When I asked our first guest interviewee, Doral Main, to send me a brief biography, one of the things she said about herself, which I then asked her about on Sunday, was that she was a fourth-generation Disciple. She could trace her faith lineage back to her great-grandparents in our denomination.
This has always intrigued me because I am something of a denominational mongrel in my ancestry as well as having been a bit nomadic in my own faith journey. As many of you know, I was baptized in a Methodist church, became Presbyterian in my teens, attended a joint UCC/American Baptist seminary, and was ordained and find myself at home in the Disciples of Christ now. But it doesn't stop there: In my family, we are represented still among both the Methodists and the Presbyterians. My Mother was brought up Presbyterian and my Father was Methodist and Congregationalist. My grandparents came from German Reformed (one of the predecessor denominations of the present day UCC), Congregationalist (another denomination in the UCC mix), Methodist, and Lutheran backgrounds.
I know in Chalice we have folks who were brought up in American Baptist, Roman Catholic, Methodist, Congregational, and Southern Baptist churches and some have little or no church involvement in their childhood and youth. And, yes, we have those dyed in the wool Disciples who, like Doral, trace their faith ancestry back to folks who may have known Alexander Campbell or Barton Stone. (I know I'm likely leaving out someone's background so I apologize if yours isn't in the list.)
But here we are, a wonderful mix of God's people, called together in one body. Naming and claiming our background in faith does not make us more or less Christian or even more or less Disciples. But our background, history, and heritage are important parts of our make-up as people of faith, seeking to hear God's call and to let the Light of Christ burn within us and from us.
Take a moment to remember those whose faith stories are intertwined with your own. Some, like my own Methodist/Congregationalist minister grandfather who died many years before I was born, we may have never met; some have been as close to us physically as our own breath; some are related by blood; some we claim as members of our family of faith. Remember those whose lives are inextricably woven into the fabric of your faith story. Remember and give thanks and know that the Light within you has been sparked by them.
Pace e Bene,
Gerry
Stories
Newsletter article, 21 January 2009
There is definitely excitement in the air following Tuesday's inaugural celebrations. Millions of people descended on Washington D.C. to be part of the history while millions upon millions more of us watched or listened over the radio, television, or internet.
There was a very human moment, in the midst of all the pomp and ceremony when, during the swearing of the oath of office, there was a mix up of the words between Supreme Court Chief Justice Roberts and President Obama. It was nothing major but I heard on the radio that the oath swearing was repeated later on to make sure they got it right; there was no leaving of anything to chance. I also heard that this had happened in the past; a second swearing in ceremony had to take place because the words weren't repeated exactly as they are laid down in the U.S. Constitution.
This mindset, strict adherence to an exacting way of looking at things, has all too often been brought into our faith world as Christians make the Bible a rule book with a precision that severs out those who don't agree with a particular telling of the Story. At the retreat last weekend, we talked about the richness of reading the Bible with Story in mind. Stories are not exacting or demanding. They allow flow and changes and even contradictions to be coexist within them. Stories do not deny rules and often contain them. But Story recognizes that words and images are heard differently by different people.
Stories, our stories, come from all parts of our lives: from the excitement and awe that welled up within us as our nation's 44th president stood before all those millions of people to the very personal tales of how our faith has held us and enriched us. Tell a story; make sure your story is told; listen to others' stories. Know that God resides within them.
Pace e Bene,
Gerry
There is definitely excitement in the air following Tuesday's inaugural celebrations. Millions of people descended on Washington D.C. to be part of the history while millions upon millions more of us watched or listened over the radio, television, or internet.
There was a very human moment, in the midst of all the pomp and ceremony when, during the swearing of the oath of office, there was a mix up of the words between Supreme Court Chief Justice Roberts and President Obama. It was nothing major but I heard on the radio that the oath swearing was repeated later on to make sure they got it right; there was no leaving of anything to chance. I also heard that this had happened in the past; a second swearing in ceremony had to take place because the words weren't repeated exactly as they are laid down in the U.S. Constitution.
