Christians Wear Funny Clothes

Text: Colossians 3:12-17
Other texts: Luke 2:41-52

We spoke on Christmas Eve about all the possibilities inherent in the birth of a child. All the uncertainties and hopes that go with new birth. And how we can imagine all the things that might happen to a new infant. We hope that all children have lives of grace. We know that some might revolutionize the world. We have read that Mary pondered the future of her miraculous child in terms like these. What would her child Jesus be like?

But now, already, Jesus is growing up. There is not much about the childhood of Jesus in the gospels, just a couple of stories like the one we heard today. And thus there are only a couple of Sundays in the season of Christmas before we get to the ministry of the adult Jesus in the world. That hasn’t stopped people from writing about the young boy Jesus, but we figure those writings are fanciful.

What we do know from scripture is that Jesus was a good, well-brought-up boy. He almost surely could read. He certainly knew his Bible. People in the Temple are amazed at this young boy’s knowledge of Torah and his sophisticated understanding of it.

What a child needs to know as he or she grows up is how to be a part of the community, the culture. And to know how to behave as a responsible citizen. These are things we all need to know. And all need reminding of from time to time. Even as adults. Or maybe especially.

The apostle Paul, prime missionary for the newly born church of Jesus Christ, is a good one to remind us. That is pretty much what Paul does. He starts churches and then he writes them long letters reminding them how to behave. Because they forget. Being a follower of Jesus is sometimes a peculiar thing. It often goes against the “basic principles of this world,” as Paul [or an author claiming to be Paul] writes earlier in this letter to the Colossians.

Before the passage that we heard today from this letter, Paul tells his church all the things they are advised not to do. But in today’s reading he tells them what they should do. Which is much more helpful. He tells them first who they are. Then how they should appear. Then how they should behave.

He reminds them first that they are chosen, holy, and beloved. He is claiming for them the same privileges that Jews like Paul already have. They are chosen by God to be a light to others, to be an example of the way to live in harmony with God’s intent and will. They are holy, a word that means separate—set apart from the rest of the world both through their reliance on God’s word and through their actions in response. And they are loved by God. They live in God’s unconditional grace. All together these things mean they are God-focused. As a consequence, they—meaning we—spend time thinking—and praying—about what God wishes for us and how we might reveal the God we know to the world. And that we have both the requirement and the freedom to do that.

So, having set that foundation, Paul tells them: how to dress. He tells them they—we—should clothe ourselves in compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Five things: compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. We shouldn’t ignore how powerful and difficult to follow this advice is. All of these words imply servility. Servility is not something we usually admire in ourselves. This is more than being good to other people. It is more even than being a servant to other people. It means valuing others more than we value ourselves. It means also a willingness to waive our rights rather than gain at the expense of another. It means also to not be frustrated and angry at the idiotic behavior of those other people.

None of this is easy. We cannot, you might argue, control how we feel. But Paul only asks that we control the clothes we put on, not the body underneath. That is, how we act and therefore appear to others. Clothing can highlight the best of us and hide the worst. Fortunately for all. We can act compassionately toward those whom we despise. We can be humble toward those whom we feel superior. We can be patient in the face of aggravation. And I’m sure as some of you have discovered, when you act that way often you become that way. How you feel follows what you do. It is made of magic cloth, these clothes of Paul. Acting in love changes you so that you love more. So Paul says: finally, clothe yourself in love. Love binds them all together.

We speak of the assembly of Christians in the world as the body of Christ. The body is called together by God. But it is held together by our forgiveness. By, as Paul says, bearing with one another. It is the forgiving of others, the forbearance of others’ faults, that is the radical center of Christianity. It comes from God. As we are forgiven, so we forgive. But it happens through us. Through our actions day to day. Who would adopt a faith based on servility? Christians. Christians do.

We do this, and we can do this—even though imperfectly—because Jesus is in us and we are in him. Paul encourages the Colossians: the peace of Christ rule in your hearts and the word of Christ dwell in you richly. Make space for Jesus, someone described this. When in doubt, think: if Jesus ruled my heart—which in the time of Jesus was the organ you thought with, the center of rationality—if Christ ruled my heart, what would I do now? Or think: if I were at peace with myself and God, what could I do now?

