The Powers of This World--Redo

Usually, I wait until I'm finished writing a post to try to think of a title. Yesterday I was reminded why. I started out with a title for my post--"The Powers of This World"--because I wanted to contrast the Holy Family's flight into Egypt with Herod's expression of tyrannical violence. I ended up writing something about theodicy--why a God good allows/causes bad things to happen--which didn't really reflect the title. But I posted it anyway, knowing that today I would try again. So here goes.

Herod and Jesus. A despotic, illegitimate, Roman-sympathizing king and a gentle, authentic, God's-kingdom-bringing messiah. One rules from a palace while the other flees to Egypt. One displays immense earthly power, but the other seems largely powerless. One tries to solve his problem by killing all male children under the age of two, and the other runs and hides and waits until danger is past.

The question of true power is related to my post yesterday. Think about all of the ways this could have gone down. The sign of the birth of God's true king has been seen in the stars by some sages from the east, and, when Herod hears of it, he does whatever he can to undermine this event. But he's working against the powers of the universe. How can he stop a plan that has been revealed in the heavens? He tries to get the wise men to divulge to him the location of the baby, but they avoid Herod and his plot. So Herod does what he can and murders countless babies. Of course, God's power cannot be undone--even by this tremendous and terrible display. But how else might it have happened?

This battle between the forces of evil and the forces of God could have played out in a way worthy of a movie screen--one warrior dueling the other on the battlefield. It could have involved a long-running plot of near-misses and coincidental encounters. Jesus could have grown up, spending years training for the day when he would attack the heir of the evil king. Or Joseph could have put on armor and stood at the gate of the palace and called out the evil ruler. Or any number of other things could have happened, but they didn't. Instead, Jesus and his family tucked tail and ran.

God told them to run away, to flee, to hide. There was no confrontation. Instead, patience and confidence that God's rule would win out was all that carried them. Jesus and his parents aren't really the hero we expect. In fact, at the end of the story, Herod's heir isn't challenged. The rule of the despot's successor remains intact. Even more troubling, the hero dies in the end--and not a heroic death but a terrible and shameful crucifixion. Imagine going to a movie and watching a beloved character wait 30 years to avenge the death of thousands of his contemporaries only to fail in the end. Well, that's pretty much what happens...except for the whole Easter thing. Even still, it doesn't make for a very good movie. The only kind of audience this story can entertain are those who can accept the quiet, gentle, subtle power that comes with God's kingdom. It's not a blockbuster, but it's good news.

The Powers of This World

This Sunday, according to the Episcopal Church lectionary, preachers have a choice of three gospel readings: the Holy Family's flight to Egypt (Matt. 2), the leaving behind of Jesus in the Jerusalem temple (Luke 2), or the visitation of the wise men (Matt. 2). As far as I can tell, that same choice does not exist in the RCL, where preachers are directed to John 1 for the second part of the prologue. I guess the Episcopal Church preserves the old option because we want to be sure and tell the few childhood/adolescent stories of Jesus before we jump straight into the season after the Epiphany. To be honest, after the last General Convention, I'm not 100% sure which readings are authorized and which ones are not, but this Sunday I'm choosing the story of the Holy Family's flight to Egypt for several reasons.

First, I like how transparent Matthew seems to be when telling the story in terms of the fulfillment of prophecy. It was important to Matthew's tradition that these OT messianic expectations be accomplished. That's why he goes out of his way to say, "This was to fulfill what was spoken..." not once but twice! This invites the preacher to help the congregation see that sometimes the story follows the prophecy rather than the other way around. Did the family go to Egypt? It says so in the bible, but that seems a little strange. None of the other gospel writers mention this fact. I can't remember for sure, but I think I remember reading that there is no historical evidence of the massacre of male children under the rule of Herod, which was the reason for the family's flight to Egypt. This childhood story of Jesus is a great and safe way for a congregation to explore what it means for the tradition to incorporate non-historical events in order to paint a bigger, clearer picture in light of other revelations. In other words, the whole story of Jesus (specifically his death and resurrection), confirms his messianic identity in a way that makes stories like the Holy Family's flight to Egypt true. I think it's easier to hear that sermon when it's based on something like this rather than the walking on water or the feeding of the 5,000.

But that's not what I'm preaching about. Tempted though I am to break into historical-critical exegesis, I find another aspect of this passage even more enticing--the relationship between the powers of this world and the power of God's kingdom. Herod, enraged at having been tricked by the Wise Men, who failed to return and report the new king's location, orders the massacre of every male child two-years-old or younger. The lectionary option focuses on Joseph and his angel-filled dreams. First, he is warned to flee to Egypt to avoid this massacre. Then, he is instructed to return before being warned again to settle in a different part of Palestine because of Herod's son, the new ruler. That's interesting enough for a good sermon. I could preach on God speaking to Joseph and Joseph's obedience to God's call. But the theological nugget I'm interested in tackling this week is the whole question of God's plan in the face of genocide.

