Holy Child, Holy Humanity

A sermon by Rev. Angela Yarber | First Sunday after Christmas Day | December 28, 2008

Text: Luke 2: 22-40

I’d like to begin my sermon today with a question—a big, deep, existential, theological question. I’m sure it’s a question many of you are also asking, a question that grips us to our core this time of year. The question is: Should I take down my Christmas tree today or wait until New Years Day? Why not sometime in between, you may wonder? Well, you see, I have company coming in town tomorrow and they leave on New Years Day. So the question is: Do I leave the 7 feet of artificial glory, bejeweled in far too many ballerina ornaments up for them to enjoy, too…or do I take it down, thus leaving more room for my guests in my tiny apartment, after coming home from church today? And if I take it down today, should I also take down all the other remnants of Christmas decor: holiday hand-towels, Christmas photos and candles, stockings? These are tough decisions that should not be taken lightly.

Christmas day was only 3 days ago. The gifts have been unwrapped, leftovers are in the refrigerator, family has traveled back home, and that tree still lingers in the living room, waiting to be taken down, undecorated, recycled or stored. All that remains is you in your home amidst the crumpled wrapping paper, pine needs on the carpet in need of vacuuming, and overwhelmingly fulfilled expectation and longing. The period of waiting—Advent—is over, the prophecy fulfilled and fulfilling. The twelve days of Christmas indeed. It’s only day three. The carols are no longer playing on the radio and we’re busy making our plans for New Year’s Eve. What’s a preacher to say on the Sunday following Christmas? It is the first Sunday in the Christmas season, after all. I must say that I flipped through every book of sermons I have and not one, not one, offered a sermon for the Sunday following Christmas (not that I would have preached someone else’s sermon…I was just looking for ideas). There were plenty of sermons to read during Advent or Christmas mass or Epiphany, but the Sunday following Christmas, the first Sunday of the Christmas season—I don’t think so.

So, let’s switch gears for a moment—to the birth of a newborn baby; that is why we celebrate Christmas, after all. The baby was born, the mother has left the hospital, or manger as it were, the parents, midwives, or nurses have wrapped the baby in swaddling cloths. Photos were taken on everyone’s camera phones. Grandparents and friends have visited. The baby showers have been thrown. The baby was brought gifts: teddy bears, frankincense, balloons, myrrh, blankets, and gold. The newborn now sleeps peacefully in a carefully prepared nursery under a baby mobile of smiling clowns that spins and plays a lullaby…or under a blanket of stars in the night sky depending on the context, I suppose. Friends and family have brought the hopeful and overwhelmed new parents casseroles, food, extra diapers, and lots of hugs. And now they’ve headed home and the parents and the new born baby are the only ones left amidst the leftovers, unwrapped gifts, and overwhelmingly fulfilled expectation and longing. And then what happens? What happens—mothers, parents—after the birth of a new baby? After the celebration? After the grandparents have visited? After everyone has oogled and awed over this newborn bundle of joy that is now crying and sleeping and pooping and eating and smiling and cuddling in your tired arms? I’m not a parent, so you tell me. What happens?

My mother told me this is when you help another begin the journey of life, when you “raise your kids.” On Christmas, I spent the day with my family at my grandfather’s farm in Newnan, GA. And my one cousin was there with her baby, Brayden. He was born less than a month after a grandmother passed in April. And I asked my cousin, whose birth I witnessed, this very question, “what happens after the birth?” She told me she’s still trying to figure that out. And I wonder: Is this when reality sets in? When parents begin to ask: how am I going to balance my job with my baby? How am I going to get any sleep? What have I gotten myself into? How can something so beautiful and tiny make so much noise and so much stink? We’re still trying to figure that out.

What happens After we’ve celebrated…

How are we going to eat all these leftovers in the refrigerator? Who can we give all these fruitcakes to? Shall we brave the stores and return our unwanted gifts now? Can I lose these extra pounds I gained from eating so many holiday goodies? Have I remembered to send everyone a thank you card? Who’s going to climb up on the roof and take down all those lights?

Reality sets in. The period of waiting is over. Gestation has ceased. The prophecy has been fulfilled. Hope has been realized. We’ve had the party. We’ve sung the songs. We’ve eaten the food. We’ve ooood and awed. Now what?

The Gospel of Luke, which I read earlier, offers us some words of wisdom for what to do after this period of eager expectation. Let me tell what I hear from Luke and offer my stretching interpretation. Luke tells us:

“Every first born son will be designated as holy for the Lord.”
“My eyes have seen your salvation,” Simeon proclaims.
“The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom”
And also from Galations, which Jodie read earlier:
“You are a child and also an heir through God.”

These are the words and phrases that stand out to me. And I might add:
Every child is designated as holy for the Lord. When we look into the eyes of a child, into the eyes of another person, we can see our salvation. It is our responsibility to help all children, all people, grow and become strong and filled with wisdom. You are God’s child and heir. All humanity, each person, is God’s child and heir and deserves to be treated as such. Whether this person is black or white or Asian or Latina, has a college degree or not, is heterosexual or homosexual, speaks the same language you do, is rich or poor or somewhere in between, each person is just as much a child of God as you and I, just as much a child of God as the little baby whose birth we celebrate at this time each year. Look into the eyes of humanity and behold the face of God; witness the birth of Christ in the miracle of birth that is each little baby.

On Christmas morning, not only was a holy child born, but humanity was made holy. We celebrate the birth of the son of God. True. But we also celebrate the way in which each person is a child of God. God becomes incarnate, not only in the little baby Jesus, but in all humanity, actualizing divinity in flesh. Look into the eyes of another and see your salvation. Love a child and see Christ in his or her eyes. As the stunning musical Les Mis declares, “To truly love another is to see the face of God.”

And I say all these things—these abstract concepts of love and compassion—following the celebration of Christmas, the celebration of Christ’s birth, God with us, Emmanuel. And as I say all these things and speak of the virtues of loving humanity and treating all people as children of God, I cannot help but think of another celebration on the calendar, though not on the “liturgical” year that we follow in the church. And that is the celebration of New Years. And with New Years comes New Year’s resolutions. I wonder how many of us will vow to the classic, “eat healthier and exercise more.” A few years ago, I decided that my unfulfilled New Year’s resolutions made me feel unnecessarily guilty when I “fell short.” So, rather than making a resolution to “run every day” or “give up my beloved chocolate,” I decided to make a positive and fun resolution. I resolved to go to the beach at least 10 separate times in 2006 because going to the beach makes me really happy. Fortunately, 2006 also hosted my move to California, thus making my beach visits more readily available. I digress…

So, perhaps it is with the virtues of love and compassion that we should enter the New Year. Sure, go ahead and resolve to eat healthier, exercise more, quit smoking, save money. Those are all fine and good. But perhaps also, as we enter 2009 as individuals and as a community, we can resolve to see each person we meet as a child of God and no less. We can resolve to treat each and every person as one who is just as valuable as the little baby that we celebrate at Christmas.

And this resolution, this call to “see salvation” in the eyes of another can and must be applied in praxis. It’s good to love others in our hearts and minds, but how can we help others grow and become strong and filled with wisdom if this love is not accompanied by action? How can we grow and become strong and filled with wisdom without action? I’m sure our social-justice oriented congregation has plenty of suggestions for how to put this love into action. ROM (Reaching Out Ministries) may recommend feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, fighting for affordable healthcare for all people. Some of our youth and children may suggest standing up for that kid at school who everyone else makes fun of or who sits alone at lunch. While there is an array of ways to approach this idea of love in action, I’ll simply mention some practical things I’m working on that often go overlooked. For example: Think before you shop or buy. Where does that food come from? Who is making it? Where is it being made or grown? Are the people making it and growing it paid a living wage? Where do those clothes come from that you wear? And I don’t mean Target or Old Navy. I mean: who makes it? What are their working conditions? Are those working conditions just and fair? Advocate for equal rites for all people. Who is allowed to legally marry, vote, receive healthcare, buy a home, receive an education and who is not allowed to do these things? Is this fair? What are you going to do about?

If seeing salvation involves looking in the eyes of another, then we cannot see if our eyes are shut to the injustices that surround us.

So, those leftovers may remain and the tree may still be decorated and you may be a little overwhelmed at this fragile bud of humanity now resting in your arms, but salvation is actualized in your very being. I’m looking into your eyes and seeing the face of God.
My eyes have seen salvation, not just in the Christ child, but in each of you. Go and do likewise. Amen.

