Sermon for the Feast of the Annunciation, "Between the Question and the Answer," Luke 1:26-38

I've been meaning to post this sermon for several months now!

Sermon 3/24/26

Luke 1:26-38

Between the Question and the Answer

I’ve been a United Methodist my whole life, and so I can’t say that I have ever celebrated the Feast of the Annunciation before, which is technically tomorrow, March 25th. The small Methodist community of my childhood, ever mindful of doing anything that seemed “too Catholic,” would definitely have been suspicious of a Feast Day focusing on Mary, mother of Jesus. As I was looking at the lectionary readings for this week, though, I noticed the readings for the Feast of the Annunciation tucked in there, and I just couldn’t pass them over. And then when WoMA focused on Mary’s Magnificat for part of their chapel last Tuesday it felt even more “right,” this tugging toward Mary’s story. 

The Feast of the Annunciation is the day that we remember the Angel Gabriel visiting Mary with the news that Mary has been chosen to carry and give birth to God-in-the-flesh, a child who will be named Jesus. In the Roman Rite, the Feast of the Annunciation is a solemnity, a holy day that celebrates a mystery of faith. And indeed, the incarnation of Jesus, and Mary being filled with the Holy Spirit as means of the incarnation - that is full of mystery, isn’t it? The Feast of the Annunciation is celebrated, sensibly, nine months before Christmas - the length of a pregnancy. And so it falls, always, during Lent - only adjusted if it actually falls during Holy Week itself. Today, then, we celebrate the Annunciation - the beginning of the beginning of Jesus’s life - even as next week we will remember his crucifixion. The juxtaposition is a little jarring. 

I, like many of you, am preparing to graduate from Drew this May, but also like many of you, I am not quite there yet. I have a dissertation that’s written, but not yet defended, and a graduation fee that’s been paid for months, but no diploma in my hand. But even though I am not yet finished, and there is no guarantee yet of finishing, I’m planning for, I must plan for, and imagine the future, working on the assumption that there is a “what’s next” after this. I know some of you are in similar situations - making plans for a future that isn’t yet guaranteed, not quite. To draw on President Obama’s language, it is the audacity of hope. 

And I think that’s what celebrating the Annunciation during Lent is like. It’s this audacious, bold hope that is planning on new life that comes after heartache. In the sombre wilderness of Lent, we’re already hearing about the incarnation of God in our midst that is to come. It’s Dean Tanya’s family preparing for new life in their midst even as they are mourning her death. It’s people living under fascist and authoritarian rule planning for a future that’s dependent on the end of oppressive regimes. It’s building for a future that trusts that the present heartache is not endless, not the only thing, and not the last thing. And so, Annunciation. An announcement of good news. This incredible, miraculous, seemingly impossible hope for the future that shows up right in the thick of Lent.    

So, what exactly happens in this annunciation text, an account we find only in Luke’s gospel? God sends the angel Gabriel to deliver a message to Mary, a young women - a virgin, we’re told, who was engaged to a man named Joseph, who was of David’s house, and who was living in Galilee, in Nazareth. Gabriel shows up and says, “Greetings, Mary, favored one” - which literally means one to whom grace has been shown. “God is with you,” Gabriel says. This greeting alone is confounding to Mary, and she ponders the angel's words - which here means that she has a kind of internal debate about them, weighing and measuring these words. Although it would make for some nice symmetry, the word used here is not the same as when Mary is pondering everything that happens with Jesus’s birth in Chapter 2. This pondering is a bit more deliberative, perhaps even more skeptical, or at least uncertain. 

Gabriel, perhaps reading that uncertainty, tries to assure Mary: “Don’t be afraid.” He reiterates that Mary has found favor with God - God’s grace is with her. And then the Big Thing: “You will conceive and bear a son named Jesus, and he will be the Son of God, who will have an eternal claim to the throne of David, and he’ll reign endlessly. 

Mary asks, “How can this be, since I have never had sex?” 

Gabriel responds that the Holy Spirit will come upon her, and she will be “overshadowed” by the power of the Most High - language that we see again during the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountaintop. Mary’s child will be holy. Mary’s child will be God’s son. And, in case that’s not enough, Mary’s relative Elizabeth, an older woman, who was thought to be unable to have children, is pregnant too. Because, as Gabriel concludes, “nothing will be impossible with God.” 

And then Mary says, “Here I am, a slave of God,” language that Mary returns to in Magnificat, when she envisions the systems of domination-upending that God will do through her. “Let things happen to me just as you’ve said.” And Gabriel, satisfied, departs. 

I don’t know about you, but my initial reaction to this text is that I’d have had a few (hundred) more questions than Mary seems to have. She asks one question, which Gabriel answers in weird language. And that’s enough for Mary to respond, “Yes, fine, that works for me.” Uh, what? How about: Why me? How about: What will I tell Joseph? How about: How much trouble will this get me in? How about: What do you mean, God’s child? How about: Will you protect me if I agree to this? How about: so many other questions! 

