An Eastern Star -- Epiphany

Matthew 2:1-12

January 4, 2026

 

            It was Christmastime and our daughter, Phoebe, was two. I had taken Phoebe to have her picture professionally taken and we were given a Rudolph the Reindeer statue as a gift from the photography company. This was not a fancy statue, but it was cute. Rudolph’s antlers were meant to hold Christmas cards. But it wasn’t very effective as a card holder simply because if you tried to put more than one or two cards into the antlers, it would fall over. But Phoebe loved it, so I used it in our Christmas decorations.

            Our Christmas decorations also included a nativity. Like the one we have here in church, it came with shepherds and sheep, a couple of barn animals, an angel, Joseph, Mary, Baby Jesus, and the wise men. I put it together carefully and set it on a little table near the Christmas tree.

            Not long after doing this, I happened to look at the nativity set and saw that a certain red-nosed reindeer had joined those gathered around the manger where Jesus lay. I realized Phoebe must have moved him there, and I smiled, and then I moved it back to where I’d originally placed him. I don’t think a day had passed when I looked at the nativity and Rudolph was there again. I returned him to his original spot once more. The next day, Rudoph was back at the manger, and I realized I was fighting a losing battle. Without ever saying a word, Phoebe made it clear to me that Rudolph belonged at the side of Baby Jesus along with all the other characters in the story. So, that became his rightful place on that Christmas and for several Christmases after.

            Looking back at it now, I think Phoebe had it right. She probably didn’t realize the theological statement she was making when she first toddled Rudolph over to the nativity. Technically, a reindeer with a red nose who could fly in a story that included Santa Claus didn’t belong in the nativity scene depicting the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. But for that matter, considering the divine importance of that birth and the full nature of that child, he also should not have been lying a trough used for feeding animals, nor should he have been surrounded by those animals or shepherds either. And even though I admit it’s taken me many years to even consider questioning it, the wise men’s presence by Jesus’ side should be suspect as well.

Who were these wise men? Tradition may call them kings, but scripture does not. Matthew refers to them as wise men who came to pay homage to the new king. Paying homage meant that they willingly knelt before this young king, which is a big deal especially if they were actual kings. We also know them as magi, which is connected to the word magic. It has been speculated that rather than kings, they were Eastern astrologers, who studied the stars and planets.

            Whatever and whoever they were, they were not Jewish. They were not from Israel. They were outsiders. They were foreigners. They were strangers. They were not from those parts, and their people were not from around there. But these outsiders traveled for who knows how long to see this child, because the star they witnessed at its rising revealed to them that a king had been born. And they must have realized that this was an extraordinary king, because why else would they have followed the star to find him?

            There are many layers to this familiar story. But one question about it has plagued me for a long time. If these wise men were so wise, why, WHY, did they go to Herod’s court and ask about this new king? As one commentator I studied wrote, King Herod was well known in the ancient world for being both paranoid and brutal. He killed at least one of his wives and a few of his sons because he thought they were plotting against him. One story says that Caesar, the Roman emperor, said of Herod that it was safer to be his pig than his son. Considering Herod was Jewish and did not consume pork, any pig in his court would have been safe. But his sons were not.

            It’s no surprise then that when the news got out that a new king had been born, that Jerusalem was afraid right along with Herod. The people of Jerusalem may not have been afraid of this new king, but they were smart enough to know that if Herod was afraid, anything could happen. And if we were to continue reading this story after the wise men return home by another way, we would know that the people were right to be terrified. Herod would seek to stop this infant king in the most brutal way possible.

            And what about this star that the wise men saw? The nature of what it might have been has been under debate for a long, long time. It has been depicted as being much larger than any other star in the heavens. Some scholars conjecture that it was two planets that crossed paths at just the right moment, making them appear to be one extra large star. Or perhaps it was a star that was imploding, again giving the appearing of being much larger than it was. Maybe the wise men saw a comet blazing a trail across the night sky and they followed it.

            Yet whatever it was that the wise men witnessed, they recognized it as a sign. They recognized it as a revelation of something new happening in the world. They understood it as a sign that a new king had been born. So they followed this sign. They followed this star, and what I believe Matthew is trying to make clear is that the light of that star shone not just for the people of Israel, but for the whole world. It shone for all people. It was a sign for all people that God was Immanuel – God with us, God with them, God with all.

            Maybe this was another reason why the people were afraid. If you have been taught your whole life that God was only with you and your kind, your people, then seeing outsiders coming to worship a king that you believed would be born only for you and yours, would have been disconcerting to say the least. If you are a leader who wields power with seeming impunity, then the last thing you want is to find out that others, that strangers and outsiders, have seen and recognized a sign telling of a new king, a new leader. Not only are your power and leadership threatened, but that light that reveals this new king is also a light that will shine into every dark corner revealing every dark deed.

            It wasn’t only this baby king that was a threat to Herod. It was also the light that led the wise men to seek him. That star, that glowing light in the sky, revealed that the Light of the World had been born. The Light of God was now shining in their midst. And nothing can be hidden when the Light of God shines.

            Epiphany means revelation. So what is revealed in this story of wise men following an eastern star to the side of a baby? What is revealed? What is made manifest? Although we don’t normally associate fear with Epiphany, I think that fears are revealed. The fear of Herod is certainly revealed, but the fear of the people as well. They weren’t just afraid of Herod’s response, although they were right to be afraid of Herod’s response. They also were afraid of the unknown. Whatever the expectations of the Messiah were, I doubt anyone expected that he would come as a baby born in the humblest of circumstances, and that he would be recognized by the “others” even before he was recognized by his own.

            What does Epiphany reveal for us? What fears come to light? Are we equally afraid of the unknown, the other, the outsider, the stranger? It seems to me that our greatest fear comes from the unknown. I suspect that if we’re honest with ourselves, we are as afraid of these things as the people of the ancient world were. I know that I am eager to proclaim that God is Immanuel, God with us, but am I equally as happy that God might be with them as well? Do I want God to be Immanuel for those I dislike and disagree with, for those I consider to be not just other but enemy? Do I want God to be Immanuel with people who have hurt and dismissed me? If I’m honest, no, but that’s the thing about Epiphany. The Light shines for all, not just me, not just the people I love, but all. The Light shines for all. The Light of God is the Light of the World. And that is wonderful but it is also kind of scary.

            It seems to me that Epiphany is more than just a familiar story that we tell and celebrate around January 6 each year. Epiphany is meant to shake us up. Epiphany is Rudoph gathered at the side of the manger. Epiphany is strangers coming from a strange land because they recognize that a child has been born for us. Epiphany is light shining in the darkness. Epiphany is the revelation that the good news is not just good news for some, but for all. Epiphany is the light that reveals the ugly and the cruel and the evil as well as the good. Epiphany is meant to shake us up and to disorient us and to turn all that we think we know upside down. Epiphany reveals our deepest fears. But it also reveals our greatest hopes and desires. Epiphany reveals that God is still working, still calling, still seeking, still with us.

