Epiphany – January 6, 2013

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, ²asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” ³When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; ⁴and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. ⁵They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet:
⁶‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who is to shepherd my people Israel.'”
⁷Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. ⁸Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” ⁹When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. ¹⁰When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. ¹¹On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. ¹²And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road. -Matthew 2:1-12

Our text this morning is full of vulnerable people. But in a sense, that’s what Epiphany is all about. Because on Epiphany, this child born in Judea, this Jewish baby born in an animal’s shelter, suddenly becomes a world player, a King. Suddenly it is no longer a small contained, story. It is no longer a quaint account that can be soon forgotten. Because of the star. The star that draws strangers from far off nations. The star that breaks open this mystery to the world makes everyone vulnerable; things are no longer safe and contained.

This story is about magi who make themselves vulnerable. The magi are not Jewish. Sure, they know the Hebrew scriptures, but they also know many other texts. They spend their nights searching the stars for signs that will tell them about the world. A star appears, or perhaps maybe even a series of cosmic events, that catch the attention of these astrologer priests in a far off land. The appearance of the star is significant enough to them that they go off as envoys of their kingdom to greet this new prince. It’s a risky journey, not just because of the travel but because they do not know what it is they are seeking.

These magi travel a great distance not knowing where to go. Perhaps at the palace they begin to sense a problem when Herod does not seem to know what they are talking about. Perhaps they have misread the signs, perhaps they have misinterpreted. What will this mean for their careers? What impact will this have on the kingdoms from whom they come bearing gifts? Do they feel silly when they finally arrive at a humble dwelling with a peasant family, bearing their gifts fit for a king? Their exuberance for this child without regard for protocol makes them vulnerable.

We might like to imagine that these magi who come to worship do so in a way that transforms their lives, that they somehow become followers of Jesus. But the story indicates only that that they returned home in such a way as to protect the baby from the intentions of King Herod. In all likelihood they went back to watching the stars for signs from the gods. They surely had a wonderful story to tell, but apparently they didn’t convert. They remain in some ways vulnerable as strangers to this strange king.

But that is nothing compared to the way that Herod feels vulnerable. The magi show up and tell him a king has been born, one worthy of star in the sky, in his country of Judea! He is suddenly spinning out the possibilities in his head. Who is this? When will he be a threat to me? Who is plotting? Where is this child? Who is pulling the strings?

Herod’s vulnerability has disastrous consequences. When made to feel vulnerable, he does the only thing he can think to do – he employs his power and violence to restore his control over the world. When he realizes he won’t hear back from the magi, he slaughters many to protect his power. That is the dark side of this day of light. The ways in which this event makes us vulnerable can have disastrous consequences when mixed with our world of sin.

But then there are yet others who are vulnerable. Mary and Joseph welcome these strangers into their home. They do not know where they come from or who they are or what gifts they bring. Perhaps by now they are growing accustomed to these strange events and people they do not know knowing something about their child. But they must be still trying to understand what is happening to them, all as they figure out how to parent a child who maybe doesn’t even yet sleep through the night.

Epiphany is about the breaking open of the Christmas story. That warm and wonderful, sweet and cozy story with all its accompanying carols and candlelight is suddenly broken open for the whole world. This story that we thought we could contain and control is suddenly broken open and it makes everyone feel a little exposed.

The church can feel that way sometimes. I often hear people point out that the center of Christianity has shifted now to the southern hemisphere, where churches are growing much faster than those in Europe and North America. But usually I hear that quoted with a sense of fear. We are used to owning the Christian tradition as people of the West. We are used to Christianity looking like us, acting like us, worshipping like us. We aren’t used to songs that speak of God in other languages and with other melodies. When the message of God is broken open to the world it forces us into a place of vulnerability, a place where we do not get to control or command how things happen. It’s part of the challenge of Epiphany to rejoice in this explosion of the good news to the world despite our fear about how that might change us.

It’s hard for us as a church to step outside of ourselves. It’s hard to take on the journey of the magi to see God in unexpected places in our world. It’s hard to invite strangers into our midst, strangers who do not look like us, who do not talk like us, who do not worship like us. It’s hard for us to accept that we aren’t the all-powerful kings we think we are sometimes. We are made vulnerable all the time.

As the story of Jesus continues to expand, as it continues to reach out and touch more and more people, it challenges all of us to confront our vulnerability. But we do so in good company, because there is at least one more person made vulnerable in this Epiphany story. Maybe the most vulnerable person of all.

God is still a baby. God is a vulnerable infant who cannot yet walk or talk or feed himself. And worse yet, his vulnerable presence has been advertised in the stars. Sure the magi bring gifts, but they also inadvertently bring on the murderous rage of King Herod. God is so vulnerable his parents must flee with him to another country to protect him. It is God who on this Epiphany opens God’s very self to the world and to us.

As participants in this cosmic explosion of grace, we are called to be vulnerable – to put out for the world to see exactly who we are and what we believe. When we do so we risk rejection and ridicule. We risk having to expand our ideas about who we are and who God is. But we also open ourselves to a deep and profound encounter with the Christ child in one another and the world around us. As the nations are gathered to the light of Christ, we get to grow and expand and rejoice in the breadth of who God is.

Epiphany, for all its light and joy, is a challenging day as we are called to participate in God’s vulnerability to the entire world. We are called to make ourselves vulnerable to the world around us. But we do so fed and nourished by the one who is vulnerable for us. We do so filled with the knowledge of God’s love and grace for us. We do so filled with light and life and salvation. Thanks be to God.

