A Child Born to Us -- Christmas Eve 2022

 Isaiah 9:2-7/Luke 2:1-20

 

We were in a strange country, in a strange room and bed. The room was windowless and the darkness around us was thick and deep. My children were little, and the strangeness of their circumstances startled them awake. Into that deep darkness, they cried out with their little voices,

“Mommy! We’re scared. Where are you? We can’t see you.”

The darkness felt impenetrable, and in this different room, I could not find a light, so I called out to them in response, trying to find a way for us to reach one another in the dark.

“Listen to my voice. Follow the sound of my voice. I’m right here. Listen to me. I’m right here. Just follow my voice.”

            But the dark was too much for them. They were afraid to move, afraid to trust that my voice would lead them to me. When I finally found the light and turned it on, the sudden brightness flooded the room. Everything became clear. Reassured by that swift, bright light, the children ran to me. I was more than just a voice in the dark.

            “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

            Walking in darkness changes our gait and pace. We move cautiously, inch-by-inch. We grope our way forward, taking tentative steps, unsure of what obstacles might lie ahead. Voices sound strange in deep darkness. Is that voice we hear ahead of us or behind? Darkness leaves us blind and unsure. Deep darkness leaves us hesitant and distrusting, only the small bit of ground currently underneath our feet seems certain. We only believe in the steps we take. We have no faith in what lies ahead. And where we have been seems swallowed up in darkness’s coal-colored pitch.

            “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

            I wonder if the people who heard Isaiah’s words were like my children. They stared into the darkness of the world and cried out for help. But even if they heard a voice calling them forward, they were too afraid to follow its sound. The darkness seemed to stretch on forever. They could not remember its beginning, and they could not imagine its end. Isaiah’s prophetic promise of their deep darkness being shattered by a light must have descended on their ears like notes of sweet music. When would this light come? Where and how? How much longer would the darkness of their lives endure?

            “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

Perhaps for a moment the people who heard these words believed. Perhaps they waited with great expectation for the light to come. Perhaps God’s voice shimmered around them, calling them to listen, to follow, to trust. But the darkness was easier to bear. And this great light seemed too long in coming.

They settled into their darkness once again, moving cautiously forward, inch-by-inch. Night’s shadows blurred Isaiah’s words. Darkness seemed to swallow up even God’s promises.

Until …

Until the darkness surrounding some shepherds was shattered by the Light. The shepherds must have been used to the dark. They lived their lives on the hillsides, in the valleys and in the open spaces. The night sky, whether dark with clouds or brimming with stars must have been as familiar to them as the ground they walked upon. The shepherds must have been accustomed to the dark, so did they take the night sky for granted? Did the familiarity of the heavens cause them to become merely commonplace to the shepherds below them? Did those shepherds cease to gaze with wonder at the brightness of the Milky Way shining above them?

Until …

Until an angel shone before them and proclaimed the birth of a child, a child born to them; a child born to lead them out of the darkness, a child born to be God’s salvation, a child born to be the Light the world had been waiting for.

Did those shepherds take the stars for granted, until the raucous praises of multitudes of angels pierced the quiet of the night? Did the gift of wonder return to them as their rusty alleluias and quavering glorias rose in pitch and tempo to match the heavenly hosts’? Did the gift of wonder return to them when the Light finally broke through?

It must have been Light unlike any other they had seen or imagined or believed possible. It was Light that suffused the entire cosmos with its glow. To them, those shepherds and those ordinary folks living in the darkness, a child was born, and the Light of God filled the world.

God was in the world, born with a baby’s cry, a mother’s tears, and a father’s fearful astonishment. God was in the world, and the darkness was swallowed up in this glorious, riotous Light.

             A child was born to them – to shepherds, to carpenters, to inn keepers, to women, to men, to old, to young. A child was born to them, and on this night, this holy night, we ponder that this child was not only born for them so long ago but born for us as well. Born to bring Light into this dark world, born to set us free from the brokenness that binds us.

