As If We Loved One Another

Text: 1 Corinthians 13:1-13
Other texts: Jeremiah 1:4-10

You may be wondering why we are gathered here today. I myself often wonder that. Wonder less in the sense of being mystified as being amazed. Filled with wonder. It is a wonder that God has called us each to be here together. Perhaps you feel the same way. Or perhaps you are also mystified. Perhaps you wonder, how did you ever get involved with a Lutheran church like Faith? What are you doing here?

There is no social requirement for you to be here, as there was for previous generations of Christians. One thing you might say is that you are here because you want to be. But I’m not exactly sure that explains anything. It just moves the question along to another question. All those answers that have mostly to do with something that we chose or we did or we planned for seem to me to be slightly inadequate and incomplete. Perhaps, instead, or in addition, you felt called to be here.

I’ve talked before about the idea of being called. The word is sort of jargon-y. But like most good jargon, it was invented because other, similar words were not quite satisfactory. For starters, when we say we are called, we mean that God is doing the calling. A call is more than an invitation. It has an urgency that most invitations do not. Being called is like being hungry. Something you need to attend to, whether you welcome it or not. But a call is not coercive, either. A call is not a demand. You can refuse it, though maybe with difficulty.

Jeremiah was called by God to be a prophet. He tried to refuse the call. He was in good company in that regard. Many prophets try to refuse God’s call at first. Moses said he was not a good speaker. David was just a kid. Isaiah had unclean lips. Samuel was a young apprentice. God’s response in each case was not to be stern and threatening. God instead offers to help, to support, to augment, to make accepting the call possible. Jeremiah says “I’m only a boy.” Not a problem, says God, I’ll help you along.

When God calls, it is not like a job search. God calls the most unlikely people. God calls people without regard to their accomplishments, their abilities even, or their devotion, their faith, or their longing. Or their goodness. It seems like God calls without reason, so to speak. Without resumes.

People liken small churches like Faith to families. There are a lot of things wrong with that metaphor. But one thing that is right is that churches are not what sociologists called “voluntary associations.” Even though it seems people join them voluntarily. Churches are also called “affinity groups.” But as in a family, people in churches don’t necessarily choose each other, or even like each other. They don’t necessarily have affinity for each other. It is nice when they do, but that is not a requirement for membership. You are born or adopted into a family. You are called into a church.

Which brings us to the apostle Paul and the church in Corinth to which he writes today. There were a lot of bad things going on in Corinth. The people were fighting one another. Some snobby ones were patronizing the poor ones. Some people were complaining about how other people ate. Some people were putting on airs, fighting over who was the better leader, more valuable to the church. Paul writes them to say: Stop it! No fighting, no biting, as the children’s book says it.

He tells them that in the church they are to love one another. Things he says that love is, the Corinthians are not. Love does not envy, but they are envious. Love is not boastful, but they are boasting. Love is patient, but they are impatient. Love is not self-seeking, but they seek to promote themselves.

The kind of love that Paul is talking about is not the same as romantic or even friendly love. The King James Version translates the word as “charity.” Not giving money away, but being charitable. Generous of heart. It is the same word Jesus uses when he tells us to love our enemies as well as our neighbors.

The love for one another that is the cement of a church is not based on accomplishment, character, ability, or goodness. It does not depend on the worthiness of the other to deserve our love. They just get it, that love, worthy or not. God calls us without criteria (at least that we can see) to be in a community of people who love one another without criteria. We are called together for no reason to love one another for no reason.

When you love another, you put up with them, watch out for them, hope for the best for them. Things that Paul says that love does. But Paul is not asking us to first feel a certain way about other people. How can we control how we feel? He is asking his church to act in a certain way. Paul’s comments are a recipe. We are not angels. We are incomplete, as Paul says. We don’t see everything clearly. It is not automatically in us to be loving. So be patient, don’t strut around arrogantly, don’t gloat. The way to love disagreeable people is to act as if you do. See what happens.

The church is a place where we act as if we loved one another. Love your neighbor, says Jesus. Love your enemy. Act as if you loved them, which is a good start.