I’d like to believe that we’re seeing here what we often see in Biblical accounts of conversations. The scriptures have a different sense of time than we do. This conversation seems to take mere seconds as we read it through. But maybe this exchange happens over the course of hours, or days. Maybe Mary’s pondering lasted for some long time, giving her ample time to think it all over. And maybe we’re not seeing here what we regularly don’t see in Biblical conversations: the whole story. So many conversations in the scriptures seem to drop off without resolution, like how on TV shows people never seem to end conversations when they’re on the phone. They don’t say goodbye. They just hang up. So I’d like to believe that Mary really asks every question she has, but that Luke considers all of this uninteresting. All that matters to Luke is that Mary agrees with the plan. 

And no doubt, that’s an important detail. But there are some other parts of this exchange between Gabriel and Mary that interest me too. What I find most interesting is this: Although we don’t hear Gabriel pose God’s plan as a question to Mary - “Would you be ok, Mary, with being overshadowed by the Most High?” - she seems to receive it as one. Mary says “Yes,” and her yes, her consent, implies her understanding that she was being asked, even if everything we read in this story is expressed as a statement of what will assuredly be according to God’s plan. 

Mary says yes - and her yes implies that she could also have said no. And that is so, so important. Because I don’t believe that “God’s will” is something that is supposed to be visited upon us by force, without our consent, without our participation. Rather, I think we do better when we think of “will of God” as God’s dreams, God’s best hope, God’s most creative, inspired plan for what might be, what might become, what might be called forth if we, God’s partners, God’s co-creators, you and me - if we say yes to God’s imagination. I like all of those images better than “God’s will,” which makes God a dictator, and us passive recipients. Mary did not hear Gabriel’s announcement passively. Indeed, many biblical figures do not. Jesus does not. Mary listens, ponders, and decides that she can see God’s vision, can see that saying yes will lead to the liberative work she proclaims just verses after our text in the Magnificat. 

Mary could have said no, I think. And thinking about that made me wonder - maybe there were others who were visited by Gabriel who did say no. Maybe Mary was not the first. Maybe she was just the first to say yes.  

We do not have to say yes to the potential futures God lays before us. God’s will - if we must call it that - isn’t coercive. We can say, “I just can’t imagine that future right now, I’m sorry.” And I think that’s ok - truly. I don’t think God punishes us for not being ready, for not embracing God’s dream. Sometimes, we are not ready. Sometimes, we have a different vision to offer to God. Sometimes, we need to do some more healing, or more growing first. Sometimes, we need to ask a lot of questions before we’ll be ready to say yes. And sometimes, we just can’t grasp, yet, the new life that’s coming beyond the Good Friday that looms large before us. We can say “Take this cup from me.” We can say no. Or not now. 

But I do think we miss out, then, on being part of the impossible becoming possible. Saying “yes” is like imagining, even in the midst of our worst grief, that there will yet be joy. 

Somehow, Mary could imagine exactly what God was imagining, and ever is imagining: the humbled exalted and the exalted humbled, the hungry filled with good things. Liberation. Justice. Life. She could imagine with God, and so she answered what she knew to be an invitation. “Here I am. May it be so.” 

In these days of Lent, in these quickly waning days of another semester, in these days where we can barely stand to look at the news, in these days when our community is in mourning, in these days when it seems that less and less is possible for our planetary future, in these days when it sometimes feels as if evil will prevail… in these days, can you imagine - will you imagine - will you cultivate your imagination - will you listen to what God is imagining - what comes after this grief? 

Amen.

Sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, Year C, "Raise Your Heads," Luke 21:25-36

Sermon 12/1/2024

Luke 21:25-36

Raise Your Heads

Last Sunday, I was guest preaching at a church in New Jersey, and my text was one of the classic lectionary texts for Thanksgiving Sunday - the text from Matthew’s gospel, from Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount where he talks about how we should not worry, but instead strive after bringing about the reign of God on earth here and now, trusting in God’s love and care for us, trusting in how deeply God treasures and values us. It’s a bit jarring, then, to switch from that to this text for the first Sunday in Advent. The same Jesus who tells us not to worry also tells us that the sun and moon and stars will be giving us signs that cause distress on earth and the roaring of the seas. He talks about people fainting from their fear and anxiety about what is going to happen. He talks about how we should “be on guard” so that we’re not caught unaware when Christ returns, as if we’ve been snared in a trap. Instead, we have to “be alert at all times” so that we have strength to escape all the terrors foretold, ready to stand confidently before Christ. Oof. Hearing his words in this week’s text, it’s harder to hold on to Jesus’s “do not worry,” when in fact, it seems we very much should be anxious. 