Shouts of Joy

A sermon by Greg Ledbetter | December 14, 2008 | Third Sunday in Advent

Text: Psalm 126

I'd like to invite you to get out your Bibles … did anyone bring their own Bible to worship this morning? … Carrie? No? No-one? (in fact, some 5 or 6 folk were actually packin' Bibles—better than I'd guessed.--GHL) … Hmmm … OK, the Bibles are the red books in front of you … that's a Bible … OK, let see if we can find the psalms … they're in the Old Testament … the Hebrew scriptures ... let's find Psalm 126 which Rick read earlier.

Oh, we haven't done this in a very long time. For generations, Baptists have been known as "people of the book". Let's not be strangers to this book.

I want to draw your attention to the first half of this beautiful psalm. One of the better guesses is that this psalm was spoken aloud as the faithful made their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Like the last word in the second line, there is an almost dreamy feel to this first half of the psalm. Perhaps we could read it aloud together:

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
we were like those who dream.
2Then our mouth was filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy;
then it was said among the nations,
'The Lord has done great things for them.'
3The Lord has done great things for us,
and we rejoiced.

Let's take note that the first half of this psalm is all dreamy joy … it's all festivity and happiness. These joyous cries of pilgrims became, in time, liturgical words of celebration that got repeated many times within the worship of the Temple … of ancient Israel. In worship, it was important to recount the mighty acts of God … to tell of God's goodness and faithfulness … to recall the times when God tore open the heavens and came down, answering the cry we heard from Isaiah in the first week of Advent. These recollections of God's presence and God's power were important acts of worship. This was nourishment for the faith of the worshipping people. This was how the people of God bound and re-bound themselves to God's own being: by reminding themselves that God had been good to them … that God had been faithful to them … that the living God had acted on their behalf.

We see this elsewhere in the Hebrew scriptures. In the midst the Ten Commandments in Deuteronomy 5, the children of Israel are reminded:

Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm;

And so the people sang and prayed aloud: When GOD restored the fortunes of Zion. They recognized that this was not their own doing, their own wiliness and skill and strength. GOD had acted and the people rejoiced.

There are such things as "gilded memories" … memories with a rosy glow … of good times … better times … you know it's interesting that many people look back at the most difficult times of the depression with a surprising warmth. It's not simply that they have selectively remembered this time—though some of that occurs. Sprinkled among the harsh memories are quite a number of legitimately good ones. There really were some upsides to that very down time … some blessings and benefits among the economic wreckage. Families drew closer, the littlest things could become luxuries, far less in life was taken for granted. And when the depression ended … it was as though a time of exile was over.

The real sharp ones here will remember Franklin Delano Roosevelt's campaign song in his successful bid for the presidency in 1932—not that any of us here were of a voting age yet, though Sue Smith and Bea Lewis were. FDR's campaign song was a song written just as the stock markets failed and the economy was tanking and entering a tail-spin that would last for a decade. Many fortunes were lost and socialites and stockbrokers could be found in soup lines. But just as this was beginning, a couple of musicians teamed up to create a bouncy, optimistic song that went:

So long sad times
Go long bad times
We are rid of you at last

Howdy gay times
Cloudy gray times
You are now a thing of the past

Happy days are here again
The skies above are clear again
So let's sing a song of cheer again
Happy days are here again

Think of the famous photos you've seen of wars ending—particularly World War II … sailors grabbing kisses from flag-waving bystanders, people dancing in the streets … in one voice, people sang songs like: "Happy Days are Here Again". (Following worship, Stu Harris shared with me that while searching an ancient wreck (c.e. 350) in the Mediterranean Sea, they found a Roman coin with Constantine's image on it and an inscription that read: "Happy days are here again." True story.)

Think of the passage of Civil Rights Act … or the granting of women's suffrage … the signing of peace treaties or anything that signaled the end of a period of decline or decay or oppression or suffering—in these times we do well to sing: "Happy days are here again …" and we come close to understanding the genuine, unfettered JOY of Psalm 126. And in times such as these, as people of faith, we do well to sing with the psalmist and the worshippers in the Temple and with the people returning from long, painful exile: "When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, then were our mouths filled with laughter … the Lord has done great things for us."

That's the first half of Psalm 126 … this song of pilgrim joy, the song of returning exiles. But let's take a look at the first line of the second half of the psalm.

4Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
like the watercourses in the Negeb.

5That phrase in the middle of Psalm 126 that helps us "locate" the psalmist—or at least helps us locate the one who put the finishing touches on this psalm as we now have it. The first half of the psalm is clearly an expression of unfettered JOY. But now, the second half that's meant to be of a piece with the first starts with: "Restore our fortunes, O Lord …". Listen carefully to those words. Something has changed.

I'm sure you've seen this with people … with friends and acquaintances … a subtle, but unmistakable change in demeanor that lets you know that former good fortunes have changed. "How're doing?" "Oh … not bad." And that gap between "Oh" and "not bad" opens up in you, if you're paying attention, an awareness of some shift in the person before you. "Are things OK?" "They're … alright." And you want to say: "Yeah, but things were GREAT not so long ago …"

The first lines of the psalm speak of God having restored the fortunes of Zion … and now the psalmist is in that somewhat difficult and awkward place of needing that restoration once more. Things have changed. Fortunes have changed. There's a new problem, a new challenge, another exile, another threat, another gloomy prospect on the horizon. Times have gone bad again and the frustration is setting in.

The happy days are gone … again … the clouds of doubt and frustration have returned, blotting out the sun, and threatening the hope and the faith of the people.

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
like the watercourses in the Negeb.

Hopefully most of us know well the wonderful Broadway musical, Fiddler on the Roof. It first hit Broadway in 1964, but has had a number of revivals over the years. The story is about a simple man and his family living in Eastern Europe at the beginning of the 1900's. They are Jews living in a small village under the control of the Russian Czar. They live every moment of their lives deeply aware of how insignificant their lives are to those in power. We don't have to injure our brains to think of others who fit this sad statement.

Tevye and his family and fellow villagers are Jews of the "diaspora" … or "the dispersion." The Jewish diaspora occurred when the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed some 40 years after Jesus' death and Jews scattered across the earth seeking a place to live and practice their faith in peace. It's not hard for us to make the translation here: This is a new exile … the people taken away from their land and their Temple and barely clinging to their traditions in new, unfamiliar and often inhospitable places.

And now we are in Anatevka … it's a shtetl … that's a Yiddish word for a village largely made up of Jews. The residents of that place know not to get too settled in this or any place. They never knew when the Czar would wake up one morning and decide that the Jews under his watch were getting too settled … and move them along somewhere. It was this sad fact that made Tevye explain that "this is why we always wear our hats." They never knew when the next step of their never-ending journey of exile would begin or where it would take them. And while this sermon is NOT about the challenges in the Middle East, we do gain some sense of the significance and importance of ending their exile … their diaspora … and "coming home" to the land they believed was promised to them. Never mind, of course, that in so doing a new diaspora was begun among the land's other non-Jewish occupants.

Fiddler on the Roof takes its name from a painting by Marc Chagall that shows a fiddler merrily fiddling away on a roof in a snowy little village. Chagall was, like Tevye, a Russian Jew living in diaspora. And the village in his painting could have been the shtetl, Anatevka. Chagall included a fiddler in a number of his paintings of Eastern European Jewish life, because the fiddler was a well-known metaphor for survival: survival through tradition and joyfulness, amidst lives of uncertainty and imbalance. You can imagine how precarious it would be to try and fiddle while standing atop a steep, slippery roof. Such was the bitter-sweet, twinkling-eyed humor of those in exile.

Perhaps in our times of exile … our times of feeling and being scattered and blown about … we could use a fiddler on the roof. I believe Marion's available for any kind of occasion—though good luck getting her on your roof. Like Tevye and his villagers, like the too-often exiled people of Israel, and like the psalmist who knew both the past deliverance of old exiles and present pain of new exiles, we need reminders of God's abiding presence that can help us survive in times of trial … times of fragmentation … the lean times of mind, body and soul. And we need more than chirpy little songs like "Happy Days are Here Again", though I'm quite certain that at times it has been sung with an almost sacred joy.