A church is a good place to practice humility. Humility before God, certainly, but humility toward one another also. It is place where our normal way of judging and trusting people is put aside.

We have a lot in common here at Faith. That is a blessing. Not all churches do. But all churches are gatherings of people called by God. That is why we are gathering today. Because of our calling, we trust others before they deserve our trust. We trust them the minute they walk in the door. We love them before we know them well enough. That they are here is sufficient.

It’s a wonder.

Thanks be to God.

Beyond Tragedy

Text: Nehemiah 8:1-10

Comedy is when what never could have been, happens. The quarreling neighbors fall madly in love. The powerful CEO is displaced by the poor office boy. A queen falls in love with a donkey. In the end, every impediment is removed and every error undone, and all live happily forever.

Tragedy is when what should have been, does not happen. The lovers pass by one another unknowing. The good people’s uprising is crushed. The queen mistakenly condemns her only child to death. Things go wrong, opportunities are missed, and in the end there is only sorrow and regret. In the theater, the seed is a fatal flaw. Pride, greed, jealously, and the evils we all are subject to. In life, the fates are as much to blame.

In tragedy, there is that moment when all that is good suddenly goes sour. When you do the thing you shouldn’t. Or skip the thing you should. You speak rashly, you drive carelessly, you act impulsively. You don’t bother to lock the lock, put on the safety guards, make the phone call. People are harmed. Relationships broken. The damage is done. And you think: if only I could go back in time just a moment, just a few seconds even. If only I could undo what I have done. I take it back. But there is no taking back. No undo.

Why is this story we just heard in the book of Nehemiah so wrenching? So moving? Ezra the priest reads the book of the law of Moses. All around him are all the people of Jerusalem. All the men and women and all who could hear with understanding. He reads the law—probably the Torah or portions of it—it takes most of the day. And all the people stay to hear him. And when he is done reading, the people weep. They fall to the ground, and weep. In a way that is hard to explain, we know why they weep, and we weep with them. There has been unnecessary sorrow. A tragedy has happened.

This story in Nehemiah starts about 150 years earlier. Let’s flash back to then. It is just before the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and the people taken in exile to Babylon. How could God—the same God who had brought the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt and had brought them to Israel hundreds of years before—how could that God let the people be captive once more and removed from that land? How could that be? Some said that God had been displeased. That the people themselves had done something to cause God to abandon them. The story in the Bible—in the books of Kings, mostly—is that it was the people and their rulers who had abandoned God. They ignored the law for centuries, and eventually they just forgot about it.

Just before the end, just before the final invasion by the Babylonians, one good king—his name was Josiah—finds an old copy of the Torah, the law, in a dusty corner of the Temple. It is found by a kind of accountant. This is like not knowing the Bible exists until one of Faith’s counters comes across a dusty copy in the back of the office downstairs. Amidst all the junk. Josiah reads the book. He is shocked. He is dismayed. He tears his clothes. He weeps. He realizes what Israel has done. “The wrath of the Lord is kindled against us,” he says, “because our ancestors did not obey the words of this book, to do according to all that is written concerning us.”

Josiah immediately begins to reform the nation. And in a gathering much like the one we are talking about in Nehemiah, he reads the book of the law of Moses to all the people. Much as Ezra later did. To all the people, small and great, it says. If only the wickedness and inattention could be reversed. But this is a tragedy, it is too late. Too little, too late. The errors of the kings cannot be undone. So the land is conquered and the people carried off and the Temple, God’s house, is destroyed.

End of flashback. We are now with Nehemiah, 150 years later. Babylon itself has been conquered. The people of Israel have been returned to their land. The Temple has been rebuilt. And Nehemiah has repaired the walls of the city. The bones of the city have been restored. But the soul of the city is still missing. The life, the purpose of the city comes from God. It is God’s city, the Temple is God’s house. So the reading of book of the law of Moses is like the breath of life. As with the dry bones in Ezekiel that are brought to life by God’s breath, the city is brought back to life by the presence of God embodied in God’s word.