-Pastor Steven Wilco

First Sunday after Christmas
December 30, 2012

⁴¹Now every year his parents went to Jerusalem for the festival of the Passover. ⁴²And when he was twelve years old, they went up as usual for the festival. ⁴³When the festival was ended and they started to return, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but his parents did not know it. ⁴⁴Assuming that he was in the group of travelers, they went a day’s journey. Then they started to look for him among their relatives and friends. ⁴⁵When they did not find him, they returned to Jerusalem to search for him. ⁴⁶After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. ⁴⁷And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. ⁴⁸When his parents saw him they were astonished; and his mother said to him, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” ⁴⁹He said to them, “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” ⁵⁰But they did not understand what he said to them. ⁵¹Then he went down with them and came to Nazareth, and was obedient to them. His mother treasured all these things in her heart.
⁵²And Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor. — Luke 2:41-52

Forget for a moment that you know the words of the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds. Forget for just a moment all they have to say about Jesus: son of the Father, God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten not made. Just for a moment hear this story from Luke’s gospel as the tale of a 12-year-old boy and his parents.

For the sake of the story let’s call him by a more Hebrew version of his name, Joshua. Joshua was tagging along with his parents for their annual trip to the big city to celebrate the festival of the Passover. They are taking a trip from a small town to the big metropolis which is overflowing with people for the festival. Joshua is both anxious and excited, especially in this in-between time caught between childhood and adulthood. He has an opportunity to go away from home, albeit with his parents, and experience once again the hustle and bustle of big city life.

They travel with extended family and community to the city where Joshua longs to be on his own away from his parents. As they celebrate the festival he is trying to discern his place in the order of things. He is navigating that difficult age and figuring out how to be himself. And he, probably like many young Jewish boys, was sitting at the feet of the teachers. To this day in Jerusalem, young Jewish boys sit at the feet of their elders in makeshift classrooms in the large courtyards near the temple mount.

Joshua is reveling in his independence and not aware that his family has long since headed home or that they are anxiously searching for him, their beloved child lost in the big city. Who knows what could have happened to him in this time. But he is happily sitting among the teachers who are listening intently to him. Perhaps he is wise beyond his years, or perhaps these are exceptional teachers who recognize the wisdom of young people. Maybe they are listening to his very real questions about life and faith. Maybe in addition to teaching him they are really listening to the way he is challenging their assumptions with the voice of a child they have long since lost themselves.

When his parents finally do find him he is engaged in conversation, The Message paraphrase puts it this way: “The teachers were all quite taken with him, impressed with the sharpness of his answers. But his parents were not impressed; they were upset and angry.”

Joshua gives them a typical response from someone who is struggling to figure out his place: “You told me to get involved in church so here I am, what are you all worried about?” Those of us who remember being that age or those of us who are living that age now might remember some moments in which we wandered off confident in doing what we thought we were supposed to be doing only to find that we have not adequately informed our parents.

Finally reunited they begin again their journey home, each of them still struggling to figure out how to be a family: Mary and Joseph treasuring the time they still have with him, Joshua still growing and learning to be the person God has called him to be.

If we can take this step back for a moment and see the story not as a tale about Jesus’ wisdom as the Son of God and see it as Jesus living fully into our experience, how does that change our understanding of who God is for us?

Jesus is growing into the person God sent him to be on earth. In this story he is learning to understand and interpret the Torah, he is learning the rhythms of the Jewish calendar that will shape him and shape his ministry. He is drawn into the temple in ways that he does not yet fully understand. He will be back here again. It what will seem like a few short months we will be reading the stories of this child grown up and once again returned to Jerusalem for his final Passover with the disciples. But for today we see him still learning to understand himself.

If we, too, can accept that we are on a journey in which we are very clearly called by God to walk with a mission and a purpose, but that we are still very much trying to figure out the details, perhaps we, like the twelve year old Jesus can begin to live in the moment. Perhaps this story has something to say to us about the ways in which we are always living into the people God calls us to be. If Jesus didn’t have it all figured out, even at age 12, maybe that gives us the space to still be figuring out what it means to be a follower of Jesus in this world that we live in.

In this story, God is present in our in-between times, in the times in which we are searching for direction and wondering about the future. God is present as we anticipate what this new year might bring. For some it may mean new and exciting possibilities, for others it might bring disappointments and loss. But somehow in the midst of that we trust that God is walking with us in those in-between times. We trust that God makes room for us to be lost and to be figuring things out.

And we can trust that in the moments when we become aware of our lost-ness, when we become like Mary and Joseph searching for the center of our very lives, that God’s word that is there to guide us, the same word that Jesus was learning about in the temple courts, the same word that comes down to us in bread and wine, the same word that came down to earth in Jesus himself, that same word that will guide and carry us through.

We, like Jesus, have been adopted into a holy family, a family that worries about us, a family that searches after us, a family that teaches and guides us, a family that loves us through our awkward and in-between moments. Thanks be to God that we have been welcomed through the word of God into this wonderful and mysterious communion with one another that supports us through all our struggles on the journey of faith.

Christmas Eve 2012

Luke 2:1-20

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Except that in my experience, as much as we might like it to be otherwise, the night before Christmas can be just as noisy as any other. Last minute preparations for Christmas dinner, the wrapping or even buying of gifts, or even the last minute getting things ready for Christmas Eve worship. Minds and bodies racing trying to fit in family visits and time at church. Young people and the youngest parts of ourselves are perhaps bursting with excitement. The stores begin to close, and the traffic quiets down a bit, and some of you perhaps are able to bring about a bit of quiet for the evening, but mostly I think Christmas Eve still feels a little bit noisy.

But then the first Christmas Eve was anything but quiet. Twas the night before Christmas in Bethlehem, and all through the house it seemed that every creature was stirring, even the mice! Mary and Joseph arrive in their hometown where there are so many people back in town that there isn’t a space for them in the homes of their family and friends or even in the guest house of a neighbor. Not even a fold-out cot available on the living room floor. Thanks to the census, the first while Quirinius was governor of Syria, Bethlehem was not experiencing a quiet evening in peace. Not much about the rule of the Romans felt particularly peaceful to those in Judea.