The psalmist ends the psalm with an agricultural vision … a vision of farming … the scattering of seed upon the land in the age-old hope that the seed will bear fruit and insure the survival of those who depend on it. But what funny farmers … these are farmers who are so uncertain of their prospects … so unconvinced of the success of their efforts and the hope of survival … that they carry out their seeds to the field … weeping. They till the earth and set the seed in a state of agony and grief. Their tears water the soil where the seeds have been planted. And they return home with heavy hearts certain that this effort will be their last.

Such is the feeling of those in exile … ANY exile … the sense of hopelessness and despair--even the natural rhythms of nature seem depressed to the point of failure. "O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down" cries Isaiah. "How long, O Lord, how long?" sighs the prophet.

I have dear, but embattled friends who live among us all … but who feel as though they live in an exile of a fashion … who feel not fully at home except perhaps when AT home … friends who long to NOT live in exile within their society … their culture … within their church. They long to live without any particular distinction except for the ways that they are unique like we are all unique. And when these friends find one another, and romance blossoms as it will between two beloved people, they'd like to be … married … just like normal folks … because they ARE normal folks … like you … like me … like us ALL. And though a brief, 6 month window of normalcy opened for them … sadly, at the end of that time … "the people spoke" … "the will of the people was made clear" … and the window slammed shut. And the exile of a fasion that briefly ended began again. O that you would tear open the heavens and come down. How long, O Lord, how long?

How do we weather these times? … these times of exile that can come upon any of us at nearly any time? Through the words of the psalmist, we are invited to root our hope in God in our memories of God's faithfulness. We're given this wonderful image of weeping farmers who return to their fields for the time that should've been a season of joyous and grateful harvest … and what to their wondering eyes should appear? Fields that are mature and ripe and full and ready for harvesting. 'How could this be? We'd given up hope. We were sure that we'd been forgotten. We were sure this was our last act.' And instead, with fiddle music swelling up all around them, they sprint back to the village with their arms full of sheaves of wheat … rich, ripe wonderful wheat … their arms full of that which will save them … their arms full of this gracious reminder of God's eternal, everlasting, abundant care and provision that is meant for ALL.

Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall return with SHOUTS of JOY bearing their sheaves. These are the ones who, in spite of their pain, in spite of their exile, in spite of their memories of past losses, harbor also memories of God's great faithfulness and with these sacred memories ablaze in their hearts, like a Yule log in a fireplace, continue to act in great trust in God … and their trust in God is not in vain.

I received an e-mail this week. This e-mail tells of one great soul who has the faith of a psalmist … the faith of an Isaiah … the faith of young Mary, the mother of Jesus. This is a great soul who has within her deepest places, her inner "holy of holies" the memories of God's great goodness and faithfulness that sustain her against her pain and her losses—and this pain and these losses have been great. I speak again of my cousin Connie. Nearly a year now since her mentally ill son killed her husband and nearly killed Connie. As you might guess, it's been a long exile of a year that saw her finally getting to visit her son, now committed for life to a psychiatric hospital. And where now for Connie? Well … apparently south.

Connie does mission work in Guatemala … serving among the very poor … and this zany cousin of mine, with a whimsy that even her painful exile could not kill, decided to pack some Bellingham, Washington snow all the way to Guatemala so her friends … her Guatemalan family and loved ones, could have a white Christmas.

She writes in her e-mail:

Hola donde Guatemala (¿see me using my great Espanol skills?), (apparently bad "Spanglish" runs in my family),

I just want everyone to know that it is impossible to take snow Guatemala......but....With God, everything is possible! Snowmen were made today in David's home, and he was hit in the shoulder by a snowball!! No one in his family had ever seen snow, or dry ice. A tiny bit of the dry ice was left (David almost touched it with a wet finger!) so we had a fog show on the floor (this made the tiny niño cry). The snow in the tub directly under the dry ice was so cold and hard that it couldn't be removed (it will probably be just right by tonight or tomorrow) but the tub by the vent was just right
I'm having a great time and I love you all!
Love,
Connie (the abominable snow sponsor)

Connie says: "With God, everything is possible." And I think she would know. This is, in a phrase, the message of the psalmist to us this day in whatever exile we find ourselves or face: "Take hope … for with God … everything is possible."

This affirmation I'm about to share was not written by Connie … or the psalmist … or my long-suffering friends. But it could have been. It's an Advent affirmation of faith for those who wonder and wait:

When the cold white ice of winter grips me,

when the white shimmering heat of summer melts me,

and I doubt that anything can survive

the extreme of this world's harshness,

I still believe.



Somewhere in the depths of my soul,

despite the evidence, I believe.

I believe that the ruins of life can be rebuilt.

I believe that the tears I shed will water seeds of joy deeply buried.

I believe that the green shoots of God's justice will bear fruit.



I believe that the light that enlightens the world

will pierce the winter's longest night

and eclipse the sun's brightest moments.

I believe that in all circumstances the Light

radiates hope and joy, peace and love,

so that even at my lowest points

I can see.



Even in the palest light of faith,

I can find my way through the shadows.

And for that I give thanks.

(source unknown)

Amen.

Advent & Butoh

A meditation by Angela Yarber | December 7, 2008 | Second Sunday in Advent

Text: Isaiah 40:1-11

“Comfort, O Comfort my people,” the prophet Isaiah declares. During the season of Advent we wait for the fulfillment of prophecy. In eager expectation we wait for comfort. We prepare for the coming of light.

Last week, during my semi-regular ride to the BART station with the Durans, Karen mentioned that I looked rather serious during worship. And I shared with her the likely reasons why. Each year I help in planning Advent, the themes, this year the stars glimmering in the darkness of the night sky, the light growing brighter each week. And one would think that I would remember the primary role of darkness during the season of Advent. But without fail, year after year, on the first Sunday of Advent I’m always struck by the role of darkness in this season of preparation. The darkness of the womb. The darkness of a winter night’s sky. The darkness of only one or two Advent candles to light the way.

So, I suppose that last Sunday, these notions of darkness were ruminating in my mind during worship. And over the past week, the role of darkness in Advent, the world, and dance have intersected in way that can only be divinely coincidental. Allow me to explain.

As many of you know, I’m working on a PhD in Art and Religion and right now I’m in what’s called “the comprehensive examination phase.” And only 2 weeks ago I took my 4 hour closed book exam. 4 hours, 2 questions, a tiny room, and a computer. And my questions dealt with the role of Buddhist aesthetics in butoh dance. And I’m sure you’re all thinking, “what on earth does Buddhist aesthetics and butoh dance have to do with Advent?!” And that’s precisely what I want to tell you.

Butoh is a dance that developed out of the chaos and turmoil of post-WWII Japan. After Hiroshima, when Tokyo lay in ruins, when the entire country has been turned upside down and is involved in a rapid process of Westernization because of the American Occupation, artists responded. Tatsumi Hijikata, who is regarded as the architect of butoh, and Kazuo Ohno, who is regarded as the soul of butoh, believed that the forms of classical dance in Japan could not respond to the suffering and darkness that surrounded them. So, instead of releveing up in ethereal ballet or dancing in the pristine noh or kabuki dances of classical Japan, Hijikata and Ohno gnarled their fingers and toes, dropped the center of gravity, and reveled in an earth-bound squat; they created butoh, which appropriately means “the dance of utter darkness.” Butoh was awarded this name after Hijikata’s first performance in 1959 when a Japanese dance critic said that the movement looked like an obscure image within the womb.

Ironically, Kazuo Ohno, who is still alive and dancing at age 102, and is a committed Baptist, likens the dancing stage to the mother’s womb. He believes that dance is only valid in so much as it is spiritual and that dancing is a way for our bodies to unite with their original source: the darkness of the womb.

So, last week, as I sat seriously in worship, I pondered these interesting connections, I thought about how butoh came into my life 2 ½ years ago and how the thought of its darkness and gnarled movements didn’t interest me at first. As a “sacred” dancer, I’ve always reveled in the “light,” the joy of Christ. But my time with butoh has been a lot like my time in Advent. It has taught me that the darkness is not a scary place to be…and if it is, then that’s ok. Life, like faith, isn’t always sunshine and pretty roses. Advent isn’t about sunshine and pretty roses and neither is butoh.

And spending time in the darkness of Advent, or in my case the darkness of butoh, teaches us how to appreciate even the smallest of light. It also teaches that there is a time for darkness in our lives. Hijikata and Ohno remind me, ironically today on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, that we live in a world where suffering abounds. And leaping around with a smile on my face is not an adequate response to this suffering. Butoh dancers revel in this darkness… not in a self-loathing way, but in a manner similar to Advent. You cannot appreciate the birth of light in the world without first spending time in darkness, without first gestating in the womb. And as butoh philosophy contends, the purpose of the dance is to move in and swallow the darkness. So, revel with me in the darkness of Advent, in the darkness of the night sky, in the preparation for birth, birth which brings us a little light of peace, a little comfort.