Why do the people weep? They have emerged from a tragedy. They have come home. Not that the tragedy has been undone. You can’t do that. But the future, thought to be lost, has been restored. They weep like a parent or spouse weeps when the soldier comes home from war. When the runaway child comes back (as with the father of the prodigal son). When the estranged lover returns for another try. These are complicated tears. They are part continuing sorrow at what has gone before; part anger at the suffering people have endured; part resentment of God who left them, they think, in the first place.

And part relief that the ordeal is mostly over; that anxiety has been lifted; that the unexpected but silently hoped-for thing has happened. Part that God is back with them and they with God. What was broken is being restored. So they first weep. And then they celebrate.

For the people gathered at the gate in Jerusalem, the law is life. It is not a legalistic code of shall-nots. The law is a glimpse into the mind of God. It is God’s idea, what God is thinking about. It is information about God, a clue. The word for the law we are talking about here is also translated “teaching” or “instruction.” Knowing what God is thinking is a privilege and a joy. It is guidance. As it says famously in Psalm 119: You word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path. Or in today’s psalm, “the statutes of the Lord are just and rejoice the heart. [They are] clear and give light to the eyes.” They teach people how to live.

That is always the question. How should we live? And the second question is: how shall we know how we should live?

It seems sometimes as if we are in the midst of a tragedy ourselves. A lot of things are not working out so great in this world. And maybe in our lives. And maybe we wonder, as the Israelites did, whether it is something we have done wrong or not done right. What will happen? Will there be a day when, like Josiah, we weep and wear sackcloth because it is too late? Or will we rejoice because God is with us? Jesus, in another parallel to the stories of Josiah and Ezra, stands at the Temple and reads the Bible. He quotes the prophets. There is good news, he said, for the poor, and the sick, and the prisoners, and the oppressed. Can things that are broken be restored? It is not too late, Jesus says.

Tragedy cannot be turned into comedy. What is done is done. But tragedies often end in hope. The sorrow is not wiped away, but the story, the path, does not end. In the theater there is resolution, acceptance. In life, we go forward. Not forgetting the past, but forgiving it.

The Israelites stand at the new, restored wall of Jerusalem. At first they weep for all that could have been but never was, and for all that was that never should have been. And then. Then they celebrate with a great party, eating and drinking and giving food and drink away and, as it says, making great rejoicing.

The joy of the Lord was in them. The phase is ambiguous. Is it God’s joy in creation and humanity that led God to show us how to live? Or is it the people’s joy in God that God did not abandon us to our own often-faulty advice? Or is that God is always with us. And that the direction of creation is not separation and destruction but reconciliation and healing. Evidently God takes no pleasure in our sorrow but rejoices in our healing.

God does not abolish all that has happened. God does not prevent tragedy. God does not turn back the clock. The people turn to God looking for strength to continue. But contrary to what we might suspect, they do not look to God’s power, or to God’s wisdom, or even to God’s goodness. Rather, they have learned that God is joyful and that God takes joy in us. And therefore we can take heart and be hopeful.

God is with us. God guides us in our lives. And against brokenness and tragedy, it is the joy of God that is our strength.

Seeing the Light

Text: John 2:1–11
Other texts: 1 Corinthians 12:1-11, Isaiah 62:1-5, Psalm 36

Note: This sermon prepared and preached by Craig Simenson, vicar at Faith this year.

Jesus did this—turned water into wine—the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory.

“Revealed,” from the Greek, efanerôsen, which might more literally be translated, “made manifest” or “made known.”

In Greek, its root word—faneroô—is related to words like the adjective meaning “light,” the word for “torch,” and the verb fainô, which means “to bring to light, to make appear, to make clear.”

According to the Gospel, turning water into wine, Jesus made manifest his glory. According to the Gospel, by this, he brought his glory out into the light.

The same root word in John is used in 1 Corinthians 12, verse 7, used to describe the presence of the Spirit of God among us. “To each is given the manifestation (ê fanerôsis) of the Spirit.”

We can pick up the notes of manifestation and of things brought into the light in the prophet Isaiah, as well:

For Zion’s sake, I will not keep silent,

For Jerusalem’s sake, I will not rest,

until her vindication shines out like the dawn,

her salvation like a burning torch.