This mindset, strict adherence to an exacting way of looking at things, has all too often been brought into our faith world as Christians make the Bible a rule book with a precision that severs out those who don't agree with a particular telling of the Story. At the retreat last weekend, we talked about the richness of reading the Bible with Story in mind. Stories are not exacting or demanding. They allow flow and changes and even contradictions to be coexist within them. Stories do not deny rules and often contain them. But Story recognizes that words and images are heard differently by different people.
Stories, our stories, come from all parts of our lives: from the excitement and awe that welled up within us as our nation's 44th president stood before all those millions of people to the very personal tales of how our faith has held us and enriched us. Tell a story; make sure your story is told; listen to others' stories. Know that God resides within them.
Pace e Bene,
Gerry
11 January 2009, the 1st Sunday after the Epiphany/the Baptism of Christ
Following the scripture readings this week, I showed this clip on YouTube from the movie "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" which you can see by clicking here.
Mark 1:4-11
Water flows throughout scripture:
And so it is with baptism. The noise, brightness, and confusion are no less jarring when, as baptized people, we look all around us and yearn for a world in which sin does not reign and the clamor of greed and power do not drown out our attempts at quiet, spiritual lives. We think of Jesus there in the Jordan, and ache for that same dove-descending, water-rippling moment in our lives.
If we really look at the text, if we pay close attention to the gospel accounts of this amazing moment, especially the version from Mark that is the lectionary reading for today, the peace might be shattered a bit.
First of all, there is John. John is not a peaceful individual. The last time we heard from John was when he was leaping in his mother Elizabeth’s womb as the pregnant Mary approached. Well, now it’s some thirty years later and John has grown into a really interesting character. So interesting in fact that Mark, our sparest gospel writer, takes the time to tell us about John’s diet and wardrobe. He’s a societal outsider with his camel hair and leather and locusts and honey.
But even more so, John is operating way outside the religious establishment with his baptism of repentance. People were flocking to the Jordan to be washed clean of their sins. But you know what? That was the religious authorities job. Wild-eyed John was usurping the clout of the priests and scribes and rattling the cages of the big boys.
And it is to John, this power-appropriating outsider, that Jesus shows himself one day for baptism with all the other seekers and those looking for new life, a new beginning. And John, without really much fanfare from Mark, does just that; he baptizes Jesus.
What happens next though is interesting: Mark tells us that Jesus sees the heavens torn apart and the Spirit coming down upon him. Mark uses the Greek word for ‘torn apart’ only twice in his gospel: here and when the curtain in the temple is torn in two at Jesus’ crucifixion. The action bookends Jesus’ ministry for Mark.
This is not the skies just opening up to let the Spirit out; this is a violent, physical event. If you think back to a little over a month ago, you might remember that Isaiah implored God to “tear open the heavens” the very first week Advent. Isaiah was praying that God would get Godself down here to earth and take care of the whole mess through a ripped open heaven.
Well, here at the Jordan, centuries later, Isaiah’s prayers are finally answered. The heavens are torn apart; ruptured by the rush of the Spirit getting down to earth for this momentous event.
Baptism is not an easy-going, calm event. Baptism is earthy; it is tumultuous; it is, if one listens, life-changing. It is both cleansing and initiative; by washing clean the slate so far, those who are baptized enter into new life, a new start.
They got it right in the movie clip I started this sermon with from the movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”. The film follows three escaped convicts as they seek to get to a treasure before a dam is built and the waters of the reservoir cover the treasure forever. Delmar, the slowest-witted of the trio, rushes headlong into the water, bypassing all the white-robed folks waiting their turns, jumping at the chance for a new start, ignoring the believers in their neat lines. The wrongs and sins from his past are over and gone; forgotten, he’s certain, by God and therefore, he believes, by everyone else. He is starting anew and, later in the movie, shows that new start.