            So let this Light reveal our fears, because when we can see them we can also let them go. Let this Light reveal all that darkness conceals, because then we can work for what is good and right and just. Let the Light shine into every place where violence exists because then we can work to live in peace instead. We have been walking in darkness for so long, but the Light of the World is shining. May our lives be shaken up and turned around and changed forever more. Because that is what happens when God is with us. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”

            The Light has come.

            Amen and amen. 

Testify to the Light -- First Sunday of Christmas

John 1:1-18

December 28, 2025

 

            I know what it means to be afraid of the dark because I was afraid of it when I was a little girl. I didn’t worry too much about the possibility of monsters under my bed, but I was convinced that horrible creatures lurked in my closet. The closet in my room was a long one, and along with my clothes it held my play kitchen and many of my books and other toys. During the day, I loved playing in that closet. At night it was a different story. When darkness fell anything that “went bump in the night” did their bumping in my closet. When the lights of our house went out at night, my closet, which was a wonderful refuge of play and imagination during the day, became the scariest place in my home.

I had a couple of different methods for dealing with my fears. The first, and perhaps most obvious, was that before I went to sleep, I would turn the closet light on. I would keep the door closed, but the door had slats in it, so the light would shine through the slats. If any monsters thought about roaming out of the closet during the night, the light would keep them at bay. For another level of protection, I also used to line up my favorite stuffed animals on either side of me in bed. I was certain that they would protect me while I slept, so if any of the terrible monsters in my closet managed to slip past the light, I would be safe.

            I eventually grew out of my fear of the dark, but I received a vivid reminder of what it means to carry that fear when I spent the summer of 2006 working as the program director for my dear friend, Chris, at the camp she ran in rural Michigan. The mission of the camp was to provide a positive camping experience for people, children and adults, with special needs and children from lower income and disadvantaged homes and neighborhoods, especially in the Detroit area. In our orientation with the other staff members, Chris reminded us that many of the kids who attended that camp had never experienced full blown darkness. In their urban environment, there was never an absence of light. And night at the camp was dark. That meant that kids, even older high school youth, would be afraid of the dark. We needed to be sensitive to their fears. That wasn’t hard for me because it reminded me of my own childhood fears. I knew what it was to be afraid of the dark.

I suspect that I’m not the only one who was once afraid of the dark, but I also think that most of us adults would describe fear of darkness as something that only afflicts children. Yet even though we may not think we are afraid of the dark, we live as though we are. I admit to making use of nightlights throughout our home. I keep one in each bathroom in case someone must get up in the night. And we keep the front porch light on because it deters unwanted visitors while we sleep.

            But even if I didn’t employ nightlights in our house, I think there would be plenty of light coming from outside. There are streetlights, and the neighbors around us also have lights on. There are the lights that come from greater Columbia. We live about two and a half seconds from Maury Regional and there are plenty of lights there. Even if Columbia is not a major urban metropolis, there is still a significant amount of artificial light, so dark is not that dark.

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

            One creature that is affected by light pollution is the sea turtle. The sea turtle already has the odds stacked against it, but it is struggling because of light pollution. Female sea turtles return to the same beaches year after year to lay their eggs. Human development on those beaches is encroaching on their habitat. But the developments are not the only problem. The light from those developments disorients the turtles. As they’re swimming in from the sea, they use the dark shape of the beach to guide them. The lights confuse them and they have a hard time going from the sea to land to lay their eggs. We might think that more would help them find their way. But the natural world does not work like that.  

            Too much artificial light also affects and disorients the baby sea turtles trying to swim back out to sea. All the lights we humans use are messing with the sea turtles. Maybe that seems like a relatively small blip in the greater scheme of things, but the reality is that light pollution is affecting a wide variety of creatures, and that includes us.

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

            It was the Milky Way. 

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

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

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

            We read this story about John the Baptist differently in different contexts. In a couple of weeks, we will encounter him as he baptizes Jesus. In Advent, John appears as the one who is calling us to make ready, to prepare. But today we see John the Witness; we see the John who testified to the Light. The Light is here; it is shining on us. Do we see it?  Karoline Lewis of WorkingPreacher.org wrote that this is a cosmic event. God is reordering the world and all creation. But we need a human to point the way. That human is John. He testifies to the Light because the people walk in darkness. What does it mean to walk in darkness?

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

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

            The people who walk in darkness have seen a great Light. John came to testify to the Light. We have so much light, perhaps too much light that it is challenging to recognize how these words might speak to us. With so much light all around us, how can we possibly walk in darkness? Yet the darkness is pervasive. 

            So what darkness do we walk in? Is the darkness our fears? Is it our lostness? Is it our brokenness? Is it our loneliness? Is it our ability to forget that just by being human we have inextricable bonds with every other human being? Is it our willingness to put ourselves above God? Is it our knack for thinking we need only ourselves? Is it that we try to replace the Light with a capital L with all the other smaller, lowercase lights out there? 

The darkness is pervasive, but the good news of the gospel is that Jesus is the Light of the World. On Christmas Eve, we remembered that what we celebrate in this season of the year is not just that that a child was born over two thousand years ago but the promise of God, and the steadfastness of God in keeping that promise. As we remember the birth of the Christ Child, we also remember the promise of God to be with us, really with us, to not leave us alone in the darkness of our own making, to give us and the whole world the Light that is Life.

In Eugene Peterson’s translation of the Bible, The Message, Peterson translates verse 14 this way,

“The Word was made flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, generous inside and out, true from start to finish.”

The Word was made flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood. That is God with us, walking and working and living beside us. That is the Light that has come into the world. That is the Light that is true light and true life and true love.

            The true Light of the world is in the world, and we are witnesses just as John was. He testified to the Light, and now it is our turn, our time, our call. May we testify to the Light through our words. May we testify to the Light through our living. May we testify to the Light through our love. The Light is here. The Light of the world is shining. Testify!

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”

            Amen.

A Child Born for Us -- Christmas Eve

Isaiah 9:2-7/Luke 2:1-20

December 24, 2025 

            Approximately two thousand and twenty-five years ago, a baby was born. He was born in a nondescript town located in a land halfway around the world from here. He was not born to royalty or nobility. His parents were common folk and probably as nervous and uncertain as most new parents are. He was not welcomed into this world on a bed of soft linen but was born instead where the animals were sheltered from the cold of a desert night and the predators that lurked in the darkness.

            There should have been nothing extraordinary about that birth so long ago. How many other babies were born that night as well?  All births are blessings and miracles, but this birth was different; is different. It is this birth, this humble birth, that we remember. It is this birth in lowly circumstances that we celebrate. It is this birth of a baby in a nondescript town in a faraway land that brings us together on this night, in this sacred space, in reverence, in awe, and in joy.