The nations shall see your vindication,

and all the kings your glory.

And in Psalm 36:

For with you is the well of life;

and in your light we see light.

Epiphany and these days that follow it is a time of growing light. A time when we as a church body look for the light that grows stronger and brighter among us with every new day.

Epiphany, from epifaneia, another word for “manifestation” in Greek. A word derived again from the root verb fainô, “to bring to light, to make appear, to make clear.”

Epiphany is a time when we look to the God revealing Godself to us again in the Word made flesh. When we look to the God who steps out of the cold darkness into the marvelous light.

This Epiphany and these days that follow it is the story of our own journey into the growing light of a new year. And although we have seemingly come a long way in a few short weeks, from Christmas’ nativity to the visit of wandering magi, to an adult Jesus being baptized in the Jordan and now a wedding feast—we are still at the beginning of this new day.

Jesus did this—turned water into wine—the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory.

Listening closely to the details of the Gospel this morning, however, we understandably might puzzle over just what exactly is revealed in John’s account. In the end, it seems that few know what has happened or who is responsible for it. The Gospel even makes it an explicit point that, though the servants who had drawn the water know where the wine has come from, the chief steward does not. So that when the steward tastes the water become wine, he calls not to Jesus but to the bridegroom.

And there is no indication that anyone but the disciples and perhaps Jesus’ mother recognizes the significance of what Jesus has done.

No, curiously, the gospel’s account ends quite abruptly. There is no public pronouncement, plain and clear, that Jesus is anyone but another wedding guest or that the good wine served last is anything but a bridegroom’s atypical wedding plan. Noting that the wine has previously run out and the steward’s comments about drunken guests, we might even wonder if anyone at the party realizes just how good that wine tastes.

Listening closely to the details of the Gospel this morning, it is not abundantly clear what, if any, kind of glory Jesus has revealed. The world it seems remains in the dark. Jesus’ glory seemingly has little to no impact on those around him.

And, yet, the Gospel declares boldly: Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

Epiphany and these days that follow it is a time when we as a church body look to the God who steps out of the cold darkness into the marvelous light of a new age. Yet, even after the glimmer of Christmas’ morning light, the world is still waiting.

We are still looking for the light to break out from above the horizon.

We are still surrounded by darkness, still left to wait in the cold and gloom of this present winter. Still left to wait in a world that seems even darker now than it did just five days ago.

And, yet, the Gospel tells us boldly this morning: Jesus did this… and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

The irony of John’s account of the wedding in Cana for us, of course, is that when we hear and step into the storyline this morning, we perhaps know more about the one who turns water into wine than anyone else does. The irony of John’s account for us is that our eyes, from the very first moment, are consistently turned to Jesus. Like the disciples who believed, we see what few others notice. We know the story and who sets it into motion. We know that the true light, which enlightens everyone, is coming into the world.

The irony of John’s account for us this morning is that, even though the world remains largely in darkness. Though millions in Haiti, in Afghanistan and elsewhere lie surrounded by death. Even though we ourselves in the struggles and pain of our own lives are still waiting for the light to break out from above the horizon. Still, we see and know that the light for all people, radiant and full of grace and truth, is now beginning its rise.

In Epiphany and these days that follow, we are given this gift—to see the light that is surely coming though darkness surrounds us still, though clouds threaten to dim our view.

Listening closely to the Gospel this morning, recognizing ourselves in the midst of its details, we see the one turning water into wine. Jesus, the one who finally listens to his mother—though the hour of his most radiant light has not yet come—and gives away the best wine abundantly—to a crowd that will not recognize it for what it is.

Our gift this morning is that we taste the good wine and know exactly where it comes from: the abundance of the house of God being built up around us,.. the river of hope and joy from which we drink, the well of life, the light by which we see light.

The glory revealed to us this morning is a glory not only made manifest before us but given to us—that we might believe and follow faithfully, that we might be one body, sharing in common. That we might give to our worlds as abundantly as God gives to us.

There remains darkness, and there will be more on the journey ahead of us—in the footsteps of a crucified Christ.