Messengers of Hope

A sermon by Greg Ledbetter | Preached on December 7, 2008 at Shell Ridge Community Church | Second Sunday in Advent, Year B

Sermon Text: Isaiah 40:1-11

I gathered with a dozen or so of my American Baptist colleagues in ministry this week. We had come together to talk about the unique challenges of being a senior or solo pastor of a congregation. As you might imagine, every kind of ministry has its own particular realities and demands and we had gathered to look for ways to be more supportive of one another in our ministry.

We began our time together with a period of informal worship. I led a few songs of the Advent season and then we entered a time of reflection and study of this morning's text from Isaiah—the first eleven verses of the 40th chapter. Most of us gathered there would be preaching on that text in a few days, as I am now. We approached the text through the practice of lectio divina … it is a sacred reading that combines multiple readings and periods of reflection. For most preachers, it's what they do every time they prepare to preach. It is a practice that we have engaged in on a number of occasions here at Shell Ridge.

During a silent reading and out loud readings in two different voices, we looked for words and phrases and ideas to emerge for us, to speak to us, to invite us into their meaning and their world, or to minister to us. And then in a time of reflection following the readings, I asked those gathered to reflect aloud on which word spoke most particularly to them in their particular lives and needs.

And not surprisingly, as with any gathering, different parts of the passage spoke to different people. Some felt touched by the tender words of comfort that open the passage. Others were struck by the "geography of grace" in which balance is restored on earth: mountains brought low, low places lifted up, uneven places made smooth. Some of these preachers were drawn to the words of the prophet that seem uniquely suited for those in their calling: "Cry out … get you up to a high mountain, herald of good tidings, lift up your voice with strength." One pastor, drawn to the words: "the grass withers, the flower fades" said: "I am reminded of one of the constants of my ministry: I am surrounded by beloved people who move from vitality to frailty to death." We all gave a deep, knowing sigh at those words.

I then asked these pastors to reflect on a word that seemed particularly apt for their congregation. And again there were comments about tender words of comfort needed … or words of challenge for which their people were ready. One pastor took note of the phrase: "Here is your God", putting special emphasis on the word "HERE" … wanting to draw his parishioners' attention away from the shrines of their lesser gods and back to the God for whom Isaiah spoke.

And we here, we all of us could have a similarly fruitful and helpful sacred conversation over this texts—over all of the texts this morning. What words in Isaiah or the Psalm or the opening gospel reading or the words from II Peter caught at you … snagged your eye or caught at your ear? In many ways, every time every pastor seeks to preach, it is in part with a certain degree of wonderment at what particular word might stand out for you … trying to see the text through your eyes, your needs, your sensibilities, your yearning.

When I read this morning's passage from Isaiah, it's hard for me to get beyond the opening phrase: "Comfort, O comfort my people … speak tenderly … the penalty is paid … the suffering is soon to be over." And I know the heartbreak and the struggle that so many who hear these words spoken this morning have had to face in their lifetime … may be facing now. I have to read those words and then stop … and collect my emotions. It's not a bad thing to let your emotions mingle with the emotions of the text. This is a part of the sacred reading of lectio divina.

I know that these words were first spoken to a people who'd borne the pain of exile and separation for a number of generations. The wound that had inflicted by their exile had never healed, the ache had never subsided. And in the midst of their exile, they had done a pretty good job of beating themselves up—for surely, they reasoned, God's absence and this exile are signs of our failings … somewhere, somehow. And now a pastoral soul, speaking in the tradition of the first prophet Isaiah, speaks this gentle, healing word. If there were any failings, it is, nonetheless, God who is now taking the initiative to restore you … to restore your hope and your joy, to restore you as a people. This morning's passage ends with one of the most beautiful passages in scripture:

God will feed God's flock like a shepherd;
God will gather the lambs in God's arms,
and carry them in God's bosom,
and gently lead the mother sheep.

We know that we are in a season of the year that seems to have a knack for exposing the hair-line cracks in our souls. Things that we bear up under more capably during the sunny days of summer can nearly wipe us out in December. I wrote in my column this month about the challenges of living "under pressure", and in a moment of mutual ministry, one of you noted reading that column and wondered if I'd … like to borrow some Prozac. I'm still mulling the offer. How does that song go? "I only human …"? I've heard pastors and people alike say: "I'm looking forward to the end of the holidays." I've heard myself utter those words.

And you know one tragic thing about saying this is noting that the word "Holiday" is a contraction of the words: "Holy Day". These are to be Holy Days for us … days where the sacred and the divine are present to us in ways that bring comfort and healing and wholeness to our lives.

And you wonder why we preachers and pastors grumble about the great American commercial enterprise to whose altar we are beckoned with every flip of the TV channel and every turn of the newspaper page. It's hard to be chained and enslaved to the commercially fueled expectations of this season and ALSO be laid open to the great, holy wonder of incarnation and birth and re-birth. These are two masters that are hard to serve simultaneously.

There are those among us … perhaps many among us … who long to recover … rediscover the holy in the holidays. We don't wish for this season to simply become one we're glad to be through with, but one that we have been deeply blessed to have gone through.

And I think that the second passage in this morning's reading from Isaiah offers us some hope here. These are the words that each of the four gospel writers chose to include as being essential to the coming of Christ … the incarnating and birthing of God's love into human form in our world … in our midst. These are the words that we heard Elliot intone this morning in the Baptist's Cry.

A voice cries out:
"In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken."

One of my colleagues said of this passage: "Balance is restored" … and another called it Isaiah's "Geography of Grace". And he was right. The prophet is using visual image of the leveling re-sculpting of the surface of the earth to speak of the leveling and the re-sculpting that must occur within our human ordering, our society, before the glory of God will be revealed. And wouldn't you know that this is a part of the "sin" that Israel looks back upon and calculates into the penalty that their exile has become for them. Then as now, the rich got richer, the poor got poorer … the mountains grew taller and overshadowed completely the deepening valleys where the suffering of so many grew more and more distant. Isaiah cries out: "Let's bring those mountains DOWN … let's lift those valleys UP … when we have succeeded in more nearly leveling the playing field, then … only then will the way be smooth enough for the Lord to come … then, and only then will the glory of the Lord be revealed.

In regard to this leveling of the playing field, someone once wrote: "I do not mean that there should be relief for others and pressure on you, but it is a question of a fair balance between your present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance. As it is written,
'The one who had much did not have too much,
and the one who had little did not have too little.'

So who do you think wrote those words? Marx? Or maybe it's something Obama said that drew accusations of socialism? Would you believe Paul? The Apostle? It is Paul, writing in his second letter to the Corinthians. Our model, Paul said, is Jesus himself: 9For you know grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.

So we're preparing the way for THAT Jesus … the one who leveled the playing field with his own life … his own decisions … his own commitments even, unto death.

And we have to admit that it's a pretty big field that needs leveling. I don't know if Isaiah knew just how big and complicated this whole human family would become. "Every valley shall be exalted …" sounds pretty good when you sing it in the Messiah, but where do you and I fit into the real world practice of this?

Well … a place to start is to go to where Jesus got his start. A local synagogue. It's a place where you'll hear Isaiah read on a pretty regular basis. It's also a place where we happen to have linked our lives with the lives of the good folk at Congregation B'nai Tikvah. Together we are seeking to repair one of the breaches in the social net of compassion and care around us. You have to drive up a pretty steep hill to get to B'nai Tikvah, but that steep drive up helps you come down a bit from whatever mountain of prosperity you or I currently dwell on. As it happens to be true with surmounting other problems like homophobia, getting close in, having face to face contact, getting to know the names and the stories of these valley-dwelling friends and neighbors, offering ourselves and our substance … these are some of the many ways that we can help battle homelessness … and poverty … and the very natural despair that comes with these things. Did we not hear that despair given voice last night? And these are some of the many ways that we can battle the many other kinds of mountain and valley realities that surround us.

Let us be assured of the deep truth of these words: None are saved … until all are saved.

If, the prophet tells us, if you and I help to lower the high places—whatever and wherever they may be, and if you help lift up the low places—whatever and wherever they may be, you will help hasten the time when ALL people shall get to see the glory of God TOGETHER … a Holy Day and a Holiday for one and for all.