We too often look back on our baptisms as placid affairs, done because it was the expected thing to do perhaps. Don’t feel badly though; centuries of art have portrayed it that way, as we see in this sculpture from the late 15th or early 16th century. The artist missed too the
earth-shattering event that was going on as we catch a glimpse of Jesus just before the water hits him. So our tendency to thinking of this episode as a calm one is backed up by many years of others doing exactly the same thing. 
In the taming of this feral event though, we miss the renting of the heavens and the voice telling us just how beloved we are. I have no doubts that Delmar saw and heard and experienced the whole messy affair as he put the robbing of the Piggly-Wiggly behind him and even the lies that he told in asserting his innocence. But we, in our calm, composed lives that probably have more in common with the authorities in Jerusalem than they do with some wilderness guy named John who needs a haircut and has a dandy recipe for locusts with honey, miss out somehow on the truly exciting, heaven-rending occasion that is baptism.
Baptism is a one-time event for most of us. Of our two sacraments, it is the single occurring one while communion is the on-going experience. So what’s done is done and there’s no turning back the hands of time to see if we can capture that experience of baptism that folks from Jesus through to Delmar have had.
But all is not lost; because we are called to remember and relive our baptisms daily, hourly, and even more frequently. We wade into the baptismal waters when we work to end poverty and when we aid those who are the least among us and when we comfort those who grieve, and there is plenty of grieving going on all around us these days.
It doesn’t matter how you were baptized or how old you were when it happened. It doesn’t matter if you have no recollection of the actual event whatsoever. It doesn’t matter if it was in a lake or a pool or a tub or beside a fount. What matters is that you remember and in remembering you are born into new life.
And as you do so, in the whole earthy, messy, outside-the-realm-of-social-convention-and-religious-authority practice of it, listen…listen carefully. A voice, perhaps a still, small voice, is going to be saying, “oh loved one…you really make me happy.”
The Baptism of Christ sculpted by Andrea Sansovino around 1500 in the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo in Florence, Italy. (Sansovino only did the sculptures of Christ and John; the angel was a later addition.)
Mark 1:4-11
Water flows throughout scripture:
- the waters roiling from the very beginning as God creates everything in the universe;
- the waters rising and covering the earth as Noah, his family, and all those pairs of animals float above the sinfulness that God was attempting to drown out;
- Moses parting the Red Sea allowing liberation and freedom for a people;
- those same people, the Israelites in the wilderness, having their thirst slaked with water flowing from a rock;
- the Psalmist reminding us that God’s voice can be like the tumultuous roar of a waterfall;
- Amos exhorting justice to roll down like a mighty water;
- water becoming wine at Cana;
- the waters in the pool Bethsaida churning so that someone may be cured;
- and I’m sure you can think of others but our attention is called to the waters of the Jordan in which Jesus sought out John for baptism.
And so it is with baptism. The noise, brightness, and confusion are no less jarring when, as baptized people, we look all around us and yearn for a world in which sin does not reign and the clamor of greed and power do not drown out our attempts at quiet, spiritual lives. We think of Jesus there in the Jordan, and ache for that same dove-descending, water-rippling moment in our lives.
If we really look at the text, if we pay close attention to the gospel accounts of this amazing moment, especially the version from Mark that is the lectionary reading for today, the peace might be shattered a bit.
First of all, there is John. John is not a peaceful individual. The last time we heard from John was when he was leaping in his mother Elizabeth’s womb as the pregnant Mary approached. Well, now it’s some thirty years later and John has grown into a really interesting character. So interesting in fact that Mark, our sparest gospel writer, takes the time to tell us about John’s diet and wardrobe. He’s a societal outsider with his camel hair and leather and locusts and honey.
But even more so, John is operating way outside the religious establishment with his baptism of repentance. People were flocking to the Jordan to be washed clean of their sins. But you know what? That was the religious authorities job. Wild-eyed John was usurping the clout of the priests and scribes and rattling the cages of the big boys.