And on top that, Mary and Joseph had to put up with the cattle lowing. They were spending the night in a noisy, dirty corner reserved for animals. Unlike perhaps many of our homes that have gotten at least a few things put away and cleaned up for the visits of friends and family, the first Christmas Eve was in a still-dirty shelter alongside animals keeping out of the cold.

And if the animals weren’t enough, very few birthing experiences happen in a controlled and quiet way. Young Mary would be longing for quiet and peace, but first she would have to bear the Christ child into the world with all the accompanying pain and probably in her time fear and worry for her life and the life of her child. I imagine that was enough to stir even the sleeping mice in the stable.

The shepherds in their fields having a quiet enough night, away from the overcrowded town, until an angel messenger broke in on their attempts to get some rest and then the whole company of angels showed up singing “Gloria in excelsis!” until the shepherds got themselves up to go see what all the fuss was all about. But apart from a few shepherds, the rest of the world went on about its hectic, noisy, busy life.

And into all of that noisy mess, is exactly where God entered the world in human form. God did not wait for a quiet moment; God did not wait for just the right upper-middle-class woman to come along to bear Jesus; God did not wait for a clean, private birthing room to be available; God did not wait til we on earth had everything together.

Because God could not wait. Because God’s breaking into our lives cannot be stopped. It cannot be stopped by our tendency for holiday consumerism or by our inability to purchase anything at all. It cannot be stopped by the violence that happens around the world or in communities not so far from here. It cannot be stopped by a lack of faith or an inability to muster the so-called right feelings on Christmas Eve. It cannot be stopped by our failure to live up to the people God calls us to be.

Our Christmas celebration is not merely a remembrance of God coming into our world as a baby in a manger. It is a celebration that God breaks into our world all the time. It is a celebration that God is breaking into our noisy, busy world today, right now, in this place, on this night and every night. Christmas is a celebration that God cannot be kept out of our world.

God comes to us to stand with us in our pain and rejoice with us in our triumphs. God comes to us in the quiet moments and God breaks into our noisiest nights. God comes to us and to our neighbor and to our enemy. God comes to us in ordinary ways – in word and song and bread and wine.

On this night before Christmas, whether your night is quiet and peaceful or restless and noisy, God comes to you. Just as surely as God came to us as a baby in manger, God comes to be for you joy that fills you up, for you the peace that calms despite the world, and for you the light that no darkness can overcome. Thanks be to God!

 

-Pastor Steven Wilco

Fourth Sunday in Advent
December 23, 2012

³⁹In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, ⁴⁰where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. ⁴¹When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit ⁴²and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. ⁴³And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? ⁴⁴For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. ⁴⁵And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”
⁴⁶And Mary said,
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
⁴⁷and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
⁴⁸for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
⁴⁹for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
⁵⁰His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
⁵¹He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
⁵²He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
⁵³he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
⁵⁴He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
⁵⁵according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”    -Luke 1:39-55

Nobel Peace Prize winner Leymah Gbowee was not expecting a call from God. Before she began the movement that brought about a peaceful end to the civil war in Liberia and later earned her the peace prize, she was not looking to start a movement. She was not the kind of person who receives calls from God. Those are reserved for pious people who can handle the task. She describes a dream in which she heard a voice out of the darkness commanding her to “Gather the women to pray for peace.” She knew how to pray because he had practiced with her Lutheran church community. She sang daily the prayer, “Order my steps in your way, dear Lord.” But she did not expect a call from God. In her own words, “It was like hearing the voice of God, yes, but that wasn’t possible! I drank too much, I fornicated! I was sleeping with a man who wasn’t my husband, who in fact was still legally married to someone else. If God was going to speak to someone in Liberia, it wouldn’t be me.”*

God’s call came to a young woman, who by her own estimation was nothing special, and out of that, God’s reign of peace came into being in the world. Sound familiar? Now I’m not saying Mary wasn’t an upstanding young woman. But she was a young girl in a society where she probably didn’t mean a whole lot outside her immediate family. She certainly wasn’t the one anyone would have expected to receive a call from God. And I don’t imagine she was expecting it either.

I have never been able to wrap my mind around how it is that Mary said yes to the angelic messenger sent to tell her she was to give birth to the Son of God. Or how someone like Leymah said yes to God’s call in the face of a seemingly impossible task. Or how anyone does the kind of extraordinary things that God calls him or her to do.

But perhaps part of the answer is in the song Mary sings when she races to her cousin Elizabeth to share the news of what has happened to her. This song of Mary, which we call by its Latin name, the Magnificat, is a surprising and challenging song. It talks of a whole new world order, a whole new way of life. Everything gets turned on its end. Tyrants are thrown down, the lowly lifted up. The hungry are fed and the rich leave empty. Oppression is ended. Which, of course, is good news if you’re the oppressed, but not so good news if you’re the oppressor.

There is no indication of how Mary sings this song about the upending of the world order. Does she sing it with wonder? Does she sing it trembling with a healthy fear of what lies ahead for her and for the world around her? Does she sing it with hope or joy or expectation?

However it is that she sings it, it is not the first time that song has been given voice. We call it Mary’s song, but she is not the first to sing it. A thousand or so years in the past another mother sang that song. Hannah, the one who gave birth to Samuel, the one who was barren so long despite her faithful prayers, the one who dedicated her son to be a priest and prophet, the mother of the one who would anoint Saul as first king of Israel and later King David the second. When she left her son in the service of the temple, barely weaned from her breast, Hannah sang a song strangely similar to the one Mary sang at the expectation of this new member of the house and line of David.

Hannah sang glorifying God. She sang of the defeat of her foes, she sang of the destruction of the violent, the hungry fed while the full beg for bread, the poor and needy lifted onto the thrones of the powerful. And all because of a little child who belonged to God.

Perhaps Mary was able and ready to take on this call from God because she had practiced doing so. Never had she dreamed that she would need it, but she practiced anyway. Perhaps she had many times over sung this song of Hannah with her family or with her community of faith. She was prepared by her singing of that song, by the traditions of her people, for the unusual things God would do in her life. At the very least, it was those practiced words that sprang forth from her mouth when she finally reached Elizabeth that day. It was those practiced words that she used when she encountered the Holy One in her midst, inside her very being.