And it indeed, it is hard not to be anxious, isn’t it? I’ve had this image stuck in my head: When I drive to Syracuse, where my Mom lives, from New Jersey, where I study and teach, I drive through the Poconos Mountain region. It’s the place where I first glimpse the colors of falls - the foliage in the region is stunning. And it’s also the region where I’m mostly likely to hit snowy weather in winter. With the increase in elevation, it’s usually significantly colder in the area. My trip this week was no different - it wasn’t snowing, but there was snow on the ground, something we still haven’t seen yet in New Jersey this season. And I noticed another thing - there were so many trees that were bent over, practically leaning into the road. I’m not sure what happened - but they looked like they’d been bowed by a heavy weight - a big snowfall? Ice storm? I’m not sure. But there were dozens of trees along my drive that looked like they might never stand tall again. And there was just something about that image that caught my attention: how weighed down those trees seemed. The load they had been asked to hold was too much, and they looked drooping and defeated. 

And I couldn’t help but resonate with them a bit! Maybe you can too. There’s a lot that can be weighing us down as we look at the world around us. I’ve been weighed down by the election cycle and its results and potential consequences, especially for some of the most vulnerable people in my life. There are wars and violent, devastating, indiscriminate loss of life that fill our news everyday and leave us feeling helpless. Perhaps we enjoy less snow to shovel, but we can’t help but have climate change niggling at the back of our mind, reminding us of the price we pay. People have been struggling financially, and the gap between rich and poor is ever growing, both in the US and globally. And none of this speaks to the personal crises we might be wrestling with - illness, anxiety, broken relationships, relentless work and family expectations. Weighed down. I relate to those trees!

And so what do we do with a text like this, at the beginning of Advent when we could use some baby Jesus, prince of peace, but all Matthew has for us is grown up Jesus, full of dire warnings? 

This scripture passage belongs to a genre of biblical writing called apocalyptic literature, along with some parts of the book of Daniel, snippets from the prophets like Ezekiel and Zechariah, a stray passage in 2 Thessalonians, a few passages in the gospels, and of course the Book of Revelation. When we hear the word “apocalypse,” we think “end of the world,” and with good reason - apocalyptic texts are full of dramatic, world-changing imagery. But the word apocalypse actually means “uncovering” or “unveiling” - it’s a “revealing” - that’s why the book of Revelation has that name - its Greek name is apocalypsis - the revelation - the uncovering. But what, exactly, do apocalyptic texts reveal? 

When I was a child, my mother encouraged me to read my Bible daily, and since I was an obedient child, I did just that - read the Bible cover to cover. I didn’t understand it all, of course, but it shaped my faith deeply and stayed with me. But she told me I shouldn’t read the Book of Revelation - it was too scary, too grown up, too hard to understand, and would just leave me too worried. But in this, I disobeyed. I knew its reputation - that it was about the “end of the world” - and I was curious. I wanted to know - how will it end? And so I read. There was a lot that I didn’t understand of course. Still don’t - the book is highly symbolic, and has been interpreted and interpreted, but of course, we can’t know what was in the mind of its author. But what I did understand was the message that I thought seemed pretty clear: If you are faithful, you don’t have to worry. Everything works out well for the faithful followers of Jesus. Eventually, when I studied Revelation as an adult, I learned that my childish take away held up - Revelation seems to be about encouraging the early Christians to remain firm in their faith despite the persecution they were facing from the Roman government. It’s a dramatic book meant to give hope more than it is meant to scare and alarm. 

What if, when we read apocalyptic passages in the Bible, we can interpret them with that lens, with those assumptions about their intent and purpose. Even though the imagery can be overwhelming or frightening, apocalyptic texts are trying to comfort us, not alarm us. They’re trying to bring us hope. And in Jesus’s case, I think he’s trying to remind us: God is coming. That’s not meant to be a threat - not when we’re trying to be faithful followers of God and God’s way. It’s meant to be a promise in which we can put our hope and trust. God has, and is, and will be among us and working among us. 

Look back with me at some of the details of the text, and read them again. Jesus says that when these distressing signs of trouble take place, his followers should “stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” To be redeemed is to be saved. Now, to be “saved” is certainly a loaded theological word, but in context here, we can at least understand that to be redeemed or saved is a desirable outcome. Just when things are seeming particularly ominous, Jesus says, lift up your heads: redemption is coming. 

Next, Jesus talks about fig trees. You know, he says, when the trees are about to blossom. There are so many signs that summer is on its way, and you can tell when the trees are ready to blossom. You’ll also know, he says, when the kin-dom of God, God’s reign on earth, is on its way and soon to arrive. You’ll see signs. God’s reign, God’s way, on earth as in heaven. You’ll see glimpses of the fulfillment of those promises all around you. 