I'm choosing to expand the reading to include vv. 16-18:

"Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah: 'A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.'" (Matthew 2:16-18 ESV)

I want to hear what happened while Joseph and Mary and Jesus were away. I want to confront the "slaughter of the holy innocents," which we commemorate every year on 12/28. I want to be forced to deal with the fact that Jesus and Joseph and Mary escaped this terrible fate, which the Nativity itself inspired, while every other male child in that region was killed. I want to hear the painful wailing of every mother and father whose children weren't spared because their family wasn't warned in a dream to flee to another region. I want to bump up against the fact that God didn't save them and that that's ok to put in the bible. I want to know why tragedy happens and why some people can compartmentalize it as "part of God's plan" while the rest of us are left reeling, soul-searching, doubting, and grappling for faith.

Yeah, it's going to be one of those weeks. It's going to be one of those sermons. It's going to be a lot of question-asking without many answers. If you've got them, please share them because I've been looking for a long time and expect to be searching for them for the rest of my life.

Christmas Sermon: We Are God's Go-To People

December 24, 2014 – Christmas I

Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-15-20

© 2014 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

When something big happens in your life, who is the first person you call to share that news with? When you land a big account or get an exciting promotion, when the publisher accepts your manuscript or the pregnancy test shows two pink lines instead of one, who is the first person you call? What about when something doesn’t go well—when you have a run-in with your boss or get bad news from your doctor, when you wreck your car or drop your cell phone into the toilet—who is the first person you call …or, well, not call since your phone is broken? In premarital counseling, I call that person your “go-to person,” and I explain to couples that your go-to person says a lot about you and about the important relationships in your life.

For most people, the process of falling in love and getting engaged and being married involves letting go of one go-to person in favor of another—typically one’s future spouse. And, in most relationships, that process is gradual and natural. As I get closer and closer to the one I love, the distance between me and whoever else I had relied on as the first person to whom I would turn when something substantial occurs begins to stretch and lengthen. Pretty soon, without even realizing it, when I have good news to share, I’m not calling my mom or dad or my sister or brother or my best friend anymore. I’m picking up the phone and calling my beloved. That is the person with whom I want to share the initial experience and celebration. She is the one to whom my heart belongs. Her joy is my joy. My tears are her tears. We walk through life together.

Of course, sometimes it doesn’t work like that. Sometimes the person we are letting go of isn’t happy about being replaced, and I tell couples that if that particular someone starts acting out in unhealthy ways—perhaps inviting herself to go on your honeymoon or redecorating your house without asking—you may need some professional help navigating that transition. There’s a Seinfeld episode about that very thing, one in which Jerry’s new girlfriend and her stepmother are fighting over who should be #1 on their respective speed dials, but that’s a struggle that shows up in real life, too, because, whether you’re the one sharing the news or you’re the one receiving the phone call, it feels good to be loved like that. It feels good to be someone else’s go-to person.

Tonight, we are here to celebrate God doing something really big in the history of the world. Tonight, we remember how God became flesh, how God sent his Son into the world, how, in the birth of Jesus, God offered salvation to us all. This is the birth of the King of Kings. This is the arrival of the Prince of Peace. This is the Savior, the Messiah, the Lord. And do you know with whom God chose to share that good news? A bunch of lowly shepherds, who were in a nearby field, keeping watch over their flock.

Think about that for a moment: God is bringing about the greatest moment in the history of the universe, and he chooses to tell some guys whose job it was to make sure that the sheep didn’t wander off too far. God didn’t inform the emperor or the governor or even the local magistrate. God didn’t send his angels to alert the priests or the Pharisees or the scribes. God didn’t share the good news with prophets or sages. In worldly terms, he didn’t tell anyone who counted for anything. Instead, the first people God told about the savior’s birth were some young, shabby, probably illiterate, certainly flea-ridden shepherds.

What sort of go-to group of people is that? By any reasonable standard, this was a backwards communication strategy. Why would God “waste” the good news of the most important moment in human history on a bunch of shepherds who had no status in their community and to whom no one would listen anyway? Why are they God’s go-to people? Why did God share this news with them? Because how else would God show the world that Christmas is about salvation coming to ordinary people like you and me?

