Christmas: Light in Deep Darkness

     "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas . . .”  “I'll be home for Christmas . . . if only in my dreams.”  The lyrics from these two very popular Christmas songs of the 1940's speak about an idealized view of Christmas celebrations.  Now let's see.  There's perfect weather: just enough snow at just the right time to coat the ground and the trees—coming after everyone has made it home, I guess.  There's a gathering of relatives at home who are all pleased to be together and are looking forward to a sumptuous meal that everyone will enjoy.  There are cleverly conceived decorations of greenery and shiny objects and candles and twinkling lights.  And the gifts—perfectly chosen, appropriately generous, budget stretching gifts about which each person will exclaim, “My goodness,  just what I wanted.”

     I'm not sure anyone has a Christmas such as the one I've just described—not even Martha Stewart.  Our Christmases—whether they are happy times or painful times or harried times or grumpy times or guilty times—reflect where our lives are at the moment. 

But the heart of Christmas—the reason we are here to worship—comes wrapped not in shiny paper which shouts how perfect we are nor in fancy bows and ribbons to hide the ache we have inside.  Rather, the heart of Christmas comes wrapped in mystery—the mystery of God and the choices God has made and continues to make to reach out to humanity.

     Isaiah attempts to describe the mystery this way:  “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.”  What sort of place is the land of deep darkness?  Isaiah spoke to those who were suffering from Assyrian military dominance and oppression.  The fierce armies of the strongest military force in the region had captured  the northern territories—Israel—about 800 years before Jesus's birth.  
     Deep darkness also could be used to describe the world into which Jesus was born.  The land of Judea where Bethlehem was located experienced complete domination.  The people of Judea experienced oppression by both the Roman military and the local puppet rulers who collected the taxes which kept most people in poverty.  The registration census by the Roman governor, Quirinius, at the order of Emperor Augustus, provided an example of that oppression—most likely conducted for the purpose of increased taxation. 

     How can we as citizens of a democracy relate to the deep darkness that Isaiah and the gospel of Luke describe?  We can recognize it as an important fact and give thanks for the blessing of our own freedom.  But even though we don't live in the oppressive culture of the time of Isaiah or in 1^st century Judea, we probably do experience a deep darkness in which we long for the mystery of God's presence to shine.  The effects of poverty and racism in our community cause much suffering for  many people.  The effects of a tragedy of an untreatable disease, an untimely death, the loss of employment, the   foreclosure of on one's home—if we have not personally experienced these signs of deep darkness, someone we love or count as a friend has.  In fact, these last signs of deep darkness are often part of human life—and at times our society as a whole suffers.  Where is the light that will shine in this deep darkness?

      Whoever has encountered the glory of God, Christ's peace that passes all understanding, the breath of the God's supportive and comforting Spirit has encountered the light promised by the prophet Isaiah.  The messengers from God—we call them angels—appeared on that special night in 1^st century Judea to say to the shepherds—and to all who have heard or read Luke's gospel since, “Do not be afraid; for see I am bringing you good news of great joy to all people . . .”  The joy is the Messiah who will be the light in our deep darkness, the Savior who will take away our sins—and not ours only, but the sins of the whole world.

     What does this special birth say to us who live in a completely different culture over two thousand years later?  God came to us to live with us and share our joys and our pain and suffering—not pretending to be human, but truly as one of us.  The light of God's love penetrated that dark night to renew God's relationship with humanity—not a relationship based only on “The Law,” but also on sharing our whole existence with us—first, as a vulnerable infant; then, as one who grew up in the faith and traditions of the Jews; and finally, as a man who with love and power declared the reign of God in our midst.  Through signs, wonders and teaching he showed us “The Father,” “The Creator of all.”  Then after returning to the Godhead, he sent the Holy Spirit—the wind and breath of God—to sustain us in following the way of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer.  No longer bound in deep darkness to the power of evil in the world and to our own sinful choices, we can see, in the birth of Jesus to Mary and Joseph, the One who will become our Savior.  Help us, O God, to have faith in that light of Christ.  Although that light will not make our lives easy and without pain, the light of Christ will shine in our hearts and on our path to sustain us, so we may resist the temptation to give into the deep darkness.  And so in the end, the light of Christ will guide us home—to our true and eternal home.

The 3rd Sunday of Advent - Challenging Our Motives

            Don't you just hate having your motives questioned?  You choose to do something (particularly if you believe you have chosen to do something commendable) and that should be enough for anyone.  Why you made the choice is really nobody's business, right?

