Six Days Earlier -- Second Sunday in Lent

Mark 8:27-38

February 25, 2024

 

            “Get behind me!”

I’ll be honest, usually I think of those words in the context of protecting someone. As in, get behind me because there is danger ahead. Get behind me so I can protect you or take the full brunt of whatever it is that might hurt us. Get behind me, so you can stay safe. Get behind me, I’ve got this.

“Get behind me!”

These should be words of love. If you love someone and you see them in danger, you want them to get behind you. You want to put yourself between your loved ones and the threat that lies ahead.

But in our passage from Mark’s gospel, these words, “Get behind me,” convey a very different meaning especially when the name “Satan” is added at the end. “Get behind me, Satan,” doesn’t sound so much like words of love or protection as it does accusation. And even though I’ve preached and read this passage many times before, it still startles me to hear these words spoken by Jesus and spoken to Peter.

“Get behind me, Satan!”

Do you remember a couple of Sundays ago when we observed Transfiguration Sunday and read about Jesus, Peter, James, and John going up a high mountain? Do you remember reading about Jesus being changed before them, revealing his glory in his dazzling white clothes and shining countenance? That passage begins with “Six days later.” Our passage today is the six days earlier Mark was referring to.

Six days earlier, life seems to be going as usual – or as usual as it can be when you are a disciple with Jesus. Jesus and the disciples were visiting the villages of Caesarea Philippi. As they traveled, Jesus asked the disciples who the people they met believed him to be.

“Who do people say that I am?”

The disciples told him that some of the folks believed him to be John the Baptist. Others thought he was Elijah. But there were others, they told him, who thought he must be one of the prophets. Then Jesus asked them another questions.

“Who do you say that I am?”

Maybe this question made the other disciples pause. Maybe they hadn’t really considered who Jesus was before. Maybe they shifted their feet and stared at the ground hoping Jesus wouldn’t call on them individually, because they weren’t sure how to answer. But Jesus’ question caused the other disciples to hesitate, on Peter it had the opposite effect. Peter, in what must have been a moment of glaring clarity, answered,

“You are the Messiah.”

Peter was right. And in response to his answer, Jesus told the disciples what he had been telling others when they guessed his identity, don’t tell anyone. But this exchange between Jesus and the disciples did not end with Jesus’ stern warning. Jesus began to teach them what it means to be the Messiah. Jesus began to tell them, openly and clearly, that being the Messiah meant suffering. It meant rejection. It meant death, and then in three days’ time, resurrection.

Whatever insight and understanding Peter had about Jesus’ identity as Messiah came to a crashing halt. It was one thing to recognize Jesus as the Messiah; it was a whole other net of fish to hear his explanation of what it meant to be the Messiah. Jesus’ words to the disciples were shocking. Indeed, they were scandalous. Peter and the other disciples probably couldn’t believe what they were hearing. The Messiah would suffer and be rejected and die?! This just can’t be true!

Maybe that’s what Peter said to Jesus when he pulled him aside. Maybe Peter told Jesus that what he was saying was ridiculous and certainly could not be true. Maybe Peter told Jesus to just be quiet, stop talking about this, stop talking altogether. We don’t know exactly what Peter said to Jesus, but we do know that Peter rebuked him. And we know that a rebuke was not merely Peter telling Jesus to “ixnay all the talk about ufferinsay.” Peter rebuking Jesus was essentially Peter telling Jesus to shut his mouth, something a disciple was not supposed to say to his teacher.

Not only would Jesus not shut his mouth, but he also rebuked Peter in return. This was more than just a disagreement between the two of them. It was an intense and angry argument. Jesus rebuked demons. While Peter’s rebuke must have stung, Jesus’ rebuke of Peter cut to the core.

“Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

“Get behind me, Satan?!”

No matter how many times I read those words, no matter how many times I read this story, no matter how many times I read Jesus’ words, I cannot get my mind around how awful it must have been to be Peter in that moment. I’m guilty of jokingly saying those words to people when they offer me some temptation or other. But this was no joke. I don’t think Jesus was declaring that Peter actually was Satan, but he was stating that Peter’s ideas, beliefs, and expectations about the Messiah were not from God.

After this scathing retort, Jesus spoke not only to the disciples, but he called the gathered crowd around them to listen as well.

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”

If I had been in that crowd, I would not have found that description of a follower appealing. At all. In terms of public relations, it must have been the worst marketing strategy ever. If you want to be my follower, you’re going to have to deny yourself, pick up a cross and follow me. You are going to have to be willing to suffer as I am willing to suffer. You must be prepared to die, just as I will die.

Following Jesus meant a cross. Following Jesus meant suffering. Following Jesus meant death. I know that Jesus also prophesied his resurrection, but I suspect that the people listening could barely wrap their heads around the cross and dying. I suspect that those words of resurrection and new life were lost in the horror of everything else he told them.

Jesus’ words were scandalous. But let’s be honest, the gospel is scandalous. The people listening to Jesus were surely scandalized by what Jesus said, and we should be scandalized as well. If we’re not, then we’ve stopped listening.

I know that being a Christian, following Jesus, does not make everything all sweetness and light. In fact, it could make life even harder. I grew up believing that no matter how hard the following was, you just had to focus on the end result. That’s not wrong per se, but I think that following Jesus also involves a change in identity. Following Jesus is not just what we endure until we get to heaven. Following Jesus means that we bear a cross of suffering just as he did. My cross, my suffering, may look different from yours, but we each have a cross to bear. But where does that cross take us? When Jesus told the disciples and crowds that discipleship and following meant bearing our cross, he was not claiming that he would lead them away from the world. Just the opposite. When we follow Jesus, we are led into the world. We carry our cross, and we follow Jesus into a world of crosses. Following Jesus, our relationship with Jesus, is not a private affair, and I suspect that focusing solely on our individual salvation misses the point.

If following Jesus means following him into a world of crosses, then we are called to not only be willing to suffer for our sake but suffer for the sake of others. Following Jesus is not easy, and it is also not just about us alone. When we answer Jesus’ call to follow, we answer the call to stand with all those who suffer. Following Jesus is a deliberate, intentional, mindful way of living and being. It calls us to go into the world of suffering people. Following changes us, and we are called to follow even when it is hard, even when it means suffering, even though the call includes carrying our cross.

This is the scandalous good news. When we follow Jesus, we follow the One who gave flesh to the love and grace of God. We follow the One who willingly suffered and died – for our sake, for the sake of the world. We are called to get behind him, to follow and to trust that no matter how difficult the path may be, we are never alone. We are never without love.

Let all of God’s children, all of us who are picking up our crosses and following Jesus, say, “Amen.”

Amen.

God's Promise -- First Sunday of Lent

Mark 1:9-15

February 18, 2024

 

            Many, many years ago I went on a white-water rafting trip to West Virginia with a youth group that I worked with as a leader. I don’t remember where we went in the state or which river we rafted, but I know that our youth group was large enough that we had to be split into several rafts. Each raft had youth, a leader, and a rafting guide.