As the chosen, holy, beloved people of God, we show the world who we are by the way we act—the clothes we wear. We are to be a light to the world. And we show each other that, too. New Englander Thoreau wrote “beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.” But we are taught that Christ makes possible a new world. Christians are supposed to put on new clothes, without first waiting to become or trying to become new wearers. The clothes are outlandish and noticeable. They signify Jesus Christ.

Ministers wear these funny collars. I wear one from time to time. When I have my collar on, I’m a better driver. Less of a jerk. It is silly, I know. But I don’t want people to think badly of ministers in particular and Christians in general just because I cut someone off or jumped a green light or didn’t stop for someone in a cross walk. Like it or not, people judge Jesus by what those who say they follow Jesus do.

Do everything in the name of Jesus, Paul tells us. We act in Christ’s name. When people know we are Christian, they judge Jesus by what we do.

Follow Jesus, says Paul. Be servile. Forgive others no matter what. Wear funny clothes. Change the world. Be changed.

Baby Jesus

Text: Luke 2:1-7
Other texts: Christmas Eve readings

There is usually no sermon preached on Christmas Eve at Faith. This is a short homily that opened the worship service.

It is tempting to embellish the story of the birth of Jesus. It is tempting to make more of it than it appears in the Bible. Which is not much. Luke’s Gospel contains an extensive story of Jesus’ birth, and in Luke the birth itself is given only two verses:

While they were [in Bethlehem], the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

But today is Christmas Eve, and what better time is there to give in to temptation? And the birth of any child—what better event to fire the imaginations of all people? The birth of a child seems a genuine miracle. How can any creature, let alone a human child, come into existence at all? How can those two cells that start it all up—even if one is from the Holy Spirit—how can they become the trillions of interacting, energetic, chaotic, coordinated sea of cells and chemicals that make a person? The mystery of God become human is matched by the mystery of humans becoming human.

And yet the birth—miraculous and full of extreme pain and joy as it must have been—is just a few verses, in the story of Jesus. And in the story of the lives of all of us.

We are about to hear eight readings that together tell the story of Christmas. The birth of Jesus is in the middle. The readings tell the particular cosmological story of the birth of God in the world. And they tell the wider story of what it is like to hope for a child, to know a child is coming, to have a child, to raise a child, to ponder the child’s future. The story is not so different from the story of your parents and you, or the story of you and your child.

Lutherans are adamant about the humanity of Jesus. One hundred percent God and one hundred percent human, we say. And so it is important that as we hear this story of the birth of Jesus, son of God, that we remember that it is exactly also the birth of Jesus, child of Joseph and Mary.

The Christmas Eve story starts with the prophets Isaiah and Micah. We live, as they say, in the world of darkness and light, of suffering and delight. There is a longing in us to renew the world. The yearning for a child is a incarnation of the hope we have that there is a future, one that is new and good. The longing in Isaiah is for a child, a wonderful counselor, a prince of peace, a restorer of the world. That longing is a grander version of what we hope for every child.

But then it becomes a particular child. The child you were, or are, or the child you have or hope to have. Mary, in the Gospel of Luke, hears that she will soon conceive. She is much perplexed, Luke reports. That is not a surprise. It is strange, in a way that is both urgent and nice, to think about giving birth. Our desire for the general future becomes more immediate, scary, and exciting.

Mary conceives. But before she gives birth, the family is dislocated because of events beyond their control. They leave their families of origin, and have to travel. Everything is a mess. They are poor, young, and in a strange place. There is no perfect time to have a baby. There is no perfect spot. Children are born every minute in this world into comfort and also into hardship. Jesus is born. There are no details. It is not any easy thing to come into the world. There is a lot of commotion. And then, if we are fortunate, relief and amazement and a quiet place—as for Jesus—for mother and child and father, too.

People are thrilled, Luke continues in his story. The shepherds come, like relatives from out of town to admire the baby. And, like relatives, off they go again. Already the tranquility of a new birth is replaced by expectations and requirements. Within eight days Jesus must be circumcised.

In the temple, though, a stranger named Simeon makes grand predictions. Why is it that a baby seems to be everybody’s business? He looks at Jesus, he picks him up—why do people feel they can do that—and praises him. But his predictions are ominous, too. In the Gospel of Matthew, the next to last reading, kings come to see the child. Is that weird? What are his parents to make of that?