Yet, this God is already in our midst. This water become wine, this Word become flesh dwells among us here and now.

A new world is coming into being—though the shadows of a forsaken and desolate world remain.

But if we know what to look for—as subtle as it often may be. If we know who we are following. If we recognize that the Spirit of God that turned water into wine dwells also among us. If we look to the glorious and good light illuminating our dark skies already, we will see that we are being called to give ourselves away to a needing world.

The sun has not broken over the horizon yet, but we know that it is coming. And if we give ourselves to the darkened places, there will be enough light and life for all of us, enough healing and resurrection for all of creation.

Jesus is not like John

Text: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
Other texts: Isaiah 43:1-7

If you look on page 935 in the Bible in the pews, you’ll see in the right column a heading that says “The Baptism of Jesus.” There are headings like this all over the Bible. But those headings are not actually in the Bible. They are put in there by the editor of this particular edition of the Bible. They are editorial notes that are to guide you. But they are sometimes unreliable guides and misleading. They reflect a certain agenda.

The agenda today is to highlight the baptism of Jesus. The baptism of Jesus has been a theological big deal for many centuries. That’s because people don’t agree on its meaning. If baptism is about washing away sins, for example, why did Jesus, who has been considered sinless, need a washing? So today in the church year is called the “Baptism of our Lord,” as you can see from the cover of the bulletin.

In the Gospel of Matthew, much is made of the baptism story (it is on page 879 if you are interested in looking at it). But in Luke, whom we just heard, the baptism itself is pretty much described in passing. It says: Jesus, having been baptized and while praying, the heavens opened up. That’s it for the baptism part. And when they opened a dove-like body and a voice from heaven spoke. Now the dove and the voice (and what the voice said, which I’ll talk about in a minute), that was significant and powerful. But the baptism: not so much. So to call this story the baptism of Jesus is like taking the Red Line to see the Tall Ships or the Circ du Soleil and calling the story: “My trip on the MBTA.” It is true, but it is not the main thing.

There is always a tension between John and Jesus in the Bible. Maybe that is because they were competitors of sorts, competing for crowds and for disciples. In the stories of Jesus, John the baptizer has an important but short-lived role. In the Gospel of Luke—today’s reading—John disappears as soon as Jesus appears. In fact, in Luke, as soon as Jesus starts his ministry, John is put into prison. Those verses (18, 19, and 20) are skipped in the assigned lectionary reading. Luke can’t ignore John, but it seems he doesn’t really want John in the story. That may be because John and Jesus have very different messages. John likes to talk about the winnowing fire. Jesus likes to talk about something else.

Lutherans are fond of dyads. Things in twos that both support and fight with one another. Like John and Jesus, I guess. Saints and sinners, infinite in the finite, things like that. One of the dyads is the law and the gospel. The law tells you what God wants you to do. The gospel tells you God loves you anyway. The two are related, of course. God loves you and so tells you what to do so that you do not wander aimlessly. And one of the things God wants you to do is not worry about whether God loves you. But the law and the gospel have very different flavors. They are opposite ends of what I once called the crab/joy scale. The law is a little crabby and the gospel pretty joyous.

John is on the law, the crabby, side of things. “You brood of vipers, who warned you of the wrath to come?” he asked the crowd before Jesus arrived. Pretty crabby. He is big on repentance, which means changing direction. People are doing the wrong thing. They had better do the right thing, or else. In Luke, and in Luke only, John lists some of the things they must do: share with others who have less than you, don’t be greedy or corrupt, don’t extort things by threats. John likes the notion of a winnowing fork and the unquenchable burning of the chaff. It is not that John wants people to burn. He wants them to live. But the way to life for John is through some repentant action on the part of the sinners, the vipers.