            Our guide was 18 years old. He told us that he was only recently certified to guide a group by himself, but that he’d been rafting since he was a little kid. So, he knew the river and he knew rafting. Before we started on our journey down the river, he went through all the rules for our ride. He explained everything that we would need to know to stay safe in and out of the raft. I’ll be honest, I don’t remember most of what he told us, but I do remember this one pithy piece of advice that he shared. He looked around at our group, made up of teenagers and adults, males and females, and said,

“The best way to keep from falling out of the raft is to keep paddling no matter what. You keep that paddle going in the water, you’ll do just fine. I’ll tell you right now. The only ones who ever fall out of the raft and have to be rescued are the ladies. Y’all scream and panic and you stop paddling, so you fall out.”

            I don’t know how the other “ladies” felt about our guide’s pronouncement on women being able to stay in a raft. But for me it was a gauntlet. I thought, “Okay, you cocky little twerp. We’ll see who falls out of this raft and who doesn’t.”

            Our guide said that the trick to staying in the raft was to keep paddling, so I paddled like my life depended on it. On some of the bigger rapids when our raft shot up and hovered above the water for a second or two, I paddled air. No way was I going to fall out of that raft! I’m happy to say that I did not fall out of that raft, not once. Staying out of the wild water was hard work. I came close to pitching overboard once or twice, but I didn’t because I just kept paddling.  In fact, none of us “ladies” fell out of our raft. The only ones who did go overboard were two middle high boys, and they were thrilled. Staying in that raft was like passing an unexpected test. It was hard as heck, but I did it.

One definition of the word test in Merriam-Webster’s dictionary is something that “reveals the strength or capabilities of (someone or something) by putting them under strain.” That white water rafting ride was not the most serious or important test that I’ve ever had to endure, but I do think it revealed something about me. There are plenty of times I’ve been told I can’t do something, and I’ve believed it, right or wrong. But never, ever tell me I cannot do something simply because of my gender. When it comes to that I am stubborn, and I will do everything in my power to prove you wrong.

Even though my test on the rapids took place in what is considered a wild place, I can’t go so far as to call it a wilderness test; not in the sense of the wilderness test that Jesus endured. Today is the first Sunday of Lent, which means that regardless of which gospel we’re reading, we hear that gospel’s version of Jesus’ time in the wilderness. The challenge today is that in Mark’s gospel is that there is not much to tell. It is only two verses. 

“And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”

            That’s it. That’s all the information Mark gives us.  As is typical for Mark, and unlike Matthew and Luke, the details are sparse. Mark just tells us it happened. But even though Mark’s telling is lean on specifics, there is still much to discover in these two verses. 

            One aspect to note is the verb that is translated “drove out.” That verb, ekballo, is also used by Mark to describe Jesus’ exorcism of demons. The Spirit drove Jesus out to the wilderness just as Jesus drove out the many demons who confronted him. This suggests that Jesus did not volunteer for this time in the wilderness. Maybe he would have preferred not to go at all. Jesus was filled with the Spirit after his baptism, which happened only moments before, and then the same Spirit drove him into the wilderness. And it sounds as though the Spirit didn’t just give Jesus a gentle nudge. It sounds more like the Spirit almost hurled Jesus into the wild. Nothing about this was tame or gentle.

            Although the common understanding of these accounts of Jesus’ time in the wilderness is an emphasis on him being tempted, the scholarship that I’ve read suggests that these 40 days were as much about testing Jesus as they were about tempting him. Certainly, Mark states that Jesus was tempted by Satan. But wasn’t Jesus tested as well? 

            What is the difference between test and temptation?  In each of the wilderness accounts,  temptation and testing walk hand-in-hand. Yet there is a difference between them. Mark may not give us the specifics of how Satan tempted Jesus, but we do know that Jesus was able to resist.  He withstood the temptations. He withstood Satan. That is both good news and bad news. It’s good news that Jesus was human just like us. He was tempted just as we are. We are not alone in being tempted. But it can also be bad news – or at least frustrating news – because while Jesus resisted temptation, I have not always been so strong. If Jesus’ resistance set a standard for resisting temptation, then I never have and never will live up to it.

But if this is a story that is also about testing, then how was Jesus tested? Thinking about the definition of testing that I shared earlier, what is revealed about Jesus? Forty days of fasting and temptation and keeping company with wild beasts would put anyone under strain. What did that strain reveal about Jesus? What was revealed about his humanity as well as his divinity? 

Here’s the thing, when we profess that Jesus was truly human, we’re supposed to mean it. The story of Jesus in the wilderness is not the story of a superhero who possessed powers that helped him resist what we mere mortals cannot. Jesus was human. That is what incarnation is all about. God did not just put on the likeness of humanity. God became human. So I have no doubt that the temptations Jesus faced were real and painful. I have no doubt that he was vulnerable, both physically and emotionally. But if the testing that he endured revealed anything about Jesus, it revealed that he was faithful to his call, faithful to what he came to do, faithful to who he was.  He was not only obedient to the point of death on the cross, but he was also faithful to that point as well. The testing Jesus endured and the strain he was put under, revealed his faithfulness. 

What kept Jesus faithful? Was it just the fact that he knew who he was? I’m sure that helped. But when you are in a sparse and hostile land for 40 days and nights, when you are surrounded by wild beasts, who probably don’t care that you are the Son of God, then how do you remain faithful? Maybe one way that Jesus kept going was that he remembered God’s promise, God’s promise to the world, God’s promise to him.

Our first lesson this morning was the end of the story of Noah and the flood. We read about the moment when God promised never to despair of God’s creation again, never to flood the whole world again, and that promised was marked by a rainbow in the clouds.

But there is another promise that we read about today. As soon as Jesus came out of the waters of baptism, he saw the heavens torn apart and he saw the Spirit like a dove descend on him, and he heard a voice. He heard God’s voice telling him, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”

You are my Son, the Beloved. There is promise in those words, the words that in Mark’s gospel, only Jesus can hear. God not only loves Jesus, not only calls him beloved and that he is pleased in him, but God is with him. That is the unspoken promise in those spoken words. God is with him. God is there. God will abandon or forsake him. God will not leave him alone – in the wilderness, in his ministry, even on the cross.

Jesus must have trusted in that promise. Jesus must have trusted that the wilderness would test and tempt him, but that it would not overcome him. Jesus must have trusted that he was not left alone to Satan and the wild beasts, but that angels would be there too. And they were.

            And doesn’t that promise extend to us as well? No, we are not Jesus, but Jesus was like us. Jesus was truly tempted, and Jesus was truly tested in that wilderness. And we are too. We all have our times in the wilderness, we all face our own temptations and tests. But even when we fail., even when we fall, we are not alone in those times and places. God is with us, even if we don’t always know. Angels minister to us, even if we don’t recognize them right away. God is with us, so we must cling to our faith, as hard as it is to do so at times. We must cling to our faith, even when it wavers, cling to our faith and trust in God’s unfailing, unwavering promise. We are loved. We are not alone even in the wildest of wilderness places. God is with us. God promised.