And that is what we do as the people of God when we gather together. We practice Mary’s song and the songs of others who have born God’s word into our world. We pray and recite words that Christians have spoken long before us and will continue to recite long after we are gone. Many of them have roots that reach farther into history than the birth of Jesus.

Mary is rightfully honored for her particular role in bearing the Christ child into the world. But all of us are Marys in our own right. All of us have God alive within us and are called to carry that into the world. All of us are called in baptism to bear God’s creative and redeeming word to all the world. That is why we gather week after week to practice. We practice the songs that will come to mind when joyful moments come our way. We practice the songs that will echo in our ears when we experience pain and tragedy. We practice together in worship the words and songs that we will sing at the graves of our loved ones, and which will one day be sung at the side of our own graves. We practice the words that we will speak and sing in response to God’s surprising call.

It was hymnody learned in the church that ran through my head all of last week in the wake of the tragedy in Connecticut, and it was Mary’s song sung in a modern adaptation at our Wednesday evening prayer that reminded me that the world is about to turn on its end in the face of all the terrifying things happening around us.

Mary was not the first, nor was Hannah for that matter, to bear the word of God to a people longing to hear it. And Mary was not the last, nor was Leymah Gbowee for that matter, to bear the word of God to a people longing to hear it. As we have watched and waited together for God’s breaking into our midst this Advent, we have seen God at work. You have written it down on blue slips of paper.** We have seen Christ brought to life in those around us showing us grace as we struggle with exams and illnesses; we have seen Christ brought to life in those who have unexpectedly helped friends and strangers in need; we have seen Christ brought to life in the beauty around us and in the energy of young people in our community. We have, even if unknowingly, been practicing to be Mary, bearing Christ’s body in the world for others.

If you fear that your time will not come, or that you don’t have what it takes, or that you aren’t good enough for this calling, just wait. Keep practicing. You may just find yourself suddenly and unexpectedly filled with the fullness of God bursting into the world through you.

We, today, in this place, join the company of Hannah and Mary and Leymah bearing God’s love to this hurting and broken world. As we sing and pray and act we are being transformed by the call of God to bear Christ’s body in the world. As we finally turn tomorrow to our celebration of the Christ child’s arrival, we will sing and pray together again the familiar carols, and hear the familiar story. And once again the story itself will shape us anew to be God’s people in the world. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

*Quoted from “To tell the truth,” by Amy Frykholm in The Christian Century, November 29, 2011, p. 32-36.
**Throughout Advent our congregation has been writing down where they see Christ’s body in the world and posting them on a display in our entryway.

-Pastor Steven Wilco

 

Second Sunday in Advent
December 9, 2012

Luke 3:1-6:
In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, ²during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. ³He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, ⁴as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah,

“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
‘Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight.
⁵Every valley shall be filled,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough ways made smooth;
⁶and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.'”

On my way to our pastor’s text study group every week I drive down Rte. 116 past Atkins market and through the newly re-constructed intersection of Bay Road and 116. It has been interesting to watch the progress of that reconstruction that started shortly after I moved here. In my weekly trip I’ve gotten to observe the weekly progress of the construction – the clearing of land, the pushing of dirt back and forth to level the path, the paving, the landscaping. And now, though it appears they are still putting finishing touches on, it’s looking near the end and there is a satisfyingly smooth road surface to drive on.

I’ve heard mixed reviews on the new double-traffic-circle setup and I’ve heard grumbling along the way, but in theory this construction improves traffic flow and increases safety. But I’ll admit that I got annoyed during the process when I had to stop and wait, when I had to drive on dirt roadway, when I had to watch out for manholes above the road surface, and most of all when I had to take a detour. I’m not saying I had any right to be, but I was very annoyed. I don’t think most of us like road construction very much because it disrupts our lives. But sometimes when it’s all done, it seems like it was all worth it.

With these Advent readings about John the Baptist, the hymn Prepare the Royal Highway always plays in my head. But I tend to think of it as a quick rolling out of the red carpet for the King of Kings. Sprucing up the sanctuary with some greenery and lighting a few candles. Lining the way with trumpets. Singing beautiful advent hymns. Royal highway, done. But making a road in the wilderness is a much more difficult process. Making a way for God in our lives is much more complicated and often more painful than all of that. It’s a process that requires a lot of construction, and let’s be honest, nobody really likes to have to deal with that. And there are lots of highways still to be opened.

Luke situates the coming of John the Baptist in the list of rulers of the time. A lone voice in the wilderness against powerful political and religious leaders. A highway through the politics of the day must be opened, and the leaders are going to have to get out of the way. The leveling of the high and raising up of the low applies to people and nations, too. One could, perhaps, repeat the opening lines in our present context. In the year when Barack Obama was reelected and the Democrats controlled the Senate and the Republicans the house, when Patrick was governor of Massachusetts and the Rev. Jim Hazelwood began serving as bishop of the New England Synod…there was a voice crying out in the wilderness, a path being made, hills leveled and valleys raised. It challenges us to see the the back and forth political wrestling as road construction, because when it’s done, sooner or later, and probably through no doing of our own, God will make a way through our mess. The construction along the way may seem never-ending, but somehow, someway, God is making a highway.

In Israel and Palestine today they are planning to build more highways into the very wilderness where John the Baptist was preaching 2000 years ago. But these are highways that will divide. Highways opened to marginalize some and clear the way for others. Highways that will in the end make bigger hills and deeper valleys. But maybe there is hope there, too. Perhaps under the noise of rockets, below the radar of international politics, the word of God has come down to one who will make a pathway for God’s work in the midst of it and all this noise is somehow the construction work of a new opening for God to come down.

