In Our Place

Text: Hebrews 2:10-18

The Bible puts us humans in our place. But you might ask: which place is that?

In Genesis, the order of creation is from large and vague to small and specific. From light and dark, sky and earth, to plants and seeds, creatures that swim, and creatures that creep along the ground. And it was all good. And finally, on the sixth day, God created humans. Is it last but not least—or least and therefore last—in the scheme of things?

In Psalm 104, a creation story that parallels Genesis, the order is similar, but humans are not even included. In the book of Job, God berates Job, asking him where was he at the creation of the world. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” God asks. And in the praise psalm we sang today, the action moves from heavens, through the cosmos, waters and hills, beasts and creatures, and finally to humans, young and old, young men and maids.

How shall we interpret this? Are humans the culmination of all creation, the end of eons of progress and the point of it all? Or are we instead nearly an afterthought, left to the end, relatively insignificant?

It is not a new question. The author of Hebrews, in the verses just before today’s reading, quotes Psalm 8, which asks: What are humans that God should be mindful of us? Made from dirt, God has made us just a little lower than the angels.

The author of Hebrews is amazed that God is so mindful of humans that God even became one. He interprets the psalm to be less about humankind and more about Jesus, whom, he says, God has made not only a little lower than angels (as the psalm says), but lower than angels for only a little while.

For Hebrews, Jesus is timeless, the creator of all: “the heir of all things,” the book starts out, “through whom also he created the world. He is the ... exact imprint of [God’s] nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.”

Yet even so, in Jesus God was human—for a little while. Hebrews wants to make it clear: Jesus is the creator God. And also, Jesus was a human just like us. In every respect, it says. Jesus crossed some imaginary line in theological space, calibrated by the status of angels. Going from higher than they are—much superior to angels, it says—to lower. To us.

Hebrews is adamant. We are the brothers and sisters of Jesus. We all have the same father. We share flesh and blood—we have bodies, we are creatures made of stuff—and so does Jesus. Even though we are corruptible and weak—morally and physically—Jesus is not ashamed to call us sister and brother.

The season of Christmas is a 12-day celebration of the incarnation. Yet the concept is not easy, the notion of all God and all person all at once. In the first few centuries after Jesus, the heresies were mostly a result of people trying to think this through.

On one hand, it would be easier in some way if we worshipped a powerful and distant God. Someone who set the stars in their courses, perhaps, and then vanished. Or maybe one who capriciously tinkers with events and physics for God’s own amusement. One who does not care about us one way or the other. Divine but inhuman.

On the other hand, it would be easier in some other way if we followed and admired a good man, a wise prophet who inspired and moved us, who preached about a new and spiritual way to live. Who was perhaps guided by God without being God. Or one who was a charismatic political leader who roused the rabble to see justice done. Who was human but not divine.

Or maybe it would be easier if Jesus were a person who was human sometimes—doing corrupt human things—and God other times—doing perfect divine things.

But that is not how it worked out. We claim that Jesus combines God and human simultaneously. That there is nothing that people do that Jesus does not. That there is nothing Jesus does that people cannot. Because if there were even one thing, in that one thing Jesus would be only human or only divine.

Jesus suffers as a person would suffer. This does not mean that suffering is good, just that it is the way of the world. When Hebrews says that suffering perfects Jesus, it does not mean that suffering is necessary to somehow make Jesus whole and complete. It means that people suffer, and that since Jesus is a person, Jesus will suffer. An incarnate God who does not suffer is not human and therefore not incarnated, not of flesh and blood.

It is compassion for his human brothers and sisters that drives God to intervene as a person. He did not come to help angels, Hebrews says. He did not come to make things balance out. He did not come to demonstrate power. He came to help the descendants of Abraham, to help us, to help people. God was tested by suffering, as we all are. In his suffering, it seems, God through Jesus learned what it is to suffer and die. Something creatures know first hand.