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

 

 

Up a High Mountain -- Transfiguration Sunday

Mark 9:2-9

February 11, 2024

 

            What if Peter got it right? I’ve never asked myself that question before. What if Peter got it right? It’s a question that a commentator on this passage in The Christian Century posed, and it has stuck with me ever since. What if Peter got it right? Had I not read this commentary, would I have ever even considered this question? I can’t tell you how many times I have preached on the transfiguration of Jesus and not once have I even thought about this option, pondered this possibility, asked that question. What if Peter got it right with his declaration to build three dwellings, to stay there on that mountain? What if Peter got it right?

            In all honesty, I generally assume that Peter doesn’t get it right, not only on this high mountain, but at other times as well. Peter is impulsive. Peter rushes into situations where it would be better if he watched and waited a little longer. Peter opens his mouth and more often than not inserts his foot. Peter can be awkward and passionate and intense. I love Peter. I feel for Peter. I empathize with Peter, but have I ever once been willing to consider the question, “What if Peter got it right?”

            Jesus has taken Peter, James, and John up a high mountain, just the four of them. We don’t know what the other disciples are doing during this time or where they might be hanging out. But Jesus brings just these three. They go up this high mountain, and without any explanation or forewarning, Jesus is transfigured before them.

            What does this transfiguration mean? What does it look like? The gospel writers give us a description, although I suspect that words cannot capture what the disciples saw on that high mountain. Jesus is transfigured. He is changed, transformed. His clothes become dazzling white, whiter than any laundering or bleach could make them. Before the disciples could wrap their heads around this strange change of their teacher, Jesus is no longer standing alone. Moses and Elijah – the Law and the Prophets – are with him, talking with Jesus, engaging with Jesus. And Peter, not knowing what to say or do because they three of them were terrified, speaks up and says,

            “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

            Whatever Peter might have expected to happen at that moment, he probably didn’t expect what actually did happen. A cloud overshadowed them, and from that cloud came a voice saying,

            “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”

            And just as suddenly as all this began, it was over. Jesus was the Jesus they knew once again. His clothes were just clothes again, minus the dazzling brightness. However he looked while he was transfigured, all that was done – for now. And he was standing there alone. Moses and Elijah were gone as well. If they stayed on that high mountain for a while, catching their breath, and trying to get Jesus to tell them what happened, we don’t read about it in the text. It would seem that as soon as the transfiguration of Jesus was over, they made their way back down the mountain. The only thing we know that Jesus told them at that moment was not to tell anyone else. Don’t breathe a word of it until after the Son of Man is risen from the dead.

            So, did Peter get it right?

            As I said, I’ve never considered that possibility before. When I read this text and I read Peter’s statement about the three dwelling places, or tabernacles if we want to stick closer to the Greek, I just think he’s being impulsive Peter again. He is terrified, and his fear makes him want to fill the strange space with words. But what’s so wrong about wanting to stay and see Jesus in his glory? What is so wrong with wanting to be, just be, in the light of glory, the light of God that not only surrounded Jesus, but seemed to stream from him as well?

            The commentator who asked this question made the connection between that light and the light of creation. The light of glory that transfigured Jesus came from the One who said, “Let there be light!” Peter was right, it was good for them to be there. It was good for them to witness that light. Maybe Peter being Peter was exactly what was right at that moment.

            Six days earlier, Peter got it right – just before he got it terribly, terribly wrong. Six days earlier, Jesus asked the disciples what the people were saying about him. Who did they think he truly was? The disciples answered, “Well, some folks think that you’re Elijah, and some think that you’re John the Baptist, or another one of the prophets.” But Peter said what no one else was saying.

            “You are the Messiah.”

            Peter got it right. Of course, if you remember the rest of that story, the minute Jesus begins to tell them what it really means to be the messiah, that it means suffering, that it means death, Peter took Jesus aside and told him to knock that kind of talk off! Peter rebuked Jesus!  And then Jesus rebuked Peter. He rebuked him in the way that he rebuked demons who possessed people. So, Peter got it very right, but then he got it very, very, very wrong.

            But six days later Jesus, Peter, James, and John go up this high mountain and Jesus and everything else changes. This was a pivotal moment. This was one of those moments, one of those times, when looking back on it, there would always be a before and an after. You know the moments I’m talking about. They can be personal – like the moment you met your spouse or the moment your children were born. Or they can be collective – like epic moments in history – when President Kennedy was assassinated or September 11^th. Personal or collective, all these are pivotal moments. They mark a moment of absolute change, a before and an after.

            The transfiguration is one of those moments. When Jesus and the disciples go back down that mountain, nothing will ever be the same again. Even when Peter and the other disciples don’t get it right – and there will be plenty more of those moments to come, this is a moment of change, of turning. There was a time before they witnessed Jesus’ transfiguration and there is every moment after. There was a time before they went up that high mountain and saw Jesus change and become illumined and dazzling with supernatural light, when Moses and Elijah appeared with him and talked with him, and there is every moment after.

            But no matter how wrong Peter and the other disciples get it after this moment, they cannot unsee what they have seen. They cannot unknow what they now know – even if that knowledge is not yet complete.

            So, maybe Peter was right to want to stay in that moment. Maybe Peter’s instinct to settle into the moment was spot on. It’s just that moments like that cannot last forever, at least not in this space and time. That moment came to an end, and they went back down the mountain, but it gave them a glimpse of what was and is to come. It gave them a fleeting look at the glory of God, the light of light, glowing fiercely at the edges of what we see.  

            In our contemporary church calendar, Transfiguration Sunday is a pivotal Sunday. It marks the end of the season of Epiphany, the season of light, and the beginning of Lent, the season of shadows. It’s like the creators of the lectionary want to give us one last, dramatic, epiphanous burst of light before we move into the somber days of Lent, before we turn our heads and hearts to the cross.

            Needing some inspiration for my sermon this morning, I did a search of artwork around the transfiguration. I wanted to see how artists have interpreted this story over the centuries. Classical artists often depicted Jesus, Moses, and Elijah as surrounded by a halo of light and hovering off the ground. I guess when you have no sure way to depict supernatural light, having them hovering is another way to show just how otherworldly this event was. But my favorite piece of art was not of figures at all. It was just a circle of light, light that looked like it was moving, dancing, flickering like flame. It was a burst of light that made me wish I could reach out and touch it. It looked like light that would illumine everything around it, that it would make everything clear, at least for a moment.