The preparing of the way for the incarnation of love is a gift for all people and for all earth.

Amen.

Where Are You, God?

A Sermon by Greg Ledbetter Preached at Shell Ridge Community Church on November 30, 2008 | First Sunday in Advent, Year B

Texts: Isaiah 64:1-7 and Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19


Where WERE you? How many times does any child hear these demanding parental words in the course of growing up? Showing up at the back door, hours after you were expected, and being met by one parent or both, hands on hips demanding: "Where WERE you?" And how often did you, as I know I did, answer like a being with its brain removed … "I don't know."

With cell phones becoming ever more ubiquitous, it's getting harder and harder for kids to hide … harder and harder to come up with an excuse for being unreachable. "I know you know I was trying to reach you …" the hands on hip parent will now insist.

Of course the reverse can be true as well … the child trying to reach the parent … sure that the parent sees who is calling … needing the parent for cash or a ride or permission to do something … and nothing at the other end but a cheery, "Hi, you've reached my cell phone …". Where are you? Where ARE you? No matter how flaky we might be as kids, we want our parents to be reliably accessible … reachable … findable.

Even this kid, today, can get a little annoyed when he tries to reach his parents who should be home knitting or playing solitaire only to realize that they're out for their almost daily walk to the 24 Hour Fitness gym where they work out.

Cell phones are only one of many ways that we effortlessly connect with each other … find each other … keep track of each other. Slowly and subtly, but very surely, we have an increasing expectation, as modern beings, that the other will always be there for us when we need them. And how frustrating to "reach out" to touch someone, as the old phone company slogan went, only to find them persistently beyond your reach … beyond your touch … beyond your … control.

We moderns ought to relate very easily to the anxiety in the voices of the Prophet and the Psalmist this morning … voices that cry, not into a ringing cell phone … but into the night, into the bleakness of time, into the troubles of existence … a cry of longing and need for the heavenly parent: "Where ARE you?" … "Why won't you answer me when I call out for you?" Where ARE you?

These are the first, almost heartbreaking, words of the Advent season … of this new year on our liturgical calendar. Where ARE you? While hordes trample down the doors of retailers on Black Friday in search of … who knows what, we gather just days later to join in our search for God. Where ARE you? While dizzying arrays of lights spring up on the roofs and lawns of homes throughout our neighborhoods, we gather to note the lack of noticeable light, the darkness of the sky. Where ARE you? While radio stations crank up their 24 hour Christmas music extravaganzas, we huddle around to sing in plaintive tones: "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" … "Watcher, tell us of the night" … Where ARE you?

If your every appetite is not sated by an over-abundance of stuff … and if your eyes are not blinded by the dazzling lights of the season … and if your ears are not shredded by a thousand renditions of Rudolph … then you may still have enough sensitivity to the world within and the world beyond to name the need of these worlds for a wise and just and loving being … a need for God and a need for God's presence and God's justice and God's mercy … and, blessed be and whaddya know … God is safely within your sight … your grasp … in the imagination of your heart and soul … and then the next abominable terrorist act, such as the recent awfulness in Mumbai, that bewilders the mind and curdles the blood … an act that hints at the human malevolence that is too much in evidence in this world that God loves and we have every right to add our anxious cry to the cry of the Prophet and the Psalmist: "GOD, where ARE you?".

Advent … especially early Advent … is one of two "nights" of our liturgical year. The other is Holy Week, especially Thursday, Friday and Saturday of Holy Week. These are the dark times on our liturgical calendar … times when darkness grapples with the light … when light fades and seems to disappear. We have likely heard many times the season of Advent put into the context of the old primal fear that was triggered by the shortening days, diminishing daylight and the sun's shortening arc across the sky. The ancient mind wondered fearfully: What if the sun simply ceases to rise? Is that all there is? Whether we're speaking of the sun in the sky or the light and warmth of love and compassion … Advent names our anxiety that the sun of goodness however we name it and however it manifests itself might be on the wane … might cease to rise altogether. "GOD, where ARE you?".

It seems to me that early Advent is the time for us to wrestle with any divine abandonment issues we might have … abandonment … fear of abandonment … this is heavy stuff … really. Something I read recently said:

Abandonment is among one of our most primal fears. To be abandoned as a child is to die. A child cannot survive without the nurturing of adults -- depending on our individual histories, that fear remains within us to some degree. As adults, if we are abandoned by someone to whom we look for love and support, childhood fear of abandonment is triggered. The result is an activation of the childhood fear which, coupled with the present threat of abandonment, can generate intense fear and panic. Our ability to reason rationally may be so affected that all we experience is the terror of the abandonment. When we feel abandoned, we can feel panic over suddenly being alone, together with a feeling of rejection.

The terror of abandonment … is it too much to say that we hear this being expressed in the cry of the prophet and in the cry of the psalmist? And is too much to say that this is, in part, what we feel in life's "Where are you, God?" moments. Amidst difficult diagnoses, difficult headlines, difficult losses, difficult times of all kinds … we may wish to join the prophet and join the psalmist in naming our fear of abandonment. And no amount of shopping or light-hanging or carol singing can take away from us our need to confront this fear.

Now don't forget, everything you are hearing this morning is being said by someone who loves to shop, loves Christmas lights, and loves the guilty pleasure of Christmas carols in August. But I am also aware of the many ways we resist and avoid the depth of the dark waters into which the words of this morning's readings invite us. "Keep near the surface, stay where it's light" … that seems to be the natural instinct we're too often tempted to follow. But the texts this morning, and the season of Advent itself, invite us to swim away from the shore and lower ourselves into the dark depths.

You may have read recently of the growing concern over the lack of night and the loss of darkness as a result of the growing prevalence of light pollution. The cover story of this month's National Geographic is titled: "The End of Night: Why We Need Darkness". You know, I think this about the third time in four sermons that I've made reference to something written National Geographic. I swear they're writing the magazine with my sermon writing strictly in mind. The article: "The End of Night: Why We Need Darkness" notes that many people who live in or near cities have begun to take the glowing, nearly starless night skies for granted. It says that light pollution not only throws off natural human rhythms of waking and sleeping, but also has a number of measurable negative effects on animal populations.

Who knew you could have too much light? But we remember from our junior high science lessons about photosynthesis that plants need the darkness as much they need light in order to make food and grow. Light-loving plants need darkness to be healthy. Advent is here to remind us that we light-loving beings need darkness, as well.

It might help us to name the various ways we experience darkness … we've alluded to the darkness of difficulty … matters of … health … world affairs … inner struggles of the soul. These are inescapable realities … inseparable from the lives we live. The darkness can also be thought of as the other side of our "sunny side of the street" faith … the side of our faith that is willing to honestly struggle with difficult things … and willing, like Isaiah and the Psalmist, to incorporate these struggles into our prayer life and into our worshipping life. We know that neuroses, in large part, are a result of avoiding struggles. If we "religiously" avoid these struggles, our faith in God can be become neurotic and imbalanced. If we avoid these struggles, it becomes ever harder to imagine that God is in these struggles in any meaningful way. If we avoid these struggles long enough, "Where are you, God" will be transformed from a cry of longing on our lips into a deep ache of absence … the absence of God.

In the language of our faith that we use for prayer and worship, we could learn a lot from the Psalmists and the Prophets … the honesty of expression and the depth of feeling … the willingness to express strong emotion … the various levels of intimacy of all kinds with God. Following the lead of these ancient souls, we are invited to take off the kid gloves … we're urged not to wash our prayer hands with prayer hand sanitizer … not to parse and refine your words too carefully … but to step meekly or boldly before the throne of grace and to address God as the deepest needs of our hearts would dictate.

Of course, wise souls would remind us all that not even words are always necessary in these times. With our mouths closed, but with the ears of our heart and the eyes of our soul wide open … in time, the darkness will teach us … will reveal new things to us … will reveal God to us. In the darkness, we can be strengthened and we can grow.

If we're going to accept an invitation into the dark depths … we would do well to remember that it is from the darkness of the womb that we were each and every one of us born. The darkness is a place of gentle growth and preparation for birth … and re-birth.

Amidst some of the unavoidable pollution of this season, I invite you to find times and spaces for stepping away from the blare and crush of Christmas … away from the forced "lightness" of the season … and entering into the darkness of your own lives and the world in which you live … confronting your fears of abandonment and whatever ways you might perceive the absence of God … and perhaps only then and only there, in that unfamiliar darkness can you and can we all sense and see glimmers that we could not see and sense before … glimmers of goodness … glimmers of hope … glimmers of love … glimmers of God.