In the birth of Jesus Christ, everything is backwards. God the infinite and almighty comes as a tiny, helpless infant. All that is holy and perfect is united to everything plain and broken. The king of all creation is born not in a palace but in a barn, where he is laid in a manger. And all of that upside-down strangeness represents the true transformation of Christmas. On this holy night, we celebrate how God has taken upon himself all that is ordinary and plain and simple and human in order to make it shine with the beautiful light of God’s glory. The gift that came down at Christmas means salvation not for the exceptional or for the deserving or for the rich or for the holy or for the powerful but for regular, normal, ordinary folk like us.

“In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.’”

God entrusts the good news of this upside-down, earth-shattering event not to princely heralds but to poor shepherd boys. And why? Because they are ordinary people like you and me. They are God’s go-to people because we are God’s go-to people. We are God’s beloved. We are the ones with whom God yearns to share this good news. We are the ones to whom God’s heart belongs. In the birth of Jesus, we discover that God’s joy is our joy—that our tears are his tears. We are alone no more. God is with us. God is with all of us. And that good news is meant specifically for you. Amen.

Two Questions

This post originally appeared as the cover article in this week's newsletter from St. John's, Decatur. To read the rest of the newsletter, click here.

For the past few weeks, I have heard two questions over and over: “Are your children excited about Christmas?” and “Are you ready for Christmas yet?” People ask them all the time—on the way out of church, in the aisle at the grocery store, before we hang up the phone, or as we say goodbye during a hospital visit. It seems that everyone wants to know whether my kids are overcome with Christmas excitement and whether I have done everything I need to do to get ready.

These two questions say a lot about the culture in which we live, and my reaction to them says even more about me. The first brings a smile to my face as I pause even for a moment to consider the joy that is growing exponentially each day in my children’s hearts. The second brings a thin layer of perspiration to my forehead as it reminds me of a growing weight that lives in my stomach this time of year. My children are more than ready. Each night, they ask me how many days are left until Christmas, and then they ask me to recalculate the total without including today or Christmas Day so that the countdown feels shorter. I, on the other hand, need every second of every day between now and Christmas Eve to get ready. I have presents to buy, a house to help decorate, parties to attend, a sermon to write, people to visit, and services to plan. I am not alone in feeling the pressure of this season. Most grownups I know are busy right now.

When was it that getting ready for Christmas became more of a challenge than a joy? How old was I when I grew up and exchanged unbridled enthusiasm for burdened responsibility? Was it the first year I was old enough to gather my allowance and walk into town to buy my mother a Christmas present all on my own? Did it happen when I started dating and had to figure out how to navigate the holidays within a relationship? Did it come with marriage or ordination or the birth of our first child? The answer, of course, is not found in one particular moment or in one particular Christmas. Instead, over time I have allowed the busyness of the holiday rush to squeeze the joy out of this magical season.

One day throngs of people were coming to Jesus and bringing little children to him so that he might touch them, but the disciples rebuked them for burdening their master with these pint-sized distractions. When Jesus saw what they were doing, he was filled with anger, and said to them, “Let the children come to me; do not get in their way. The kingdom of God belongs to little ones like these. In fact, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as if he or she were a little child can never enter it” (Mark 10:13-15).

What will it take to leave our burdens behind and embrace this season as if we were little children? What can we do to recapture the fairy-tale Christmases of our youth? What can set us free from the challenges of getting ready for Christmas and instead tune our hearts to the uncontainable joy that bursts from every child’s heart? Whatever it is, we must search for it and find it. Much is at stake—far more than a few days of fun. Our ability to greet our savior’s birth with childlike wonder is the difference between beholding the kingdom of God and missing it altogether.

St. Thomas Comes to Bethlehem

St. Thomas’ feast day was yesterday, but, since it fell on a Sunday, it gets transferred to today. At first, I wondered whether I should pause long enough in my pre-Christmas-sermon-writing routine to reflect on the over-familiar story of Thomas and his moment of doubt, but, as I prepare to make the trip to Bethlehem and hear the story of Mary and Joseph and the no-room inn and the angels and the shepherds, I realize that today is the perfect day to remember Thomas.

Thomas’ story (John 20:24-29) is read every year on the second Sunday of Easter, which means that while our ears are still burning with the news of the empty tomb, we stop to consider just how unlikely the story is. Thomas embodies our own doubts. He plays the role of the post-enlightenment skeptic. He reveals that such doubt and disbelief isn’t just a modern reaction to a supernatural text. His doubts were first-century doubts, and they are reasonable in any generation.