Jesus, as you can guess, is the on the gospel, the joy side of things. The so-called story of the baptism of Jesus is a story of God (or we assume God, since it only says a voice from heaven), a story of God declaring God’s love for Jesus. You are my beloved son, the voice says. I am very pleased with you. The word that God uses means the merciful love of one creature for another. It is the word Jesus uses when he talks about loving both neighbor and enemy. It is not affectionate love, though it doesn’t hurt to hear affection in the voice from heaven. It is the love of unconditional acceptance. God declares that Jesus is loved. And that God is pleased with Jesus. This declaration has nothing to do with the actions of Jesus. It is an announcement, not a reward for righteous behavior. Or even not encouragement for good behavior in the future. While John likes burning chaff, Jesus likes the notion of the saved grain. Like John, Jesus wants people to live, too. But the way of life is through the love of God independent of the actions on the part of sinners, who are God’s children.

Both the law and the gospel serve to rescue people. Which is what we call redemption. Redemption is the main story of the Bible. The oldest story (it is a song) in the Bible is a tale of God’s freeing the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. Rescuing them. Redeeming them. And later, God brings home the people of Israel from their captivity in Babylon, their exile from their homeland. One interpretation—the crabby interpretation—of the Babylonian exile is that Israel had messed up big time, and that as a consequence lost their land and their God. But the joyous interpretation is that God never gave up on God’s people. Over and over God tells the people that while they may have broken the covenant, God will not. In the portion of Isaiah which we just heard—which is from the time of the exile—God says, “do not fear.” God says, “I have redeemed you.” God says, “You are precious in my sight.” “I will be with you.” “I love you.” Jesus is part of this story.

Sometimes we secretly think John is right. We feel viper-ish (like vipers). We are sinners. We do stuff that we never should do. We hurt people and ourselves. We are cowardly. We don’t do stuff we wished we had. Didn’t speak up, didn’t help, didn’t love. We get into horrible jams. We fall short. It would be helpful if there were something we could by our own efforts do to fix all this. And there are things we can do better by trying.

But we cannot totally rescue ourselves. Even if we keep a stiff upper lip, throw our shoulders back, pick ourselves up by our bootstraps, and step forward with new resolve. If we think we can depend on ourselves or on others, we will be disappointed and sad and life will not be in us.

We need light in our deep darkness. We need guidance in our deep confusion. We need courage in our deep fears. We need love in our deep alone-ness.

Jesus knows this. What Jesus promises is a way out of the tangles. What we sometimes call sin. The repentance that John preaches says: You messed up, but it is OK. You messed up, but you are doing better. Good for you. The gospel that Jesus teaches says: You are in a messed up place. But I will free you. I will get you out of there. I will bring you home.

Where John preaches repentance, Jesus preaches unearned love. Where John preaches fire, Jesus preaches forgiveness. Where John harasses, Jesus heals.

There is a lot of John the baptizer in our theology. Perhaps it suits us to think we are at least sort-of masters of our fate. Perhaps it suits us to think of ourselves as unworthy vipers sometimes. But this is not what Jesus, the one we follow, calls us. Jesus tells us what the voice from heaven told him. You are beloved. I am pleased with you. And what God said to God’s people. I call you by name. You are mine. I love you.

The King of Hope and The King of Fear

Text: Matthew 2:1-12 Other texts: Psalm 71:1-7

Not so long ago people thought that science was objective. That is, researchers looked at something—data, the results of an experiment, a phenomenon—and observed something. It was objective because it was about the object—the thing observed. Not subjective, about the subject, the observer. The premise was that all observers would see the same event in the same way. Experiments were reproducible. If you did the same thing, but with different observers, you would get the same results.

Now we know this is totally bogus. It turns out that the subject, the observer, has a huge effect on the results. What the observer sees is irredeemably influenced by what she or he thinks, feels, believes, hopes for, fears, and expects. There is no neutral observer. There is no way to see neutrally. All observation is interpretation. Not only in science but in everything.

Today we heard he story of the three kings. Or the three wise men, as it says in our version. Or better, the three magi—persons who could read the meaning of the stars and other auspicious events. Looking at an unusual star, they have divined its meaning. A child is born king of the Jews. They decide to pay the new king a visit, and to kneel at his feet, a posture of humility that is powerfully respectful of the young infant king. A child is born, not will be born. Jesus is king, it says, not king in the making or king potential. Born king.