And if you choose to break the silence with your words, and you cry out: "Where ARE you, GOD? Where ARE you? Where ARE you?" Linger in the silence that comes again after your words until you hear in the darkness the still voice of divine silence that says: "Here I am … here I am … here I am."

Amen.

Living on the Other Side of the Mountain

A Sermon by Greg Ledbetter preached on February 3, 2007 | Mardi Gras Sunday | Transfiguration Sunday, Year A

Lectionary Texts: Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 99; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

Mountains are remarkable things. Native peoples have always considered mountains to be sacred places, places where the spirit of the divine brooded, places where the great transcendent spirit of creation could be encountered. Certain mountains were viewed as “God’s footstool” as the Psalmist describes it.

Shell Ridge may be a modest geological feature on the map, but back in the day, I would take our youth up to a high point on the ridge behind the church where we would perch ourselves above the surrounding valleys. And from that vantage point and with the wind gusting up the face of the ridge, the ancient tugging of God’s spirit seemed very real.

Every time I drive up Mount Diablo, I am aware of some primal impulse that is being stirred. As the surrounding landscape falls away and the vegetation grows sparse and the wind mounts, there is something within me that gets tickled and thrilled. I’m not inclined to give a name to that something or that experience—to forcibly capture the experience in words or to name it “God”, but I can certainly attest to the opening within that I feel that makes an experience of God and God’s Spirit all the more likely and all the more real.

I’m not the first in my family to feel this way. While my maternal grandfather was no Edmund Hillary—the recently departed conqueror of Mount Everest, grandpa, too, was drawn to mountains. In the same way that Mt. Diablo is a bit of a modest lump in the world of mountains, so, too is Mount Spokane which is on the horizon of the Northeastern Washington landscape where I grew up. When I was back in Spokane recently for the funeral, I tried in vain to get someone to join me in a drive to the top of the mountain where I had spent so many days of my youth skiing. It is the same mountain that drew my photographer grandfather to ascend the mountain on skis on New Year’s Eve for some thirty consecutive years—from the 1930’s well into the 60’s. And it was when the mountain experienced the wildest of wild wintry weather that he would go out with his camera and capture the fantastic shapes the trees had been sculpted into by the wind and the driving snow and ice.

For Grandpa Leo, the snow sculpted trees seemed almost to possess a life of their own. He would often give names to the trees that seemed implied by their forms. Such was the power of mountains and the extremes that seemed to hint at the powers and energies that drove them.

Our own times in the mountains can easily evoke memories of Biblical encounters on the mountain. Most likely we’ll remember Moses on Mt. Sinai and Elijah on Mt. Horeb. Each of these encounters were fantastic … visually full of the “terrible goodness” of God … clouds and shadows and thunder and lightning and fire and even the shaking of the foundations of the mountain. There was POWER in those mountains and if you wanted to meet God “face to face”, you had to go up to the mountain where God’s presence was enthroned.

These mountain encounters also signified turning points in the lives of these individuals and their communities. For Moses, it was both a validation of his leadership as well as an occasion for receiving the law—the Ten Commandments. For Elijah, it was a time for a direct encounter with God that reaffirmed his role as God’s prophet. By the way, let’s not miss that each of these stories are accompanied by references to forty days and forty nights—the classic Biblical number that refers to a time of spiritual journey and preparation. Forty days and nights the earth was baptized in the time of Noah … Forty years the children of Israel wandered in the wilderness … and forty days and night Jesus dwelt in the wilderness as he prepared for his ministry.

It’s with all of this in mind: mountains and legendary prophets and leaders and times of great challenge and deep revelation—consciously and sub-consciously this was all present as Jesus and his hand-picked trio, Peter, James and John ascend the mountain. They were not simply “climbing a mountain”.

And then the story takes on the patina of a dream … a vision … a “not of this world” kind of experience as, perhaps, you might expect of something you could only describe later as a divine encounter. Matthew, as you may remember, is very concerned with making his readers understand that Jesus not only stands in the long prophetic line, but more importantly even, is the new Moses. There are all kinds of ways that Matthew tells this in his gospel, but none, perhaps, as direct as the transfiguration of Jesus. In Exodus 34, Moses came down from the mountain of meeting with the tablets of the covenant—the Ten Commandments. And he didn’t know it, but his face shone from having talked with God. And just so the slow-witted don’t miss the connection between Moses and Jesus, before the glow of the transfiguration has faded, Moses and Elijah appear and speak with Jesus. I suppose they were divided among themselves as to just who WAS the greatest quarterback of all time … Joe … Terry … Troy … Tom.

Let’s remember that in the time of Matthew, history was not being kind to either Jews or Christians. The way to “easy street” was to pay homage to the emperor, otherwise you might become grisly entertainment for the emperor’s friends. After the fall of the temple some 15 years earlier, Judaism and Christianity drifted rapidly apart and many were caught with one leg on each path. It was a true Robert Frost moment: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and being one traveler long I stood …”.

Which path do I take? Whom do I believe? Whom do I follow? Sounds like a REALLY current, REALLY modern dilemma, doesn’t it?

Judaism was in the process of trying to redefine itself apart from the Temple which was no longer … and Christianity was trying to understand itself as in the tradition of Judaism, yet something altogether new. By reminding his readers throughout his gospel that Jesus was the new Moses, Matthew was saying to all who would listen—but particularly fence-sitting Jewish Christians: “Jesus IS the new thing of which Isaiah had spoken. Jesus is the new fulfillment of the very old prophecy.

By writing in Moses and Elijah joining Jesus on the mountaintop, Matthew has pulled out the biggest of the big guns. This is called: “endorsement by association”. We’re all very familiar with how it works. When Obama shares the stage with Ted Kennedy, you’re supposed to “get” just whose tradition he stands in … and when Hilary shares the stage with Cesar Chavez’ children, you’re supposed to get just whose tradition she stands in. Whenever we do a little “name-dropping”, we kind of hope that the names we drop will reflect favorably on us. But we must be careful, remembering Dan Quayle’s ill-fated mention of Jack Kennedy around someone who actually knew Jack Kennedy.

The gospel of Matthew is written using stories from Jesus’ life and ministry, including the story of the transfiguration. But the gospel is being written for people concerned with making choices for their lives in their time. For Jesus, the high and lifted up view from the glorious mountain top was of Calvary, of a path of suffering that led to death. This was his path of discipleship and Matthew joins Mark in telling us that for all of Jesus’ followers as well, the path up to and back off of the mountain is one that leads through a discipleship that is willing to tread the shadowed valley of death … and one that is willing to follow the crooked path of sacrifice that can place great demands and great suffering on those who are willing to follow.

It seems to me that Matthew is speaking for the church and Christians of every age when he has Peter—newly anointed as the rock on whom Jesus will build his church—when he has Peter try to freeze this moment in time. “It’s a nice day, we’re in such lovely company, what say I just pitch us some tents and we’ll … live here.” We’ve mocked Peter’s absurd suggestion many times over the years.

But who can blame Peter for wanting to preserve the experience? We know how hard it is to hold on to extraordinary moments … singular experiences. Once the story’s told, it can’t help but grow old … And, perhaps more significantly, we know how easy it is to defer the undesirable, to put off to another time, another day, what we know will be painful. Who hasn’t done that with taxes or with matters related to one’s own health. Jesus has hinted to the disciples what will follow the descent of the mountain and they want nothing of it.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer had friends like Peter. As the winds of World War II were rising, Bonhoeffer’s American friends found him a teaching position at the great Union Theological Seminary in New York City—it’s where nearly all the theological luminaries of that time had gathered. Bonhoeffer was viewed as a troublemaker by the Third Reich and so any return to Germany in the late 30’s was sure to be dangerous. To Bonhoeffer’s friends it seemed a slam-dunk of a decision: stay in America far from Hitler’s grasp and ride out the war. “Save yourself,” they pleaded. “Two roads diverged …” Bonhoeffer never did think of himself as particularly courageous, but he did wish to be faithful to the deepest parts of his faith and conscience—no matter the cost. And in the end, back home in Germany before the war ended, the cost was: his life.

