Call to Us

Text: Matthew 4:12-23

Off the coast of Scotland is the small island of Iona. It has been known for centuries as a holy place. The monastery which dominates the landscape of Iona was founded in the year 563 by Saint Columba, who was responsible for the spread of Christianity throughout Scotland. On the grounds of Iona Abbey are buried the remains of Duncan, the king of Scotland made famous by Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

There are not many people on Iona these days. Just the abbey and a small village, a few houses. But there are many many sheep. There are sheep everywhere. Every field that is not a swamp or a cliff is home to some flock of sheep. In the spring, the lambs are born. They wander freely about the island, learning to close-crop the grassy fields. They drift far from their mothers. But when something frightens them, as we did when walking across Iona, they call out. Baa says the lamb. Baa says the ewe. Baa, again, from the lamb. Another answering Baa from the mother. Closer and closer they come, drawn together by their signature sounds. How does the lamb know which of the many ewes are calling it? How does the mother know which lamb is lost?

The lambs and their mothers are imprinted at birth. They are joined from each lamb’s creation. Each pair of calls is different. Each call moves something deep inside the lamb and its mother. They are compelled to seek out one another, until they are finally joined, safe, ready for the next adventure.

Follow me, says Jesus to Peter and Andrew. Immediately they left their nets and followed him. Follow me, says Jesus to James and John. Immediately they left their boat and their father, and followed him. They left their families. They left their livelihood. We read this story and wonder: how could they have done that? Immediately, it says. With urgency. As if they were compelled.

The disciples are called as if they and Jesus were imprinted at birth. Jesus calls, and the now-former fishers follow. It is as if they had been waiting all their lives to hear this call. Something inside them pulls them forward into a new life, a new adventure, a new calling as followers of Jesus.

At my mother’s funeral a couple of weeks ago, a women, a contemporary of my mother, in I guess her late 80s, spoke. She said that all her life she had been looking for a soulmate. After 80 years, she had found that soulmate in my mother. I wonder if she didn’t feel like the lamb and the ewe. I wonder if Simon and Andrew and James and John didn’t feel like that.

The call of Jesus to Christians, to his followers, is a powerful part of our faith. It is more than an invitation, which one may carelessly ignore or accept as one pleases. “Come and see” and “follow me” are imperatives and prophecies. In them is the possibility of a new life.

These kinds of calls are less calls to belief and more calls to a new beginning. It is not an accident that the story in Matthew ends with a summary of new life for Jesus and his crew. This should not sound odd to us. Jesus is assembling a startup operation here. He calls a team of people who are without resume and seem unqualified: they are fishers, not religious leaders. He tells them straight away what the strategic plan is: I’ll make you fishers of people. He insists that they be able to start right this minute: they are going to begin work immediately. And he asks them to leave behind their former commitments. No competing entanglements.

A choice to abandon one kind of life and take up another is not easy to make. It is for us usually more complicated than Matthew makes it seem. Not all people want to change their lives in an instant. How you hear Jesus’ call depends a lot on where you stand in life and what your hopes are for it.

Martin Luther King, Jr., whose life we honored this Monday, thought he had a good plan in mind. He had gone to seminary, he was married, he had just received his Ph.D. from B.U. He expected to teach and be a pastor and have a family. He was a reluctant speaker at an early rally for Rosa Parks, whose refusal to give up her bus seat sparked the civil rights movement. Nonetheless, he knew that he was being called and was as compelled as the four fishers to respond. He later said:

“If a man happens to be 36 years old, as I happen to be, and some great truth stands before the door of his life, some great opportunity to stand up for that which is right and that which is just, and he refuses to stand up because he wants to live a little longer. . . or he is afraid he will lose his job. . . he may go on and live until he is 80, and the cessation of breathing in his life is merely the belated announcement of an earlier death of the spirit.”

People follow the call of God—as King did, as I’m sure the disciples did—because they feel that to do so will make a difference. It will make a difference in their own lives. And it will make a difference in the world. Both are necessary. It is neither just about personal self-actualization nor just about service to others. They hope for a new life and a new world.

They know for sure it will not be easy. That they will leave behind things that are important to them. That the odds are long. Someone once wrote that a call to a new life, in the way we are talking about here, was a call to “move our spiritual center of gravity to a zone unknown.” That captures the significance of it. It is a weighty moment. But although the zone may be unknown, it is not unimagined.

When people are called—to a campaign for justice, to a startup venture, to be fishers of people—they follow because they hope that in some ways both the world and their lives will change for the good. It is like a quest, with some great and good goal, and obstacles to overcome, and rewards of fellowship and transformation.

