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.