Sermons

(please note that sermons will be updated as soon as possible)

 First Sunday in Advent; 12/2/07 Communion

(file contains all of the Advent Sermons)

First Sunday after Christmas; 12/30/07 (non-lectionary)
Luke 3: 1-20

The Manger

Sometimes something becomes so familiar, so integral a part of the scenery, we completely overlook its significance.
I have listened to Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth since I was a child. Having heard it so many times, it seems as if there cannot possibly be anything new in this ancient story about a young couple caught out on the road when the wife goes into labor.
However, during the last couple of years the Gospel of Luke has increasingly commanded my attention. As I have come to know the gospel better certain literary patterns have become apparent.
For example, Luke loved surprises. He was the master of “gottcha.” He constantly turns the social order on its head: Samaritans are more compassionate than priests and Levites; the religious establishment rejects Jesus while the riff-raff turn out in ever increasing numbers to embrace his teaching.
Luke is also a master of misdirection. In Luke’s dramas, the guy at center stage hogging the limelight disappears within a verse or two. That insignificant guy fading into the scenery way up there stage left? He’s the central character. He’s the character the story is about.
The major character in the parable of the Prodigal son seems to be that younger, wayward brother. The elder brother seems to be a minor after-thought. But if you study the parable, while both brothers are important, the central character is the father. The sons are dramatic foils that reveal the nature of the father.
This year, as I read again that story of Mary and Joseph out on the road, I began to think about one of Luke’s details.
In some ways Luke is a frustrating writer. Like all good writers he leaves out details he thinks are unimportant. The Christian faith has been so eager to learn the details Luke left out it has not hesitated to fill in the gaps with speculation of its own.
For example, Luke dispenses with Jesus’ actual birth in less than a sentence. We would like to know a little more about what happened there, how the parents reacted to all of this, but Luke didn’t include any of those details.
He reveals where the couple didn’t stay, in the overbooked motel, but not where they actually ended up. The famous Church of the Nativity, in Bethlehem, wasn’t sighted and built until late in the 4th century.
The idea that Jesus was born in a stable didn’t come along until the early 13th century when St. Francis of Assisi created the tradition of the crèche.
It’s easy enough to make that connection: there was no room in the inn, Mary laid her newborn son in a feed trough, therefore, they must have been in a stable.
But Luke never tells us where Jesus was born. Francis famously loved animals so it should come as no surprise that he looked for a reason to populate his crèche with them.
The stable is something we merely infer from tradition and Luke’s lack of detail. The holy family could have camped out in a friend’s house, or out in the field. A third century document says Jesus was born in a cave.
The bottom line: we don’t know where Jesus was born, or under what circumstances, because Luke never tells us.
The detail about the manger, however, shows up no less than three times throughout the account: once when Jesus is born; a second time when the angels deliver their message; and a third time when the shepherds find the child in Bethlehem.
Clearly, Luke considers the manger to be an essential detail. But why?
It could be historical. But the problem with this idea is, the Gospel of Luke wasn’t written until eighty or ninety years after Jesus was born, and the detail about the manger is recorded nowhere else, including the Gospel of Matthew.
But the fact that Luke mentions the manger three times, and makes it an essential part of the angel’s prophecy, suggests a theological meaning.
Raymond Brown who, up until his death a few years ago was arguably the foremost contemporary American New Testament scholar, suggests the origin of Luke’s manger is to be found in the introduction of Isaiah. The prophecy begins:
“Hear, O heavens, and listen, O earth; for the Lord has spoken; I reared children and brought them up, but they have rebelled against me. The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s manger; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.”
Brown suggests that Luke wants to portray Jesus as the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy: just as the donkey knows who fills her feed bin, those who look into Jesus’ manger know that he comes from God.
Brown’s interpretation falls well within Luke’s theology. One of the few commonalities in all four gospels is the claim that Jesus is the long awaited Messiah, the Christ of God. I would not discount the idea that Luke used Isaiah’s manger image to suggest the birth of Jesus as a fulfillment of OT prophecy.
But there may be another theological agenda here. Remember, Luke is the master of misdirection.
There are two sides to Luke’s story: inside and outside.
From the very beginning of the gospel Luke brings his readers inside his story. We hear about the miraculous birth of John the Baptist, a story that intentionally invokes the Genesis account of the birth of Isaac. We witness the Annunciation, when Mary discovers she is chosen to give birth to the Messiah. We listen as Mary sings: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savor, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.”
Even before they begin reading the account, Luke’s readers know this birth is beyond special; it is unique.
And then there is that outside dimension: the couple on the road, far away from home. The unexpected beginning of labor and the necessity of having to make do with whatever is available. Placing the newborn in a manger, suggesting less than sumptuous surroundings.
The outsider concludes this is a dubious beginning for a new life. Given these circumstances, this child does not have many prospects for his future.
Just after Mary lays Jesus in his manger, the scene switches to the group of people most likely to have used a feed trough as a cradle, the shepherds.
The shepherds who were the very lowest rung of the social ladder: rude misfits who spent months in the fields relating to sheep rather than people; shepherds who were so mistrusted they weren’t allowed to testify in law courts because everyone knew they lied as soon as they moved their lips.
The manger links Jesus intimately to these people who are the lowest of the low. And then, to drive home his point, Luke makes these undesirables the very first people to hear the good news of the birth of the Christ; the very first people to see him, and recognize his significance, and glorify him.
In the Gospel of Luke Jesus spends the bulk of his ministry with people just like the shepherds. Luke consistently makes them the heroes of his parables and stories. If Jesus is the subject of the Gospel of Luke, the shepherds, and the fringe people they represent, are the object: the people the Christ comes to reconcile with God.
And indeed, just a few chapters after the birth narrative, Jesus comments to the critics who disapprove of the company he keeps: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick; I have come to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance.”
Snobbery is one of the great pitfalls of religion. There is a tendency on the part of all religious people, and atheists too for that matter, to believe their faith, their devotion, their piety, sets them apart from everyone else. Their version of the true faith gives them a special in with God.
As he does with so many other things, Luke stands religious snobbery on its head: Jesus starts out one of the lowest of the low; he begins life in a manger. He comes into the world, not as a superior, but as an equal to all who follow him.
The manger tells us the angel’s message can be taken at face value: For unto you, even you despised shepherds, is born this day a Savior who is Christ the Lord. He is born to the world, and the angels define the world in exceedingly broad terms.
As is true of so much in the Gospel of Luke, the all encompassing breath and depth of God’s love comes as a complete surprise. It comes to people who don’t deserve it; who have been told they don’t count; who are not inner members of elite establishments. It comes to us.
It’s Christmas. Christ is born. Let us go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us. And let us glorify the One who comes to redeem the whole world. Amen.