We are all like the lambs of Iona. Some of us are contentedly munching away. But many are wondering whether they hear a call, or hope to hear, or have heard and are wondering what to do next. We gather together into this church to help one another listen for God’s voice.

The job of the church—through scripture, sacrament, prayer, and fellowship—is to help people hear the call of God. But the church itself listens for God’s call, too. And it is the job of we who gather here to help the church hear that call.

What does God call you to do? What does God call Faith to do? And are those two calls aligned? When we pray each Sunday that the church nourish and be nourished by those who are called to be here, that’s what we pray for.

When we are lost and feel far away from God, then we are as relieved as the lambs of Iona. We call for God, and God calls to us. We seek one another, step by step, call by call, until we, like the lambs and their sheep, are finally joined, safe, ready for the next adventure.

As I Live and See

Text: John 1:29-42

The Gospel of John is like a cloth, woven in complex patterns from a few simple threads. Light and darkness, love and truth, belief, revelation. These threads cross over and under each other, creating for John a convincing image of the Word of God incarnate, dwelling here with us. The divinity of Jesus, and the notion that he has existed for all time and will for all time to come, is strongest in John of all the Gospels. For John, everything Jesus does is a pointer and witness to this man’s divine DNA.

Two of these threads in John’s theological colors appear strongly in the reading we just heard. Where do you live, asks the disciples of Jesus. Come and see, Jesus responds. Where Jesus lives and what he sees, and where as a result we live and what we see are important to John.

The word in John for “live” also appears in the Bible as reside, remain, abide, stay, dwell. The disciples ask Jesus, where are you staying? Do they mean: where do you bunk down for the night? Do they mean: where do your journeys take you? Do they mean: what is your stance on important issues of the day, like the politics of Rome and prospects for the coming Messiah?

The disciples expect an answer that will help them to know Jesus. It makes a difference whether Jesus is staying in a big fancy hotel, or with some friends in the bad part of town, or with his parents, or on the street. Or whether he is just passing through. Where you live tells people about you. What do you want? Jesus has asked them. They are not sure what to answer, because they are not sure what they can ask of Jesus until they know more about him. But Jesus does not say.

John the Baptist has told these disciples of his: That’s the guy I was telling you about. They were John’s disciples then, not yet the disciples of Jesus. The Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. As if they knew what that meant. He ranks ahead of me, John tells them, because he came before me. Does that help? There’s more: the Spirit descended on him and lives—remain, abides, dwells; it’s that word again—in him. Is that enough? They’d like to know for certain before they commit.

How much about Jesus do we need to know? What does it mean, as we are taught, that he is both divine and human? What does it mean that he comes to save the world? That he is the Messiah, not king of Israel but ruler of this earthly kingdom of God? Where is Jesus at? Can anyone tell us in words, by clever persuasion, by forceful argument, by coercion, by scripture, by personal story, for certain who Jesus is? We wish to do due diligence before we join up, invest, and give up our hearts and wills to this man.

Where do you stand, ask John’s disciples and potential disciples of Jesus. And Jesus in response says this: Come and see.

This is a declaration of fact: If you want to know what’s going on with me, you must come and see. And also a test of purpose: if I call you, do you have the heart to follow? But most of all it is an invitation: join your life with mine. Let me lead you, guide you. Teach you. Spend some time listening to me.

Come and see. Seeing is the second theological thread in this passage. Words for sight and seeing appear more in the Gospel of John than in the whole rest of the New Testament combined. In today’s passage they appear ten times. There is no blind faith in the Gospel of John. Faith comes from sight. Behold—see—says John the Baptist. I saw the Spirit. What are you looking for? Jesus is revealed to—is seen by—Israel. Some of these words mean seen in an instant—recognized. Some mean seen over time—revealed.

For some, the important part is what is seen. Watch Jesus, see what he does in the world, whom he meets with, how he heals. But for others, the important part is who is doing the seeing. Come see not what Jesus does, but come see as Jesus sees. Come and see the injustice, see the hypocrisy, see the suffering, see the hunger. Come and see the love of God, the healing of God, the compassion of God for all people. See with the eyes of Jesus. We are called not only to watch Jesus, even as passionate believing spectators. We are called to see the world in a new way, the way Jesus sees it.

The disciples ask for Jesus’ position and what they get is an invitation to be transformed. Come and see is an invitation to live a different kind of life because we see the world differently. That is why “come and see” is a good answer to “where are you staying?” Jesus is not evading the question. He is answering in the most direct way possible: I live in a world that I see in a certain way, and you can too. The disciples follow Jesus, I’m convinced, not because they want to wander around with this man, but because they want to see the world that will be revealed to them in a new true way.