And before John the Baptist there was Malachi, who uses a different image to the same end in our first reading. He speaks of a refiner’s fire and fuller’s soap. No one likes to have anything burned away from them, and no one likes to be cleaned with caustic soap. No one likes to hear they haven’t loved God with their whole heart or loved their neighbor as themselves. We’re hard working people who try our best and do good things, and still we find parts of ourselves that stand in the way of loving God and neighbor. We still find hills and valleys in our life of faith. But there, too, God will open a highway, a path in our wilderness with all the muck burned off and the construction debris one day cleared away to know the satisfaction of a God who stops at nothing to come to us. We have a God who loves us as we are and leads to discover new highways in our lives.

And maybe God is planning other highways in new places. What construction work might be required to make a way for new people and new ideas to enter into our midst as a congregation? What construction work might need to happen to make room in our national and local budgets and even in our church and personal budgets for the care of the poor, the orphan, and the vulnerable? What construction work might need to happen for us to loosen our grip on our lives in order to trust God to be God for us?

As we continue this advent looking for signs, searching for God’s presence among us, some of what we will discover is God’s construction work. Because some of the signs of God at work will be painful and challenging for us. I’m not saying God sends bad stuff our way to make us pay attention. But sometimes we cling to things that we are convinced are best for us, and God’s work forces us to learn to let go of those things. God’s work forces us to make room.

This is difficult, no doubt about it. And sometimes we will simply live with an old road filled with deep potholes and dangerous intersections rather than put up with the construction of a new one. But the promise of what awaits us is truly incredible. Zechariah sings of it at the birth of John the Baptist. This child, Zechariah sings, is called to prepare the way “to give God’s people the knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.” He is called to prepare the way for the one who will break upon us with tender compassion “to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death and to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

The construction may be painful, but God is not stopping until that beautiful vision is upon us in its fullness. God will not stop until the promise we receive each week in bread and wine is the way our world operates – forgiveness, love, and grace offered freely with enough for all. God will not stop until the power of baptism washes away all that blocks us from seeing God’s love for us. Even as we struggle to make room in our busy Advent lives, God is busy preparing a royal highway to bring to us the fullness of who we are as children of God.

-Pastor Steven Wilco

First Sunday in Advent, December 2, 2012

²⁵There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. ²⁶People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. ²⁷Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. ²⁸Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
²⁹Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; ³⁰as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. ³¹So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. ³²Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. ³³Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
³⁴Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, ³⁵like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. ³⁶Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”
-Luke 21:25-36 

It’s inescapable, it’s seemingly omnipresent, it’s taking over. Christmas music is everywhere. It’s in the stores, it’s in the coffee shop where I like to sit and work on my sermon, it’s on two of my regular 6 radio station presets in the car. I like Christmas music, I really do. And even though in the church we are in a season of waiting and anticipation, not yet in the full celebration of Christ’s incarnation, I’m all for listening to Christmas music at home as soon as Thanksgiving is over. But sometimes the music I hear on popular stations just isn’t the kind I’m most longing to hear.

But one that I happen to like is “Do you hear what I hear?” And what always strikes me about that song is that it’s pretty clear we aren’t all hearing the same things. Some of us hear Christmas music come on the radio and we are reminded of the abounding love of God come down to earth for us. Some of us hear the same songs and think of family and warm feelings. For others it brings up painful memories and anxious anticipation. The same song is playing, but we aren’t all hearing the same thing.

The song, I learned this week, was actually written in the context of the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. The promise of peace come through a little child in a manger was a very real and present hope for the songwriters at the time. The fact that we are still in a world in which nuclear war is a possibility is evidence that not everyone was hearing the same thing. Not everyone heard the voice of the wind, the lamb, the shepherd in the song. Not everyone saw the star and the promise of God brought to fullness in a little child.

Jesus himself seems concerned about this as he talks to those gathered around him in the Gospel reading. He warns them – “There will be signs, terrible signs, in the sun, the moon, and the stars. And on the earth distress among nations. Confusion made worse by the roaring of the sea and the waves. The powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

It’s not as subtle as a little child and the quiet voice of the song. This will be pretty hard to miss, it seems. It will be more obvious even than Christmas music in December. But not everyone will hear it the same way. Not everyone will see the signs and interpret them in the same way. Some will faint from fear and foreboding. (That sounds like a good response to me.) But Jesus instructs us to do something very different. “Stand up!” Jesus cries. When you see these things that seem terrifying, stand up!

This seems like crazy advice. When the heavens are shaking, or hurricanes are coming, or when wars are starting, it doesn’t make sense to stand up. But to make his point Jesus reminds them of the fig tree. When you see the buds on the tree after a cold winter staring at barren plants, you know for yourself that spring is coming again. Life is coming back to a tree that had appeared dead. You know how to interpret that sign. Experience tells you what will happen as a result of that sign. You know that sign is a reminder of promise, a sign of God’s resurrection, a sign that all will not be cold and dead forever. That’s a sign that points you forward to hope and to promise.

But Jesus points us also to all the signs that seem terrible, the signs that seem foreboding and instill fear. When you see storms and famine and war and pain and poverty, these too are signs. But if when we see and hear these signs, we do not see God’s coming in the midst of them… If we do not hear God’s promise to redeem us… If instead we hear judgment and condemnation. If instead we fear it is God’s punishment coming for us. We will surely faint. We will curl in on ourselves and forget who we are. We will forget that we are called to proclaim the good news and instead we will find ways to protect ourselves from the impending doom.

But what if we see what Jesus sees in these signs? If we hear God’s words of hope and promise… If we hear God’s call to us above the roaring of the waves… If we see Jesus himself coming in the midst of the worries of this life, we can follow Jesus’ command to us to stand up and raise our heads at these signs. We can open our eyes and our ears and our hearts to the world. We can bear the good and the bad that is sure to come because we see in everything a sign of God’s coming among us, coming to us, redeeming us.