And it is to John, this power-appropriating outsider, that Jesus shows himself one day for baptism with all the other seekers and those looking for new life, a new beginning. And John, without really much fanfare from Mark, does just that; he baptizes Jesus.
What happens next though is interesting: Mark tells us that Jesus sees the heavens torn apart and the Spirit coming down upon him. Mark uses the Greek word for ‘torn apart’ only twice in his gospel: here and when the curtain in the temple is torn in two at Jesus’ crucifixion. The action bookends Jesus’ ministry for Mark.
This is not the skies just opening up to let the Spirit out; this is a violent, physical event. If you think back to a little over a month ago, you might remember that Isaiah implored God to “tear open the heavens” the very first week Advent. Isaiah was praying that God would get Godself down here to earth and take care of the whole mess through a ripped open heaven.
Well, here at the Jordan, centuries later, Isaiah’s prayers are finally answered. The heavens are torn apart; ruptured by the rush of the Spirit getting down to earth for this momentous event.
Baptism is not an easy-going, calm event. Baptism is earthy; it is tumultuous; it is, if one listens, life-changing. It is both cleansing and initiative; by washing clean the slate so far, those who are baptized enter into new life, a new start.
They got it right in the movie clip I started this sermon with from the movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”. The film follows three escaped convicts as they seek to get to a treasure before a dam is built and the waters of the reservoir cover the treasure forever. Delmar, the slowest-witted of the trio, rushes headlong into the water, bypassing all the white-robed folks waiting their turns, jumping at the chance for a new start, ignoring the believers in their neat lines. The wrongs and sins from his past are over and gone; forgotten, he’s certain, by God and therefore, he believes, by everyone else. He is starting anew and, later in the movie, shows that new start.
We too often look back on our baptisms as placid affairs, done because it was the expected thing to do perhaps. Don’t feel badly though; centuries of art have portrayed it that way, as we see in this sculpture from the late 15th or early 16th century. The artist missed too the
earth-shattering event that was going on as we catch a glimpse of Jesus just before the water hits him. So our tendency to thinking of this episode as a calm one is backed up by many years of others doing exactly the same thing. 
In the taming of this feral event though, we miss the renting of the heavens and the voice telling us just how beloved we are. I have no doubts that Delmar saw and heard and experienced the whole messy affair as he put the robbing of the Piggly-Wiggly behind him and even the lies that he told in asserting his innocence. But we, in our calm, composed lives that probably have more in common with the authorities in Jerusalem than they do with some wilderness guy named John who needs a haircut and has a dandy recipe for locusts with honey, miss out somehow on the truly exciting, heaven-rending occasion that is baptism.
Baptism is a one-time event for most of us. Of our two sacraments, it is the single occurring one while communion is the on-going experience. So what’s done is done and there’s no turning back the hands of time to see if we can capture that experience of baptism that folks from Jesus through to Delmar have had.
But all is not lost; because we are called to remember and relive our baptisms daily, hourly, and even more frequently. We wade into the baptismal waters when we work to end poverty and when we aid those who are the least among us and when we comfort those who grieve, and there is plenty of grieving going on all around us these days.
It doesn’t matter how you were baptized or how old you were when it happened. It doesn’t matter if you have no recollection of the actual event whatsoever. It doesn’t matter if it was in a lake or a pool or a tub or beside a fount. What matters is that you remember and in remembering you are born into new life.
And as you do so, in the whole earthy, messy, outside-the-realm-of-social-convention-and-religious-authority practice of it, listen…listen carefully. A voice, perhaps a still, small voice, is going to be saying, “oh loved one…you really make me happy.”
The Baptism of Christ sculpted by Andrea Sansovino around 1500 in the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo in Florence, Italy. (Sansovino only did the sculptures of Christ and John; the angel was a later addition.)