            Luke tells us that this birth was heralded by angels; that the dark sky over Bethlehem was suddenly filled with thousands upon thousands of heavenly beings singing their glorias, shouting their alleluias. And this good news was proclaimed to shepherds out in the fields, tending to their flocks. And of course they were terrified. Who wouldn’t be with the appearance of one angel, much less a multitude? When the angel song receded back into the night, the shepherds ran to see the baby for themselves, and there he was – a baby like any other and like no other before or since – and he was with his mother and his father, wrapped up tight and warm in cloths to protect him from the night air. The shepherds shared how they had learned of the baby’s birth, how they had received this good and glorious news, and all were amazed at their story. And Mary, his mother, who had also been visited by an angel, treasured and wondered at these stories, these proclamations and prophecies about her baby boy in her heart.

            That is the story that brings us here tonight. That is the two thousand twenty-five year old story of good news of great joy that we gather to hear again this evening. We gather to hear it read and proclaimed and sung and prayed.

             But why else do we come? Is it just to hear a beautiful and ancient story, or do we come to be reminded that this story is more than just a story. It is a promise. It is a promise – the promise – to which the prophet Isaiah speaks. His words, his vision, speaks to the yearning of his people – for freedom from captivity, for fullness of life, for a return to home, for belonging, for peace.

            Isaiah speaks to the heart of his people, to their longings and to their fears. He proclaims that even though they have walked in darkness, now they have seen a great light. Even though these people have lived in a land of deepest darkness, the light has found them once again. The light of hope, of peace, of joy, of love, of God, is shining on them – breaking through the darkness and bringing them into the light. A child has been born for them. A child has been born for them, who will break the bonds of captivity, who will heal their wounded, broken hearts, who will fulfill the promise of God for them and for all people.

            So, we come tonight not just to hear this sweet, familiar story, but to hear again the promise of God. To proclaim again that God’s promise is born among us and for us and for all people everywhere. God’s promise is for us because we also have hearts that are broken. We also yearn for freedom from what holds us captive, for lives that are full, and are abundant in goodness and grace. We yearn for home, we yearn for belonging, we yearn for peace.

            The old, sweet carol proclaims that in the little town of Bethlehem, the hopes and fears of all the years were met by the birth of a child born for us. So, we come here tonight not just for the story but for the promise because we carry with us our hopes, our fears, our dreams, our disappointments, our longings, our burdens. We come here to be reminded of the promise that the bonds that hold us captive will be broken. We come here to be reminded of the promise that peace, real peace, true peace, full and abundant peace, will come to fruition. We come here to be reminded of the promise that we are not alone, that God is with us, that there is more in God’s heaven and earth than we can see or understand or know. We come here to be reminded of the promise that God became a child born for us, born for us because of love.

            We come here tonight to be reminded of the promise that what is broken will be made whole, what is lost will be found, and that we are not alone. God is with us. Hope is with us. Peace is with us. Joy is with us. Love is with us. God is with us.

            A child has been born for us so that we can live for God and for one another. A child has been born for us so that we can be reminded of the promise of God. A child has been born for us. Let us join the angels and the shepherds in proclaiming this good and glorious news. And may the sound of our alleluias reverberate tonight and always.

            Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.

            Amen.

           

The Holy Way -- Third Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 35:1-10

December 14, 2025

            There were some good things, really good things, about living in northeast Iowa like great neighbors and a great neighborhood. Phoebe and Zach had lots of other kids to play with. We could walk or ride our bikes to most places in town. There was a hatchery right in the heart of town and in the Spring the kids and I would go and hold the baby chicks. And I think in all 11 years that we lived there, we always had a white Christmas. The first snowfall was perfect. Everything looked beautiful with the fresh snow, especially with Christmas lights twinkling from every house. But by January that first snowfall had turned into many, many snowfalls. There would be so much snow that the plows would run out of places to put it and it would get dumped into huge piles on the edge of large parking lots. And these were not piles of snow that you wanted to climb and play on and slide down. There were dirty, mucky, and icky. They were just gross.

            And it was cold. I sound like the proverbial old person whenever I remember the winter it hit 40 below for a week. And that’s 40 below without adding in the wind chill. I don’t want to remember how cold it was with the wind chill in the mix. Just believe me when I tell you that it was bitterly cold, and I don’t think I fully thawed out until the first two years I lived in Oklahoma before moving back to Tennessee. Iowa was and is cold. Cold.

            But sometime in those long winters, usually in February, we would have a brief thaw. The sun would shine, replacing the long days of gray. The temperature would rise above freezing, sometimes even into the low 40’s, and if it happened on a Saturday, you could guarantee there would be a long line at the car wash because it was the perfect opportunity to get the sludge and salt off your car – at least for a day or two. I remember feeling like I was coming back to life a little bit, and I could believe that Spring would indeed come again. A thaw like this wouldn’t last long. Winter would usually roll back in with a vengeance. But it was a welcome interruption in a long, cold winter.

            This passage, chapter 35, from the prophet Isaiah might have had that same effect on its first audience as a brief thaw did for me living in Iowa. It was a welcome interruption. Scholar Barbara Lundblad Taylor asks this question of chapter 35;

“What is it doing here?”

            Taken on its own, it is beautiful and compelling language. It is poetry at its most masterful. The imagery of the prophet’s words and the visceral response they evoke are both beautiful and amazing.

            “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing … for waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water.”

            These are beautiful and powerful words indeed. But hear these other powerful words from the mouth of this same prophet:

            “For the Lord has a day of vengeance, a year of vindication by Zion’s cause. And the streams of Edom shall be turned into pitch, and her soil into sulfur; her land shall become burning pitch. Night and day it shall not be quenched; its smoke shall go up forever.”

            That is Isaiah, chapter 34:8-10; the chapter and verses just before the one we read today. In chapter 36, the chapter that follows our chapter, Isaiah tells of King Sennacherib’s capture of the people of Judah. Sennacherib challenges them, demanding that they submit to him. His representative denounces their king Hezekiah and tells the people not to be deceived by Hezekiah’s promise that they will be saved from the Assyrian conquest. So, these eloquent words of promise in Chapter 35, of creation being reordered to reflect the fullness of God’s glory; words that tell of the blind seeing, the deaf hearing, the lame walking, the speechless singing, are both preceded and followed by words of judgment, vengeance, capture, and forceful submission.

            What is this passage, this chapter of beauty and promise, of expectations upended, of miraculous reordering, doing here; stuck between prophecies and stories that convey the exact opposite? Some of the scholarship about this passage claims that it is misplaced in the text. Some unnamed copyist placed it here when it should have come later. Some scholars believe that this chapter rightly belongs to Second Isaiah – which is considered to begin at chapter 40 and contains words of new hope after the exile of God’s people has finally come to an end. Our chapter, stuck between doom before and gloom after, must have been mistakenly moved by that same scribe from its original place to where it now resides. But perhaps it was not a mistake after all. Perhaps it is where it is for a reason.