That is what Advent is all about – learning to see the signs for what they are. Some of them are big – the life-changing or even world-changing events that shake the earth or at least our perspective on the earth. In those times we cry out for God’s coming in the midst of it. We cry out for God to shake the heavens in response to defeat the powers the terrify. But other signs are subtle and commonplace like the sprouting of the fig tree. They remind us, if we even remember to notice them, of God’s presence among us every day.

I invite us together as a community this Advent season to pay particular attention to the signs of God at work among us. As you go about your life in the week ahead, look for signs. Take heed of God’s call to be alert and awake for God’s coming on earth. To help you with that I have a homework assignment for you. On the table in the entryway there is a display with a poem by Teresa of Avila, which you will also hear the choir sing today. It’s a poem that reminds us of our call to be Christ’s eyes and feet and hands in this world. I’m challenging all of us when we observe the signs around us this Advent season to write them down. When you come to church next week and in the weeks after, write that sign down on a blue piece of paper and attach it to the display. No sign is too big or too small. If it points you to God’s presence among us it’s a sign. If it reminds you of the expansiveness of God’s love, it’s a sign. I think that if we open our hearts and minds to the signs around us, by Christmas that we have a visible display of the many ways Christ is already present for us. A display of all the signs that point us to God’s love at work among us.

Perhaps we can even ask each other, at the risk of getting the song stuck in our heads, “Do you hear what I hear?” “Have you seen the presence of God come among us?” And as we open our hearts and minds to see God’s action, I trust that it will reveal to us that God is here, because God has promised that it will be so. As we watch and wait and as we see around us the wonderful and terrible signs, may we learn and grow together in our journey of faith and hope.

 -Pastor Steven Wilco

 

 

Christ the King Sunday – November 25, 2012
John 18:33-37; Revelation 1:4b-8
With thanks to David Lose and workingpreacher.org for the idea for the arc of this sermon and the reminder that we are enough for God.  

Pilate asked him, “Are you the king of the Jews?”

Today we are supposed to celebrate Christ the King. In this time of the church year we hear readings that remind us of God’s future for us and the world and we remember that Christ is enthroned forever, we need not fear the trials ahead, and that the kingdom of God will come. But I’m feeling a little skeptical after this Gospel reading.

Because Jesus himself refuses to answer the question, “Are you the king of the Jews?” And I don’t think it’s just because he wants to have a philosophical debate with Pontius Pilate about kingship and whose kingdom is where. Jesus specifically refuses the category of kingship. At the risk of challenging a long-held tradition of the church that one of Jesus’ primary roles is that of ruler, let’s look at what Jesus does say about the reign of God.

Perhaps first and foremost, Jesus says my kingdom is. Not my kingdom will be or my kingdom is coming or you need to do something to make it happen, but my kingdom is. In the midst of this crazy political scheming and oppression by the Romans, my kingdom is. In the midst of Black Friday craziness, and the rush of the American holiday season, my kingdom is. In the midst of wars and rumors of wars, and nations and peoples that resort too quickly to violence, my kingdom is.

What Pilate wants, and what we want, is a clear answer. We want a time and place when the kingdom will start. We want a timeframe for when our anxiety and cares and pain and sadness will end. We want a promised land that is waiting for us when we can let go and forget our cares and go back to the Garden of Eden. But what we get instead is a God whose reign happens in the midst of it all. We get an undefined, unclear picture of God at work around us all the time. A king would want to establish a boundary and make clear his intentions, make promises to those in the kingdom, defend them against the enemies. But this kingdom isn’t like that – it’s happening around us, in our time right now. Is that enough of a king for us?

And Jesus says that the he comes to testify to the truth. What that means in this situation isn’t exactly clear. What truth? The least Jesus could do in this situation is speak in plain English about what truth he has come to espouse. A king would declare the truth for the land and command that it be followed. A king would tell us what we should do, give us clear directions as a church to know what step to take next, where to expand our mission, what to believe, what’s right and wrong in every situation. But instead somehow the truth resides in Jesus himself and those who listen to his voice are in relationship with the truth. This kingdom is relationship focused and the truth does not reside in simple edicts from the king, but rather in the eating and drinking with friends and the setting free of the oppressed. Is that enough of a king for us?

In the reading from Revelation, this kingdom is made up of us. It is not decreed from an all-powerful ruler, but gathered together by the sacrifice of the one who is and who was and who is come. As Jesus points out, his band of followers doesn’t even attempt to save him. A king would choose the best and brightest. He would weed out the weak and the simple. He would choose the smartest and strongest. A king would avoid including the poor and the powerless. But Jesus makes a kingdom out of us, instead. No offense meant to any of us and our wisdom, strength, and wealth, but there are smarter, stronger, wealthier people out there. But here we are with the promise that we have been made into a kingdom – that same ambiguous, boundary-less, timeless kingdom that Jesus is trying hopelessly to describe to Pilate.

So where does having this kind of king leave us as we face the challenges of this world? When we are downtrodden, sick, in despair and grief, worried about the future for ourselves, our country, and our world, it would be nice to hear a clear declaration of kingship from God. It would be nice to have the best and brightest surrounding us. It would be nice to be able to go to church and say a prayer and have an answer. It would be nice, at least, to have a clear-cut description of what is in store for us beyond life on earth with pearly gates and golden streets, or whatever your favorite vision of heaven is like. But we don’t get that. Will what we do get be enough?

Instead of a glorious and commanding kingship, we get pointed back to a community of imperfect people and we receive a promise of God’s presence. We get pointed back to a table of bread and wine that isn’t even enough for a meal. So is that enough?

That’s perhaps the question we ought to ask ourselves as this church year comes to an end and we begin to turn our thoughts to what we know is coming – the baby in the manger. Is it enough for us? Is it enough for us that Jesus comes in weakness to eat with us, to love us, to forgive us? Is it enough for us that Jesus gives us this ambiguous, everywhere yet nowhere, now but not yet kind of kingdom? Is it enough?