Epiphany Sunday, 4 January 2009
The Star of Bethlehem
Edward Burne-Jones
1888-1891
Epiphany Sunday
Matthew 2:1-12 (Click the link to read the scripture.)
The Christmas Show at Radio City Music Hall in New York City can only be described as a spectacle, and that word does not do justice to the event that happens there on stage at the corner of 50th Street and 6th Avenue (or Avenue of the Americas, as they’ve tried to rename it, though true New Yorkers tend to refuse that mouthful of a moniker). In fact, the official title of the show is “The Radio City Christmas Spectacular” which has played for over 75 years according to their website. (http://www.radiocitychristmas.com//) Of course, the Rockettes are a big draw as they high-kick their way through the holiday season. While Allen & I lived in New York I took my Mom to see the show once, and I continue to marvel at all that happened on that stage.
Besides the Rockettes, the big happening of the Radio City Christmas Spectacular is the telling of the Christmas story…you know the Christmas story with Joseph, Mary, & Jesus in it; not one of those more recent Christmas stories that involve elves or talking snowmen or other inventions of the marketing mind. For me, even as an adult some 15 years ago, part of the wonder of this theatrical occasion was that they used real animals in the show; right up there, on stage, in New York City, of all places, where the animals we were used to seeing were mainly pigeons and rats though if you had a chance to venture into Central Park you might find some squirrels begging for food.
But there they were up on stage: cows and sheep and goats and who knows what else. But probably the most memorable creatures to be part of the action, at least for me, were the camels; real, live, hump-backed camels.
Those dromedaries make their entrance, on cue naturally, with the Magi toward the end of the tableau in the midst of all the wonderful, dripping Art Deco interior that is Radio City Music Hall. No pigeons, rats or squirrels for these theatre-goers (though assuredly, I was in the minority as a New York resident in the audience…this show is mostly for out-of-towners I think I can safely assert). Camels; actual camels up there on stage.
So at the climax of this theatrical vision of visions, we have three actors made up to look like kings or magi or whatever corporate, ticket-selling America thinks they are, entering with their camels to complete the picture.
And that theatrical entrance, entering stage left if I recall correctly, is what we’re on about today. Epiphany: The tale of the wise men who traveled from distant points to pay homage at the birth of a child who was destined to be a king. There is much lore that surrounds this narrative. It doesn’t say that there are three wise men but tradition has put it at that number because of the fact that we’re told they brought three gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Once they were thought of as kings themselves; royalty who came to see this baby Jesus and pay homage to the king who was greater than they and thus the carol “We Three Kings” always comes to mind this time of year. But really, the proper translation is more along the lines of wise men. But we don’t know who they were or anything much about them; we don’t even really know if they had camels, but that’s such a good part of the Radio City show that why would we leave it out?
I don’t think it’s any coincidence that we celebrate Epiphany at the start of each new year. Epiphany is traditionally observed on the 12th day of Christmas, which is always the 6th of January for those of us who follow the western Christian calendar. A lot of churches, like ours, does not have a special Epiphany day service but mark the occasion on the Sunday just before or after, like we’re doing today. But Tuesday is really Epiphany, if you want to get technical.
But here we are, just barely into 2009, and our thoughts turn toward watching the night sky for a star to guide us. And who among us does not need that sort of celestial, heavenly guidance? Who has not stopped for a moment over the past few days and wondered what the oncoming months will bring?
True, this whole demarcation of time thing is humanly-created to fit our own human needs. At first we needed, as the supposedly intelligent creatures in the global neighborhood, to know when we were going to require shelter from summer’s scorching sun or winter’s cold. We needed to know when we should be out reaping from the plants that grew for the time ahead when food would not be readily available. Then we needed to know when to plant and when to harvest crops. So we came up with systems of marking time.