            And maybe that’s what the transfiguration was as well. A burst of illuminating light surrounding Jesus, making everything clear to the disciples, at least for a moment. Maybe Peter was right to want to stay within the boundaries of that light, but that wasn’t possible. But maybe, just maybe, even if Peter couldn’t stay there on that high mountain, basking in that glorious light, maybe he could take a little of that light with him. Maybe it was that light that carried him through the increasingly dark times ahead. Maybe it was that light that kept him following even when he messed up. Maybe it was that light that sparked the flame within him when those flames of fire descended upon him. Maybe he carried that light with him into the valleys where the shadows of death waited, where the outline of the cross loomed ahead. Maybe Peter got it right after all. Maybe he carried a little of that light with him, and maybe we need to do the same. May we carry this light of transfiguration into the shadows of Lent, trusting that the light of glory is there as well, waiting to burst into full and glorious light, illumining our way and welcoming us home.  

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

Restored

Mark 1:29-39

February 4, 2024

 

Several years ago, I watched a wonderful movie called Lars and the Real Girl. It is a relatively little-known indie film that tells the story of a young man named Lars Lindstrom. At the beginning of the movie, we see him living in the garage of his family home after his older brother, Gus, and sister-in-law, Karin, have moved back to the family home while they expect their first child. Lars is a quiet, painfully shy, kind of odd young man. He’s very much a loner and no matter how hard Karin tries to engage him in their lives, he resists. Always with a smile, but he resists. 

But his resistance doesn’t mean that he’s not lonely. Lars does want a meaningful relationship, and he finds one in a unique way. He orders his girlfriend online. Lars orders an anatomically correct, life size doll from a site called RealDolls. Lars sees this as an opportunity to finally have a relationship with a woman. After the doll arrives, Lars goes to Gus and Karin and asks if he can bring a date to dinner. She’s just arrived in town. They met on the internet, and she must use a wheelchair, so he’ll need help getting her into the house. Of course they agree, thrilled that finally Lars is interacting with other people. And they can’t wait to meet Lars new girlfriend. 

            Imagine their shock and surprise when Lars brings this doll to their house for dinner. He introduces her as Bianca and tells them her story of doing mission work in other countries, and the travels she’s had. 

            You might expect that the movie becomes some snarky joke at this point, but it doesn’t. Lars isn’t doing this as a joke either. Lars is living in a delusion. He believes that Bianca is a real girl and has come to be in his life. He even asks Karin if Bianca can borrow some of her clothes, because they’re about the same size. 

            Even though they know something is terribly wrong and Gus is convinced that Lars is going to need some sort of hospitalization that night, they decide to play along with him. Karin even sets the table for four, so that Lars can see that Bianca is included in the meal.

            The next day they take him to a doctor, Dagmar. She is a good doctor, a psychologist,  and a kind woman. She tells Lars that she is going to give Bianca a checkup. She tells him that Bianca is going to need a treatment for low blood pressure every week for a while. And while Bianca is receiving the treatment, she talks to Lars. But at this first visit she tells Gus and Karin that they should continue going along with Lars on this delusion and pretend that Bianca is real. Lars has brought Bianca there for a reason, and perhaps the best way to help Lars and find out the source of his delusion is to allow him to live with it for a while.

            Gus and Karin agree, and they turn first to their church, their pastor, and members of the church council for help. They share what’s going on with Lars, and everyone, every single person, agrees to go along with it. They welcome Bianca and accept her as real. Phone calls and e-mails fly through the town. If this is the way to help Lars, then this is how they help Lars. Bianca is real. Lars brings her to an office Christmas party. He brings her to the local hair salon where she’s given a makeover. Church friends invite her to help with children at the library. At one point she’s even elected to the school board. They do all this to help Lars.

            At other points in the movie you find out a little more about why Lars is caught in this delusion; why a relationship with a doll is easier for him than with a real person. But that’s a spoiler I won’t share. But what makes this movie so remarkable and sweet is that the people in this town love Lars enough to do this for him. They walk with him through this delusion, not condescendingly, not patronizingly, just with him. And in turn, their love, their willingness to be there for him in this amazing way gives him the space to heal, to let go of his need for Bianca and imagine living in a relationship with a real woman, not a real doll.

            Gus, Karin, Dagmar, the congregation, and the whole town come together to restore Lars to health, to lift him up out of his sadness, out of his loneliness, out of his delusion. They lift him up to restore him to life and wholeness, and in the process, they are lifted up and restored as well.

            Our story in Mark is about healing, about restoring people not only to health but to wholeness, to the life they were called to live. Jesus and the disciples leave the synagogue and go to Simon and Andrew’s house. Simon’s mother-in-law is suffering from a terrible fever. In those days before antibiotics, a fever could have been fatal, so the family’s fear for Simon’s mother-in-law would have been palpable. Jesus goes into her. He takes her by the hand and lifts her up. Immediately her fever left her, and she is restored. She stands and begins to serve them.

            For many folks, including myself, this point in the story is troublesome. Simon’s mother-in-law is restored to life so she can … serve? Didn’t she deserve even a few days of bedrest before she had to get back to her household responsibilities? There’s no way to completely reconcile this with our modern understanding of serving, but I will say this. The Greek word used here is where we get our word for deacon. It is the word used to describe the ministrations the angels gave to Jesus. Her service was not just about household drudgery but about serving God. And when Jesus lifts her up, it is more than just an action, it is a resurrection. He will be lifted up, resurrected from the tomb, from death, and this unnamed woman was resurrected too. She was restored.

            Word of this healing got out, and by sundown when the Sabbath was over, the whole city had congregated around the door, bringing sick loved ones, friends who were possessed with demons, etc. for Jesus to heal. And Jesus did heal them. He cast out demons and warned them not to speak of what he had done, for the demons knew his true identity before anyone else had realized it.

            Can you imagine what that scene must have looked like? A whole city assembled at the door of this one house. Even if it was a small city, or a small town, that’s just described as a city, that still would have been a lot of people pushing and nudging, trying to get Jesus’ attention, trying to make their mother’s, their brother’s, their friends’ needs known to him. Jesus healed them. He lifted them up and restored them from their sickness, from what possessed them. He healed them and he restored them. There were many more who wanted to be healed, but early the next morning, after Jesus spent time in prayer, he knew it was time to leave that place, to keep going.

            One commentary states that these stories are hard for modern readers to take, not because we don’t believe them, but we wonder why those people thronged around Jesus are the lucky ones. How many of us have prayed for healing, prayed and prayed for restoration, whether it’s for ourselves or someone else, and the situation has gone from bad to worse? Someone gets sicker, someone finally loses the battle. Why weren’t they lifted up?  Why were they not restored? And what about those people that Jesus left behind? What about them? In a few minutes we will offer our prayers of the people, and all of us will pray for someone who we hope will be restored, restored to health, restored to wholeness, but we have no guarantee that they will be. Will Jesus restore them as he restored the people in this story? And if they aren’t restored as we think they should be, what does that mean?

There are no easy answers to these questions. Certainly I don’t have them. But it seems to me that this story is not so much about why some people are healed and some are not, but about the response of the woman who was healed and restored to the fullness of life. She responded by serving. She responded by ministering. She was a diakonos, a deacon, sharing the love of God through acts of kindness and pastoral care. She served, not only because it was her duty or because of the gendered roles of that culture, but because it was her response of love to being restored. It was her response of love after experiencing the love of God through Jesus. What I find so remarkable about the movie Lars and the Real Girl is what the entire town did for Lars. They put their prayers and their faith and their love into action. They walked with him, even in this strange delusion. They walked with him, and they accepted him, and they loved him, and in that love and acceptance he was restored.