As a community of faith, we enjoy some glorious, light-filled times together. Like this second annual celebration of Mardi Gras. Collectively we ascend and re-ascend the mountain together and create rich memories that seem to grow even richer with age. And there is always the temptation to build our lives around these moments, around this rich fellowship. But we do well to hear Matthew’s words of caution to us as daily we confront diverging roads, diverging paths, diverging calls upon our time and energy and resources and loyalties. The mountain is a glorious vision and God knows we need glorious visions. But the path of Jesus leads up over the mountain and back down into the valley … the crooked way … the seamy street … the hard city … the oppressed people … the languishing soul.

Our Forty Days and Forty Nights will soon be upon us. And more than most days of our faithing, we will be aware of divergencies in our path, places of parting, places of choosing, places of committing. In the days ahead … with Ashes on our foreheads … with tokens of our faith hung around our necks … we’re going to be saying that we are “friends of Jesus” … he of the mountain … and he of the cross. It’s both … and … it’s BOTH.

The preparatory time of Lent gets us ready for our own Baptisms—it’s always been that way in the traditions of the church. But when Jesus talks about Baptism, we know that it’s a whole lot more than the dunking he received from Cousin John. It’s a putting of the hand to the plow of the kind of ministry that both animated Jesus and ultimately deprived him of his life.

William Willimon speaks of this kind of baptism. He says: “On the banks of some dark river, as we are thrust backward, onlookers will remark, ‘They could kills somebody like that.’ To which Old John might say, “Good, you’re finally catching on.”

The days of Lent are all about the pathways of Jesus and implication of being a friend of Jesus … finally catching on with us. It’s more than a smudge of ashes … it’s more than a Lenten symbol … it’s more than sprinkling the name of Jesus in our conversation, like seasoning in an otherwise bland salad.

While we’re dropping names … let me drop the name of Alan Boesak. Alan was a significant figure in the tearing down of the wall of apartheid. He is a powerful minister and preacher. He is also a foibled soul as I think he would admit. Following Jesus into the shark-infested waters of apartheid and on into the wrenching and uneven process of truth and reconciliation in South Africa took an enormous toll on Boesak. His enemies had a field day spinning foibles into major failures. He lost a lot of blood and credibility.

Alan taught for a time at our seminary in Berkeley and during that time preached in our church at Micky’s ordination. Alan said something in his sermon that has always stuck with me … WILL always stick with me. They are words that he has had ample opportunities to live out truthfully in his own life. Alan said: “At the end of time, when we arrive at the time of judgment, we will be asked: “Where are your wounds”? And we will say: “We have no wounds.” And we will be asked: “Was nothing worth fighting for?”

Another freedom fighter, Martin Luther King said, even more troublingly: “If a man hasn’t discovered something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.”

In the days ahead, in and beyond the season called Lent, may we each and may we all find something worth fighting for, to risk dying for and, ultimately, to commit to living for.

Amen.

Baptism: Waters of Cleansing, Calling & Care

A sermon by Greg Ledbetter preached on The Baptism of Christ | First Sunday after Epiphany | First Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A
January 13, 2008

Sermon Texts: Isaiah 42:1-9; Psalm 29; Acts 10:34-43; Matthew 3:13-17

So … where are we? Time seems to go so fast, these days, that it seems like we overshot Christmas and landed somewhere in February. And if you think I’m exaggerating, we are just over three weeks out from Ash Wednesday. Keep your seat belts fastened, your tray tables stowed and your seatbacks in the upright position. There will be no beverage service on today’s flight.

Three weeks ago, we were anticipating the holy birth … two weeks ago and last Sunday, Jesus was already a toddler of an unspecified age being greeted by wise men from the east and fleeing Herod’s wrath with his family. And now this week, suddenly Jesus is “all growed up”. If the gospel writers paid scant attention to Jesus’ birth and its exact chronology, they cared even less about his growing up … from the terrible twos to the truly terrible teens. You know, they say when your child turns 13, put ‘em in a barrel and feed ‘em through the hole. And when they turn 16 … plug the hole. Might Jesus have been a precocious and difficult teenager? I don’t know what the ancient Palestinian equivalent to piercings and tattoos might have been, but it’s possible that Jesus had them.

Only Luke’s gospel takes any interest in that gap between infancy and adulthood, concerned as he is to “write an orderly account.” It is Luke who describes Jesus as a young teen, left behind by his parents, and found in the temple teaching the elders.

From the perspective of the gospel writers, what matters most of all is that Jesus made it to adulthood … and made, ultimately, it to the river where his cousin, John the Baptizer, was engaged in his own ministry.

Reading the descriptions of John reminds me of descriptions of itinerant ministers on the American frontier … stalwart and rugged souls who may have been out of social circulation a bit too long and had, perhaps, a bit too much exposure to the sun and the elements. Actually, I have a feeling that most prophets of any age come off that way. Martin Luther King, dapper and eloquent, may be one of the striking exceptions to this generalization.

Matthew tells us at the beginning of the chapter we read today, the third chapter, that in this time of Jesus’ adulthood, that John appears in the wilderness east of the Jordan River preaching a sharp-edged message of repentance. To Matthew it was clear that Jesus was fulfilling Isaiah’s prophecy that before the anointed one could come, there was some preparation and “remodeling” that had to be done.

It seems that John understood well who he was and how he figured in God’s plans. John was the precursor and the preparer. You’ve seen these massive earth-moving machines that carve up the landscape in preparation for laying down the asphalt that will become roads. That’s sort of how John was functioning. The human landscape was rough and crooked, it had drifted from its creator’s intentions and was in great need of smoothing and straightening.

It’s kind of like Highway 24 between Walnut Creek and the Caldecott tunnel. For years it has been the roughest and the loudest section of highway in the Bay Area. But the recent resurfacing has left the pavement so smooth, you almost forget that you’re driving.

John the Baptizer is preparing the human landscape, not for himself, but for the one whom God would send to follow John … the Lord … the Messiah … the anointed servant of God. John understood his relative place in the scheme of things. He was simply a laborer doing the work that had been laid upon him.

If you’ve seen some of these “extreme makeover” home shows on TV, or if you’ve done your own remodeling, you’ll know that before the new kitchen can go in, there’s some demolition work to be done. The metal edged vintage WWII Formica countertop has got to go, the matching avocado green stove, refrigerator and sink—they’ve all got to go, the curling linoleum that was new when the “new deal” was new—it’s got to go.

John is not being wasteful or just trying to keep up with modern spiritual times … he knows the drift the human spirit is capable of … he knows the dirt and debris that can accumulate. John knows that if the people of Israel have any chance at all of welcoming and embracing and, ultimately, following the one who is to follow him, that he’s got a lot of cleaning up to do before that one comes. Haven’t you ever heard yourself say to someone: “Let me know when you’re planning to come so I can get the house clean.”? John is cleaning house and he’s not a very gentle housecleaner.

Baptism is a part of the housecleaning and the remodeling and the landscape makeover that is John’s vocation. And while we may think in our more urbane moments that baptism is simply “the bath that cleanses,” any even more appropriate image of baptism is “the flood that drowns.” Baptism was, to be sure, a cleansing and purifying “bath”, but don’t we know that the things from which we human beings need to be cleansed can be so stubborn, so ingrained, so staining that it’s going to take more than “Mr. Bubbles” to make us right. And when we look out at the world around us and the cumulative effect of human sin … human brokenness … it’s not hard to understand why the ancient Biblical writers told of a time—Noah’s time—when it got so bad that God decided to drown the world. A world-wide deluge and flood that was, for all intents and purposes, a global baptism.

When we read of John’s baptizing, we naturally view it through our Christian and, for many of us, our Baptist lenses. The preacher standing in the water, the baptizee in a white robe picking his or her way down to where the preacher stands, a mournful choir singing in the background. Mom and dad standing by with the instamatic camera getting ready to capture the magical moment. In fact, John and Jesus were both observant Jews. There weren’t no Bab-tist church around. What John and Jesus were engaging in was a common Jewish ritual was used for sacred occasions or for cleansing from defilement. It could happen in a pond or a pool or a river … it could even happen in a courtyard with a basin of water.

That Jesus chooses to go to the river to be baptized is very significant. First of all, the Jordan River figures significantly in the history of Jesus’ people. It was the Jordan River that the people of Israel crossed to claim the land they believed God had promised them. It was a river that reminded them of other difficult “crossings over” such as the crossing of the Sea of Reeds in Egypt. Being baptized in the Jordan meant identifying yourself with that struggle and that long journey that has such ancient roots and so many modern counterparts. Some modern spiritual tourists often return to the Jordan for these reasons.