And finally, when Jesus is talking about traps and escape, what he says more specifically is that the way we prepare is this: “‘Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life.” Jesus is again telling us that it is worry that can make it hard to draw close to God. He’s not asking us to be worried about the future. He’s telling us that the more we can seek not to be overwhelmed by this life, but instead trusting that God’s reign, and God’s way, is drawing near, the more ready we will be for its arrival. 

I’m not trying to convince you that apocalyptic language isn’t over the top, or attention-grabbing. It is meant to be! It is extreme imagery for extreme world circumstances. The early Christians, living under occupation, facing threats to their existence, facing obstacles from following Jesus: it felt like their world was ending. And it was, in many ways. The world they knew was changing rapidly. There were threats to Judaism and Christianity, persecution, wars, turnovers in leadership and policies from the ruling Roman Empire, and then, just a few centuries later, the seemingly eternal Roman Empire was toppled, a future that I’m sure none in Jesus’s day could even imagine. And in the midst of that, words like Jesus offer promises. The world is ending - the world we know. Things are changing. But they have to - for unjust systems to be dismantled the world we know has to end. For a world that’s guided by God’s way and God’s reign, the current powers-that-be must be overthrown. For the long arc of the universe to find its way to justice and righteousness, we should be on the lookout for the sign of things bending towards hope. 

I think of those trees, bent and drooping, weighed down, on my drive home. Eventually, they’ll stand tall again. Eventually, they will bud and blossom. Eventually, winter gives way to spring, and signs of new life abound. As we wait, as we long, as we hope in this Advent season, let us wait with confidence in the promises, not the threats, that Jesus shares. Raise your heads. The day of redemption is coming. That’s a promise. Amen. 

Sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost, Year C, "Set," Luke 9:51-62 (Proper 8C, Ordinary 13C)

Sermon 6/26/22

Luke 9:51-62

Set

I have to confess that my working title for this sermon was “Oof.” “Oof,” because that’s what I thought when I read this text from Luke’s gospel. Oof - Jesus has some hard words for us. Not hard to understand, exactly, although I never want to assume I know exactly what Jesus means. But hard as in demanding, full of expectation. Jesus lays out some challenges for “would-be disciples,” - that’s what my bible titles this section of scripture - and he doesn’t really mince words here. In our closing verse, Jesus says, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” Oof. Am I fit for God’s reign? I’m not sure. Oof - my first response. Eventually, I had some more to say and to think about, but if your first response to hearing Jesus’ words today is “Oof” or something similar - I’m with you!

The start of our text today, the first line, actually represents a shift in the whole of the gospel of Luke. “When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” From this point on in the gospel of Luke, Jesus’ ministry moves from a focus on his time and teaching in Galilee to a narrative that is on the move. Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. It will take him the next ten chapters of Luke to get there, arriving with the scene we hear on Palm Sunday - Jesus’ triumphant entry, followed quickly by the passion - his arrest, trial, death - and resurrection. That journey starts here, with this odd phrase, “he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” It implies a resoluteness, a determinedness to his journey. (1) 

The first stop on Jesus’ journey is a Samaritan town where he is not welcomed. Luke says Jesus isn’t welcomed because his face is set toward Jerusalem, although we get no more explanation on that. James and John are upset, though, reacting with their usual - lack of attunement to Jesus’ style, offering to command fire and destruction on the town. Jesus rebukes them, and they move on. Then we’re treated to several quick vignettes as Jesus continues traveling. Three times, someone approaches Jesus or Jesus approaches someone with a claim of discipleship. “I will follow you,” two of them say. “Follow me,” Jesus calls to another. But in all three situations, despite claiming to commit to discipleship, there is some barrier, or something else that must happen first. Jesus seems to warn the first that discipleship is always on the move - not for those looking for comfort and stability. The second wants to bury their father before following Jesus - a request Jesus dismisses, directing the person to go, right away, and start proclaiming God’s reign, God’s way. The third wants to say some goodbyes before following Jesus, but Jesus says that starting to plow a field and then looking back makes one unfit for the task (these pieces of farm equipment in Jesus’ day required your total attention to work properly. (2)) He implies that anyone wanting to be a disciple who looks “back” in any way is unfit for work with God. 