And today most of us mark time more with the ebb and flow of holidays and credit card bills than we do with agricultural concerns or the movement of those celestial bodies. And we’ve come to note when earth has gone around the sun in a full orbit. Of course, we can do that every day; every moment is twelve months, give or take a second or two I understand, from when we were at this particular point in relation to the course around our own local star. But custom has been handed down that we celebrate and note one precise moment in the orbit and say, “Now. Right now…at this point in the orbit…here is the start of a year.” And so we take time to reflect and ponder the future as calendars are replaced and champagne corks are popped.
Furthermore, we, of the western Christian ilk, have the opportunity for a double shot of that future-pondering. Because Epiphany, following on the heels of New Years Day, is when we seek, when we hope to learn, to discover. It’s when we look to the heavens, mimicking wise ones from centuries ago, for signs of new life and new hope; when we look for those stars that foretell change and new possibilities.
The word ‘epiphany’ comes to us from the Greek language.* It’s made up of two words: first, epi, which means ‘to’ or ‘on’; and then, phainein, which means ‘to show’. This celebration is indeed when God’s incarnation was shown to the whole of the world, represented by those gentiles, or non-Jews, whom we call the magi who came and recognized Jesus as God on earth. Those Magi, however many there were, stand in for all the rest of us who weren’t among the first century Jews.
Around 1300, there was another name used for this holiday: it was called, are you ready for this?, ‘Tiffany’. Yep, that’s right, the name that every other kindergarten girl seems to have these days comes from this festival. It got to be a name, in fact, because girls born on Epiphany, or Tiffany, were often named after the holiday.
Tiffany is itself a shortened name. It stands in for the longer word ‘Theophany”. Theophany…epiphany; notice the resemblance? That same root is at the end, our old friend phainein, to show. But standing in for that little word epi, we have theo which is the Greek word for God. Theophany means, essentially, ‘to show God’ or 'the showing forth of God', which of course is what was happening in that quixotic episode that Matthew recounts. God is shown to the world in the form of a kid in diapers, just as newborn offspring are shown to fathers standing with joy and thoughts of the future at the window of the hospital nursery…or at least that’s how they used to do it in the movies.
So the future-pondering in which we take part is not just idle speculation about the next five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes and what fate may bring to us during the course of them. No, this is one of those times when we get to stand apart from our culture, as seems to be occurring more and more often these days. As people of faith, claiming Christianity as our route to God, we are scanning the heavens not to see what the stars tell us of our future as a newspaper astrologer might, but for what most of us would consider the more-important search for Theophany…for a ‘God-showing’.
We pause amidst the spectacle of camels in Manhattan and let our eyes leave the fabulous Art Deco surroundings and even suspend for a moment the high-kicks of the Rockettes, holding the champagne corks and pausing in our calendar replacing for an instant, to notice that the stars lead to a baby whose birth we just celebrated; the very same baby who is our Theophany…who is our Tiffany…who is our Epiphany.
Yes, we will wonder about the weeks ahead in 2009, but don’t lose sight of your search in the heavens for a star, for a sign that will lead you to God-among-us.
* Etymology of Ephipany, Theophany, & Tiffany came from http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=epiphany&searchmode=none.
Five Candles
Four Advent candles are now aflame...only the tall white candle in the center remains unlit, waiting for the spark of new life and love. We have come to the culmination of our period of preparation; that which we expected is indeed to happen. Our patience over the past four weeks is to be rewarded with the gift of God's presence with us.That final candle, that central tall one still dark, is our last, best hope; for ourselves and for the world. It is the candle that will provide the light for a star in the night sky that will guide wanderers and wonderers, seekers and questioners, doubters and believers over centuries. It is the candle that will brighten shadowed corners of our world, if we will but share it. It is the candle that will inflame our hearts and ignite our souls with a message of love and grace for ourselves and for all humanity. It is the candle that will not extinguish, that burns eternally in spite of efforts to snuff it out throughout history. It is our candle of faith.
That is why it is the Christ candle.