            Again Lundblad Taylor wrote,

            “Some things even our best scholarship cannot explain. The Spirit hovered over the text and the scribes: ‘Put it here,’ breathed the Spirit, ‘before anyone is ready. Interrupt the narrative of despair.’”

            Interrupt the narrative of despair. Isn’t that what we desperately need right now? Isn’t that what every generation has needed? An interruption in the narrative of despair. Isn’t that what we are preparing for during this season of Advent? An interruption in the despair that seems to not only loom around us but is growing exponentially. How is God interrupting us right now? How is God speaking words of hope, whether we are ready for them or not, whether we can recognize them or not? How is God’s interruption turning our expectations upside down? How is God’s interruption like a blooming desert, like streams rushing through arid land, like waters flowing recklessly out of a sparse and thirsty wilderness, like a Holy Way where no harm can befall a traveler?

In ecclesial terms, this Sunday is known as Gaudete Sunday – which is Latin for Rejoice. On this Sunday, we turn from the deeper shade of royal purple to a lighter pink. We light a pink candle on our Advent wreath, and joy interrupts us on this day just as these words of joy interrupt passages before and after that are anything but joyful.

For the last two Sundays the prophet Isaiah has shared a vision of instruments of destruction being transformed into tools for life, of predator and prey lying down together in companionable peace, and today we read that all of creation will sing forth God’s praises. All creation will be transformed and renewed. There will be waters in the wilderness and streams in the desert. Burning sand will become pools of clear water. Thirsty, dry ground will transform into springs of water.

And this will not be reserved for the natural world only, but all humanity as well. Weak hands will be strengthened; feeble knees will be made firm. The blind shall see. The deaf will hear. Those who cannot walk will leap like deer. Those who cannot speak will sing for joy. The whole of creation will sing God’s praises. The whole of creation will reflect the joy of God.

The narrative of despair will not only be interrupted but rewritten. The joy of God will be so pervasive, so ubiquitous that sorrow and sighing will no longer have a place in the story. Everlasting joy shall be upon the heads of the children of the Lord, of those ransomed and returned. They shall come to Zion singing. Joy and gladness will be theirs. Sorrow and sighing will flee away. Forever.

            In the weekly preaching group I participate in, we talked about what it would mean for sorrow and sighing to flee away and what that imagery evokes. It’s not just that sorrow and sighing will leave or dissipate or disperse quietly. They will flee away. Sorrow and sighing become personified in this description, and they will leave as though they are being pursued or driven off or chased. Joy will not let them linger but will actively chase them away – not just for a little while but for good and for always.

            How I long for joy to chase away sorrow and sighing forever. Today is our daughter, Phoebe’s birthday, but it is also the 14^th anniversary of the terrible school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. I remember that day too well. Even though it was Phoebe’s birthday, it was also a school day and it was filled with the usual chaos of getting them up and dressed and to school on time. I wished Phoebe a happy birthday, but I also had to hustle her and her brother out the door and out of the car and there was little time for hugs and the “I love yous” were quickly and carelessly said. I had so much to do and so much to prepare, that I didn’t hear about the shooting until I got home. But when I heard what was happening in Connecticut, my other plans seemed foolish. I watched the news and I cried and cried – for everyone affected, but especially for every parent who hustled their children off to school just as I had but who wouldn’t welcome them home again.

            And with the news yesterday of the shooting at Brown University and the mass shooting at a Hannukah celebration in New Zealand, it would seem that sorrow and sighing are permanent residents in our world and that joy cannot easily or completely chase them away.

            Yet that’s what makes this interruption of despair that Isaiah offers us more necessary than ever, because it reminds us that God is not done. The promise that our hope rests upon is that God is not done; that the words of Isaiah represent far more than just an interruption. One day creation itself will be reordered and realigned to God’s purpose and intention. One day all of creation will be glad. One day the desert will rejoice and the crocus, that first flower that blooms even in snow, will rejoice and sing. One day, weak hands and feeble knees will be strengthened and firmed. One day the blind will see, the deaf will hear, the lame will leap for joy. One day there will be streams in the desert. One day there will be water in the wilderness. One day there will be a highway that runs straight and true, and it will be a Holy Way. And travelers on that Holy Way will not go astray or walk with fear. But that Holy Way will take them and us back to Zion, back to God. We will walk that Holy Way, singing for joy. And behind us, sorrow and sighing are fleeing into the distance, into the past, into what was but will never be again.

            The promise of Advent, the promise of God, the promise we cling to is that one day joy will be more than an interruption. It will be the fullness in which we live and move and have our being. It will be the paving stones of the Holy Way, the way that leads us to God. One day joy will send sorrow and sighing packing. One day they will flee away. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s hopeful, peaceful, joyful children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

 

 

A Little Child -- Second Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 11:1-10

December 7, 2025

 

            There is a scene in the movie Children of Men, where the protagonist, Theo, is trying to help a young woman, Kee, escape from a building that is the center of a fierce battle. But this is not just another war movie. Kee is the first woman in two decades to give birth to a baby. This is the heart of the story of both the movie and the book that it is based on. The premise is that the human species is teetering on the brink of extinction because of worldwide infertility. The story opens with the news of the youngest human being, a young man in his early twenties, being killed outside of a bar. According to the story, the United Kingdom is the last nation on earth to have any sort of rule-of-law. But that rule-of-law is crumbling as the government targets immigrants in the country as being anti-government, anti-law and order, anti-everything. But Kee is a young woman from Africa, and she has given birth.

            Through a series of plot twists and turns, Theo is trying to help Kee reach the safety of an organization that is working to reverse infertility and restore the human race. In this battle scene fierce fighting has broken out between government forces and immigrants. It is this fighting that Theo and Kee are trying to escape. Theo slowly walks Kee, with her newborn baby in her arms, down a bullet riddled hall.

            The baby is crying, which is a miraculous sound that no one has heard for at least twenty years. And as they walk and as the baby continues to cry, people stop and stare in wonder. Women reach out their hands to the mother and child. Immigrant fighters point their guns at them but lower them when they hear the baby’s wail. A government solider is racing up the stairs but when he sees Theo and Kee and hears the baby’s cries, he calls for a ceasefire. The guns are silent and Theo, Kee, and the baby make their way slowly out of the building now battleground. Soldiers lower their weapons. Some kneel and cross themselves. Some almost smile as they stare down into the blanket wrapped child in her mother’s arms. Just as Theo, Kee, and the baby move past the line of troops, another shot is fired in the building and the battle begins again in earnest. But for a moment, for a beautiful, tender, heart-wrenching moment, guns are lowered, the fighting stops, and there is a shared, stunned awe at the notes of a newborn’s cry piercing the sudden quiet.