All in all, frankly, it is a discouraging set of interactions for those of us who are trying to follow Jesus. How could any of us call ourselves “fit” for God’s reign, fit to truly call ourselves disciples? Jesus doesn’t seem to leave us any space for any excuses, for anything else to have a claim on us, for any preparation. He wants it all, and all right now - and I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’m “fit” by Jesus’ standards. So I wonder: Does Jesus really mean what he says? Why is he being so harsh here? After all, Jesus says he has no place to lay his head, and Jesus may not have had a permanent residence, but he did have a family home, and he did have friends and others with whom he would stay while on the road. And while Jesus speaks harshly to the one who wanted to bury his father, Jesus himself spent time mourning and weeping for his own friend Lazarus before he raised him from the dead. And while Jesus certainly never seems to turn back from his purpose, his mission, his disciples certainly seem to engage in the “two steps forward, one step back” approach to faith. They exasperate Jesus I bet, but he seems to have hope that they might yet be fit for the kingdom of God. So what exactly is Jesus saying? And who can follow Jesus if it is this hard? 

I return to the unique language that sets the tone for the shift that happens in this passage, that marks that Jesus is now heading toward Jerusalem. His face is “set.” We hear that language twice in the first three verses. Jesus is resolute in his focus. The wording suggests he is unwavering - he is going to Jerusalem, and nothing will dissuade him from his intent. 

Jesus’ resoluteness brings a few things to mind. There is a person in my life who loves to give you updates on her family, her children in particular. That’s no unique thing in itself. But what sets her apart is her determinedness to tell you stories about her children no matter what may be happening around you. You may be at a party or an event or with others who are also trying to get your attention; it may be difficult to hear; it may be inconvenient in your setting to listen to an extended story; no matter - she will tell you detailed stories about what her kids have been doing. She is set, resolute in her purpose. Nothing will sway her from her task. 

I think about my dear friend who had a vision for her life. She decided, in her organized, planning sort of way, that she wanted to be married and to have children. So she went on a dating site, and met a man. They hit it off. She had a timeline in her mind for when she wanted to be engaged to him - and indeed, her timeline was met. She decided she wanted two children two years about, and indeed, her two daughters were born nearly exactly two years apart. She had this vision for her life and she was set, resolute in her purpose. I still tease her about how she somehow managed to will this all into being. 

I think about dancers - when they do turns - pirouettes and the like - they use a technique called spotting that you start learning about as a young, new dancer. You fix your eyes on a spot, and then you try to keep your eyes on that spot, coming back to that spot everytime you turn. Returning your eyes to that spot is what keeps you centered, what keeps you from getting dizzy even though you’re spinning and spinning. Dancers are set in their focus. 

I think about Olympians, how determined they are to reach the top of their field. How they train, and train, and train, and compete, and compete, and relentlessly pursue their goal - the gold. Resolute in their purpose. 

Jesus is set in his purpose. Resolute - times 1000. He is headed to Jerusalem. He knows that danger awaits him there, but he also knows that his purpose - announcing that God’s reign, God’s way is at hand for us to claim and live into right now - his purpose requires that he go to Jerusalem, and announce this good news even to the religious leaders who will seek to end his life because of the way he threatens their authority. He’s determined. Nothing can dissuade him from carrying out his purpose, from fully embodying God’s unconditional love for us, from proclaiming the good news in a way that will ensure that everyone hears the message. 

What about us? Are we “set”? I think that’s what Jesus is really getting at in the exchanges with these “would-be followers” of Jesus. How resolute are we in our purpose? I specifically notice that two of the “would-be” followers use similar language with Jesus: They say, “I want to follow you, but first, let me do this other thing.” They have something else that they want to put first, and then they will be set in their discipleship. God wants us to have full, abundant lives. Jesus tells us he comes that we might have just that. But God wants to be first with us. Jesus wants our discipleship to be our first priority. God is longing for us to put our relationship with God first, to pursue a closer relationship with God with resoluteness, with our faces set on God. Are our faces set? What is important enough to you that you would set your face resolutely on that purpose?

Jesus has some challenging words for us. Maybe even overwhelming. Maybe you’re feeling the “oof” that was almost my sermon title. But of course, right after this scene, Jesus sends out 70 disciples, giving them a mission to announce the good news, to share with him in his work and purpose. They weren’t always successful at keeping their face set in the direction of Jesus. They still got it wrong, so wrong, so many times. And they were still disciples, loved and treasured by Jesus. Jesus expects a lot from us. But thanks be to God, Jesus gives us so much more. 

And so Jesus invites us, again and again, to join him. Maybe we’ve never been ready to set our face on God and God’s purposes. Maybe we had our faces set, responding to God’s call, but we got knocked off balance, were distracted by the many other things clamoring for our attention. Maybe we had our faces set on something else, and weren’t ready to put God first. We’re invited again, here and now: Jesus wants our all, our first commitment, our whole hearts, our faces set on discipleship. And when we fail, Jesus invites us again, as we learn to set our eyes resolutely on God, our feet on God’s path. Because Jesus’s face is set, without wavering, on a mission of good news that includes us. Thanks be to God. Amen.  