A Blessed & Merry Christmas,
Gerry
21 December 2008, Advent 4
The painting to the right has been a favorite of mine for many years. I took the picture that you see at the Philadelphia Museum of Art on a visit there a few years ago, when I just happened upon the painting, after having really loved it for years previously. It's The Annunciation and was painted by Henry Ossawa Tanner in 1898. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. A better image of the painting is here: Tanner Annunciation.Now on with this week's sermon. May the remainder of your Advent be one of discovery and joy.
Gerry
Luke 1:47-55, Luke 1:26-38 (Click the link to read the scriptures.)
There is something about the two passages from Luke that are set as today’s lectionary readings that really get to me. I am attracted to them in ways that I cannot fully explain, catapulting all of it into the realm of the spiritual, as far as I’m concerned. And I’m not really alone, I know; many artists and musicians throughout the ages have tried to express the mystery of this event between an angel and a young woman.
But why are we all drawn to this event that non-believers around us would scoff at and call yet more evidence of superstitious foolery? Why does a story which occurred thousands of years ago, the actual factual truth of which is really of no importance to me, still make some of us catch our breaths and stop for a moment to reflect about how the divine and creation interact? Why this fascination in art and music and imagination with a story that’s no more than a few lines of an interchange and the subsequent song that young girl sang in response?
I think that part of it is because it is such an unusual tale; it’s a narrative we’re not used to, not even in the bible. If you consider the other miraculous births that we have from scripture, they all involve old women…elderly women…barren women…women well past their childbearing years: Sarah laughing her head off at the thought of her and Abraham adding a nursery after all these years; Hannah, barren and childless, dedicating her baby Samuel to service to God in grateful response to the birth. Even Elizabeth, whose tale of bearing a son in her later years is told just prior to and intertwined with the words we heard this morning in Luke, precedes Mary in becoming pregnant by only six months.
But in those six months, that tiny space of time when you think of the entire scope of human history, God does a new thing, a different thing, a radical thing. God chooses a young woman to bear the Messiah, God’s anointed one. God selects a woman who is at the beginning of her childbearing years to be the mother of this most important gift.
Of course, women had little if any status or position in society throughout the many histories of humankind. What status they did have came most often because of the man to whom they were married or perhaps due to their age or sometimes due to what we would call their family of origin. So maybe these other women, the Sarahs and Hannahs and Elizabeths, did have some degree of standing, just a bit of stature in the community.
But Mary? She had none of that it seems. She wasn’t yet married. And the man she was going to marry in fact was just a carpenter—likely he wasn’t a landholder and he wasn’t a priest or any of the other vocations that carry a certain amount of standing.
And Mary was young. We all probably remember hearing for the first time someone saying that Mary was probably a teenager. I haven’t done the research myself so I have to rely on the scholarship of others as likely you do too. But it does make sense, doesn’t it, that Mary would be just a teenager? Thinking about it in market terms, if you have a commodity, such as a daughter, you’re going to make use of her by arranging a marriage to her while she’s young, while she can still provide the future husband, the buyer, with offspring, wouldn’t you? Plus you may want to get her out of your household as early as you can so you don’t have to provide for her anymore. So it seems to be logical that Mary was indeed young.
So we have a young woman, a lowly servant, as she describes herself; one without stature or standing or connections. That’s quite different from those who had been granted miraculous pregnancies up to this point. And that’s the point: this radical choice proclaims to the world that God is choosing a new route; this birth will be completely different from all the others. God is entering humanity from the very bottom of society, where God is needed the most.
And Luke, our gospel writer this morning, gets that. Luke’s gospel, Luke’s good news, is all about God’s preference for the poor; Luke’s emphasis is on Jesus’ ministry to the lowest of the low. And this emphasis doesn’t start with the angels announcing to those smelly societal outcasts, shepherds, though that certainly is another big hint from Luke about what we’re going to hear from his recounting of a miraculous birth and life and ministry. Luke gets to his emphasis on the poor earlier than those shepherds abiding in their field. He hits us with it in the care that he shows in presenting Mary’s story, especially in contrast to Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth’s tale, as wonderful as it is, is the way things used to be done. And her son, John the Baptist? Well, we know where he fits in here. For two week’s in a row this Advent, if you’ve been paying attention, we heard two different gospel writers recount him saying that he’s just not worthy to even lace up the sandals of the one who would grow up under Mary’s care. The former things are past and gone and over; the new things, God’s new-fangled ways, are what are important here.