 

Third Sunday in Epiphany; 1/27/08
1 Corinthians 1: 10-18; Matthew 4: 12-23

The Problem With Utopias
Let me see if I can remember the fairytale correctly. In the worker’s state the polarizing effects of capitalism will pass away; in time even the state will wither away, and in its place with arise a benevolent society where everyone gives according to their ability, and receives according to their need.
There’s more, but you get the drift.
It’s really a very lovely fairytale. But anyone with any knowledge of 20th century history knows that no Communist state ever got within waving distance of the socialist ideal. Instead of creating a socialist fantasyland, the Communists created an economic nightmare that continues to generate serious repercussions a quarter century after the collapse of the Soviet Union.
However, even now, even knowing the catastrophic outcome of the Russian revolution, there is something seductive in that most quintessential of all Communist slogans, “From each according to his ability to each according to his need.”
In the early 16th century Sir Thomas More, Henry VIII’s chancellor, coined the word “utopia” as the title of his most famous essay. Moore combined a few Greek terms to form an English word that means, literally, “no place at all.” By entitling his work Utopia, More let his readers know his vision of an ideal society did not, and probably could not, exist in reality, but he wanted to create a vision of what a more perfect community might look like.
And perhaps portions of that vision could become goals for a society that wanted to be more devout and faithful.
Since the publication of Moore’s seminal book numerous groups and people have created their own utopias, including the famous 20th century negative utopias of George Orwell and Aldus Huxley: 1984 and Brave New World.
The 19th century Communists created their own utopia of the worker’s paradise that they sold first to Russian peasants, then to European and American workers, and later to third world political movements.
All utopias follow Moore’s example: they recognize that human life can be different; human existence can be better. Negative utopias give a vision of the destructive decadence that constantly menaces society. Positive utopias reveal a vision of an alternative world where society’s current maladies are banished.
Utopias have an important place in philosophy and political theory. For almost four hundred years Moore’s Utopia has provoked thought and discussion. Over a half a century after its publication, Orwell’s 1984 continues to be the definitive warning of the dangers of totalitarianism.
Utopias become dangerous when the perception of them changes from a fantasy ideal, which is “no place at all,” to a vision of an existing reality.
Let me give you a simple example. In my three decades of ministry I have conducted several hundred weddings. None of them went off without a hitch. In weddings, something always goes wrong.
There is a species of bride, thankfully in the minority, who desperately wants a utopian wedding: a Hollywood extravaganza where the prince and the princess are united in fairytale splendor. They have bought into a utopian vision of something that cannot exist in reality. Inevitably, as first one small thing goes wrong, and then another, these brides turn into what has come to be called, “bridezillas.”
The brides I like to work with also want a nice wedding, but understand the purpose of the exercise is not to produce a picture perfect Hollywood extravaganza, but to get married. These brides are always able to keep their eye on the prize and take the inevitable hitches in stride, and even laugh about them. And I might add, they are always the brides who are most happy with their weddings.
Political theory always spins off utopias, visions of the perfect system where everything goes right. The Democrats have one, as do the Republicans. The difference in utopian vision accounts for much of the variations in party philosophy and outlook.
Religions, too, spin off their own utopias, and like the Communist vision of the worker’s paradise, these idealistic beliefs can become corrosively destructive if they are viewed as reality rather than ideal.
Generations of Christians have been inspired by our gospel lesson. Jesus calls the fishermen, Simon and Andrew, James and John, challenging them saying: “Come with me and I will make you fishers of people.”