We are brothers and sisters of Jesus. We are first of all brothers and sisters of each other. We have the same father, Hebrews says. The logic goes both ways: being connected with Jesus strengthens our connections with each other.

The complicated and intimate relationship between God and humans makes it seem reasonable, and not crazy, to model our relationship with other people on our relationship with God.

The psalm today is a hymn of praise to God who created us and all things in the universe. It recognizes God’s power and God’s love for the world, and it also gives us a chance to rejoice that we are beneficiaries of that. As we praise God together, we are bound together ourselves. Just as we are bound together by being claimed as brother or sister of Jesus.

The Bible puts us in our place. And our place is side by side. With Jesus also. Loving one another as we love ourselves, and also called to praise one another as we praise God.

Uncertain News

Text: Matthew 1:18–25
Other texts: Isaiah 7:10–16

It was an extraordinary event in ordinary but difficult times. Joseph was engaged to Mary, something which then meant nearly-married. Finding her to be pregnant—the details of the discovery remain untold; how did that conversation go?—finding her to be with child was, from Joseph’s point of view, unfortunate but not without precedent.

That was not the extraordinary thing. It would not have been the first time something like this—what would have been seen as adulterous behavior—happened with a young couple. There was even provision for it in tradition and in the statutes. A divorce was in order. Joseph, it says, was a righteous man. Meaning not that he was good—though it turns out that he was—but that he was law-abiding. The whole awkward transaction would be accommodated by the scheme of things.

What was extraordinary was what the scripture oddly treats as simply matter of fact. Sort of mentioned in passing. Not that Mary was with child, but that she was with child from the Holy Spirit. Not an every-day event. To help him deal with the news, Joseph gets heavenly advice, which he heeds.

We typically like things to be ordinary. Ordinary things give us a foundation. There is no way we can from scratch think our way through every little moment of our lives, make considered decisions about the thousands of little choices we have, or plan every action. Most of what we do is ordinary and we like it that way. The ordinary both reflects and shapes the values we already hold.

But the ordinary is not flawless. It is rough and crackle-y. There is always a small (or not so small) gap between what is and what ought to be. Like a bumpy ride, a pixelated image, a song out of tune. Aggravating at best, terrifying at worst. We know how things should be, and this is not it.

That gap is the fuel of prophecy. It is the spark of the prophetic spirit. A prophet, like Isaiah, highlights the discrepancy and instructs us about how we can, or how God will, repair the breech.

The life of a prophet is a frustrating one. You can hear it in the reading from Isaiah, who complains about us weary mortals who rarely do what is right and needed. But at the same time that frustration energizes the prophet, who works hard to make the world be as it should, as God intends it to be.

We ordinary mortals find the daily grind of trying to change things to be tedious. We long for a savior. A king in the line of David for some, or just a charismatic and effective leader, for others. Someone who will draw up the plan and recruit us for its implementation. (Or maybe just do it all for us). You do not have to be religious to want a savior. Our longing for someone to save the world is so strong that we are on the constant lookout for a sign. When is the savior coming? Is this the one? We want a sign.

But then again, we don’t. If the ordinary is our foundation, then signs of a savior and sounds of prophecy threaten it. For a start, prophets tell us what we have up to then ignored (or even fostered) that we know we should not have. But more, they ask us to change our ways, or they predict that ways will be changed around us. Something will be different. A leader will take us into new territory.

For some, this worry is clearly sensible. The status quo benefits those with status. But even for those who suffer, sometimes the oppression of the certain present is easier to take than the anxiety of an uncertain future.

In Isaiah a sign is promised to Judah. Matthew interprets the birth of Jesus as the sign that is the fulfillment of that promise. But on the face of it, the birth of Jesus is not very striking as a sign. The birth of a child is hardly unusual. And there are few decorations that alert the people to the child’s future power. Mary gives birth to a son, and Joseph calls him Jesus. End of birth story. The Magi come later in Matthew and the shepherds are there, but that is in Luke. This was not a theological accident, as we sing praises at Christmas to a God who was born not only as a child but also born humbly.