My fear is that at least some days it is not enough for us. There are days when the world crashes in on us, when darkness seems to win. There are days when the news overwhelms. There are days when we need a king who steps in and fixes everything.

But while we are busy asking our questions and puzzling over this kingdom, God is holding us and our questions and fears, and holding our friends and enemies, and this fragile planet, all of it now and forever beginning to end. Without demanding the same answers of us that we demand of God, God welcomes us into this crazy, upside-down, boundary-less kingdom. God says to us – you are enough.

When you fail to live up to the person you were created to be, you are enough, you belong in this kingdom. When you run up against powers of this world that you cannot defeat, you are still enough and you belong in this kingdom. When you question whether God’s promises are enough, God offers you bread and wine with the words “for you” – you are enough.

This kingdom is not always what we want it to be. The king does not always exercise power in the way we think it ought to be done. Sometimes the one who holds all things from beginning to end, Alpha to Omega, the one who is and who was and who is to come doesn’t seem like enough. But today and forever you are welcomed into that exciting kingdom. For God, you are enough.

-Pastor Steven Wilco

24th Sunday after Pentecost – November 11, 2012

³⁸As [Jesus] taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, ³⁹and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! ⁴⁰They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”
⁴¹He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. ⁴²A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.⁴³Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. ⁴⁴For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” – Mark 12:38-44  (also see the first reading for the day, 1 Kings 17:8-16)

Have you ever seen one of those pictures where you’re supposed to find in a seemingly normal picture the one absurdly out of place element? They can be frustrating because we’re trained to take in information as a whole and not look at every single detail.  It’s really bad when everyone else around you gets it, and the harder you stare all you see is the same ordinary picture. One of my favorites is a nice family photo of a couple with their children sitting on a couch in their living room. Until all of a sudden you notice, barely visible, a face peeking out, and you realize that the whole family is sitting on top of what is presumably another member of the family. But this is common – it’s the premise of many a magic trick. We can be directed to see what we expect to see and thereby miss what is most important.

That’s what is happening in the gospel reading today. Jesus has taken a seat opposite the temple treasury, and they are all happily resting as they observe what must have been a fairly ordinary line of people depositing various amounts, some a lot, others a little. Nothing out of the ordinary. But Jesus pays particular attention to one that no one else seems to notice. What everyone else sees is a woman contributing what she can to the temple. What Jesus sees is a widow who has just sacrificed everything.

What isn’t clear is what anyone is supposed to do about it. Because let’s be honest, this is not a smart move on the widow’s part. There is no promise that her extreme generosity will cause a heavenly windfall of blessings for her to live on. It is quite clear that given Jesus’ scathing review of the temple scribes in the preceding verses that her help is not going to come from temple treasury where those with more have contributed out of their wealth but where scribes devour widow’s houses. Perhaps she is about to go, like the widow in the old testament story, to prepare a final meal and then to die, though in this case there is no promise of never-ending jars of oil and flour.

What is wrong with this picture is that no one notices her. She is of no consequence to anyone but Jesus. No one notices her tremendously reckless act of faith, and no one notices the injustice that has been done to her by those scribes who devour widow’s houses. No one will even remember she was there. It is deeply painful to be the one ignored and forgotten.

I see over and over again in these days following the election Christians raising the concern that in an election cycle that lasted seemingly forever and cost an estimated almost 6 billion dollars that we only saw what we wanted to see. We as a nation did not even talk about the poor, in favor of appealing to the middle class. We did not talk about climate change. We did not talk about gun violence. Even the discussion about the impending fiscal cliff doesn’t really talk much about those at the bottom.

I see myself choosing to ignore some of the same things when the issues become too overwhelming. We cannot notice them all, we cannot take in every detail from the world around us. We could, like the nameless widow, open our hearts and wallets til everything was gone and these problems would still be there. It doesn’t mean that our generosity does not go a long way, but it does mean that we face a difficult world, where if we believe Jesus’ words, we can’t even trust the religious establishment to be trustworthy.

In this stewardship season as we look to discover how we together can give more of our resources away to help others and to learn a deeper trust in God, I don’t see how even doubling or tripling or quadrupling our giving can solve poverty or end distress for widows and orphans and all the vulnerable in our modern world. It doesn’t mean those resources aren’t vitally important, they just aren’t going to save us or the world.

I’m honestly a little angry at Jesus for not proposing a solution to all of this. He does not stop the widow, he does not tell her she has been noticed, he does not even yell at the scribes. He certainly doesn’t instruct the disciples to do anything about it.

What he does instead is to become the widow. He takes her path of giving everything up. Jesus throws his last two coins in and gives himself up. Like her trip to the temple treasury, no one much notices when Jesus goes to the cross to give himself up, except for a faithful few who watch from a distance and a few strangers charged with his execution. Jesus himself cries out feeling forsaken by God. The Holy One is on a cross dying for the world and no one much notices. There is certainly something wrong with that picture.

But that’s the kind of God we have. We have a God who shows up as a recklessly generous widow. We have a God who looks at a meager offering of two coins or a little bit of meal and oil and sees abundance and generosity. We have a God who notices us, who gives up everything to be “all in” with us. There is something wrong with that picture, but something wonderfully, ridiculously, delightfully wrong with it.

Through baptism we, too, are “all in” with Jesus. We have thrown our two last coins in with the one who came to give everything up to us. It’s absurd recklessness. But that’s what a life of faith is all about. It’s about trusting that God walks with us when we do not know it. It’s trusting that there will be enough for us when all we see around us is scarcity and fear. It’s learning that the never-ending jar of meal and jug of oil are just as real as the fiscal cliff. It’s about learning to see and care for the vulnerable. It’s about finding a way to let go of the things we hold onto that burden our lives. It’s about learning to live into life with a God who has given everything up for us. We have a God who loves us beyond our wildest imagination. That love begins to free us to let go of ourselves, to begin to take the crazy, reckless journey of faith.