In John’s gospel account, Thomas’ doubts are overcome by Jesus’ invitation to put his finger in the marks of the nails and his hand in Jesus’ gaping side. We notice, however, that Thomas stops short of taking that step. Instead, the mere invitation to encounter the physicality of the resurrection is enough to overcome his doubts: “My Lord and my God!” In other words, John brings his reader to the moment of potential touch but asserts that the confidence that comes from the testimony of those who were in that room is enough to bring us to faith: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

And so we find ourselves hearing again the unbelievable story of the Virgin’s birth. We wonder again whether it was possible for the power of the Holy Spirit to come upon Mary so that the child she would bear could be holy. Is it possible that God himself could take on human nature in the Incarnation? Could it be that God’s own son was brought into the world in such a lowly birth? We cannot go and see the manger ourselves. Instead, we must hear the testimony of others and discover whether faith can take hold in our hearts.

This time, Jesus doesn’t ask us to place our finger or hand in the marks of the nails or in his side. This time, we aren’t invited to hold the infant Jesus or hear him coo. Instead, we must ask ourselves whether it is possible for God to be with us in our moments of need. Do we feel that God has taken upon himself our very brokenness? Can we feel that we are not alone in our times of suffering? Yes, our doubts are real and reasonable. But the overwhelming witness of two-thousand years confirms that God is not only above us but among us and with us and even within us.

Thomas teaches us that God is more powerful than our doubts. That is as true at Christmas as it is at Easter. Even if we doubt that God is with us in our moments of deepest need, God is able to break through and come beside us. Hear the invitation not to come to the manger and see the baby Jesus with your own eyes. Instead, hear the story from long ago as an invitation to search for God’s real presence in your own life. How does the truth of the Incarnation overcome even your most persistent doubts?

David's Sunday

By the time we get to the fourth Sunday in Advent, it’s finally time to talk about Mary. The gospel lesson is the Annunciation, and the canticle is the Magnificat. On the surface, everything seems to be focused on Mary’s story, but, if you dig a little deeper, you discover there’s another important figure being celebrated this week.

Maybe we should call this David’s Sunday. King David is the focus of the Old Testament lesson (2 Sam. 7:1-11, 16). If we were to read the psalm instead of the canticle, we would hear echoes of the first lesson throughout. And, if you take another look at the Annunciation story, you can see that David and the promises made to him are central to the angel’s prophetic announcement to Mary. This late in Advent, it’s easy to jump ahead to the birth story and focus on Mary’s role (important, yes), but I don’t think we’re supposed to leave behind the Advent theme of promise and expectation quite yet, so I encourage you to take another look at David.

In the OT reading, David announces to Nathan that he will build a house for God and the Ark. Nathan agrees that it is a good idea, and he invites the king to proceed. That night, however, God appears to Nathan in a dream and tells him otherwise. Instead of David building a house for God, God will establish an everlasting house for David. There’s a great double-meaning of “house” here, so, when you hear it, think “House of Tudor” or “House of Stewart”—the kinds of lineages and families that were once described as a “house.” In other words, God is promising David a lineage, and, through it, God is promising his people the safety and security of a good king. For some reason I do not understand, the lectionary skips over the verses that talk about the offspring promised to David: “When your days are fulfilled and you lie down with your fathers, I will raise up your offspring after you, who shall come from your body, and I will establish his kingdom.” The prophet probably had Solomon in mind or maybe another earthly king that would come someday, but, as Christians, we like to think of Jesus in those terms.

Read the gospel lesson for Sunday and listen for that Davidic focus: “of the house of David” and “the throne of his ancestor David” and “will reign over the house of Jacob forever” and “his kingdom there will be no end.” It is quintessentially important to Luke (also Matthew) that Jesus is identified as David’s offspring. Of all the messianic expectations that permeated first-century Judaism, the reestablishment of David’s line and throne was at the top of the list. David represented leadership at the pinnacle of Israel’s success. During his reign, the kingdom was as big as it would ever get. There was a united monarchy. Israel was the biggest and strongest geopolitical player in the area. Those were the glory days, and the reestablishment of David’s throne was the easiest way of envisioning the fulfillment of the hopes of God’s people.

Of course, the story of David’s heir unfolded differently than we might expect. I think Mary’s question of the angel points to some of these disconnects. “How can this be?” she asks. Partly that was a biological question, as her reference to her virginity makes clear. But I think it was also a cultural question. The angel was promising that her offspring would be David’s heir, but how can a peasant girl give birth to a king—virginity aside? Perhaps Mary knew that her betrothed was of David’s line, but, still, I think she needed some help connecting the dots. And the odd arrangement for Jesus’ birth (peasant girl, born in a stable, adored by shepherds) is mirrored in the unusual acclimation he receives as king (hosanna in the highest! but killed on the cross).