The joy of being a parent is always mixed with wondering, with pondering as it says Mary does. What will happen now, what will happen next, what will happen in the years ahead? How will the world be and how will it be for my child? Mary and Joseph, for all the premonitions and announcements and auguries, cannot know what will happen to their son. They cannot predict what will happen to him, both the grand and the gruesome. And who would want to know for sure what will happen with our children? God will be with them, but the future is unwritten. And blessedly not ours to know.

It is time to celebrate the birth of Jesus who is the Messiah. Jesus Christ. We will have many occasions later to hear about his life, his ministry. About his miracles and teachings. And about his trial, and execution, and resurrection. And then can ponder the meaning of the Messiah, the divine son of God.

But now, tonight, we can remember that Jesus had human parents, lived in a family, had to learn to eat and walk and be potty trained and had conversations and get praised and scolded. Just like every other human child. All God, all human.

Why Go to Church This Sunday

Text: Philippians 4:4–7

Christians, and especially Lutherans, have a bad habit of treating the apostle Paul as if he were a theologian. We hear Martin Luther quoting Romans and think that Paul’s most important contribution was to explain a doctrine of justification and grace.

But Paul was before all a missionary. He was in modern terms a church planter. Without Paul there would be no churches to preach the gospel. Though the center of the Jesus movement was in Jerusalem, the churches in the countryside—the ones that Paul founded—were the ones that spread it. There may be more to the story than we know, since our main source of information about this is the book of Acts and the letters of Paul. Acts tells a story of the early Christian church in which the heroes are Paul along with Peter. And of course what we get from Paul’s letters is information about the churches Paul started. Maybe there were dozens of Pauls of which we know nothing. There were certainly other preachers who talked about Jesus. We know this because Paul sometimes disparages them.

Paul was a convert to Jesus. He started out as a kind of sheriff or bounty hunter of Christians, but he had a life-changing experience and vision which made him join the people he had been hunting down. But he did more than join them, he became their chief marketer and promoter. He could have been a soul practitioner. Instead, he became a founder of churches. Paul evidently felt that to enjoy and live out the good news that he had found, one had to be part of a worshipping community.

Perhaps there is a way to follow Jesus all by yourself, but for sure that is not what Paul did. He spent his remaining life first calling together groups of men and women and then later encouraging them to stay together when they threatened to disintegrate or got into other trouble. The church for Paul was fundamental to following Jesus. Not the wide association of all followers, Church with a capital “C,” but the small, intimate groups of people who met in each other’s houses.

People like to say that they are spiritual but not religious. What this means, I think, is that they don’t like church. They can read the Bible and pray by themselves. But they don’t like church, for a whole bunch of reasons. Why, they wonder, should anybody come to church on a Sunday morning? Let’s talk about that today.

The root word for church in Greek, the language of the New Testament, is ekklesia. Like ecclesiastical, which just signifies churchy. The word ekklesia means “assembly,” or “gathering,” and it comes from two parts which together mean “called out” (ek: from, and kaleo: call). Both these parts are important to its meaning as church.

A church is a place to which you are called. No one really has to come to church anymore. It is not expected or required to get along in society. The time when every Christian felt obligated to be part of a worshipping community is gone. That means that probably you are here for a different reason.

One way to think about this is that you have chosen to be here. You are here because you intend to be here. One thing that the diverse people of Faith church have in common is that people here are by and large serious about their faith. Not that we are somber about it, and not that we are doubt-free (if that is even possible or desirable), and not that it is always joyful or fulfilling to be here, but what happens here is important to those who are here.

But another way, or maybe a related way, to think about this that you have been called here. A call is like an invitation but a little bit more. Something with weight to it, or a little edgy. A call is a little more compelling, more insistent. It is God who calls the church into being each week. It is God who makes that insistent offer.

A call has a direction to it. This can be exciting and it can be scary. In my experience, usually both. You are called from one thing into a new thing. There are four attributes of this call to assemble that shed light on why church matters.

First, we are called from our homes. Homes for many are our base. In our homes are people we love and maybe take care of or take care of us. The chairs are comfortable and there is food in the pantry. On a cold day, or on a morning after a late night, or when leaving home means lots of paraphernalia, staying home can seem pretty great. That’s why we are called out of our homes. Leaving home on a Sunday morning is an exercise in discipline, but it is also an exercise in freedom. We are called to leave our own selves behind, in a way. To let go of the homey things, the daily things that burden, distract, and occupy us so energetically.