When someone we love is sick or hurting, we may long for and pray for miracles, for supernatural experiences of restoration. Sometimes that happens. But I think the real restoration, the true restoration comes not from a hand reaching down from heaven, but from a group of people walking with the hurting person in love. It seems to me that restoration happens, in all the ways that it happens, when we remember that we are part of the body of Christ in this world. We are his hands and his feet and his heart. He restores us so we can restore others. He showed us true service so we too can serve. He loves so we can love in return. So, may we gather around one another, walk with one another, love one another, restore one another as we have been loved and restored as well.

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

Amen.

 

           

With Authority

Mark 1:16-28

January 28, 2024

 

Winston Churchill referred to it as the “black dog.” Apparently, it was something that hounded and haunted him. Author and illustrator, Matthew Johnstone, created a book and an animated short film about the black dog, because he too was hounded by that creature. In his short film, Johnstone illustrates how he tried to ignore the dog, but it wouldn’t go away. He tried to suppress it, silence it, but the dog continued to pursue him. Johnstone pretended the dog didn’t exist, especially when he was around other people. He put on a happy face, and silenced the canine as best he could. But nothing seemed to work.

As Johnstone grew older, the dog grew bigger. He turned to drinking and smoking, but the dog refused to be silenced. It refused to heel. No amount of ignoring it, pretending the dog didn’t exist or numbing its ferocity through other means made the dog disappear. It was persistent. At one point in the film’s animation, the man and the dog become one creature; the man brought down to his knees by the dog who not only followed him but seemed to have possessed his entire being.

This black dog is depression. With no disrespect intended to either dogs or the beautiful color black, this was an apt and poignant analogy for what depression feels like and for what it can become to the person who is struggling under its weight.

According to statistics published a few years ago by the World Health Organization, depression affects over 300 million people worldwide. According to that organization, “It is the leading cause of disability worldwide, and is a major contributor to the overall global burden of disease.” That was a statistic before the pandemic. I can only imagine what it is now.

In 2020 Mental Health America reported that 1 in 5 Americans are living with a mental health disorder of some kind. And another statistic I found said that 16.1 million adults, aged 18 years and over, have experienced at least one major depressive episode. That represents 6.7 percent of all American adults. Perhaps you have not experienced depression yourself, but there is a good chance that someone you know, someone you love, has.

Depression can feel like a dog that won’t leave you alone. Depression can also feel like you have been taken hold of by something you cannot understand or control. In other words, to be depressed feels as though you are possessed.

I realize that this is a provocative statement. To say that someone is possessed has many difficult connotations. For those of us who are old enough to remember the movie The Exorcist,  thinking about someone being possessed might bring up images from that movie. That movie and others like it, along with the descriptions we have from scripture about people possessed by demonic forces, seem a far cry from how we understand someone who is depressed today. I think of the man in the tombs, who in Mark’s gospel appears in Chapter 5. That man had no control over his words, his actions, even his own strength. The people would bind him with manacles, and he would still break free. That doesn’t sound like our modern understanding of depression.

And I certainly don’t want to make an insensitive connection between depression and demonic possession. People who struggled with mental illness were thought to be possessed by demons, and how much worse was their suffering made because of that kind of thinking?

But if you have ever struggled with depression, if you have ever seen the world through its particular lens or bought into the great lie that it tells you, then maybe the image of possession isn’t such a far cry after all. Depression feels as though it owns you, body, mind, and soul.

It is impossible to know if the man with the unclean spirit who confronted Jesus in the synagogue was depressed or not. But we do know that the spirit that possessed him recognized Jesus. The unclean spirits that Jesus confronted always seem to recognize Jesus.

And the first thing that Jesus does in Mark’s gospel, his first public act of ministry, is to exorcise this unclean spirit, to rid the man of this thing that possessed him. The first act of Jesus’ ministry tells us a lot about the gospel writer and how he sees Jesus, and all four gospels record a different first act of ministry.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount. In John, Jesus changed water into wine at a wedding in Cana. In Luke, he preached in the synagogue and was rejected by the people. And in Mark’s gospel, Jesus exorcised a demon. Biblical scholars make a point of noting these differences because as I said, they denote the gospel writer’s agenda. So, here we are in Mark, and Jesus exorcises a demon.

Jesus does not exorcise the demon through prayer or rite or ritual. He offered no laying on of hands. Jesus exorcised this demon by rebuking it. He ordered it to leave the man. The unclean spirit confronted Jesus by calling out to him,

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”

But Jesus was having none of it. He was not cowed by the presence of this unclean spirit. Jesus rebuked it. He ordered the spirit to leave the man … and the spirit obeyed. The spirit obeyed because the spirit recognized Jesus. The spirit recognized Jesus’ authority. Jesus exorcised that demon with immediacy and urgency. And that’s a fundamental message of Mark’s gospel. Immediacy.

Jesus is on an urgent mission to preach to the people that the kingdom of God was in their midst. His ministry was urgent, because God was on the move and there was no time to waste. Anything that prevented God’s people from full life, from abundant life, had to be dealt with … immediately. If anything could prevent someone from the abundant life found in God, it would be an unclean spirit. So, Jesus wasted no time in sending that spirit packing and freeing this man to the fullness of life in God.

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?”

Yes. Anything that possessed people, any spirit or idol or ideology or blinder that kept people from recognizing God, from full and abundant life in God, had to be swept away, Jesus did not just exorcise that demon, he confronted it. He rebuked it, and he did so with authority. His ministry at that moment was made clear.

I wonder who else in that synagogue needed Jesus to release them? I wonder what other unclean spirits needed to be rebuked. The man may have had the unclean spirit, but I can say with assurance that he was not the only one who was prevented in some way from living an abundant life in God.

What keeps us from having abundant life? It seems to me that you don’t have to have experienced depression or another form of mental illness to understand possession. Maybe you are possessed by fear. Maybe you are possessed by hopelessness or anger. Maybe despair holds you in its grip, or maybe it is something else. But whatever it may be, know this, the first thing Jesus did in Mark’s gospel was exorcise that demon with authority, the authority that comes from God. He rebuked it, confronted it, and cast it out, so that the man could have abundant life in God. Isn’t that what God wants for all of us, for all of God’s children? Isn’t that what God longs for? Isn’t this a fundamental tenet of the incarnation, of the Word becoming flesh in Jesus? Jesus came so that what blocks us from relationship with God, what prevents us from abundant life, and that which makes us stumble and fall could be rebuked, removed, and cast out.