It is common to think of evangelism as an activity of explaining. If I only explain things to you in the right way, you’ll believe as I do. But evangelism is more like a calling card, an address card, an online profile. It is a statement about you. Here is where I live, here is how I see the world. It is not persuasion. It is not even an invitation. It is an announcement about yourself. It is Christian evangelism when part of the announcement includes Jesus. Not symbols and signs of Jesus everywhere on your body and in your life, but in the way you are. Rowan Williams, the archbishop of Canterbury, once said “you cannot know me unless you understand how I stand with Jesus.” Being Christian means that the way you see things is affected by Jesus. The evangelism part is that when people understand how you see things, they will then know something about Jesus.

Teresa of Avila, a sixteenth century mystic, once wrote that “Christ has no body now on earth but yours. … Yours are the hands with which he is to bless [people] now.” Meaning that we are to be Christ in the world. But we are not Christ. Christ abides in us, says John the Gospel writer, and we in him. This mutual abiding, Christ in us and we in Christ, is key to Luther’s view of forgiveness and the power of Holy Communion.

Where does Christ live? When we see as Christ does, then Christ lives in us. When we see as Christ does, then Christ lives in the world.

Numbered Blessings

Text: Numbers 6:22-27

Near the end of the story of the foundation of Israel, in the book of Deuteronomy, Moses speaks to the Israelites. They have escaped from slavery in Egypt and are about to enter the land promised to them by God. Moses has given them the gift of the law. He is about to die. He says to the Israelites: I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you may live.

The distinction between blessing and curse is as fundamental as the one between life and death. The two opposites seem to be part of the nature of the world rather than something we can choose. How can one choose to live? How can one choose to be blessed?

In the study of theology, the first question theorists ask is: What does it mean to be human? What is the essence of being a person? What is the nature of humanity? Are we by nature good or evil? Or to put in another way, are we mostly blessed or mostly cursed? Are we at heart good people who are blessed, but often mess up and occasionally are corrupted? Or are we at heart bad creatures and cursed, but by discipline and redemption able to do much good?

For each of us, this is not an academic question. The answer determines how we think of our own lives, what our relationship with God is, how we live day to day, how we think about order and justice, how we vote, how we treat the people we love, and those we fear. Do we pray: God, free me from the things that keep me from being the good person you made? Or do we pray: God, restrain me from doing the evil I am inclined to do? And which of these prayers do we say for others?

It is an old question. Answered ambiguously by religion. I would answer that we are blessed but flawed, and that Lutherans teach the same. But many Lutherans and other Christians over many centuries have argued the opposite. But all agree that we do pray to God that we may do good and have good lives.

Today’s first reading, which is from the book of Numbers (the fourth book of the Bible), should be familiar to you. It is the basis of the blessing that we say at the end of every Sunday worship. The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord’s face shine on you with grace and mercy, the Lord look upon you with favor and give you peace. These verses are called the Aaronic Blessing, because Moses’s brother Aaron was first charged with saying them. They are also called the Priestly Blessing, because the line of Aaron was the priestly line in Israel. Even now, in some faiths and in some Christian traditions (even among some Lutherans), only ordained clergy may recite them in worship. They are words given by God to Moses and then to Aaron and then to all others. Me, you. These words are very old; some think this blessing is one of the oldest passages in the Bible. The notion of God’s blessing is for many the beginning of faith.

The formal word for the blessing we say after worship is “benediction.” That means “good words,” so it is a little like the word Gospel, which means “good news.” A blessing is good news. Good for us. But not just good news in general. Good news that comes from God. And not just good words, really. For the blessings of God include all the gifts of God—life, food, love, beauty, courage, pleasures—good things that God gives. Things that come from God.

In the benediction the motion of the blessing is unclear. “The Lord bless you and keep you.” Is that a hope, a plea, a declaration? The blessing is always God’s doing, but when we say these words, what are we doing?

For one thing, we are asking for God’s favor. When we ask for a blessing for someone’s house, we are asking that God bring happiness and comfort and joy to the people who will live in it. When we ask for a blessing on a meal, we are asking that the food provide good nourishment and flavor. Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us to your service, we pray before we eat at Faith Kitchen. We are asking that God will move things so that our lives and endeavors work out well and good. Favor us means make it easier and better for us. The blessing pleads with God.

For another, we are holding God to God’s promises. God, our creator, has called all things good. God favored Sarah and Abraham, whose children became Israel. God has promised through Jesus to restore and repair the broken world. God has promised to be with us. When we ask for a blessing, we are not doing something new. We are reminding God of earlier and eternal promises. We are calling on God. The blessing holds God accountable.