            This movie, and the book that inspired it, depict a dystopian future, a world falling into despair and chaos. It is a hopeless world filled with hopeless people. Without the possibility of a child being born, there seems to be no reason to hope, to believe, to welcome the future. The world is bleak, and the future, if there is to be one, is bleaker still. It is a hopeless world filled with hopeless people.

            The world that Isaiah prophesied to in our passage this morning was not quite the same as the world described in Children of Men – children were still being born, although it may be questionable as to what kind of world they were being born into – but the despair in Isaiah’s time was real, very real. I suspect that to Isaiah and his people chaos and destruction were not seen just as possibilities but as imminent.

            It was a time of political turmoil. Isaiah prophesied from the southern kingdom of Judah, and threats of conquer from other nations were real and intense. Isaiah read the signs of the times and called on the people to take heed. In the verse immediately preceding ours, Isaiah spoke these words,

            “Look, the Sovereign, the Lord of hosts, will lop the boughs with terrifying power; the tallest trees will be cut down, and the lofty will be brought low. He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an axe, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.

            If I heard only words like this from the prophet, I would have been tempted to give up and give in completely. If God has despaired of us, if God has promised to bring us low, to hack down the tallest of trees, what point is there in hoping for anything? But these words are not the end. They point to something more. Trees might be hacked to stumps, but out of the stump will grow a shoot, a tenuous but stubborn shoot. The promise of God did not end in that dead stump. No, it only made it possible for a new branch, a new promise, a new life to begin.

            Not only does Isaiah speak of a stubborn shoot growing from that cut down and dead stump, but we also hear words of promise, words of what the world will look like when that bud, that branch appears. The world will be a peaceable kingdom. It will be a world where the wolf will lie with the lamb, the leopard shall lie with the kid, the calf, the lion and the fatling shall be together. A little child will lead them all. The cow and the bear will graze in the same pasture. The lion will eat straw as does the ox. One little child shall play by the hole of the rattlesnake, and another little child shall safely put his hand into the hold of the adder. There will be no more prey and no more predator, but all creation will live in peace.

            This image of the peaceable kingdom has been depicted in art hundreds of times. It is an image that captures our collective imagination. How wonderful it will be if the picture becomes reality – a reality where even natural enemies live together in quiet, harmonious peace!

            But this is not a sentimental, sweetness and light description of God’s kingdom. It is both a foretelling and a reminder that creation itself will be reordered and re-aligned with God’s promise and covenant. When this shoot, this branch from the stump of Jesse appears, everything will be changed. Everything will be new. God’s kingdom will not only be in our midst, something we see only in fleeting glimpses, but we will also be in God’s kingdom. No more harm will be done on God’s holy mountain. No one will be unaware or ignorant of the Lord, because a word from this King will fill the earth with knowledge of the Lord.

            How beautiful are Isaiah’s words! How I long for them to become reality. Yet, when I hold up our present world with the world Isaiah’s words convey, I realize how far awy from this peaceable kingdom we truly are.

            Predator and prey are alive and well, aren’t they? And sometimes it’s hard to make a distinction between them. Wolves and lambs do not lie down together. Cows and bears do not graze side by side. And while little children may play by rattlesnakes and put their hands down the hold of adders and lead these ferocious creatures around like pets, in the world we inhabit, the little children are often the ones to suffer the most from the actions of the adults.

            Nature is not so peaceable and we are a part of nature. Strife and hatred and enmity are alive and well here and around the world. You don’t have to look very far to see the effects of violence, of anger, of mistrust and ignorance. You don’t have to look very far to see the pain that lies at the heart of our not so peaceable kingdom.

            A quick scan of national and international news tells me how very far we are from the peaceable kingdom Isaiah prophesied. The gap between that kingdom and our own reality is wide and seemingly unbridgeable. But Isaiah did not speak these words for God’s children to despair at how far away we are from God’s kingdom. These words were given to Isaiah and spoken to the people in his world and to us so that we might hope. Even when all seems lost, God’s promise lives on. God’s promise lives in that stump. God’s covenant lives on in that stubborn shoot. God refuses to give up on up. God refuses to abandon us to our own sinful devices. God’s promise lives in that holy stump. God’s promise flourishes in that stubborn shoot. We know that the chasm between God’s peace and our reality is wide, but our hope in God’s peace is as persistent as that branch that grows from a stump.

            In Children of Men, the cry of a single baby was powerful enough to bring fighting to an end, if only for a few minutes. In God’s peaceable kingdom, a little child will lead all creation in the way of peace. Our hope rests in that promise of peace, in that little child, in that stubborn shoot.

            Let all of God’s tenacious, hopeful, peaceful children say, “Alleluia!”

            Amen.

           

           

Plowshares and Pruning Hooks -- First Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 2:1-5

November 30, 2025

 

            When I was ordained as a minister in our denomination – a very long time ago – I was ordained as a Minister of Word and Sacrament. That was my official title, and that’s what I did and do. I do my best to preach the word, and I get the joy of presiding over our sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s Supper. But over the course of my years as a pastor in the PC(USA), that title has changed to Teaching Elder. That does not mean that I am not a Minister of Word and Sacrament. I still am, but my official identification, whether I am at a presbytery meeting or in some other church role is, Amy Stoker, Teaching Elder, First Presbyterian, Pulaski, Tennessee.

            But Teaching Elders are not the only elders in our denomination. There are also Ruling Elders. It hasn’t been that long ago that I understood that ruling does not refer to reigning over but to measuring. The Ruling Elders who serve on our session are responsible for taking the spiritual measurement of our congregation. Are people growing in their faith? Are they growing in spiritual depth and wisdom? Is our congregation witnessing to the love and justice of God in all that we do? It’s a challenging call. But Ruling Elders are vital to our church. They serve on our session and head up ministry units within our congregation and sometimes serve on committees and commissions at the presbytery level and beyond, and in the case of our own Chris Williams, serve as the Vice-Moderator, soon to be Moderator, of our presbytery.

            We are a denomination of elders – both Teaching and Ruling. Our name, presbyterian, comes from the Greek word for elder, so it makes sense that the governing of our church falls to elders. But whether we are Teaching Elders or Ruling Elders, or Deacons in the churches that still have them, we all take the same ordination vows. We all make the same promises and abide by the same covenants. There are eight ordination vows that we share, and the eighth one is my favorite.

It is, “Will you pray for and seek to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination, and love?”

All the vows that we take, the promises that we make at ordination and installation are vital and important, but this last one really gets me. When I was a young minister, I heard this vow and immediately thought,

“Yes! I am promising to be creative! I get to try new things and maybe I’ll get to sit with kids and color. Bring on the crayons!”