An infant is an embodiment of uncertainty. All potential in a little package of actual. Parents-to-be fret about the growing child in the womb. Ultrasound does not help much. There is plenty unknown. Joseph is beneficiary of a kind of divine ultrasound; did that comfort him about the baby? The angel’s announcement is maybe not welcome, for it means that things are going to be new and strange.

Unlike Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, who was unable to speak after an angelic visitation regarding his son to be, Joseph could talk. I’ve sometimes wondered about what he and Mary, speaking late at night as expectant parents do, what they said to one another about the coming child, who has already been an occasion for dismay, confusion and cosmic hope.

Parents live equally thrilled and terrified about what might happen to their children. They extrapolate from what they know of the world and the way it works. But in difficult times the past is a poor predictor, and even worse if something extraordinary happens. Even a message from heaven is not helpful. How could Mary and Joseph have known, after hearing the angel say that their son would save the people from their sins, what was really going to happen in the next 30 years, to say nothing of the next 2000?

The birth of God in the person of Jesus seems to tell us that God works in the uncertainty of this world. That the savior does not bring along a set of construction blueprints for the new world, but rather is a problem solver with a big idea and a willingness to work with whomever he can recruit—including us—which is pretty much what happened. Jesus it says, fulfills the promise that God is with us. Immanuel. God as Jesus is with us in this world as it is.

And yet, Jesus is a power for a new world. His birth from Mary and the Spirit is not an assertion about his DNA but about his mission and his method. The Spirit is the person of God that is the bringer of new life. As we say in the creed, the Holy Spirit, Lord and giver of life.

Matthew tells us that Jesus is born to change the world. He comes enacting and teaching a way of living that is out of the ordinary. He threatens the certainty of things, even the former certain power of death.

We worship a God whose birth portends not eternal sameness but eternal newness.

His coming disrupts the old way of being, not by transferring power to the righteous people, but by offering patient uncertainty that makes possible a new world.

Seed of Change

Text: Matthew 3:10-12
Other texts: Isaiah 11:1-10, Romans 15:4-13

The Bible is our story.

It is the story of the people who wrote it, preserved it, transmitted it from one generation to another. Those people still exist. We are some of them. For that reason, the Bible perseveres. It is a version of history that we cherish.

But there could be, or could have been, other versions of the same events, told by other peoples. Our story is the story of Jesus, whom we follow, declared Messiah, fulfillment of scripture. But imagine a story owned not by the followers of Jesus but the followers of John the Baptist. A story, say, once told among them but since lost.

You can hear in the stories of John and Jesus a rivalry or competition. In our version of the story, John is the precursor to Jesus. An eager pointer to a greater man with a better message. John is a willing voice in the wilderness that prepares the world for a man next to whom John feels unworthy. Yet the message of John fits uneasily with the teachings of Jesus. Maybe in John’s version of the story, Jesus absconds with John’s movement. Jesus’ message is adopted over John’s and John’s followers become Jesus’ followers instead. You wonder whether John was as welcoming to Jesus as Matthew makes out.

John preached repentance. This poor word has by now lost all its vigor, reduced to something about remorseful apologies and half-hearted resolutions to do better. But it means instead a change in life. We might say transformation. A change of heart and mind. A turning things around, or in a different direction.

But not a random or accidental turning; rather one based on consideration of the past and intention for the future. And therefore not easily done. John’s baptizing in the river was not to magically cause repentance, as our translation “baptize … for repentance” implies, but rather “baptize … into repentance.” Baptism marked entry into a new kind of living, a new way of existing.

Lots of people came to hear John. People of the city and all the surrounding country. John’s message of a change in the order of things was welcome because things were so messed up. There was not much that was good for most people in Palestine in those days. People would have been encouraged by what John said, especially the part about the winnowing fork and the burning chaff. A welcome message especially if you think it applies to other people and requires a change in their behavior (or power or status) and not in yours. Repentance is good for the other guy for sure.