For a third thing, we are reminding ourselves of what God has already done. The Lord has blessed us. Our lives have been blessed. We do find joy in living. We do take pleasure in things. We are prosperous. We have known love. Not all of us all the time, but all of us sometime. And we have known God’s grace and mercy. We have been given more than we have earned. We have been let off the hook. The blessing thanks God.

And finally, and mysteriously, we are hearing God’s words. These words in Numbers are spoken by God through Moses and priests to us. This Priestly Blessing is a pronouncement. “Say this,” God tells Moses. Say this to the people. “The Lord bless you and keep you,” the blessing begins. By doing this, God tells Moses, “I will bless them.” God has put power into the words of this blessing. God has agreed to bind God’s self when these words are spoken. The blessing, therefore, at the end of worship is more than prayer, reminder, and thanksgiving. The words, God’s words in Numbers, bring blessings to those who hear them. We are commanded to say them. God is obligated to obey them.

In some way, these words of blessing reunite us with God. In the way that we are reunited with a friend we haven’t seen for a long time, a spouse greeting his or her returning soldier, a child coming home from away at school. “The Lord make his face to shine upon you,” it says in Numbers. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you,” it says. Unlike the way we say this in worship, the verses here make clear that God is doing something active. God is turning to us. We look for God from afar, as we might look for a friend, spouse, child in a crowd. They turn, we recognize them, they recognize us. We are happy. We are joined. God turns God’s face to us, we recognize God, recognizing us. We are blessed.

The book of Numbers is a story of a people in the midst of making a decision. The Israelites are in the desert. They have wandered about confused, uncertain, and deprived for a long time. It has not been easy. It will not be easy. What is this moment for them? Is it the final straw that turns them in retreat? Or is it the dark before the dawn, the labor pains, as Paul says, before the birth? Has God abandoned them, as some complain, or has God been with them all along?

They are presented with two ways of seeing things. One generation wishes to remain focused on the past. They see sorrow and death. The other looks to a new future. They see hope and life. The people have a choice. Go back to slavery, go forward to freedom. Go back to what is known, go forward to new possibility.

Moses does ask the people of Israel to do something. To listen to the law, to obey it, to follow Moses. But he is also asking them to see things differently. Tell them, God says, to see the world in a blessing way.

These words in Numbers are themselves are a blessing. In these words of blessing, God has given us the power to be blessed. In these words, God has taken a stand. You are blessed. Choose life.

Carry You!

Text: Isaiah 63:7-9, Matthew 2:13-23

The scholars who through their books guide poor parish preachers advise us to put aside sentimentality this Sunday. Christmas joy is so yesterday. “Hollow theology,” one said. They berate us because, while the Christmas story is nice and heartwarming, the real world is out there, and we are in it. One scholar says, “‘Be of good cheer’ masks the reality that much of the time life is anything but cheery.” In their argument, they cite the readings for today. They remind us to put things in context.

They remind us about Isaiah. These three verses are full of exuberance. It recounts the fine deeds of God, and sings God’s praises. But the verses have been quoted out of context, they say. “Airlifted,” one says, “out of a chapter thick with divine wrath and human despair.” In Isaiah, chapter 63, from which these verses were picked, we hear about God who is angry, tired, and disillusioned, and a world that fits that mood. We should, we are advised, not be tempted to focus on verses 7, 8, and 9. Lest, I supposed, we are tricked into finding pleasure in God, the world, and God’s works.

They remind us about Herod, the evil king in Matthew’s story of young Jesus and his family. “Nothing sentimental about Matthew’s ‘Christmas story’”—the writer puts that in quotes to reinforce his point. It is set in times—its context—set in times of turbulence and terror. Herod was certainly and truly a bad person. He killed his rivals. He built fortresses all around Israel because he was afraid of being deposed. He murdered his wife and one of his sons. As he was dying, he ordered the execution of all political prisoners so that all the people would mourn. There is no historical record of the slaughter of the innocents that Matthew writes about, but it would have been in character for him. He could and would have done it. The times were wicked.

We give thanks for these scholars. But really, we don’t need any reminders about how the world is. We have our own context. It is more or less the same as the world has always been. We are not ignorant of times of terror and turbulence. We are not strangers to human despair and surprising sorrow, or to unfairness and stupidity and evils. We know too much of cruelty already. We don’t need to be reminded that the peace of the child in the manger, shepherds all around, is not normal. It is extraordinary.

That is the point.

