from Jerusalem flocked after John, this strange and wild prophet, and followed him to the river Jordan. 

            And while they were gathered around him, waiting for their chance to be baptized, John proclaimed to them, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals.  I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

            Immediate.  Urgent.  This is the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  In the beginning is Jesus Christ.

            Mark doesn’t have time to waste words.  He is writing to and for a people who are under siege.  They were under assault by the Roman army, who were planning to utterly destroy the city of Jerusalem and its temple.  At this time there were two disparate Jewish lines of thought.  One was Zionist.  As they faced the Romans, it was believed that God would intercede on their behalf in the form of military might.  The Romans would be crushed because the Hebrew God was on their side and moving decisively in history.  So the Messiah they longed for would be a mighty warrior. 

            But Mark counters this with another understanding.  God has interjected himself into human history, but it has happened already with the birth of Jesus of Nazareth a generation before the gospel was written.  Most of the people who interacted with Jesus missed what he was there for.  They missed the incarnation of God in their midst.  They missed the point entirely.  

            But Mark is telling them that they have another opportunity, another chance, a new beginning.  At this critical moment, at this turning point with the world and all that they know and understand in peril, they have the ability to look back and see how God has acted in history.  They can repent, just as John the Baptizer called those who gathered around him to do. They can see God in the past and realize that God is also in their present and in their future. 

The Greek word for repent is metanoia which literally means to turn around.  So Mark calls on the people he writes for to do just that.  Turn around.  Turn back to God.  See God.  See God in Jesus Christ.  Because when you can see God in Jesus Christ, you have infinite reason to hope.  God is not far off.  God is right here, with us.  Even though Rome is at the doorstep, God with us is our greatest reason to hope.

And isn’t hope, isn’t expectancy, what Advent is all about?  This isn’t just a time of casual waiting, like we might do waiting to see the dentist.  This is a time of expectant waiting.  It is fervent waiting.  And fervency is at the heart of Mark’s gospel.

You see, just as we talked about the beginning of Mark’s gospel, I think we also have to talk about the ending.  The ending of Mark’s gospel is so controversial, that different, later scribes wrote different endings to try and tie it up neatly.  In my Bible, which is the New Revised Standard Version, the endings are called the shorter and the longer versions.  But here is what is considered to be the original ending. 

“So they (the disciples) went out and fled from the tomb , for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone for they were afraid.”

It’s definitely not a neatly boxed up little ending is it?  But I don’t believe that Mark wanted it to be. I think he wanted it to be put back on the readers’ shoulders figuratively and literally speaking.  The original disciples ran away afraid.  What will you do?

That’s a question that we all must ask isn’t it?  What will we do?  What is our hope?  Do we believe that God is with us, in our past, in our present and in our future?  If so, how are we preparing the way?  What will we do?

It’s on us.   We can run away afraid, telling no one.  Or we can see this Advent as another chance, a new beginning, a time to turn around, to recognize that God continues to do a new thing in our midst.  This is the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  It is our beginning.  What will we do?

I close as I began.  With Billy Joel.

“There will be miracles

After the last war is won

Science and poetry rule in the new world to come

Prophets and angels

Gave us the power to see

What an amazing future there will be

And in the evening

After the fire and the light

One thing is certain: Nothing can hold back the night

Time is relentless

And as the past disappears

We're on the verge of all things new

We are two thousand years.”

Let all God’s children say, “Amen!”

---

[1] Billy Joel, 2000 Years from River of Dreams

[2][2] Karoline Lewis, WorkingPreacher.org

[3] Rolf Jacobson, WorkingPreacher.org

[4] Lamar Williamson, Jr., Interpreter’s Commentary on Mark

A Poem When Prose Won't Work

To Mark

A Street Person

I couldn’t help but notice his hands

They were dirty

But not like the dirty mine get after

digging garden loam or dusting the piano

This grime seemed permanent

dirt molecules bonded to skin cells

no soap could clean completely

nails ringed with black

And the smell of the street rose

from him as the warmth of the church

revealed what the cold outside camouflaged

Stale cigarette smoke mingled with oil fumes and

skin too long without warm water

I leaned in close to hear him

He kept his head turned away

shame or fear or just non-being

I don’t know which but he mumbled

his need and asked if God could help

No answers were forthcoming

but I prayed anyway

Bowing my head as I was

well taught

I couldn’t help but notice

my hands frequently washed

rings adorning both left and right

nails unpolished but with no trace of filth

Small as they have always been

These hands that were always held by stronger, bigger hands

out of protection and love and worry and hope

I couldn’t help but notice

his hands with long tapering fingers

An artist’s hands

Perhaps they could have coaxed

figures out of clay or written poetry

or moved gracefully across

the strings of a guitar

I can’t help but wonder

if someone once held his hands

like mine were held

And if that is true

Why is there a difference now?