            On this night, this holy night, we remember that a child has been born for us, that the darkness has not overcome the light, in fact the opposite is true. On this night, this holy night, we are reminded that there are still reasons to be filled with awe and wonder. On this night, this holy night, we are reminded that our hopes will not go disappointed, that God’s peace is bigger than the wars we wage, that there are still reasons to be joyful, and that Love, God’s Love, God’s overwhelming, life changing, creation renewing Love, comes in unexpected and unlikely ways.

            A child is born – for us! On this dark night, this silent night, this holy night, let us renew our wonder at what God has done, what God is doing, and what God will do. A child is born for us and Light shines in the darkness.

            Alleluia! Amen.

 

 

 

 

Immanuel -- Fourth Sunday of Advent

 

Isaiah 7:10-16/Matthew 1:18-25

December 18, 2022

 

There have been many times in my life when I would have loved to have a sign from God, telling me what to do. I would have loved to have a clear sign from heaven pointing me in the right direction. When I reached a crossroads and I wasn’t sure which way to turn, a sign would have been welcome. Whether it was a billboard with the words, “Amy, go that way,” or a large flashing arrow or even a hand reaching down from the heavens turning me toward the way I was supposed to follow, I know there have been moments when I have longed for a sign from God. Tell me what to do, God. Show me where to go, God. Give me the answer, God. I would prefer not to figure this particular problem out by myself, Lord, so a sign would be appreciated right about now.

Yep, there are plenty of times in my life when I would have rejoiced at a sign from God. At least I think I would have liked a sign. I say I would have liked a sign. Sometimes I wonder if asking for a sign from God is more about me not wanting to do the hard work of decision making than it is needing wisdom from the Almighty. I also wonder if there were times when I asked for a sign simply to confirm a decision I had already made.

This is what I’m going to do, God, but if you could give me a sign confirming my choice, I’d appreciate it.

But I also know that there are plenty of times when I would rather not have a sign from God because receiving a sign from God means that God is involved. God is with me. I know that seems counter-intuitive. Isn’t God with us what we pray for, what we long for, what we profess to want more than anything? Yes. And no. God with us can mean comfort and solace when we are hurting or grieving or scared. But God with us can also mean that we are being called to do something or be something or live something that is going to be hard and messy and scary. So, while I may hope for a sign from God, I also think that I don’t want a sign from God. A sign from God does not mean that the path before us will be easy or smooth or trouble free. More often than not, it means the opposite.

Look at the situation that is described in our passage from Isaiah. Although King Ahaz is put into the uncomfortable position of being offered a sign by God.

“Ask a sign of the Lord your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven. But Ahaz said, ‘I will not ask, and I will not put God to the test.’”

At first glance, it doesn’t seem to make sense why this is not the right answer for Ahaz to give because it is a quote from scripture. Jesus basically said the same thing when he was being tested by Satan in the wilderness. You would think that the answer to Ahaz would be one of praise and affirmation.

Good answer! Good answer!

But that’s not the response that Ahaz receives, is it?

“Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also?”

But here’s the thing, while it might seem like Ahaz is being pious and righteous in his response, the truth is he does not want a sign. Ahaz, the king of the southern kingdom of Judah is in tough spot. The king of Israel and the King of Aram are united. They want Ahaz to join them, not as an equal but so they can take control of Judah and split it between the two of them. If Ahaz won’t join them, then they’ll take Judah by force. All of Judah which includes Jerusalem are terrified of the reign of violence that is bearing down upon them. In the face of this, Ahaz has sought help but not from God. Ahaz has sought help from the Assyrian empire. But that’s not a true solution either, because Assyria certainly won’t let Judah remain an independent kingdom either. Under Assyria, Judah will become a vassal state.

But Isaiah brings words of assurance from the Lord to Ahaz. These two kings that are united against him are nothing more than smoking stumps. They may look dangerous. They may sound dangerous, but they will soon burn out. Ask me for a sign, the Lord tells Ahaz through Isaiah. Ask me for a sign. You can make it as high as heaven or as deep as Sheol. Ask me.