The verses from Isaiah and the “Christmas story” are signs that in the midst of trouble and sorrow, God is still good. Though Herod is as horrible as bad kings can be, the idea of the story in Matthew is that some escape. Though the Israelites may have had a rough go of it in the previous few centuries, they praise God for what God has already done: freed them from slavery, returned them from exile. “I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord, the praiseworthy acts of the Lord, because of all that the Lord has done for us,” Isaiah sings. Israel reminds itself of the God who was there, who adopted and cared for them, raised them and taught them. The God who is their God. “These are my people,” God says. “These are my children.” In their distress, it says, God, too was distressed.

My niece, when she was a toddler, used to raise her arms to her parents and say “carry you!” Do you want me to carry you? they had asked her so many times. When she was tired. Or when she was frightened. Or when she was surrounded by lots of big adults in crowds. When the forces of her world bore down on her or her own resources were weakened. So it is with us, God’s children. “In his love and in his mercy God lifted them up and carried them,” Isaiah says. Carry you.

It is misleading to call the “Christmas story” sentimental. The context for Matthew is not the evils of the world—though he would agree that are certainly in the world—the context for Matthew is the prophetic history of God’s goodness and hope for the world. The point is not that Herod was a cruel genocidal king. Everyone knew that. The point is the God intervened to save one. Matthew puts the story in context, in the context of God’s work, God’s history, God’s promise, God’s reign. And especially God’s challenge to the other forces of the world which otherwise seem so unstoppable.

We can respond to things of the world with weeping and complaining and being discouraged. And there are plenty of times for that. But not today. Today we remember and respond with praise for all things God has given us. We sing with all the world, following the words of the psalm. Praise God. The sun and moon and stars, the heavens and the seas praise God. The monsters, fog, fire, hail, and wind praise God. The mountains, the trees, the beasts, the birds praise God. The kings and rulers, men and maids. Let us all praise God, for he has raised up strength for his people. Carry you!

If that is sentimental, if that is hollow theology, well then: hooray for that. Praise God and be thankful.

Wandering Brings Us Home

Text: Matthew 1:1-25

We humans are built for wandering. It is no wonder that Moses wandered around in the desert for 40 years. I imagine that when Adam and Eve were ejected out of the garden of Eden, they said “wow! look at all that open space; we can go wandering about in it.” The good news about wandering is that you cover a lot of territory pretty thoroughly. It is good for finding new things and having new experiences. The bad news is that life of wandering can seem a little aimless. The question is, are we getting anywhere?

This is the question of Advent. The season seems at first to be a transition between the past and the future. It is a time of equal parts reflection and anticipation. Where do we come from? Where are we going? We review the past, with its regrets and sorrows, and also its accomplishments and pleasures. And we are pulled forward, hoping for guidance and fulfillment, delight and contentment. In our theological life, Advent lies between Pentecost and Christmas, between the daily and the divine.

Yet in that way, more than in any other season of the church, Advent is a season of the immediate present. It sits looking equally at the past and at the beyond, which is where most of the time most of us sit. Our brains tell us constantly of the stories we have just lived and just as constantly writing new ones, in which we are the hero, or the villain.

That’s where the passage from Matthew sits, too, as long as you remember that the Gospel begins with the “begats.” That’s the word that the old King James version used to tie together the generations: “Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob, …” and so forth. “Begat” is the old word. Our pew Bibles say “Abraham was the father of Issac” and a modern popular Bible says “Abraham had Issac.” But the word in the Bible means more like “Is the origin of” or “Is the bringing forth of.” It is the same root as the words generation, genealogy, and—more significantly—the word genesis, the book of creation.

These men and women that Matthew lists are not just like beads on a string. Each gives rise to the next. The whole process is organic, to say the least. For Matthew, this long rope of generations is a path of constant unfolding and revelation. They are connected by their divine origin. Abraham is miraculously the father of all Israel. And connected by their divine purpose. Jesus is miraculously the point of all this childbearing.

Matthew looks backward, and what he sees is an inevitability. A direct and designed path from the past to now. Abraham to Joseph and then Jesus. Yet even Matthew must have noticed that his list is not just Hebrew father to son, father to son, like a Jacob’s ladder, step by step. There are some side steps through gentile women, and some pieces are missing and names that don’t appear elsewhere in the Bible. But Matthew saw it a perfect. And so did Martin Luther, our denominational namesake. They both see the present giving meaning to the events of the past and linking them together in purpose.

This is, we can no doubt safely say, not how it appeared to those who lived these lives each so concisely encapsulated into a single “begat.” It is difficult to judge the present by its future outcome, almost impossible in even our own lives and never spanning forty-two generations and nine hundred years. There is no way that the meaning that Matthew and Luther gave to these men and women was visible to them.