The first thing Jesus did was confront and cast out a demon. The first thing Jesus wants for us is to be able to live the abundant life God has promised. That is our hope. Maybe what possesses us cannot be cast out as cleanly as the unclean spirit was, but that does not mean that Jesus is not working on us and in us. The first thing Jesus does is confront what stands between us and God. And he does it still, again and again, calling us to follow, calling us to abundant life.

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

Amen.

 

It Is the Lord -- Second Sunday after Epiphany

I Samuel 3:1-20

January 14, 2024

 

            The story of Samuel begins with the story of Samuel’s mother, Hannah. Hannah was one of two wives of Elkanah. The other wife was Peninnah. Peninnah bore children for Elkanah, but Hannah could not. And Peninnah made sure to rub this in Hannah’s face at every opportunity. Each year, Elkanah, Hannah, Peninnah and their whole household would go up to Shiloh to worship at the house of the Lord. Elkanah would give portions of the animals he sacrificed to everyone in his family, but to Hannah he gave double portions because he loved her so, children or not.

            But Elkanah’s love and tenderness could not stop Hannah from grieving for the children she could not bear. On one of these visits to Shiloh, after everyone had eaten, Hannah got up and went to the house of worship. Eli the priest was there, sitting by the door of the temple. But if Hannah noticed him, the text doesn’t say. She had other things on her mind, and she needed to pray about them. She prayed earnestly and fervently that she would have a child. She made a promise to God. If God would give her a son, she would make sure she raised him as a Nazarite. A Nazarite was set apart as someone intent for serving God’s purposes. She would make sure that he never drank wine or anything else that might intoxicate him. She would see that no razor touched his head. She promised God that should she conceive and have a son, she would make sure that son was dedicated to God and God’s service.

            Hannah was praying all this silently, but her need was so great and her pain so deep that as she prayed her lips moved. I wonder if she swayed a little, especially because she was most likely kneeling. Her eyes were probably tightly closed and maybe her swaying changed to rocking back and forth. Maybe the tears that were so close to the surface spilled down her cheeks. I suspect that she was so intent on her prayer that the sudden sound of Eli’s voice must have startled her. Hannah was praying, but to Eli it looked like she was drunk. And he told her so. He told her to stop making a drunken spectacle of herself and put away her wine. But Hannah wasn’t drunk; she was a woman who needed God’s intervention and when she explained this to Eli, that she was pouring out her soul to God, Eli softened toward her and told her to go in peace. Go in peace and may God grant her prayer. Hannah did just that. With a tranquility she had not had before, she left the temple. She went home with her husband and family. And she conceived a baby – a little boy named Samuel.

            Hannah was true to her word. She cared for Samuel until he was old enough to be taken to the temple and serve under Eli’s tutelage. And that’s how we come to this part of the story. Samuel’s story begins with the story of his mother, Hannah.

            When we encounter Samuel again, he is sleeping in his usual place in the temple near the ark of God. We’re told immediately that “The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” Another way to translate the word rare is precious. The word of the Lord was like a jewel that is found only once in a lifetime. If God had spoken often to earlier ancestors of the Israelites, God wasn’t speaking much to them anymore. So, that would mean there were no expectations that God would make an appearance that night or any other. It was business in the temple as usual.

But then Samuel hears a voice calling his name.  “Samuel.  Samuel.”

            Samuel, who did not yet know the Lord, had not yet encountered the Lord,  thinks Eli is calling him. Any one of us would have made that mistake, especially when we were kids. Who else could it be? Samuel gets up and runs to Eli. 

“Here I am! You called me.”

But it wasn’t Eli. Eli tells him to go back to bed. But three times Samuel hears the voice and three times he runs to Eli. Samuel hears the voice, but he doesn’t recognize it as the Lord, and he doesn’t know how to listen. Eli is losing his eyesight, but he does know how to listen. The third time Samuel comes to him, Eli realizes something else is happening, someone else is speaking. It took Eli’s perception to realize that the voice Samuel was hearing was the voice of the Lord. And it took Eli’s instruction before Samuel knew how to listen to God’s voice and respond.

            Our verses end here, but the story goes on and takes a difficult and darker turn. The first word of the Lord that Samuel heard and received was a harsh message of judgment about Eli and his family. As one commentator quipped, the message was, “Tell your boss he’s fired.”  The priesthood, which Eli and his sons were direct descendants of had become corrupt and fat with its own sense of power and authority. 

            Eli’s sons had blasphemed against the Lord in words and in actions. Eli knew what his sons were up to, yet he did nothing to stop them.  So Eli and his family, he and his sons together, would soon be shaken up and torn down in order to make way for a new beginning – for the priesthood and for Israel. Eli accepts this message with resignation and faith.

 “It is the Lord, let him do what seems good to him.”

            The message delivered to Samuel was probably not what either of them wanted to hear, but Samuel, even though he was just a kid, found the courage to share it. Eli had the courage to hear it. He listened and he accepted the outcome, knowing that all things are ultimately in God’s hands.

            The story goes on to say that as Samuel grew up, the Lord was continually with him. From this first experience with God’s call, all of Israel came to know Samuel as a trustworthy prophet of the Lord.

             But the story of Samuel began with the story of his mother, Hannah. His story began in his family, and it continued in the community of the temple, and he would serve as a prophet in the community of his people. Samuel was a great prophet and he heard God’s voice, but he did not hear God’s voice in isolation. He heard it in community. He learned to recognize it through the help of others. From the very beginning, he was prayed for, nurtured, loved, raised, taught, and encouraged in community.

I think if the story of Samuel teaches us anything it is that we all need help to hear. We need help to hear God’s voice. God may have called directly, a voice in the night, but in our lives, I think God calls us most often through the voices of others. We need help to hear.

Just as Samuel needed Eli to help him recognize and respond to God’s call, we need others of faith to help us hear God’s word. We need this time of worship together, as a community, to hear God’s word, to recognize it, to act upon it. Samuel needed help and so do we. 

            In a few minutes we will ordain and install our newest ruling elders. These four people – Charlie, Emmy, John, and Paige – have come to this moment in a variety of ways. But they have all been nurtured in their faith through community – through the faith of their families, through the churches where they grew up, through this community of faith. They have heard and answered this call, because it is a call, through this community and for the sake of this community.

            Calls to serve do not happen in isolation. A hallmark of being Presbyterian is that we believe the Holy Spirit moves and breathes and blows and creates in groups of people working together, in other words, community. It is the Spirit that has brought us to this moment. It is the Spirit, working through this community of faith, through the relationships that are forged here, that has helped each of these four people to hear the voice of the Lord calling them anew.

            The story of Samuel also reminds us that that God’s word to us isn’t necessarily one we want to hear. Sometimes, the word of the Lord demands difficult choices and difficult responses. But part of the promise that we make today for these new elders, and all our elders, is that we will support and trust their decisions. Sometimes, a session is called to make tough decisions, decisions that will challenge us, maybe even unsettle us. We may not always agree, but we hold fast to the bonds of this community, and we trust that our elders are not only being affirmed by this community but working to give back to this community, this community and family of faith.             