There is a no more concise definition of Christian ministry. Following Christ is all about working for, and with, people.
But it is precisely at this point that utopian visions kick in. Seminaries are full of idealistic wannabe clerics whose vision of ministry comes straight out of a Hollywood epic. The existential problems of ministry, however, come straight out of the reality of human psychology.
The theologian, Eugene Peterson, compares ministry to the book of Jonah: like that most reluctant of prophets, most people who desire to labor in the vineyard are drawn to the bright lights of Tarshish, but all too often end up in the backwoods of Nineveh. And sometimes they get to Nineveh in the belly of a beast.
Paul describes the gap between utopian hope and practical reality when he complains to the Corinthians: When I came to you I preached Christ and him crucified; I taught you about the love of God in Jesus Christ and the hope of the resurrection. But all you people do is argue about the pedigree of your baptisms.
If they taught him nothing else, the Corinthians taught Paul that the corrosive influence of vanity is just one of the many practical challenges of ministry. The vision of a perfect faith creating a perfect church populated with perfect people is utopian in the extreme.
Matthew is not seduced by the romance of utopian thinking. The Evangelist has Jesus step into John’s shoes just after the Baptist is arrested and awaiting execution. Jesus’ call to the fishermen comes in the shadow of John’s arrest.
Matthew does not portray Christian discipleship as a utopian fantasy. Even as Jesus calls the fisherman, the pitfalls and dangers of discipleship are plain to see in the background of the lesson. In the shadow of John’s arrest Matthew indicates that sacrifice, rather than personal glory, challenges, rather than triumphs, are part and parcel of real discipleship.
There is another utopian vision out there which is often found in so-called Christian literature and movies, as well as in various corners of the faith. It’s a vision that suggests that if you believe strongly enough, if you pray hard enough, if you intone the scrupulously correct theological incantation, the team will always win, the shaky marriage will always heal itself, the dreaded affliction will always go away. True faith always makes things better.
There is a reason why the letter to the Hebrews says, “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
Faith gives us a vision of hope; prayer allows us to express our most deeply felt desires. But the most deeply held belief does not guarantee we always get what we want.
Sometimes the team loses; sometimes the shaky marriage falls apart; sometimes the dreaded affliction just gets worse. Meanwhile, the utopian vision turns sour by insisting the downward slope of the problem is your fault: you did not believe strongly enough; you did not pray hard enough; you got the incantation wrong.
But that is not what the faith says. The arrest and execution of John the Baptist, the Crucifixion of Jesus, are the faith’s acknowledgement that sometimes things go radically and tragically wrong. Sometimes the story does not end as we want it to. The prince and the princess don’t always live happily ever after.
The cross of Jesus looms above the faith, an ambiguous symbol of both defeat and triumph.
The promise of faith is not that everything always goes well, but rather, that when the world falls apart, we are not alone as we navigate the valley of deep shadows; the Holy Spirit is with us always as guide and comforter.
Utopias give us a vision of the true, the beautiful, the ideal. They give us a goal to shoot for. But they are always utopias, visions that are “no place at all.”
The ultimate utopian vision is the Book of Revelation: John of Patmos envisions the world walking in the light of God and dwelling together in peace in the New Jerusalem. Revelation is a noble utopia designed to give an embattled church hope and direction.
But it is a vision of hope rather than reality; a challenge to reach for rather than a description of what is.
In our gospel lesson Jesus preaches the Kingdom of God is at hand. It is indeed very close to us. It is at our fingertips. The challenge of faith is to embrace the hope of the Kingdom while acknowledging and accommodating the flaws in the world around us. Amen.