Okay, that may not have been my first thought, verbatim, but I do like sitting with the kids and I really enjoy coloring. Always have. Always will. But my point is that when I was a young minister, I took this call as license to just always try new things, new ways of preaching or teaching. And that still holds true, but the older I get and the longer I serve God and the church, the more I comprehend the depth of what this eighth vow requires of elders, of us. It’s one thing to serve with energy, intelligence, imagination, and love when life is great and everything is going swimmingly. It’s another thing to hold to this promise when we are tested, when life is hard, when nothing is going to plan, when it seems that God is far away, when the world seems to be spinning wildly, and we are just trying to keep going.

Why am I giving you this mini lesson in our church’s polity? Because in the very governance of our church, our congregation, our denomination, we are called to use our imagination. And the very words of scripture that we hear on this first Sunday of Advent, the first Sunday of the new church year, come from Isaiah – a prophet, a person charged by God to use his imagination.

Isaiah was a prophet called by God who saw God’s word. What does it mean to see God’s Word? I don’t know if I have a good answer to that question, but maybe our understanding will be helped if we clarify what a prophet was and what a prophet did. I think sometimes we confuse prophets with fortune tellers. We think of them as looking into a crystal ball and seeing images of a future that may only look like clouds and mist to a non-prophet’s eye. But that’s not true of biblical prophets. They were not fortune tellers or mind readers. They could read the context and circumstances in which they lived and were called and they could see the potential consequences of the peoples’ actions. They did hear the voice of God. Clearly, they were given unique insight into what God was doing both in their present and in the future. And they were called to both see and proclaim the word they saw and heard from the Lord. But what really made a prophet a prophet was that they had what Walter Bruggeman called the prophetic imagination.

They could imagine the future consequences of actions taken now. They could imagine a different reality, a different present, and a different future. A prophet was gifted with the imagination to see the world as God sees it and as God created it to be. Perhaps when Isaiah saw the word of God concerning Judah and Jerusalem, that’s what was happening. He was not just seeing words scrolling like on a movie screen in his mind. He was able to imagine the different reality that God was creating.

What did Isaiah see?

“In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all nations shall stream to it.”

What did Isaiah see?

He saw God as arbitrator and judge. He saw God as teacher.

“He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many people; they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

What did Isaiah see when he saw God’s word? What did he imagine? He saw a world where people from every nation were streaming like a constantly flowing river to the mountain of God. People of every nation – which implies that people of every gender, of every race, of every ethnicity, culture, background – will be streaming toward that holy mountain of God. Isaiah saw God as judge and arbitrator between every nation. And in response to God’s judgement, people were not only relinquishing their implements of war, but they were also remaking and refashioning those implements into tools for growth, for food, for nurture, and for nourishment. Swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks.

Isaiah was given the ability to imagine a world where every nation not only ceased their wars, their battles and fighting, but they stopped learning war altogether.

Isaiah was gifted with a powerful prophetic imagination. He saw God’s word. He proclaimed God’s word. He imagined the world that the word of God was creating. And his prophetic imagination produced such beautiful and powerful imagery that centuries later we still turn to his words for hope. His words have inspired and comforted generations of believers.

But Isaiah’s prophetic imagination was not born out of comfortable or easy circumstances. We cannot read his words out of context. He saw and spoke God’s word to his people because times were hard, because his people were being tested and would continue to be tested and tried in ways no on had yet conceived. Isaiah spoke his words of hope and light out of a growing darkness. His prophetic imagination came into its fullness when the world he and his people knew seemed to be spinning out of control.

His prophetic imagination was a glimpse into seeing the world as it could be, as it should be, as God created it to be.

When the pandemic first hit and the world went into lockdown, we had to learn how to be church differently didn’t we? We went from being in person every Sunday to streaming. Public gatherings became dangerous. Public singing became a prolific way to spread a virus that was terrifying to say the least. We had to learn how to be community, to be church in a world that felt like it was spinning wildly out of control. We needed to live into that eighth vow more than ever before, to pray for and seek to serve the people of God with our energy, our intelligence, our imagination, and our love.

The prophetic imagination that Isaiah and the other prophets employed can be ours as well. It is not about being artistic, although that can certainly be a part of it. It is about seeing what the world can be. It is about imagining a future where we all stream to the highest mountain, to God’s mountain, to a place where awe and reverence and mystery outweigh cynicism and certainty. Using our imaginations, we can see a world where difference does not equal distance – distance that is physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual – but instead draws us closer together and closer to God. Using our imaginations, we can envision a world where weapons of war are transformed into tools of peace. Swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks. Using our imaginations, we can see the world as God created it to be, as it one day will be, and we can find our hope. That is the challenge and call of this first Sunday in Advent, indeed of this entire season. We can imagine, therefore we can hope. We can hope that one day swords will be replaced with plowshares and spears with pruning hooks. We can hope that one day we will learn war no more. We can hope for the world that God is creating, right now, in our midst. We can hope for the future because the future is in God’s good hands. We can imagine this and so much more. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God's hopeful children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

           

What Lies Ahead

Luke 21:5-19

November 16, 2025 

            I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my few international travels to witness some of the great architectural wonders of the world. I’ve seen the Sphinx and the Pyramids of Giza, the Grand Mosque in Cairo, Poseidon’s temple, and the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. I’ve peered down at King Tut’s tomb. I’ve stood at the Parthenon in Athens, and I have walked in neighborhoods that are older than our country. 

            One of the things that I’ve learned about many of these ancient wonders is that what we see as bleached rock and stone would have boasted tremendous color and ornate designs in their heyday. Time and weather and pollution all take their toll on monuments like the Parthenon. Columns and arches would have displayed vivid colors and walls would have conveyed rich artistic scenes. If it is astounding to witness these ancient sites now, in our time, how much more dazzling would they have been to witness in the years when they were first built.

            Debie Thomas writes that according to ancient historian Josephus, the temple in Jerusalem would have been an incredible sight to see. It was built by Herod the Great, and its retaining walls were said to have been built by stones that were 40 feet long. And written testaments about the temple at that time report that Herod used so much gold to gild the outside of the sacred structure that if someone looked at in bright sunlight, they ran the risk of blinding themselves. This temple in Jerusalem was an architectural, engineering, and religious feat.

            I can understand, then, why the disciples and other folks with Jesus, were gazing at it in wonder. I can understand why they were admiring its great stones and its elaborate facade. As Thomas also writes, when they were looking at the temple, they were not just appreciating its beauty. They were also looking at what for them was the epicenter of their world. The temple represented not only their faith, but the entirety of their lives and the long history and sacred tradition their lives were built upon. Their lives began with dedication in the temple. They would have grown up traveling to the temple for religious holidays and festivals. Looking at the temple, they saw the past, the present, and the future. They saw tradition and they saw glory and they saw permanence and, most importantly, they saw a manifestation of God.