            For our elders, for one another, for God’s beloved children gathered together in this community, we give thanks. Let us continue to help one another to hear God’s call and to follow in faith and trust.  

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

Amen.

A Voice from Heaven -- Baptism of the Lord Sunday

Mark 1:4-11 

January 7, 2024

 

I’ve always loved the spiritual, Wade in the Water. You know the one that goes, “Wade in the water. Wade in the water, children. Wade in the water. God’s gonna trouble the water.” This wasn’t something that I grew up singing in church, but it feels like a song I’ve always known. It was the Fisk Jubilee Singers who brought this and other spirituals to a larger audience in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, but the history of this spiritual goes back much further than that. It would have originated during slavery and was probably passed down orally long before it was set to paper.

It's also believed that it was a coded song, possibly used by Harriet Tubman to send messages to enslaved people seeking to escape to freedom. Coded songs were a powerful way to share information. Some songs would give escape routes, places on the Underground Railroad that would lead enslaved humans from this country to freedom in Canada. Other songs would offer encouragement for the journey. Wading in water prevented bloodhounds from tracking someone’s scent or leaving footprints for slave patrols to follow.  

I may not have grown up singing this, but a dear friend of mine grew up in a Black church. She told me once that in her childhood congregation, Wade in the Water, was sung every time someone was baptized. I was excited to hear that, because whenever we come to the time in our church year when celebrate the baptism of Christ, I always think about this spiritual. No matter which gospel account of Jesus’ baptism we are reading, I find myself singing these beautiful words about wading in the water without even realizing it. But there’s one phrase in it that I’ve always wondered about. What does it mean to sing,

“God’s gonna trouble the water?”   

I’ll be honest, I don’t like the thought of troubled waters, even if God is the one doing the troubling, and even if there’s a bridge over those troubled waters to reference another popular song. It’s just that I’ve seen the destruction that floods can do to towns and cities as I’m sure you have too. And it’s not just the terrible winds from hurricanes that cause so much damage – although they do – it’s also the flooding that occurs after the rains from the storms as well. No, troubled waters aren’t really my cup of tea.    

But the song says that God’s gonna trouble the waters. Does that mean that God’s going to whip up a flood or cause a tidal wave?  Does it mean that God is doing something dangerous on the waters?  For enslaved people, so desperate to escape to freedom, did it represent their hope that God would produce a miracle like Moses and the Israelites crossing the parted Red Sea on dry land? Or did it mean that God was protecting them, troubling the waters, stirring them up so that detection would be even harder? Is that the kind of troubled waters the song refers to?   

Maybe this phrase isn’t talking so much about destruction as it is about something new. Something different. In our passage from Genesis when a wind from God swept over the waters, life happened. God troubled those waters in that formlessness and void, that chaos and creation was conceived.   

So what happens when God troubles the waters of baptism? We have it in our gospel text today that John appeared out of the wilderness baptizing people from all over the Judean countryside in the river Jordan. Baptisms were nothing new when John came along. Different forms of baptism, essentially ritual cleansing, had been taking place for some time. But there was something about John. There was something about him that drew people to him. Maybe it was his strangeness, his peculiar style of dress and diet. Maybe there was something charismatic about him, about his preaching and teaching, that we cannot fully perceive through the written word alone. It might have been all of this and more, but something about John drew people to him. People came out in droves to be baptized by him. The people were clearly hungry for a new word from God, for something new, for someone new. I think John must have recognized their hunger. But he made sure they understood that it wasn’t him they were seeking. He was only the messenger. He was only the one who pointed the way to the One who was to come. The One who was to come was the One they really longed for, the One they had been waiting for. This One would not just baptize with water as John did. This One would baptize with the Holy Spirit.   

And that brings us to the crux of this passage. Jesus of Nazareth comes to John and is baptized by him. And as Jesus comes out of the water, he sees the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. He hears a voice saying,

“You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”  

Whenever the story of Jesus’ baptism is read, questions about why he was baptized in the first place arise. If baptism is about cleansing from sin, then certainly Jesus didn’t require that. Was he setting an example for those who would follow him and for the Church that would expand around the globe in his name? Was it to prove his identity? Did he do it for some other unknown reason? I’m not sure that we can truly know the fullness of Jesus’ reasons.    

But what we do know is that Mark’s telling of Jesus’ baptism is different from the other gospel writers. Mark makes it clear that Jesus is the only one who can see the disruption in the sky that his baptism caused. Jesus is the only one to see the dove descending and hear the mighty voice from heaven. No one else present there witnesses this dramatic scene. And I’m sure it was dramatic indeed. The Greek verb that is used to describe the heavens being torn apart is the same verb that’s used to describe how the curtain of the temple was ripped in two on the moment of Jesus’ death on the cross.   

It seems that with Jesus’ baptism God not only troubled the waters, but the heavens as well. 

Something about God troubling the waters makes things happen. Something changes when God troubles the waters. I don’t want to presume that Jesus was changed when God troubled the heavens above Jesus and the waters in which Jesus waded. Jesus was who he was and is who he is. But things, life, became very different from that point on. A tremendous shift in action takes place in that moment. From that point on the world was different. When Jesus waded into those waters, the ushering in of the Kingdom was set in motion. 

When God troubles the waters, things change. Things happen. The waters and all who enter them are changed. 

For many years one of the souvenirs that I kept from my trip to the Middle East was a plastic bottle of water from the Jordan River. I still don’t know how I managed to get it from there back to the States and through several moves around the country without it leaking or just generally exploding. I even used some of the water for one of the first baptisms I ever did. Let me make it clear that I used it after I boiled it like crazy. There was no way I was putting it near an infant’s little head without sterilizing it.

But a few years ago, maybe before we moved back to Tennessee, I got rid of it. The bottle was in rough shape, and I suspect the water in it was a science experiment by that point. I love the memories I have of that trip and collecting that water. But what I really remember from that trip to the Jordan was the president of our seminary, Hartley Hall, fussing at all of us for collecting the water in the first place.

I can still hear him saying, “Don’t do it! It’s just water. It won’t heal you. It’s not magic.”

He fussed at us like this while we were still by the Jordan. He fussed at us when we got back on the bus. It’s just water. It’s not magic. I’m glad he liked me because once we were on our way to our next stop one of my friends ratted me out to him.

“Amy wasn’t just collecting water. She was using it to make crosses on people’s foreheads.”

And I was. It seemed like the right thing to do at that moment. But Hartley was right. It was just water. What’s the difference between water from the Jordan River and the water we would use for a baptism? Except for some microorganisms and pollution, absolutely nothing. It’s not the water or the topographical source of the water that makes it different. It’s God troubling the water that makes the change.   