(1) Brown, Jeannine K. “Commentary on Luke 9:51-62.” The Working Preacher. https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-13-3/commentary-on-luke-951-62-8

(2) Haslam, Chris. “Comments.”  http://montreal.anglican.org/comments/cpr13m.shtml

Sermon for Christmas Eve, "The Irrational Season," Luke 2:1-20

Sermon 12/24/21

Luke 2:1-20

The Irrational Season

One of my roles as a doctoral student at Drew Theological School is serving as the Chapel Graduate Assistant. I assist in crafting the liturgies for the worship services, coordinate guest preachers, prepare the worship space and slides for the screens, and so on. It’s a really great outlet for me since I’m not serving as pastor of a local church anymore while I’m in school to do some of the ministry tasks I love, like planning and leading in worship. Our last service of the semester was a service of Advent lessons and carols, and we alternated scripture readings, poems, and musical selections. We started the service with a very brief poem by Madeleine L’Engle called “After Annunciation.” 

“This is the irrational season

when love blooms bright and wild.

Had Mary been filled with reason

there’d have been no room for the child.” 

When we read the poem, it got a chuckle - no doubt the congregation thinking about children, and the fact that they bring both joy and chaos, and no matter how parents and doting family members prepare for the arrival of children in their lives, thinking you can be “ready”, really and truly “prepared” for the arrival of someone as unpredictable as children are is indeed just that - irrational. And so everyone chuckled knowingly. “Reason” and “children” don’t always go together. 

But I think this little verse is also quite deep. “This is the irrational season, when love blooms bright and wild. Had Mary been filled with reason, there’d have been no room for the child.” What’s so irrational about the Christmas story? I’ve been thinking about all the aspects of the telling of Jesus’ birth that we might call irrational. L’Engle’s poem reflects on the annunciation, the act of the angel Gabriel, God’s messenger, telling Mary that she would give birth to the Christ Child. That happens in Luke 1, before the nativity story we read from Luke 2 tonight. Everytime I read about Mary hearing the shocking news of her own pregnancy, I’m amazed at how she reacts. She asks just one question - how can this be? And then she response to God saying, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” I would have asked a million questions. Why me? Why now? Is this for real? What if I can’t do this? What if people don’t believe me when I try to explain? Won’t I be at risk? Isn’t there a better way? Wouldn’t it have been more sensible, more rational to ask questions? To get the details? To ask what God was thinking? Aren’t God’s expectations of Mary unreasonable? Isn’t her response unreasonable? 

And then there’s Joseph. Joseph’s story features mostly in Matthew’s gospel. Does he act rationally? Reasonably? He does at first. When he finds out Mary is pregnant, and he knows he isn’t the father, he resolves to quietly part ways with Mary. That’s a sensible course of action. But Joseph starts to get visits from God’s messengers in his dreams, convincing him that Mary’s child is of God, and that he should stay with Mary despite what people will think. And Joseph does. Aren’t God’s expectations of Joseph - that he’ll just mold his life around Mary’s and this child who doesn’t quite belong to him - unreasonable? 

Of course, the most irrational of all in the Christmas story is God, who acts in all sorts of unreasonable, unpredictable ways. God chooses Mary, a common young Jewish woman who doesn’t particularly stand out in any way. God comes in human form in a way that’s likely to make people doubt Mary, doubt Joseph, and disbelieve that Jesus is God in the flesh. God makes a big heavenly dazzling announcement about Jesus’ birth - but this heavenly dazzling announcement, a glorious display of heavenly messengers filling the skies - goes to a bunch of shepherds, people on the fringes of society, hanging out with animals, not other people. Jesus’s birth isn’t announced to anyone who might be described as influential. Jesus is instead born where there seems to be no room for him, where no one is likely to notice. Indeed, Christmas is the irrational season because God seems to act so irrationally in entering the world in human form. Yet, this is the irrational season when love blooms bright and wild, and God is determined that we find room for the child. God’s love for the world - for me and for you - is bright and wild, irrepressible, and so here God comes, in unreasonable ways, tucking into unexpected places even when it seems like there is no room for God in all the places you’d think to look first. 

In response to this good news, this great joy, this very irrational story that has gifted us with bright and wild and blooming love, how shall we respond? What is our call, if we are to be Christmas people? As the poem suggests, I think we’re meant to imitate Mary, and figure out what unreasonable responses the gospel story, the birth of Christ, calls us to make. I think for us to make room for the Christ child, God calls us to do some irrational things. What do I mean?