As a river, the Jordan River was also “living water”. You may remember from John’s gospel that “living water” was water that was significant because it moved … it was not a brackish pond or a puddle, but water that flowed. In the Judaism of Jesus’ time, there were six descending orders of ritual baths that were used to cleanse or purify a person. Living water was required for the highest order of ritual bathing and cleansing. It is in the living water of the Jordan River that Jesus seeks out John for his cleansing and purifying bath.

And as the Jordan River represented a kind of “crossing over”, so being baptized in the Jordan represented a “crossing over” for the individual … the leaving behind one bank of the river and the part of one’s life it represents and emerging washed and renewed on the other. In fact, in ancient practice, you may have entered and exited on the same bank of the river, but there were two sets of steps, one by which the defiled person entered the living water, and another by which they took their exit.

Matthew understands Jesus’ entry into and exit from the water, if you’ll forgive the mild pun, as the “watershed” moment of Jesus’ life. It represents a choice he is making to enter the water and to be cleansed by John who is God’s servant and prophet and the preparer of God’s way. But it also represents a time when God’s Spirit comes to dwell in all fullness on Jesus and it is a Spirit that will accompany him for all the rest of his life and his ministry. Jesus may ultimately give up his own spirit on the cross, but the Spirit of God broods even over Jesus’ body and over the dispirited souls who followed him.

It’s hard to think of Jesus’ baptism without also thinking of baptisms we have known:

· I remember being scandalized by reports out of California about people being baptized in hot tubs … talk about “only in Marin”. I struggled for the longest time to wrap my mind around this bizarre merging of an ancient sacred ritual with this symbol of modern hedonism. By the way, we’ll be holding this year’s baptism service at the Hogans’ hot tub with a wine and cheese reception to follow. The colors of our swimsuits will, of course, be appropriate to the liturgical season. Woe is me.

· I remember visiting a river site in central India, some years ago, where 3000 people were baptized in one day … it must have been like a modern day of Pentecost.

· In Vermont, we could only get a few people at a time to enter the waters of Baptism. It may have had something to do with the fact that the lake in which we performed the baptisms had only been free of ice for a few weeks. You may have been “on fire” for the Lord, but that Vermont lake water could practically put it out.

· My own baptism, in my memory, is a kind of murky affair. I was so young and so little did I know or understand at the time. It would be years and many more “crossings over” before the implications of what I had promised began to be clear.

For Matthew, the implications of Jesus’ crossing over, his cleansing bath, his ritualistic drowning were absolutely clear. Jesus was God’s servant who had come to bring justice and peace and healing hope to the people of Israel. Jesus’ baptism was a fulfillment of the prophecy

Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen, in whom my soul delights;
I have put my spirit upon him;
he will bring forth justice to the nations.
He will not cry or lift up his voice,
or make it heard in the street;
a bruised reed he will not break,
and a dimly burning wick he will not quench;
he will faithfully bring forth justice.
He will not grow faint or be crushed
until he has established justice in the earth;

I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness,
I have taken you by the hand and kept you;
I have given you as a covenant to the people,
a light to the nations,
to open the eyes that are blind,
to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon,
from the prison those who sit in darkness.
See, the former things have come to pass,
and new things I now declare;
before they spring forth,
I tell you of them.

Jesus’ baptism represented a fulfillment of Isaiah’ prophecy and God’s promises. We know how Jesus’ story turns out … how after a difficult sojourn in the wilderness, he began a ministry that was full of grace and wonder.

If Jesus’ baptism was a fulfillment of both his own human promise as well as the promises of God … how do our lives today fulfill the baptismal promises we made or, in some instances, that others made for us, but we later confirmed? If Jesus’ baptism was the advent of a servant ministry, for what have our baptisms prepared us? What new thing continues to spring forth out of our baptized selves?

This week several of us from Shell Ridge were privileged to sit at the feet of two modern prophets who live out their baptismal promises with extraordinary vigor. Elaine Enns and Ched Myers are two foot-soldiers in the “restorative justice” movement which is a movement based on Jesus’ own clear preference for the gospel of reconciliation and forgiveness instead of the far more common practice of violent retribution. Those of you who were at Peace Camp last summer will remember that Elaine taught a week long elective course on restorative justice. As nearly as I can tell, their every waking moment and every life resource goes into trying to bring the social ethic of Jesus’ own life and practice into the practice of our culture which is so horribly addicted to the things that make for … war and the “descending spiral of violence” of Martin Luther King warned us and which ultimately claimed his own life. Being baptized into Christ for Ched and Elaine means to place their whole lives into the service of the same God who called Jesus into his servant ministry.

Sometimes our servant ministry has widespread, public implications such as the ministry of Ched and Elaine. At yesterday’s Coordinating Council and Ministry Team planning retreat, we played the “forced choice” game as a way of getting to know one another a bit better. You know …

One of the forced choices was: would you rather feed the homeless or would you rather work to end that which causes homelessness. That isn’t exactly how I put it, but that was the intent. Some of us are called and gifted in our baptized lives to work at the roots of the ills that surround us … sort of like John who said “the axe is at the roots”. Others of us are called to give the cup of water, to soothe the wounds, to calm the anxious. Jesus lived out both of these callings in his own life and ministry.

I am thinking of two other baptizees who have, like Jesus and like Ched and Elaine, taken their vows with great seriousness, with great gravity, no matter where it might lead, no matter what it might cost.

Mark and Connie Williams are two people of whom you’ve probably never heard. They’re just regular folk … like us. As Christians, also like us, they have chosen a variety of ways to live out their calling, the servant ministry that is implied by their baptisms. Connie is an educator, but more recently she has become concerned for the least of these in our world, for those who suffer the effects of poverty and oppression. Twice now, she has traveled to Africa as a volunteer missionary so that she can minister face to face with those who were baptized by their own births into lives of hunger and disease. Connie’s husband Mark is a musician and a composer and music educator. He has emerged as a nationally know composer and arranger and chances are that if you played in a middle school band any time in the last fifteen years you would have played several of Mark’s compositions and arrangements. Our choir has even sung one of Mark’s arrangements of “Amazing Grace”.

While Mark and Connie have devoted a part of their energies of loving ministry to far off places, they always knew that their was a closer need that claimed even higher loyalties. Mark and Connie have three wonderful children, but the middle child, a 24 year old son, was diagnosed in the last year with paranoid schizophrenia in addition to being bi-polar. People who suffer these conditions of the mind can be dangerous and unpredictable. Common sense and common wisdom often dictates that these sufferers be institutionalized. But the love of a parent and servant love in the way of Jesus is often guided by instincts that are not easily calculated.

Mark and Connie chose to keep their afflicted son in their lives and in their home no matter the risks he posed. It was a conscious part of the living out of their faith and the vows they had made when the old was drowned and the new was birthed. Which of us could say they were wrong in their ways of compassion? Who would say that Jesus was wrong in his ministry of love?

On Thursday, January 3rd, 10 days ago, Mark and Connie’s son’s illness exploded into a blind, murderous rage that left Mark dead and Connie seriously wounded. Connie is my cousin. I grew up with Connie. Mark and Connie played at Jan’s and my wedding.

Later today I will fly to Spokane to join my grieving family as we gather to ponder the power of compassionate love that holds more regard for the other than itself. Connie told on the phone this week that as Mark’s lungs filled with the blood in which he would ultimately drown, he said to his son, Brian: “Brian, don’t forget that we love you … and we forgive you.”

Forgive us, as we forgive

Forgive us, as we forgive

Forgive us as we forgive each other.*

What is this power of compassionate love that forgives and embraces and holds out hope that love is stronger than death, and that the forgiving and merciful love of God is stronger than hatred, stronger than the vengeful spirit.

If the waters of our baptisms can speak of our servant callings, let us also say that those same waters can be for us in our time of need, waters of healing and hope.

If our baptisms and our faithful witness lead us into times of struggle and conflict, let us live in the assurance that it ends in hope and in healing and in peace.

Sometimes what’s holy is so true
It’s standing right in front of you
There’s nothing you can really do
There’s nothing you can say
Except to humbly take your place
And in every trial that we face
May we somehow find the grace
To live the words we pray:

Forgive us, as we forgive

Forgive us, as we forgive

Forgive us as we for-give each other.*

Amen.

*From “Forgive Us” by John McCutcheon. Greg sang this song during the morning offertory.