All of that leaves me wondering what role David plays in our own understanding of messiah. How is Jesus’ the son of David? How is he the fulfillment of the promises made in 2 Sam 7? Is the Davidic line still important to us? How does David’s legacy represent that for which God’s people still wait? What sort of throne are we expecting? Yes, we’re waiting for Jesus to come back, but what does that mean? If we’re still waiting for the gilded throne of power, I think we’ll be disappointed. The cross wasn’t an accident, nor was it a failure. It was the perfect expression of God’s power. So what sort of king are we waiting for?

Why Is Repentance Good News?

During the summer before I started my last year of seminary, I had the privilege of serving as an intern at St. James Episcopal Church in Fairhope. That summer, I got to see the ins and outs of parish life. I visited people in the hospital. I went to staff meetings and Vestry meetings. I taught a short Sunday-school series, and I also had the chance to preach. A lot of rectors are reluctant to share their pulpit with anyone—especially a green, still-learning-the-craft seminarian. But not Mark Wilson. Without hesitation, he put me on the schedule and said, “Go for it.”

I preached my heart out. I don’t remember which scripture lessons were assigned for that day, but I do remember that I wove the Prayer of Humble Access into the sermon because the texts were about sin and repentance. I remember hitting the congregation with a heavy dose of sin before wrapping it up with a hopeful word about returning to the Lord. Looking back, I recall that it wasn’t a very good sermon. In fact, it wasn’t good at all. I made plenty of rookie mistakes. I used too many different images instead of focusing on a consistent theme. I didn’t draw the congregation into the sermon with a story or analogy that they could relate to. I went too long on some unnecessary points and skipped over some important transitions. In short, it was the kind of sermon you would expect a seminarian to give. But they loved it.

If you count my time in seminary, I have been preaching sermons for eleven years, and, still, it never fails to amaze me how well received even mediocre sermons are if they are about sin. People love hearing sermons about sin. They come out of church and say the most positive things. Any preacher knows to read between the lines when he hears something like, “Beautiful day we’re having today. I thought it might be colder. Maybe I’ll go home and sweep the back patio. Oh, and nice sermon, too.” But, when I preach about sin, there are long, lingering looks on the way out of church, nods of affirmation, hushed tones of appreciation, and almost confessional compliments. Why is that?

Usually, when I think of preachers who are likely to talk about sin, I picture the kind to whom I cannot stand listening—the kind who stand on the corner and hand out flyers about “turning or burning” while they are yelling the “good news” at everyone who walks by. When the gospel of Jesus Christ is presented in those terms—in the “you’d-better-do-this-or-else-you’ll-burn-in-hell” terms—I feel a strong urge to run in the opposite direction. I feel repulsed by the message. I feel shame that I share the same occupation as such an angry preacher. And I feel a deep sadness that such a misguided proclamation of what should be the good news is actually pushing people away from God. But, when I preach about sin and when I hear other preachers in churches like ours preach about sin, it has the opposite effect. Somehow, it draws us in. Instead of pushing us away, it draws us closer to God. Why is that? I think it’s because repentance is good news.

As we heard in today’s reading from Mark (1:1-8), “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, ‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way.’” And what did that messenger say? “Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. Come and be baptized and await the coming of God’s kingdom.” It is remarkable to me that Mark begins his account of the “good news” with a message of repentance. For him, this is where the gospel starts—not with a lengthy genealogy or with a touching birth narrative or with a theologically sophisticated prologue but with a call to repent.

Repentance is good news. When given its full and proper richness, repentance is very good news because it is the beginning of a new relationship with God. The word “repentance” has its roots in words that mean “to turn around.” When we repent, we turn our hearts around, and the process of turning has two essential pieces to it—that from which we turn away and that to which we now turn. Yes, repentance is about turning away from sin. It is about forsaking all that impairs our ability to know who God is and what God’s will is for our lives. It is about leaving the old behind. It is about turning our backs on evil. But repentance is also a turning toward something even more wonderful than we can image—God’s love. As we turn toward God, we turn toward the one who forgives us. We turn toward his acceptance of even a wayward child. We embrace what it means to be redeemed. We look forward to the full and rich and wonderful life that God has in store for us.

Why do people like it when they hear sermons about sin? Because I don’t know how to preach about sin without preaching about forgiveness. Because God is a God of love and forgiveness and redemption. Because we believe in a gospel of truly good news. If you’ve heard a message of repentance but didn’t like what you heard, there’s a good chance you only heard half of the story. Hear, instead, the good news of Jesus Christ: God invites you to leave your old self behind and embrace the new, forgiven, redeemed self that God loves without limit. Repent, for God’s wonderful, loving kingdom is at hand.