They, like us, looked back a little and forward a little less. If anything, I suspect they looked back to their immediate forbears with admiration, anger, and grief, just as we do. They looked forward with uncertainly, just as we do.

The mountains of Colorado descend abruptly to the plains of the midwest. The foothills aren’t much to talk about. The mountains are tall, and in a minute they are nothing at all. You travel in the mountains in narrow valleys and over passes. There are just not that many places to go. You are hemmed in by circumstance. But when you come down from the mountain, you are spit out onto vast possibility. You can go anywhere. It can be scary.

More of our lives is lived, it seems to me, on the plains than in the mountains. The plains are made for wandering, and that’s what mostly we do. Not necessarily vaguely or lost, like the wandering Israelites, but without a clear destination. Gradually our purpose—our destination—becomes clearer. But that is only because the time of our lives ahead of us is less and the possible routes become more limited. Until we find ourselves where we find ourselves. How did I get here? I can trace back the path. But how the heck did I get here? How did Pastor Seitz get to Boston, he asked in his sermon a couple of weeks ago. He never thought he’d live here. I once declared that I’d settle anywhere but in Massachusetts. I’ve been here forty years now. So much for declaiming. People’s stories are strange.

There are three histories in the Bible. One is the personal history of each character. People’s stories. Each of those people in Matthew’s genealogy. And by extension, our stories, each of us. Stories that get revealed by our living them. Pointing nowhere, though going somewhere. And the second is the history of creation, starting with Genesis, ending in our Bible with Revelation and in our theology with the end of time. And the third is what people call salvation history. The story of God’s involvement with people, starting with the covenant with Abraham and extending to Jesus and beyond. This is the history that Matthew presents. The story of Mary and Joseph and the coming child is part of all three histories.

For Christians, in fact, the histories are combined in Jesus. The meaning of the three histories are merged. We say that the meaning of the life of Jesus comes out of creation and salvation history, and the point of those histories in turn comes from Jesus. So Paul can write that we are in God and God is in us. And that by living in Jesus we are transformed. And that the death of Jesus changes ours.

We see in short times. We see back more clearly than forward. But God sees differently. God sees the whole of which we see only a part. The sense that Matthew makes of the chain of ancestors, God makes with all of us. It is not that God knows the unknowable, not that God knows the future—I can’t speak to that—but that God sees the whole story as a story producing life and holiness. The whole story, past and future, is to God, I think, ever blooming, blossoming, ever generating life. Whether or not we see how it could be, we are a part of that.

We can see that way—God’s way—too. The God in us, the God in whose image we are said to be made, lets us see that way, too. In days such as Advent, in the rites and meditations and reflections and songs, in the contemplation of the past and in the hopes for Jesus, we are taught how to see that way and we are reminded that we can see that way.

Our paths combine with and become part of the story of God in the world. We are not alone. Immanuel, God with us. We are able to see a little as God must see. To see the intensity of life even in the face of death, to see the combination of the secular and the divine, to know the presence of God among us.

We wander, but not aimlessly, even if our aim is unclear to us. We are in God’s story. God is in ours.

Grace to you and peace from God our father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Waiting

This sermon was preached by Craig Simenson

Isaiah 35:1-10 and Matthew 11:2-11

Puddles this morning, but no snow and ice yet. Still, things are changing underneath our feet these days. Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight! This is more or less John the prophet’s refrain. We heard the words last Sunday: One who is more powerful than I is coming after me. The one who will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.

And, it’s true… looking around recently, in only the past couple weeks, some things in our everyday worlds already seem to be changing. Maybe not with the intensity of John’s fire, but there are little colored lights already strung, “burning,” in the windows and along fence lines. Right in front of us and by our side – and maybe within us, too – there are preparations being made for what is to come in the weeks ahead.

But… we are not quite there yet.

Interestingly, this is exactly where the church calendar begins. Not with a ball dropping or champagne bubbling and a toast, not with noisemakers or the party hats with those little elastic strings, not with a shower of confetti or a college football extravaganza. But with Advent, a season marked more by waiting than by celebration of a new year. A season where the party is not quite here yet. Where instead we’re left to prepare ourselves for what is still to come.

Quite naturally it seems, our rituals this time of year most often revolve around our sense of expectation. Where we’re left waiting for the next candle to be lit on the Advent wreath: Hope, Peace, Joy… Waiting for the next line of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” or maybe “Come now. Come, O Lord Jesus,” whatever the case might be. Waiting for the next little door to be opened on the Advent calendar (hopefully, to some really good chocolate). Left waiting for the day that is close enough but still far away.