The Lord is not being tested. The Lord wants Ahaz to ask for a sign. But Ahaz does not want a sign. He doesn’t want it, because I suspect he knows that it will reveal something that is contrary to what he has already decided to do. He has sold out to the Assyrians. A sign from God would only show how little faith he has in God’s providence and power to work good for him and for his kingdom.

But the Lord won’t be put off. Ahaz might not want a sign, but he’s getting one anyway.

“Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son and shall name him Immanuel. He shall eat curds and honey by the time he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before the child knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land before whose two kings you are in dread will be deserted.”

Here’s your sign, Ahaz. The woman shall bear a child and his name will be Immanuel. What does Immanuel mean? God with us.

A sign is provided in our gospel story as well. We don’t know if Joseph prayed for a sign from God or not. Maybe he did, but I suspect that he didn’t. But he received a sign anyway.

When it comes to the two birth stories of Jesus in our gospels, we most often go with Luke’s version. We will hear Luke’s story on Christmas Eve. In Luke there are taxes and a difficult journey to Bethlehem. Luke gives us shepherds and hosts of angels. In Luke’s telling, Mary has a voice. But Matthew is different. As one scholar put it, when it comes to the birth story in Matthew’s gospel, don’t blink, you’ll miss it. In Matthew’s gospel, the story begins, “Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way …” then it immediately moves to the story of Joseph.

What do we know about Joseph? We know that he is a carpenter. He is considered to be a righteous man. As Debie Thomas wrote, he was most likely a quiet man. He worked hard, did what he was supposed to, tried to live according to the law and the prophets, and wanted nothing more than to get on with his life quietly. He was betrothed to a young woman named Mary. Betrothal was much more than an engagement as we understand it. It was an official relationship. It meant that they were married, and it was the first step in a two-step process. The second step of the process was when Mary moved into his home, and they lived as husband and wife.

However, Mary turns up pregnant. Pregnant and with a preposterous story about her carrying the Son of God. Okay. I suspect that Joseph felt like any of us would have felt – betrayed, angry, hurt, heartbroken. Maybe this was an arranged marriage, maybe he loved her deeply, maybe it was both. But from all accounts Mary had been unfaithful. But Joseph was a righteous man. In spite of everything, he did not want to see Mary publicly disgraced. In truth, she would have been publicly stoned to death for her sin had it been found out. So, Joseph decides to divorce her quietly. Let’s be clear, this might have saved Mary and the baby’s life, but it would not have helped her live happily ever after either. Even with a quiet divorce, Mary would have been reduced to begging to survive.

Joseph goes to sleep convinced of what he must do. But God is going to give him a sign whether he likes it or not. In a dream an angel comes to Joseph,

            “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

            Here is your sign, Joseph. God is with you. The child Mary is carrying will literally be God with you. But what does this sign from God actually mean for Joseph? Again, as Debie Thomas wrote, it means that he isn’t going to marry Mary and live happily ever after. No, this quiet, head down, do the right thing, righteous man is being asked by God to enter into the scandal and shame of this pregnancy. Just because Mary and Joseph knew the true origins of this child, did not mean that others would believe or accept it. Joseph is asked by God to raise a child that is not his own. Joseph is being asked by God to enter into what will be a messy, complicated, difficult life. Joseph is going to need to trust God more than ever. Joseph is going to need to have more courage than he believed he had. The way forward will not be smooth or easy. This child will save, true, but he will also terrify those in power and terrible death will be the consequence of their fear. But God is with him. God is with them. Immanuel, Emmanuel, God with us.

            God with us is does not make things easier. It can have the opposite effect. But God with us means that like Joseph we can do more and be more than we ever believed possible. God with us means that we are called into lives that are complicated and messy and hard. But isn’t that what God chose as well? God didn’t flutter down into our lives on a silver-lined cloud. God was born in the messy way that we are all born. God came into the world as we all do, tiny and helpless and frail. But that is our great hope. God is with us in all ways. God is with us at all times. God is with us. Immanuel. Emmanuel.