The wise men, not so wisely, decide to stop on the way to visit the current incumbent king. He is upset. That’s understandable. If there is a new king, what about the old king? The king is dead, long live the king, and stuff like that. Herod, as we know, was not a nice man. He really wasn’t—not just in the Bible, but from other sources, also. Anyway, he tells the magi that he wants to visit Jesus, too, and kneel at the feet of Jesus, too. He is lying. Wisely, in the end they do not report what they have found, but take the back roads on the way home.

There is something fishy in this story. You might ask, why does Herod need the magi? Why does he not follow the star himself? It is not like stars are local. If I can see a star, then pretty much everyone in my hemisphere can see the star, too, you would think. Either Herod cannot see what the magi see, or Herod cannot interpret what he sees in the way the magi can. Or maybe, as a postmodernist might say, Herod cannot see the star because of the person he is. The star is good news to the magi, who can see it. It is fearsome news to Herod, who cannot.

The magi see with hope. Herod sees with fear. The frightened man does not see what the hopeful ones see. The magi see a new future. Herod sees no future. The magi see in the future the things we just heard about in Isaiah and in the psalm. Justice, joy, defense of the needy and the end of oppression. Good news to many, including perhaps the magi. Not good news to Herod, who is unjust, nasty, greedy, and brutal. Not good news, as it says, to all of Jerusalem. Herod has reason to fear, on the face of it.

Hope and fear are opposing forces. Opposing spirits, you might say. I hope we’ll get a puppy, says the child. I fear we’ll get a puppy, says her father. Exact opposite views of the same act. Hoping for something not to happen is to fear it. I hope we won’t get a puppy is what the father says, using the word hope but not being hopeful, still being fearful. Fear disguised as hope.

Hope by and large looks ahead. The magi look ahead. They are hopeful because they see that Jesus will bring about a new kind of world. They hope that he will. Herod looks back. You might say he looks ahead to bad things happening; but that is a lot like looking backward, holding on to the present or the past, which has the advantage of being predictable. Rather than looking forward, which is bound to be unpredictable, and maybe disruptive. If you are a magi, or poor, or oppressed, then disruptive in a good way.

Christianity is a religion with hope at its base. It fights against despair and discouragement. It proclaims redemption and renewal. Other religions do, too, I’m sure, but Christianity is the one we know best here. In Advent, Mary sings the Magnificat, a song whose center is hope. My spirit rejoices, she says. The proud and the powerful will become humble, and the lowly and the weak will stand up. God will fulfill a long-time promise. At Christmas, the magi carry hopes for a new king, a new realm. And even the death of Jesus in Holy Week is undone by his resurrection at Easter. Our religion is full of promises, which are hopes with clout. Hope should be the default stance of Christian institutions, like churches, and Christian individuals.

So, when Christianity is used as a religion of fear, and when people find comfort in fearful predictions, it is a double betrayal. When Christianity is used as a tool of oppression, rather than liberation—which is just another meaning of the word redemption—and as a way to justify war, rather than reconciliation, and when it is used to scare people into action instead of freeing them to act, it has abandoned hope for fear.

It is the strength of hope that lets people live lives of grace. Things are hard. But fear makes them worse. Fear shrinks the future.

Yesterday I went to a memorial mass for a woman I’ve know for about fifteen years. She was 71. In all the time I’ve know her, she has had cancer. In all the time I’ve known her, she has helped others, has been generous with her time and money, has been a community leader. At her memorial service, people said over and over how full of grace she was. This woman had had a cerebral hemorrhage when she was 27. Then, and every moment after then, she had two ways of seeing her life. She could see as Herod did. A future bleak and narrow. Or she could see like a magi. An abundant life.

You’ve probably heard me quote the passage in Deuteronomy in which Moses gives the Israelites a choice to follow God or not. He says to them “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live.” Moses could just as easily said “I have set before you hope and fear. Now choose hope.”

We make choices constantly. Some are trivial, some momentous. Some require prudence and planning. In any case, here’s a rule of thumb. Take account of and think about all thing things you need to. Tally your worries and expectations. Then ask yourself whether you are deciding out of hope or out of fear. And then choose hope.

Look to the east.

Is there a bright auspicious star, or is there not? What do you see?