            But what did Jesus see? He saw ruins. He saw destruction and devastation. It is necessary to remember that when Luke wrote his gospel, when Luke wrote about Jesus offering this prophecy, the Temple had already been destroyed. Everything that Jesus speaks of had already come to pass. Every stone had been torn down. Not one stone remained on top of stone, which would have been unimaginable to the people there with Jesus. What they believed to be indestructible, imperishable, and sacrosanct proved otherwise.

            This passage fits the category of apocalyptic. Jesus offers a vision, a prophecy of destruction and change that is to come and a vision of the end times – apocalyptic. If you’re like me, when I think of the word apocalypse I think of the Hollywood version. I think of movies that depict everything, the entire world, falling apart. In those versions of apocalypse, the world crumbles into complete and utter chaos. In some versions, humanity transforms from the living to the living dead. Zombies walk the earth seeking to make a zombie of anyone who is still fully human. I think of nightmarish scenarios, and everything that we know coming to an end.

But that’s Hollywood. In biblical terms, apocalypse does not mean what we think it means in our culture. Apocalypse is better translated as unveiling. An apocalypse reveals something – a truth, an understanding, the real nature of something or someone. So to experience an apocalypse is to experience revelation. As Thomas puts it, to experience an apocalypse is to see clearly, to see what has been hidden.

This is good and important to know, but I suspect that the disciples and the other people listening to Jesus were not making that distinction as Jesus spoke. Instead, I imagine the people listening to him must have been terrified and shocked by his words. If the temple, this grand and glorious testament to God was going to someday be nothing but stone upon stone, then they wanted to know when it was going to happen. They wanted to know what lay ahead. They wanted specifics. They wanted time and date. And if that wasn’t possible, then they wanted Jesus to tell them the signs to watch for. Please Jesus, at least give us a clue.

Jesus never gives them the answer they’re looking for. He mentions what seem to be signs: wars, natural disasters, false prophets. But he refuses to give them a countdown. There is no timetable or calendar they can turn to. He just tells them,

“Beware that you are not lead astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and, ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them.”

            Then Jesus tells those who follow him that they will be persecuted for doing just that. Because they follow him, they will be brought before royalty and heads of state. When that happens that will be their chance to testify, to witness to God’s creative and redemptive work through the Son. Jesus tells them,

“So, make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you the words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.” 

If I were one of the ones gathered around Jesus, listening to this, I would have wanted many, many more details. So, let me get this straight, Jesus. The temple, this amazing edifice that houses God and all God’s glory will be torn down. False prophets will come, and natural disasters and wars will continue to happen. And we’ll be persecuted for following you. And not only will we be persecuted, but we’ll be offered chances to testify to you and to your kingdom, but we should not prepare our words ahead of time because when that time does come we will be given the words and the wisdom that we need in that moment. So, in that moment we will know what to say, but not before. Don’t worry about coming up with well-turned phrases, just go with what you understand and know in that moment. For a manuscript person like me, that does not bode well. And finally, what you’re telling us Jesus is that we need plenty of endurance. Is that what you’re saying, Jesus? That we need to endure? This is like the worst recruitment strategy ever.

Jesus is not only telling the disciples and anyone else who would follow him that he is not giving them specific signs to watch for or dates and times when all these events will take place, he is also telling them not to worry about all that he has just told them. Don’t worry, just endure.

But where does our endurance come from? Whatever storehouses of strength we carry within us, to endure what Jesus is proclaiming takes more than what we can do ourselves. Our faithful endurance is built on trust in God and on our hope that the future is in God’s good hands. Believe it or not, this passage with its apocalyptic message is really about hope – hope in God, hope in the kingdom of God Jesus has been proclaiming. It is not a worldly hope or an overt hope. It is hope not in things seen but unseen. The temple, on which I suspect many placed their hope, would be torn down. Something that they considered permanent and indestructible would be destroyed. But God is not contained in the temple or in any building or structure. God will not be put in a box, even in the most beautiful box one could imagine. The apocalypse that Jesus is referring to is not destruction for destruction’s sake. It is the unveiling, the revealing, of God and God’s kingdom, of the world as it was created to be. This may all sound terrifying, but in truth we are given overwhelming reason to hope.

When I first began to read this passage along with our verses from the prophet Isaiah, I started to think that we were reading them out of order. The Luke passage should have been read first, with the Isaiah passage following. I say that because I think that the Isaiah passage offers us a glimpse of what the apocalyptic unveiling in Luke points to. It offers us a glimpse of the world as God created it to be. It is the new thing God is doing. If our eyes are opened through apocalyptic unveiling, we may be able to perceive it. It is the world toward which we endure. It is the world that we hope for. It is the world that we are working and struggling and praying and pleading to come into its fullness.

And what is this world? Is it one where we find fortune and fame? Or is it one where we lead long lives, full lives, abundant lives – abundant not with stuff but with love and righteousness and justice and gladness and loveliness and joy. It is the world where even the creatures of nature are no longer predator or prey but comfortable companions. It is the world where we are so aligned with God’s purposes that we understand the mind of God as much as God understands us, and we recognize, finally, the life abundant that Jesus promises in John’s gospel. This is the world we hope for. This is the world we endure for.

It is a world where babies are not born only to die, where living less than a century is considered abnormal, where we all enjoy the fruits of our labor, where children are not born to suffer terror but grow up in love and light. It is a world where wolves and lambs eat together, and where the idea of predator and prey no longer makes sense.

This is the good news. This is what we hope for and this is where our endurance will take us. But none of this is easy. Sometimes everything we know must crumble for something new to be built. Sometimes are we misled by others and must find our way back to God. Sometimes it seems that the whole world is falling down, and we cannot yet see how it is being made new. But it is. It is, and so we trust and so we hope and so we endure because God is faithful, because God is creating, because God is making all things news. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

 

.

 

 

 

           

God of the Living

Luke 20:27-38

November 9, 2025

 

            For most of my adult life I referred to my parents’ marriage as “The Bill and Jeri Show.” I didn’t say this out of disrespect but because my mom and dad were just funny to watch together.. To be fair, they were not trying to be funny. They weren’t telling jokes or putting on humorous sketches, but they’re responses to one another’s foibles and quirks just made me laugh, smile, and shake my head.

            My dad would get frustrated trying to do something and he would fuss, and sigh, and say something like, “Oh blast this darn thing!” and my mom would say, “Oh Bill.” If you were to ask my kids to repeat something that their gramma said to their grampa, they would say, “Oh Bill.”

            But it was my mom who most often stole the show. She was a very funny person in general; she was the grand dame of silly in our family. Everything I learned about being silly, I learned from her. But she also said things without meaning to be funny, and those were some of the funniest things she ever said. Two of these statements will forever live in our family lore.