So when we wade into the waters of baptism, whether we do it literally or figuratively, as babies, as children, as young and old adults, we are wading into troubled waters. Waters that have been changed by the power of the Holy Spirit. God troubles the waters of our baptisms. And we are swept into the tide of God’s great and remarkable love, grace, mercy, and justice. We are empowered by the spirit to follow in the footsteps of the One who saw the heavens open and the dove descending and heard the voice proclaiming. You are my son, the Beloved. With you I am well pleased. So, let’s wade into the water. Let’s wade into the water trusting that God troubles the waters, stirring them up and stirring us well – stirring us into service and justice and faithfulness, stirring us to bear witness to a voice heard from heaven and the good news that through the beloved Son, the kingdom of God is in our midst.

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

Amen.

My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation -- First Sunday of Christmas

Luke 2:22-40

December 31, 2023

 

            When Phoebe was born, I had quite a few visitors at the hospital. We had visitors when Zach was born too, but they waited until we got home. But with Phoebe, they started arriving a few hours after I was moved from labor and delivery into my regular room. And when people would come to see us, they wanted to hold the baby, of course, understandably. When Zach was born, letting other people hold him for a while was easier because I also had a two-year-old to chase around. But Phoebe was my first, and when people would ask to hold her, especially when we were still in the hospital, I would certainly let them, although I insisted everyone who touched her wash their hands first because I was that new mom. But while I agreed to let them hold her, inwardly I was thinking,

“But, but I just got her. I didn’t realize I would be expected to share her this soon.”

            After a time, this inner turmoil wore off. The realities of taking care of a newborn sunk in pretty quickly and getting a break for a few minutes when someone else wanted to hold her was a blessing. But right at the beginning it was hard for me. So, if Mary and Joseph had some qualms about this old man coming up to them at the temple and taking their precious days-old baby in his arms I get it.

            Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to the temple to make a sacrifice as the Law required after a baby was born. So, if they were being respectful and polite and not outwardly protesting when Simeon took him out of their arms and into his because custom and culture dictated it, I understand that. But I can’t help but wonder if inwardly they were slightly panicking thinking,

“Hold his head. I think you might be pinning his arm down in a weird way. You know, he really likes to be held against your shoulder to help his tummy. He’s a little colicky. Is this man strong enough to hold a baby and stand up at the same time? Could we ask him to sit down with him first?”

And even though the circumstances surrounding Jesus’ conception and birth were already extraordinary, considering it began with a visit by one angel and ended with the heavens full of them, it was probably still strange and peculiar for Joseph and Mary that this old man took baby Jesus into his arms and then started praising God. This was no ordinary praise either. It was no thanksgiving about the blessing of children in general. It was thanksgiving that this child had been born and that he, Simeon, was finally experiencing what had been promised to him. Before he died, he would see the salvation of God, and the salvation of God was right here in his arms.

The text tells us that Joseph and Mary were amazed at what Simeon was saying about their baby, and I bet they were. But before they’d even had time to process what Simeon said, another person came over to them and added to the unexpected and strange scene. The prophet Anna, a widow of many years, who lived day and night at the temple worshipping and fasting and praying, joined their small circle, and began to praise God. She exclaimed to everyone around them that those who were looking for the redemption of Israel had found it in this child.

I have officiated for quite a few infant baptisms in my time as a pastor, and I’ve held my own babies while they were baptized, and yet with all the prayers and joyful blessings and exclamations of hope and delight that I have witnessed and offered myself, I’ve never seen or experienced anything quite like this. Probably none of us have. As I said earlier, even though Mary and Joseph already had plenty to be amazed about with the birth of Jesus, this must have been even more mindboggling for them. They had been told many things about their baby, who he was and who he would become, but our human minds can take a while to process information and processing such astonishing information as this could take even longer. Mary and Joseph had been giving an overwhelming amount of information to process.

So, what do these stories mean for us today? Certainly they are confirmation of who Jesus is, confirmation of the incarnation of God into the world, the Word become flesh. And that confirmation is more than enough. But what do we take away with us today? Normally, when I sit down to write a sermon my struggle comes with how to begin. But today it is reversed. How do I end it? What deeper message needs to be imparted?

One detail about this story that, even though I’ve read it many times, I hadn’t paid much attention to before, is that the Holy Spirit rested on Simeon. When it comes to the gospels, we tend to think of the Holy Spirit coming later. Even though there are many references to the Spirit of the Lord throughout scripture, the Holy Spirit is associated with Pentecost. The Holy Spirit comes as the comforter and the advocate after Jesus leaves this earthly realm. And since the author of Luke is also the author of Acts, and the coming of the Holy Spirit on the disciples at Pentecost is a foundational part of Acts, I forget about references to the Holy Spirit before that moment. But here it is, in chapter two. The Holy Spirit rested on Simeon. The Holy Spirit revealed to Simeon that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Simeon clearly trusted the Holy Spirit. He trusted and he waited. And his wait was rewarded. When he saw Mary and Joseph bring their baby into the temple, he knew who he was truly seeing.

There is no more mention of Simeon or Anna after these verses, but I think that it’s fair to assume that Simeon did not live much longer. He knew when he saw Jesus that the Messiah had entered the world and because of that he could now depart it. He could be dismissed from this life in peace.

But let’s also think about what Simeon said. He praised God. He said that he, God’s servant, could be dismissed in peace because he had seen the salvation of God, the light of revelation, not just to Israel but to the Gentiles. And then he blessed Mary and Joseph both, but he had one last word for Mary.

“This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed – and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

And a sword will pierce your own soul too.

I wonder, if as Frederick Buechner suggested, that Simeon hesitated before he said those last words. Maybe he didn’t want to say them at all. Maybe he wished he could just not say them and let this young mother leave with nothing but joy in her heart. But he had to say them. He had to be honest. He must share what he knew. This child is the salvation that the world had been waiting for. But this didn’t mean that there would not be a cost. The man Jesus will tell those who want to follow him the same thing. You must count the cost of discipleship. There will be a cost to Jesus, and a cost to those who would follow. Mary will also suffer and pay her own price. There will be a cost for her as well. A sword will pierce your own soul too.

What mother, what parent, doesn’t look with wonder at their precious baby, imagining their amazing future, and also know, deep down, that one day this child will grow up and go into the world and be hurt by it? We long to protect our children, but if we’re honest, we know that we can’t protect them completely. And we will feel every hurt, every rejection, every pain they feel, no matter their age or ours. That is real the cost of parenting. Mary learned early that she would pay a greater price than others.

A sword will pierce your own soul too.

And maybe this is the message we need to take with us today, especially as we enter into a new year. We wish one another a happy New Year, but we know that in the coming months there is the opportunity for both great joys and great sorrows. I want nothing more than for all of us to experience overwhelming love and happiness in these next twelve months, but we also know that we just don’t know. We just don’t know what lies ahead. But we do know that God was and is incarnate in this world, in our lives, in our hearts. We do know that the Holy Spirit is alive and moving and stirring up good and beauty and hope. We do know that we are not alone. We do know that we are loved and that this love will carry us and abide with us and comfort us, no matter what swords may pierce our souls.

And for all of this and so much more, we give thanks and praise, because God is in the world. God is in the world. Our eyes have seen his salvation.

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

Amen.