The first response that popped into my head is thinking about my irrational mother! My mom lives in a small two bedroom apartment. Most of the time, it is just the right size for her. She’s got a bedroom, and there’s a guest bedroom for when her children or grandchildren are visiting. But right now, I’m staying with her for a month while I’m on break from school. And my roommate came to spend Christmas week with us. And my brother is about to arrive, visiting from Illinois. And another brother is coming to stay for a few days because he doesn’t want to miss out on seeing everyone else. And so my mother has carefully arranged how to make everyone fit with air mattresses and rollaway beds and doubling up in rooms and napping on couches and piling suitcases into corners. And it is chaotic, and occasionally claustrophobic. And nothing brings out our childhood sibling squabbles like cramming us into a small space together for a week. And my mother loves every second of it, because her heart is full of love and joy in this season and she will always make sure there is room. There’s room for everyone in her home, and making sure we know there’s room is a priority for her. I wonder how I can take that spirit, her irrational spirit, how we can take Mary’s irrational spirit, God’s irrational unreasonable way of loving extravagantly, and embody it in our own lives. 

I think we act “irrationally” and “unreasonably,” at least according to the world’s measure, when we say yes, as Mary did, to God’s requests, even when what God is asking seems impossible. What has God been challenging you to do that seems impossible? What if you said yes? 

What if we acted like the angels, and carried messages of God’s grace, of hope, and of joy to the world. What unsuspecting people are longing and needing a message like the angels delivered? How can we work for peace in a world where peace seems so far off, like an irrational dream that can never be attained? 

What if we tried to live in lives patterned after God, in whose image we are created? We’d focus our attention not on the privileged and elite, but on the marginalized, those pushed to the fringes. We’d visit our contemporary equivalents of fields of shepherds and animal stables instead of places of wealth and status, and burst forth with pronouncements of divine favor. 

What if we’re irrational like Joseph, and humbly take our place as supporters of those we see taking big risks for God, even when it means we’re not the starring player, and even when no one else will lend support? 

When we commit to peace in a world of violence, when we reject the typical ways of measuring success, when we love in the face of hatred, and we love without condition, when we listen for God’s calling voice, and try our best to answer with our whole hearts, no matter what risks God is asking us to take - we are embodying this irrational season, making room for the child, and letting love, wild and bright, take root in our lives. Friends, my prayer for you this Christmas is that you may remember that this is an irrational season. To receive this gift of God with us, to make room for the child, we might need to be a little unreasonable. Instead of being reasonable this season, let’s be hopeful, and faithful. Let’s be joyful peacemakers. Let’s be irrational, extravagant, unconditional givers of love, and may that love, the love of God, bloom bright and wild in our world, in our hearts. Amen. 

Sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas Day, Year B, "After Christmas Morning," Luke 2:22-40

 Sermon 12/27/20

Luke 2:22-40

After Christmas Morning

Here’s a confession for you: As far as I can tell, I actually haven’t preached on this text, this story of Simeon and Anna meeting the baby Jesus, a text that appears in the lectionary once every three years, since before I was a pastor. I preached on it last in 2002, when I was a guest preacher at my childhood church, filling in for the pastor on the Sunday after Christmas. It’s not that I don’t like this passage of scripture. It’s just that it always appears on the first Sunday after Christmas day, and even though I might be in worship on the Sunday after Christmas with my congregation, I hardly ever preach. Instead, I usually do hymn stories about Christmas carols, or read several Christmas poems, or something else that requires a little less preparation on my part, a little gift to myself after making it through however many Christmas Eve services I’ve had during the week. Honestly, I also kind of consider it a gift to my congregation - a Sunday of worship without a sermon - because the Sunday after Christmas Day tends to be a little lighter in attendance - people are traveling and tired - and I figure those who do show up the Sunday after Christmas get the treat of indulging in extra carol-singing without taxing their minds on listening to a sermon. (No such luck for you today, friends!) 

But I also think that there’s a very real sense, as soon as December 25th draws to a close, that Christmas is “over,” and I think many people are just fine with that idea. People seem ready to move on as soon as all the presents are opened. They’re ready to clean up the decorations and straighten up the house and pack everything away and start to try to figure out just how many pounds they gained in eating Christmas cookies and looking forward to trying New Year’s resolutions one more time, and this year, especially, I think people are really really ready to leave calendar year 2020 in the past, and flip to 2021 and the hope of better things to come. And I get that - I can relate to some of those feelings. Can you? 

But aside from the fact that the liturgical season of Christmas only begins on December 25th, and ends on January 5th, the day before Epiphany, that December 25th-January 5th are the true twelve days of Christmas - aside from that, I’m more interested in the fact that it seems like we put so much energy in getting to our destination - destination Christmas - carefully planning and preparing, waiting and longing all throughout Advent - that we forget to think about what happens when we arrive. What happens when we’ve made it to Christmas Day, and we celebrate Jesus being born into our hearts and lives and world once again. We’re here! Now what? It make me think about my journey to ordination - my call to ministry story, and all the years it took from first thinking God was calling me to be a pastor to actually being ordained in The United Methodist Church. It took about 9 years, start to finish. And getting through all those steps to be ordained was my focus for so long. It was special journey in my life, meaningful and challenging, and I did it! But somewhere along the way, I forgot to think about what would happen when I arrived at my “destination” of ordination. I believe God’s call on our lives is always ongoing - it doesn’t end. But I had been treating my ordination like an ending in my mind, instead of the beginning of whatever God had been preparing me for. 