            Once, when my dad had a meeting to go to, he got up, got dressed for his meeting – which meant a dress shirt and nice slacks -- then came out to drink his coffee and eat breakfast. And then he spilled on his shirt. And my mom, exasperated that he got his good clothes dirty, said,

“Oh Bill, why don’t you put your clothes on before you get dressed.”

            What? I think we all realized that what she was trying to say which was put on your everyday clothes to eat breakfast in, then change for your meeting, but that’s not what she said.

            Another Jeri classic happened when my mom was doing something in the kitchen and she didn’t hear my dad walk up behind her. When he said something he scared her without meaning to and she startled and jumped and said,

            “Oh Bill, why don’t you say something before you speak.”

            After she said things like this, my dad would tell my sister and brother and me about it, exclaiming you’re not going to believe what your mother said this time. And I would laugh and think, there’s another episode of the Bill and Jeri show for the books.

            But whatever quirks their long marriage revealed or created, in their last years my parents fell asleep holding hands every night. They did this for the obvious reason, they loved each other even when they drove each other a little nuts. But I also believe they did this because if one of them were to die during the night, they would be holding hands and not making that transition alone.

            When my mom died, our first thought was, “Well, at least she’s with dad again.” I still think that, and it gives me a great deal of comfort believing that they are with each other in the life eternal as much as they were in this life. That is my great hope.

            It is because of my hope that I find Jesus’ response to the Sadducees in today’s passage from Luke’s gospel unsettling and disconcerting story to say the least. But if it is disconcerting, then that must mean we need to work at understanding it.

            The story begins with a confrontation between Jesus and the powers that be. But this is the one time that the confronters are the Sadducees not the Pharisees. According to the text, the Sadducees come to Jesus with the firm belief that there is no resurrection. Yet their question for Jesus centered around this very topic. They questioned Jesus about resurrection, even though they did not believe in it. Clearly, this is another instance where authorities are trying to trap Jesus and put him on the spot. It was another reason to discount him and his claims about God and the kingdom. As was so often the case, they sought to make Jesus look foolish.

            The Sadducees were a faction in Jewish society. They descended from the priestly class and believed solely in the Pentateuch – the first five books of what we call the Old Testament – Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. If resurrection did not appear in these five books, then resurrection was not real.

            Unlike the Sadducees, the Pharisees did believe in the resurrection after death. They had been debating and arguing with the Sadducees about the resurrection or the lack thereof for a long, long time. I suspect that the Sadducees brought up resurrection, not only to try and trap Jesus but to provoke the Pharisees once again.

            The question the Sadducees ask Jesus was based on a law found in Deuteronomy about the perpetuation of family line. It is known as the levirate law – if a man dies and leaves his wife childless, then it is the husband’s brother’s obligation and duty to marry the widow. That way they can have children and the family name, which always came through the husband, would continue. The first husband will not be forgotten in Israel, because through his brother, he fathered children. This is not a law that I find reasonable or agree with, but that perpetuation of the family lineage, of the family name, was an essential part of that culture.

            So the Sadducees are referring to this law when they pose this question to Jesus. But they use an example that pushes the law to the level of ridiculousness. Seven brothers marry the same woman. The brothers are fulfilling their duty to the law and to the first brother. But all of them die without fathering children. Then the woman dies. Here is the sticking point. In this so-called resurrection of which you speak, Jesus, to whom will this woman, the wife of seven brothers, be married?

            We know that this is not the first time Jesus has been baited. In Luke’s gospel, this is the third and final question asked of Jesus that ultimately sets the wheels in motion to put him to death. But with each example of baiting, Jesus models how to answer the true intent of the question without giving way to frustration and anger over the questioner’s methods or reasons for asking.

            Which means that Jesus knows they are trying to set him up, but he does not take the bait. He does not evade the question or dismiss it for being ridiculous. He says,

            “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage, but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage.”

            It’s apples to oranges, Jesus tells them. In this age, in this life, on this earth, marriage is a part of life. At that time, marriage was an absolute necessity, not only for continuing the family name and for remembrance of that name in Israel, but also for the protection of the woman. A woman or a child alone, a widow and an orphan, were among the most vulnerable. But in the age to come, marriage will not be a part of that life. Therefore, their question about which brother is the true husband of the woman will not be an issue. It will not matter in the age to come.

            With their question, the Sadducees imply that if resurrection is real than it is merely a continuation of life as usual. We live this life, we die, then we are resurrected to more of the same. One commentator said that their question really means that they saw resurrection as “an eternity of more of the same.” But Jesus discounts that understanding. This age, this reality that we live in now is nothing like the age to come. There won’t be marriage. More importantly there won’t be death. The people of that age will be like the angels. They will be children of God. Death will no longer be a consequence of living.

            Death will no longer be a consequence of living.

            But Jesus does not stop there. He turns the law of Moses back on the Sadducees. You can look to Moses for proof of the resurrection. You can look to the very Pentateuch that you hold onto so tightly. Moses himself said that God was the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. We know that these three patriarchs died long ago, but God is the God of the living. These patriarchs live on through God, the God of the living.

            Jesus answered their question by pointing out the error in their thinking about the resurrection. He answered it by appealing to the very scripture they thought proved the resurrection false, which is great but where does that leave us?

            Where does that leave us when we wonder about who will be waiting for us when we cross from this life to the next? Will husbands be waiting for their wives and wives waiting for their husbands? When my mom was dying, she saw people in the room we could not see. Were those people loved ones gathered there to help her with her journey? I think so. And I want to believe that I will one day be reunited with the people I have loved and lost, with the saints of my life, on whose shoulders of faith I stand. Will someone be waiting for me as the gospel song says, when I cross to that far side bank of Jordan?  

            It seems to me that Jesus does not deny this about the resurrection, but he also will not make resurrection sound like an eternity of more of the same either. What I do think Jesus makes profoundly and pointedly clear is that resurrected life will not just be a continuation of what we have now. It will be fundamentally different. It will be fundamentally better.

            But does fundamentally better mean no relationship? It is hard from this passage alone to know how to answer that. But here’s the thing, what do we know about Jesus? What do we know about God the Father through the Son?

            We know that God cared and cares about relationship. God has been trying to get us back into right relationship with God since Adam and Eve heard from a talking snake in the garden.  

            Jesus came to restore our right relationship with God and with one another. No, none of our earthly relationships are perfect. They are all flawed because we are all flawed. But we believe that our God is a God of love and justice and mercy. God cares about souls, but Jesus came because God also cares about our bodies, our lives here and now. Jesus said that the kingdom was not some far off place, but right here in our midst. So I think, no I believe, that the love we have here, the relationships we have here, will be with us in the kingdom. They will be perfected and better and changed, but that love will be there. It won’t be gone. It will be complete. God is the God of the living, the living now and the living eternal. In that we place our hope, our trust, our relationship, our future, our past, and our present. God is the God of the living. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.