Second, we are called to church. There is a purpose in God’s invitation. Church is a special, particular place designed for worship. It is a place that reminds us to praise God and gives us some tools to do that. A place that provides nourishment to us in the form of readings, sermons, and sacraments. A place of forgiveness and one that does not shame. And a place in which what we most care about can be expressed out loud.

Third, we are called one by one. Each person comes by her or himself. Even when we come as couples or families. The call to you to be here is a call to you alone. You, as you stand with God at the moment. You in the life you are leading right now, this minute. God’s call is not a general one. If it were, why would you pay attention to it? You are called here because God invites you here now. You are here because you have answered it this day.

And fourth, we are called together. Church is a community of people. People who have agreed to both admonish and comfort one another. Pray for one another. Ask for help and offer it. Who can be sociable or private, funny or grave. People who will accept and love one another unconditionally as a discipline of faith. And people who, like you, have responded to a call.

Martin Luther was opposed to private communion. In his time priests visited rich people who did not want to be bothered by coming to church. Luther said that this violated Jesus’ commandment regarding the Lord’s Supper. Luther said that when Jesus said “do this” (“do this in remembrance of me”), he meant not only the eating of bread and the drinking of wine, but the gathering as well. The communion is a communion not only with God but with other disciples, other followers, of Christ. And gathering and the sharing of the meal with others were essential parts of it.

Many years ago, as the way I stood with God seemed to be changing, I went on a spiritual retreat. And while preparing for it, I wrote three questions in my journal: Who is Jesus? Who am I? and What should I do—what is my obligation to others? Those are the questions that crowd asks John in today’s Gospel reading. Those are always the questions of faith. They are important questions. Who is God? Who am I? What am I supposed to do?

The people who are drawn to this church—you and me—care about something. What happens here is important. There are a lot of great things that go on at Faith church. People like each other. We laugh quite a lot and talk even more. We pray for one another. We cook great food and do fun things. We admire and respect and have affection for each other. Those things are really good. But what makes this a church is that God is important to us, that we need to know God, and that we find this place helpful to our longing.

Paul was a pragmatist. He started churches because he thought they were the best way to spread good news, to strengthen the resolve of new followers of Jesus, and to transmit the benefits of Christ. They were spiritual and religious. As in Paul’s time, each church is a mystery and a blessing, called into being by God and both enjoyed and sustained by those who hear and respond. For that, today, we give God thanks.

How to Pray

Text: Philippians 1:3–11

I want to talk today about praying. I’m going to talk about ways we might pray. And also about things that get in the way of praying. And I’m going to start with Paul’s prayers in his letter to the Philippians.

Paul is enthusiastic, a word which mean infused by the spirit. He writes to the church he started in Philippi. Even though Paul is in prison when he writes this letter, he tells his readers that he is full of joy. More exactly, he says he is constantly praying with joy in every one of his prayers for them.

What is Paul doing? When we hear that Paul is praying for joy, what do we imagine? That he is kneeling by his bedside prison? Or that he stands with his arms raised? Or his head lowered? Does he pray out loud, or quietly? It doesn’t matter, I suspect. But what does Paul mean for his readers—for us—to think when we hear that he prays? Is he doing something different than just thinking about the Philippians? Could he say “every time I think of you, I’m filled with joy?” It is not the same, is it?

For many, praying is the same thing as wishing for something, or asking for it. The jargon word for that is petitionary prayer. You are petitioning God for some outcome, just as you would petition the court for a favorable judgment. Please bring world peace and please let the Patriots win and please let me find a parking spot are all petitions to a being who can make things happen, no matter how likely. It is also the kind of prayer that Paul prays later in the letter, when he says “My prayer is that your love may overflow.” Paul is asking for something.

It is the kind of prayer children are first taught (after meal grace). Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. When I was a child I was told that Amen meant “let it be so,” which is a petition tacked onto a petition. (But Amen, as Jesus used it, just means “truly.” It is an emphatic punctuation mark. Maybe we should translate it “you bet!” or “for sure!”)

But there are other kinds of prayer. A friend of mine says that there are only three basic prayers: Thanks, Wow, and Please. Prayers, in other words, of gratitude, prayers of awe or worship, and prayers of petition. My friend is partly right, but he leaves out an important kind of prayer, which I’ll get to later. His three prayers have us doing the talking, which is not the whole story.