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

Sorrow and Sighing Will Flee Away -- Third Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 35:1-10

December 11, 2022

 

            One of the biggest mistakes I made as a young minister in my first solo pastorate was singing the carol Joy to the World at Easter. Before you assume that I had just lost my mind, let me explain why I did this. I was reading a denominationally approved worship resource that made the claim that since Isaac Watts, the composer of the song, wrote Joy to the World more about the second coming of Christ rather than the birth of Christ, that it was completely appropriate and right to sing this particular carol on Easter Sunday. After all, weren’t we supposed to be joyful on Easter, celebrating the rising of Jesus from the tomb, and the conquering of sin and death?

            I read that and thought, “I’ll give it a try.”

            Big mistake. Epic fail.

            This was a gracious congregation, who allowed me to make mistakes. But I was told politely and firmly that I shouldn’t do that again. Joy to the World was Christmas not Easter. It evoked visions of snow and Christmas trees and twinkling lights, not lilies, spring flowers, and Easter eggs. Don’t worry. I’m not telling you this to prepare you for both Christmas Eve and an upcoming Sunday in April. I knew the minute we started to sing that Easter morning that I’d made a mistake. Singing Joy to the World on Easter, no matter how theologically appropriate it might be, didn’t work for me either. I promised then and I keep that promise today – Joy to the World is for Christmas only. It was too jarring to hear it at any other time.

            But if Joy to the World was jarring on that bright spring Sunday so many years ago, this passage of joy from the prophet Isaiah would have been jarring to those first listeners as well.

            Scholar Barbara Lundblad Taylor asks this question of the passage,

“What is it doing here?”

            Taken on its own, it is beautiful and compelling language. It is poetry at its most masterful. The imagery 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.”

            That is powerful. But hear these other powerful words from the mouth of the 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. The chapter after our chapter tells of King Sennacherib’s capture of the people of Judah. He challenges them, demanding that they submit to him. So, these eloquent words of promise, 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 prefaced 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 of this passage claims that it is in the wrong place in the text. It 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 passage, stuck where it is between doom and gloom, must have been moved by some scribe from its original place to where it now resides.

            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 are capable of recognizing 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?

            This Sunday in Advent is called “Gaudete Sunday.” Gaudete is Latin and it means “rejoice.” This is the day when we celebrate joy. This is the Sunday when we turn from the deeper purple of Advent to a lighter shade of pink. We light a pink candle on our Advent wreath. We hear Mary’s song of joy after being visited by the angel Gabriel. 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.

Yet perhaps we are so used to, and so ingrained into the narrative of despair that these words of interruption, of disruption seem too good to be true. We are intimately acquainted with sorrow and sighing, aren’t we? The whole world seems to be full of sorrow and sighing. Despair is written through the whole text, and joy seems to be just a footnote.

But if the Spirit hovered over the scribes, over the prophets, and inserted this text of joy when it was needed most, maybe just maybe the Spirit is hovering still. Maybe we are being reminded once again that in the final draft, God will turn our sorrow into songs of praise, our sadness into shouts of joy. In the final telling, there will be streams in the desert, lions and lambs will lie down together, swords will be transformed into plowshares, and the world will be filled with joy.

God interrupts our narrative of despair with joy. And that joy is not reserved for one day or one season. God’s joy will be the air that we breathe and the ground that we walk upon. God’s joy will be in the water we drink and the bed upon which we sleep. God’s joy will live in us and through us and with us. God’s joy will transform all of creation, all of us, and sorrow and sighing will flee away, no longer finding a place in us or in the new thing God is doing.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room. And heaven and nature sing. And heaven and nature sing. And heaven, and heaven and nature sing.

Let all of God’s children shout with joy, “Alleluia!”

Amen.