I wonder - have we been doing the same thing with Christmas and Jesus? We spent a lot of time getting ready for Jesus to arrive as the Christ Child once again - and now he’s here! Glory to God! But I wonder if we’re not so fixed on the excitement of having reached the “destination” of Christmas that we forget to pay attention to the Christ-child who is here, among us. I wonder if we’re not ready already to check “done” on our to do list next to “Christmas 2020,” without figuring out what it means now that Jesus isn’t just coming, but arrived.  And so I’m glad we have this opportunity today to explore the story of Simeon and Anna. After all, the text we read from today is still part of the birth story of Jesus, taking place just a short period after Jesus’ birth, taking place, actually, before the Magi are thought to have visited the by-then-toddler Jesus. 

This text, known as the Presentation of Jesus, is thought to take place 40 days after Jesus’ birth. In accordance with the law of Moses, Mary and Joseph take Jesus to Jerusalem to be presented and to offer a sacrifice to God in thanksgiving. Luke lets us know that Mary and Joseph are poor - something we can conclude by the sacrifice he says they bring - turtledoves or pigeons. In Jerusalem, they meet Simeon and Anna. Simeon, we’re told, had learned by the Holy Spirit that he would see the promised Messiah before he died. And the Spirit guides him to the temple when Jesus’ parents bring him for presentation, revealing Jesus to be the one he’s waited for. For Simeon, Jesus is the end of his waiting, but the beginning of God’s plan of salvation. In Jesus, Simeon says, we have a light not just for Israel, but for all people. Simeon tells Mary that Jesus will bring about the falling and rising of many in Israel. Jesus will reveal the inner thoughts of people’s hearts. And Jesus will bring Mary soul-piercing grief. I wonder how Mary and Joseph processed his words? I’m sure they thought back on them years later, as Jesus’ ministry, death, and resurrection unfolded. We read, too, of Anna - she’s called a prophet. She’s an elderly widow, and she stays at the temple, worshiping, fasting, and praying. When she sees Jesus, she praises God. She tells everyone about him, especially those who are longing for the redemption of God’s people - because that’s what she sees in Jesus: God’s redemption. Finally, Luke tells us, the Holy Family returns home to Nazareth. And Jesus, we read, grows strong, is filled with wisdom, and has God’s favor - God’s grace and love - resting upon him.

We hear how Simeon and Anna react when they finally meet the longed-for Jesus. For them, it is a destination reached, absolutely. But it is also a beginning, a turning point. God is here in the flesh - and that’s not the conclusion - that’s the launching point for God’s plan of redemption, for bringing people back into right relationship with God and one another, for enacting God’s vision of love and justice for the world. It’s the beginning for Jesus, who will grow in strength, wisdom, and love, preparing to pour out his whole life for us, that we might understand God’s commitment to being in relationship with each one of us. 

How about for us, friends? Now that we’ve finally seen Jesus, what do we have to say to him? What have you been longing to say to Jesus? What have you been waiting to tell him? And what will you do because he’s here? And how will you make sure that Jesus’ birth isn’t just a completed task that you’ve checked off your list, but the life-changing, world-changing event it really is? The Christ Child is here! What will we do because of God-with-us?  

As I reflect on Simeon and Anna meeting Jesus, I’ve been thinking about what I have to say to Jesus this Christmas: 

Jesus, I am so thankful you are here, because it feels like we need you now more than ever.  

Jesus, this year has been so challenging in so many ways. But in you, there is such hope for the future. Help me to live into the life of discipleship you’ll model for us. 

Welcome, Jesus, our true peace. Help me to be a messenger of peace.

Jesus, I think you arrive to set us right in our relationship with God and one another. Sometimes I’m more interested in being set right with God, but not so much with other people. Help me. And sometimes, I’m interested in being set right with God, but only if it is easy. Help me. 

Jesus, I think you change our world. And sometimes I want that. But sometimes I want everything to just stay the same too. Help me take risks, by your side. 

Jesus, even in the act of your birth, you were breaking down barriers, smashing expectations, and speaking truth to power. Help me be less afraid of speaking up and speaking out in your name. 

Friends, Christmas Day 2020 may already be behind us. But a child has been born to us, to the world. We’ve been expecting this Christ-child - and now this child, Jesus, the Christ, is looking expectantly back at us. What will we say? What will we do? For our eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation, and glory for your people. Thanks be to God. Amen.