            Well, in last Sunday's Gospel John the Baptist questioned the motives of the the Pharisees and Sadducees who came to be baptized for the repentance of their sins.  “You brood of vipers,” accused John, “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?  . . .  Do not presume to say to yourselves, 'we have Abraham for our ancestor'; for I tell you, God is able to raise up from these stones children to Abraham.”

             Can you imagine a preacher questioning the motives the members of the congregation who came to worship on Sunday? 

            While still in seminary in New York, I attended a reception for some visiting seminarians from England.  Because the government and the Church of England are intertwined, the priests are not paid directly by the people they serve.  As we discussed this significant difference in our polity, they asked  whether an Episcopal priest would be able say what he or she felt needed to be said in a conflicted situation.  The question behind the question was how can you preach the Gospel if what you believe you need to say might offend your parishioners.

            Although I think it is possible in a relationship of mutual respect to disagree about something and still worship together, I would not use the pulpit to knowingly offend anyone.  Speaking from the pulpit has a power dynamic that is too one-sided.

            John the Baptist—in his prophetic mode—didn't worry too much about offending the religious authorities. He probably intended to offend them by proclaiming a Messiah who is more powerful than he was—and certainly more powerful that the religious authorities—the ones he has just called “snakes.”  But as a prisoner of Herod, as he is in today's gospel reading, his communication takes on a different tone.  No longer thundering, John sends his disciples to question the man he hoped would save Israel.

            Jesus answers with words that indeed proclaim the saving reign of God has begun through the actions of his ministry—healing of all kinds and good news being preached TO THE POOR.  Then he adds, “And blessed is he who takes no offense at me.”  We might imagine how both religious and civil authorities could become upset about his concern for the poor.  Probably the authorities would like the poor to remain invisible to them.

            Had Jesus stopped there, we would be totally fine with his words.  But then, he turns to the people who had listened to John—perhaps ones John had baptized.  Now they were listening to Jesus.  Does he reassure them?  Not a bit.  He challenges them.  He questions their motives!  “And what did you go out into the wilderness to look at?”  He implies that they were not being true to the message they had gone out into the wilderness to hear from John—repent and expect the Messiah.  He berates them for looking for the wrong kind of Messiah.  The “least” will be “great” in the Messiah's reign, he tells them.  And if they believed him, they would have anticipated a revolutionary upending of the social order with the coming of the Messiah.  It would be no different today.

            Neither John nor Jesus drew back from saying what they felt needed to be said.  They did not draw back from possibly offending their listeners.  And how did that work out for them?

            Not in the first century—not now in the twenty-first—we do not like our motives to be questioned.  Were Jesus to show up this morning and ask, “What did you come to St. Nicholas' this morning expecting to see?”  What would our answer be?  Besides saying we expected to see our friends in our church family and to experience well-planned liturgy and excellent music—besides saying that we came to share in the Eucharist as he told us to do—would we say that we came to St. Nicholas' this morning, so we could be changed through repenting and expecting the Messiah?  Would we be willing still to trust Jesus were he to tell us the “least” would become the “great” in his reign?  Those indeed are hard questions, and they challenge our motives—but they are our Advent questions.  We can only pray for the grace of God to face them—and give thanks our salvation does not depend on how well we answer them.  Jesus' already has that covered—for while we were yet sinners, he died for us!

The 2nd Sunday of Advent & St. Nicholas

The Feast of St. Nicholas of Myra (the REAL St. Nicholas) is December 6^th—but our parish celebrated it this year on Sunday, December 5, with a parish visit by Bishop Wayne Wright.  Three of our young people and one adult were confirmed.  Then we enjoyed lunch together!

Bishop Wright spoke about St. Nicholas’ being a patron of sailors and of children.  Our church uses an anchor as part of its emblem, and the Bishop reminded us that the anchor works by sinking into the mire and muck at the bottom of the lake or river.  Often it is thrown overboard during a storm to keep the ship from being tossed about.  God becomes our anchor, because God loves us no matter what is happening in our lives.  God will always be with us. As we understand that we are secure in God’s love, then we can help others who are in need—just as St. Nicholas did.

St. Nicholas became famous for helping children.  There are legends from many, many countries about how he loved children and helped them.  On the 4^th Sunday of Advent (December 19) we will have a readers’ theatre presentation of one of the legends during our Sunday worship.  Join us then or on any Sunday at 10 a.m.  St. Nicholas is NOT just for Christmas!