And yet, this church season of waiting—this season of what is still to come is, in many ways, a different kind of experience than much of what is collecting around us in our everyday worlds now. Like those songs already playing in the supermarket that we can’t help but sing along to (even if only in our heads, even if we don’t want to). Personally, I so very much look forward to “rockin’ around the Christmas tree.” I just don’t think I’m quite ready yet.

Yes, it’s true… our world, like us, has a hard time waiting. Maybe, it’s because, at its heart, waiting is a somewhat risky practice. After all, we may well be waiting for something that will not come. And if one waits long enough, we might even start questioning what it is we were getting ready for in the first place.

So the disciples of John the prophet, John the baptizer, come to ask Jesus their question:

Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?

Jesus turns their question around though. With the answers that apparently barely need to be spoken, with answers that they apparently already know: Go and tell [about]… what you hear and see.

Jesus turns our questions around, and keeps turning them—so that we might see ourselves more clearly: Who are you waiting for anyway? And what did you go out into the wilderness to look at?

Are you the one who is to come?, they ask him. As if the one they are speaking to, this Jesus, is not already there in front of them.

Perhaps it barely needs to be said by me. More than likely, you already know – that in all of our preparations of this season – in the planning and plane tickets, in the searching and shopping for those perfect gifts – we’re likely to be carried away into the season that isn’t quite here yet. And, in this, it seems that we are in real danger of losing sight of the wonders of this waiting season. In this, it seems we risk forgetting not only what set us out into this wilderness to begin with, but also the holy highway unfurling out before us in everything we hear and see and touch in these waiting moments. We risk losing the chance to truly hold our expectations, aspirations and intentions up for examination:

Who are we waiting for anyway? Year after year, who are we looking for out in this Advent wilderness? And will we know it when it is standing right here in front of us already?

To recognize the way, we not only need to look to where it leads, but also pay attention to the steps as we walk them. And we need to remain present to the ones who are walking beside us—in a wilderness changing underneath our feet.

The one who is still yet to come may very well already be right here in front of us. Waiting with us for the light and new birth to come. Traveling this same highway. Wide open to hear and see and touch all that is already present on this still-darkening road. Waiting in wonder for the illumination of fire and Spirit that is still yet to come.

Letter to Faith

This sermon was preached by Pastor Seitz

Text: Matthew 3:1–12

Dear Congregation of Faith Lutheran Church,

It is under uncomfortable circumstances that I bring this message to you today. The discomfort stems from the fact that this is my last message to you as your Assistant Pastor.

And although it is sad—it is also reason to rejoice. Because although discomfort is unpleasant, it is also a blessing.

I came here under uncomfortable circumstances. I sent here—driven here by the Holy Spirit—really. The proof that I was called to come is in the fact that while I was in college I took a year off to build houses. I decided if I was going to learn a trade in order to earn some money, Carpenter seemed a good way to go. I saved all the money I could for 9 months and I took my earnings and traveled across the country. I had lived in Washington State my whole life and I wanted to drive across the country to explore the West Coast. Being from the Pacific Northwest I decided to head for New England.

In retrospect I think my experience was due, in part, to the liberated attitude I possessed by the time I reached the East Coast. The kind of attitude that comes from taking a risk in order to go exploring and finding that mile after mile and state after state you are more capable than you had previously known.

To make a long story short—Amherst Massachusetts and I did not get along. Upon returning safely to Washington State a few months older and countless experiences wiser, I swore an oath that I would never live on the East Coast. I had a few rowing buddies who lived in Boston and whenever we talked and they shared how great Boston was, I was happy to remind them that although Boston is cool—I will never live on the East Coast. Never.

Had I not broken that oath and lived with the complete and utter discomfort of living someplace I swore an oath I would never live, without a Call in any church lined-up before I moved out here, without knowing whether it would work out or not—had I not through that—I would not know how to rely on Jesus and trust in God the way that I do now.

I would not have the countless blessings of an amazing wife and partner or a beautiful son who has been cared for and nurtured by this community so that church is one of his favorite places to be.

I would not know what it means to put all my trust in God and to know that God is even more present to us when we are uncomfortable. Had I not followed the Spirit into someplace uncomfortable.

In the story of John, when John is baptizing everyone—from Jerusalem to all of Judea and all along the river Jordan—when John is baptizing the masses, it says in today’s Gospel, they were confessing their sins.

It is culturally so radically different from today that it’s virtually impossible to appreciate how different it was in John’s time from today—but just consider life in John’s region as a Jew. A culture and a region where both daily life and religious life were directed by the Law of the Covenant.