The Pharisees and Sadducees show up unexpectedly. It is not clear whether they were in favor of baptism or opposed; Matthew says they were coming to, or onto, baptism, which is pretty neutral. It seems likely that they, being part of the power elite, were not super eager to see things, or themselves, change. A big change of mind and heart would not have suited them.

Change is hard. Hard to accommodate, hard to bring about, hard to have happen in your life. Easier, perhaps, to anticipate. We think, as probably the folks in the crowd did, about good new things ahead.

But change always brings grief. A change in direction means you are leaving something behind. There is a sadness, even when the future looks better. There is some comfort in the familiar, whether pleasant or bitter. Uncertainty is scary. When the disciples are called by Jesus, he asks them to give up their jobs, their families, their traditions, to leave their homes. They go eagerly, but it must have been difficult, even though the call was clear and compelling.

Change requires that we give up control. Systems, relationships, and privileges that sustain and protect us are rightly at risk. We cannot make changes in our lives without making changes in the patterns that we follow. That is, after all, what we are trying to do. That is the point. But those patterns of connections and behaviors—whom we rely on, routines we follow, rules of thumb (or rules of law, even)—are foundations for day to day living. We secretly hope for new direction without disruption.

What will things be like in the new days ahead? We cannot know. Whether we choose to change or change descends upon us, we have to trust God when God says that we will be OK, that God will take care of us. We are not very good at that. Trusting God.

Change emerges from judgment. Being judged and found wanting is the seed of change. If we are satisfied with the way things are—well, then hooray! Let’s keep up the good work. That is why we distrust the commitment of the Pharisees and Sadducees to John to the Baptist. They enjoy too much power and privilege.

Judgment is not a reflection of one’s character. It is an astute and deep observation of the nature of our actions. What are we doing? Whom is it affecting? What harm or good is it accomplishing? Judgment is essential and unavoidable prerequisite to change, for it makes clear the distinctions between the way things are and the way we think they are, and especially between the way things are and the way we want them to be. Judgment is clear seeing.

But judgment without forgiveness is just nastiness. Repentance is a continuation of a path, not a dead end. We are not followers of John the Baptist but of Jesus. Judgment can stop us in our tracks, but the forgiveness that Jesus teaches allows us to go forward even in the face of our own sins and the sins of others. The horrible mistaken, stupid, mindless, or malevolent things people do. Repentance—change in direction—requires both admonition and acceptance. A recognition that we are both responsible and cherished. It is not an accident that we start each Sunday worship with confession and absolution. Judgment of our actions and our negligence followed by reassurance that God is not therefore going to make our lives miserable, in the future or now.

We just heard Kelsi and Brad talk about peace. Paul in his letter to the Romans that Jacob just read prays that we live in harmony with one another. Isaiah describes a world in which natural enemies live cordially together. People have longed for peace forever. Yet we have no peace.

We have to judge that we have no peace because we do not want it. Or rather, that we want some other things more than we want peace. A peaceful world would be a drastic change in the way people are with one another. It would require that we give our trust to God to keep us safe and prosperous. It would require that we give up foundational patterns of discourse, economics, and politics. It would require that we be willing to lose things that are most valuable to us. The path from the way things are to the way things could be and that we pray for them to be is risky and scary. So we don’t take that path. We never have. So far.

We look ahead in Advent, but only after looking backward. Advent is a season, therefore, of judgment. Of seeing where we are and where we might better go. John the Baptist quotes (misquotes, actually) another passage from Isaiah, who said: Prepare the way of the Lord in the wilderness.

Advent is not so much waiting for the coming of Jesus, but rather constructing a smooth path in our wilderness on which Jesus can walk here with us. Asking him for clear thinking about what we are doing—righteous judgment as Isaiah says. And courage to follow him in a new direction for us. And forgiveness along the way.