So today we take notice. We take notice of the widow who has nothing. We take notice of a God who gave up everything. We take notice that the world is not always as it seems. Because everywhere around us, if we could only see it, God is giving God’s self up to us and for us, here and now. Do you see it?

-Pastor Steven Wilco

 

All Saints Sunday – November 4, 2012

 

³²When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” ³³When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. ³⁴He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” ³⁵Jesus began to weep. ³⁶So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” ³⁷But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

 

³⁸Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. ³⁹Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” ⁴⁰Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” ⁴¹So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. ⁴²I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” ⁴³When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” ⁴⁴The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

-John 11:32-44 (NRSV)

 

Since we’re talking about saints today, I think we should have a definition to work with. Perhaps one you’re familiar with is that we are all made saints through baptism. Each of us is fully a sinner by our nature and fully a saint by God’s grace. That’s a good Lutheran definition, but Reformation Day was last week. Based on our readings today I’d like to focus on another aspect of sainthood. I wonder if we might define a saint as one who is acquainted with death.

Think of the names of the dead we will read in our prayers today as we observe All Saints Sunday. To some of you, they are just a list, names that refer to people you do not know. For others, one or more of those names represents perhaps a lifetime or at least a significant part of a lifetime of shared memories. Those names represent the pain of grief and the promise of God’s resurrection for us in a very real way. But even if we don’t know the names on the list probably most of us will think on someone dear to us who have died. Dear saints, I suspect that each of you is acquainted with death.

Each of us has to face death – the death of people we love, the signs of our own mortality – the reminders that we too one day will die. Though we were relatively spared in this part of Massachusetts, many of our neighbors on the East Coast have been devastated by Hurricane Sandy – a reminder that the things we hold dear and even our very lives are vulnerable to the power of nature. And we have to face all the little deaths along the way – disappointments and failures, things that are not as they ought to be. Some of us face in our own bodies or in the bodies of our loved ones prolonged illness that seems like death itself come to reside within us.

This is a heavy weight on us, but we are in good company in the communion of saints. In the gospel reading Lazarus has died and his family and friends have gathered to grieve. They called Jesus when Lazarus got sick and Jesus did not come. And now Lazarus has been dead for 4 days. According the customs of at least some of the Jewish people of the time, the soul remained near the body for 3 days. But at 4 days Lazarus is not just dead, he is the really lost-forever kind of dead.

Mary does not hold back the power of grief she is feeling; she does not try to hide her anger from Lord or phrase it in pious words. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother – my brother – would not have died.” This is not a lack of faith. This is the behavior of a saint who is all too familiar with death. She has come again to stare death in the face and her words are rightfully angry. If only Jesus had not taken so long… If Jesus had prioritized Lazarus’s illness on his understandably long to do list… She makes it known that she is not happy with Jesus for this. Call it grief talking if you want, but I think this is the life of a saint – facing death once again and crying out to God to make it stop.

If only you had been here, Jesus, the devastation from the hurricane would not have been so bad. If only you had been here, Jesus, this illness would not be eating away at me. If only you had been here Jesus, my brother, my sister, my friend would not have died. These are the cries of the saints.

But something very important happens here before the raising of Lazarus. Jesus becomes for a moment not the teacher but the disciple. He has come into the world to experience human life and experiencing the pain of death is a part of that. So he asks them to guide him in this very human experience, “Where have you laid him?” And Mary, and Martha, and the crowd, they become his teacher, “Lord, come and see.” And when Jesus faces it, he, too, begins to weep. He joins the company of saints who are acquainted with death. He stands at the side of the devastation caused by death of every kind, weeping.

If that was it, if that was all we had, it would be a profound and moving image of a God who stands alongside us in our pain. But that is not yet the end of the story. Because Jesus, through his tears, asks that the stone be rolled away. But these are saints, they are acquainted with death and they know that someone who has been dead four days smells really bad. If they are here to help Jesus learn about the pain of death, this is one of the important lessons.

But realizing they cannot reason with him, they roll the stone back becoming physically sick at the smell and experiencing once more the reality of death that they live with. But out of his firsthand experience as a grieving friend, Jesus raises his voice. “Lazarus, come out!”

Jesus calls him by name from the place of death. Jesus calls his name into a place from which he should not be able to hear it. With a loud and commanding voice he speaks the name of his friend.

But these words are not just for Lazarus, who does hear them and who does respond by coming forth from the tomb, still bound up in the graveclothes. These are words for all the saints who are acquainted with death. These are words shouted at the mourners grieving around the tomb. These are words shouted at all the times we have grieved for loved ones and have wondered about our own mortality. These are words of life for those acquainted with death. This is Jesus calling your name, “Come out and live!”

And that is what we do when we gather together as the people of God for worship. On this All Saints Sunday it will be particularly poignant as we call out the names of those who have died trusting that it is God’s voice who calls their names and brings them forth from the tomb. But we do this every Sunday when we call out names in our prayers, calling them forth from the graves of illness, grief, and fear. We do this every Sunday when we gather around the table united with the great communion of saints alive and dead, and there life is offered to us one by one. The body of Christ given for you. Come out from your tomb and live!

We still face moments of suffering as saints. We are people acquainted with death. And sometimes we dwell longer than we want with Mary in those grief-filled moments crying out to God. But God does not leave our side. And sometimes when we do finally hear our name called out it feels as if we have been dead four days and are still bound up in our graveclothes.

But all of you and all who are no longer with us for one reason or another – the great communion of saints is here to unbind us – to echo God’s calling out of our names. We are here together to remind each other that though we are well-acquainted with death, God’s call to us brings us to life again. To be a saint is to be acquainted with death, but it is also to be acquainted with the voice of the one who calls us forth from death into life. Thanks be to our God who came among us to learn our world of death and who called forth life from it again.

 

 

-Pastor Steven Wilco