When we do do the talking, we pray to ask or pray to tell. To ask something from God or to tell God something. I’d like today to say six things about prayer. You can think of them as opportunities of prayer. Or possibilities. Or tips. Six tips for praying. Or just observations. The first three are about asking for things.

Number one: Pray for what you want. Do not be too polite. Do not worry about what other people pray for. Do not worry about whether what you want is OK to want. Praying to God is not a performance or an assignment. It is not for anyone else’s benefit. You do not have to be worried about whether you are praying for something embarrassing. Or something trivial. Or something way too grand.

Number two, a corollary of number one: Pray for things of all sizes. Pray for little things. Pray that you win the lottery. Pray for nice weather for your picnic. Pray that you do well in the 10K race. If that is what you want, pray for it. And pray for big things. Pray for world peace and an end to war. Pray that your friend will get better and recover. Pray that your marriage will always be filled with joy. Do not think that the small stuff is beneath God’s notice or that the large stuff is beyond God’s power.

Number three, which enables numbers one and two: Do not edit your prayers before you pray them. Your job is to do the asking. God’s job is hear you and respond. Do not anticipate what God will do and therefore modify your prayer before it even gets out of your mouth. How do you know what is pleasing to God’s ears? As good as it is to be humble, God does not demand your humility in prayer. You do not have to protect God’s sensibilities. God can take it. Ask truthfully.

If the first three tips are about asking God for something, the next three are about telling God things. Paul’s prayers about his joy in the Philippians are prayers of declaration. God, Paul says, I am really happy about the church people in Philippi.

Tip number four: Pray about the ordinary day to day things that are happening in your life. Tell God what’s up, how you are feeling, what’s happening at the moment. Make small informative prayers. It sounds a little like Twitter, I guess. Divine Twitter. Tell God that you are unhappy with that guy who just turned left in front of you. Tell God that you are worried about the meeting you are about to attend. Tell God that you are really enjoying this fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Do not worry about boring God. Little prayers like this remind you that you and God are connected.

Number five: Pray quietly and also pray loudly. There is no special tone of voice with which you must pray. Pray in silent meditation, pray when singing hymns, pray in loud alleluias. Come to the altar and whisper your prayers to God. Or stand in your room or come in to church someday in the middle of the week and yell your prayer out, if that’s what you need to do. No one has to hear you but God.

And number six: Speak your mind. If you are grateful, say thank you. If you are confused, tell God so. If you think it is stupid to pray, tell God that, too. Be watchful for the times you think: “I cannot pray that.” Those are times and the things you most need to pray for. If you are angry, tell God you are mad. If you are disappointed, tell God that.

A summary of these six tips is this: when you are doing the talking, ask for anything. tell God everything, and do it boldly.

But prayer is not all about talking to God. Prayer is a conversation with God. There are two beings involved, you and God. Sometimes you talk—asking and telling—and sometimes you listen.

So the last tip is this: Wait. I do not mean wait for your prayer to be answered. Not to wait for your petition to be granted or denied or your declaration to be acknowledged. Conversations are not transactions, with God any more than they are with people. Not everything we say in a conversation needs or gets a response.

I mean be in a state of waiting. Be wait-ful, if there were such a word. There are times when quiet waiting is the right thing in a conversation. When there is perhaps much to be said, but not said right this minute. Or maybe nothing to be said, as with two friends sitting across the table from one another after a big day. It is not just waiting idly, but waiting expectantly.

The vision statement of the New England Synod of which we are a part recently had as its motto: Pray Unceasingly. And Paul says he is praying constantly. This does not work if prayer is a like a series of messages, like emails, that you send to God. No one can do that unceasingly. But if by praying constantly you mean that you are ready to engage in a conversation, that you are ready to say something when you have something to say and ready to listen when you are ready to hear and ready to just sit with God when that’s all that you and God need to do—when you are ready to do that without being too self-consciousness and nervous and therefore rehearsing the whole conversation ahead of time to get it just right—then you can.

Prayer is one of the spiritual practices. That means, first, that is is something we do, part of the life of faith. And second, that it is a skill that changes and gets better as we do it. And finally, that it is something that both benefits our spirit and is guided by God’s Holy Spirit. When we pray, we do not pray alone. We pray with enthusiasm, infused by the spirit.

The Lord be with you. Let us pray. For sure.