John father was a Priest. The Gospel of Luke tells us the story of Zachariah and Elizabeth as one of tremendous faith and obedience to God when God calls us to do things that make us uncomfortable. John was raised in a family that holds the Law of the Covenant up as the highest Law and obedience to the Law as the most effective means of having a relationship with God. The Law would have been the very building blocks of language for John.

The entire Jewish community was focused on the Law of the Covenant and on obedience to the Law. The Law directed not only religious observances but the government and the pulse of daily life. The Law was so strict that just touching an unclean person on the same day you were going to Synogogue made you unfit for the Synagogue. How much more so to commit a sin.

The reality of constant pressure and constant scrutiny is a daily reality in John’s world. The reality of knowing that any sin confessed would require an act of penance, a sacrifice, an offering in order to receive YAHWEH’s pardon.

The act of confessing one’s sins to another person is challenging under the best of circumstances, but in John’s time the act of confessing one’s sins in front of a wild man and one’s entire community would have been painful to point of excruciating. It would have been unheard of, radical, and extremely uncomfortable.

But without the discomfort of going against everything they had been taught and everything that their instincts tell them—without the risk of confessing their sins aloud before God and man and being washed by a wild man in a baptism of repentance—they would not have been transformed by baptism. They would not have known acceptance by God as clean and blameless before the Lord, they would not have known God’s mercy as God’s love.

The Gospel of John the Baptizer is the original Gospel. “Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” This is the same message Jesus started his ministry with, his first words when he began preaching—word for word. Jesus preached it and it came from John. The Holy Spirit to me more specific.

Challenge and Acceptance. Repentance means turn away from whatever distracts you from God and turn towards God. Change your life in a way that requires you to rely on God and in turn experience the presence of God. Repent, take a step away from your comfort and be uncomfortable, and receive the blessing of God’s comfort.

Repent, be Uncomfortable, and receive the blessing of God’s support.

The reason the masses came to John is that he preached a Gospel of acceptance. A message of forgiveness. He preached the Spirit of Welcoming.

If someone was in this church 5 years ago and they came back today, they might not recognize too many faces, and they would not recognize the area under the balcony, but I l know they would recognize this congregation.

Because even though many things have changed—the Spirit of Welcoming here at Faith Lutheran Church is the same.

People underestimate the power of being a welcoming church, but have you ever visited a congregation that failed to be welcoming?

And hospitality is one of the most important aspects of Christianity, it is one of the central precepts taught throughout scripture and the throughout the church, and it is a focal point of Jesus throughout his teachings and his direction to his followers.

The reason for this being that hospitality is not always comfortable. Which is good because, in truth, being uncomfortable is necessary for growth.

So even though it is under uncomfortable circumstances that I share this message with you today, the circumstances are also a blessing.

Pursuing a full time call at MIT is a move in response to the Holy Spirit. I am following where the Lord is Calling me. It is uncertain how long it will take to raise the money to sustain a full time call but I am moving forward with the knowledge and the reassurance that the Lord will be with me and once again show me His comfort, His presence, and His blessing.

And although there are uncertainties in life and in our journey with Christ, I am certain of one thing. I know that I could come back in another 5 years and even though I may not recognize many faces, but I would still recognize this congregation. Anyone could recognize it once they have experienced it, the Spirit of Welcoming.

Regardless of where we are we share the connection in His blessing.

And although there are uncertainties in life and in our journey with Christ, I am certain of one thing. I know that I could come back in another 5 years and even though I may not recognize many faces, but I would still recognize this congregation. Anyone could recognize it once they have experienced it, the Spirit of Welcoming.

Regardless of where we are we share the connection in the Body of Christ, through the Holy Spirit, the same spirit that taught the original Gospel to John, then to Jesus, and to us.

We will all grow as a result of this discomfort. I will grow and so will this congregation. Not because of the discomfort itself; but rather, because this is the kind of risk that invites us and calls us to rely upon God—calls us to trust in God for the unknown future.

Repent the Kingdom of God is at hand. Take risks that make you rely on God and know God’s blessing.

When we cease being able to risk we cease being able to grow.

If my first 5 years here in Cambridge are any kind of indicator, I can’t wait to see what the next 5 years will bring.

My Peace I brought to this congregation when I arrived here and first experienced its Spirit of Welcoming, as uncomfortable and uncertain I may have been. My Peace I leave with you—this congregation of Faith Lutheran Church. Serving you has been a blessing.

Father forgive us, Spirit Guide us, In the name of Jesus, Amen