This is indeed radical stuff. Don’t believe any of the prosperity gospel preachers who are so popular who preach that if God loves you, you will be rewarded with material goods and wealth. Luke would hear none of that and Luke tells us that Jesus wouldn’t either. Luke reminds us that Jesus not only came for the least among us, but indeed came from that very place of poverty himself in the fact that it was Mary who bore him.
Listen to Mary. Hear her story and let it fascinate and move you too. Give into any urgings that you might have to just sit with those few words of interchange between Mary and Gabriel, who was probably wondering, as he spoke aloud those words of comfort and surprise, just what God was up to this time. Let Mary’s story live in our culture. And watch for new ways in which God continues to act as you end your Advent preparations and at last celebrate that miraculous gift.
Bated Breath
Each week, I produce a newsletter for my congregation and begin it with a paragraph or two. This week I'll start putting those words here to add to the sermons which I already post. Hope you enjoy these too.
Gerry
Gerry
"We wait with bated breath." As I sit here at my computer trying to come up with something clever, or thoughtful, or profound, or, at the least, worthy of your time to read these lines, that phrase came to me as I considered the fact that we're over halfway through Advent 2008.
Advent is a time of waiting; we all know that. But I began to wonder about that "bated breath" part. What does it really mean? Where does it come from? I wasn't even sure of the spelling but realized that spelling it b-a-i-t-e-d would only make us think of worm breath, rather than how to prepare for the Christ.
And so, without even moving from my desk chair, I did a little research on "bated breath" in an online dictionary. Indeed, I found out that my spelling instincts are correct and it is b-a-t-e-d. And then I learned that "to bate" means "to moderate, restrain." Bating one's breath, then, is breathing a bit more shallowly or with a more even pace in anticipation or hopes of what is to come.
What a perfect fit with Advent! We moderate not just our breath but our very being in anticipation of the One who is to come. We restrain the culture's attempts to get us to rush headlong into Christmas and instead savor the weeks that lead up to a God-with-us event. Our moderation stands against the excesses of the greed and materialism and consumerism that is all around us.
And so, with bated breath, we seek a star in the sky or strain to hear an angel's voice. With bated breath, we creep ever closer to a rough, straw-filled, impromptu crib to peek at a newborn baby. With bated breath, we look into the faces of everyone we encounter throughout our days and ask ourselves, "is this the Christ?"
Pace e bene,
Gerry
Advent is a time of waiting; we all know that. But I began to wonder about that "bated breath" part. What does it really mean? Where does it come from? I wasn't even sure of the spelling but realized that spelling it b-a-i-t-e-d would only make us think of worm breath, rather than how to prepare for the Christ.
And so, without even moving from my desk chair, I did a little research on "bated breath" in an online dictionary. Indeed, I found out that my spelling instincts are correct and it is b-a-t-e-d. And then I learned that "to bate" means "to moderate, restrain." Bating one's breath, then, is breathing a bit more shallowly or with a more even pace in anticipation or hopes of what is to come.
What a perfect fit with Advent! We moderate not just our breath but our very being in anticipation of the One who is to come. We restrain the culture's attempts to get us to rush headlong into Christmas and instead savor the weeks that lead up to a God-with-us event. Our moderation stands against the excesses of the greed and materialism and consumerism that is all around us.
And so, with bated breath, we seek a star in the sky or strain to hear an angel's voice. With bated breath, we creep ever closer to a rough, straw-filled, impromptu crib to peek at a newborn baby. With bated breath, we look into the faces of everyone we encounter throughout our days and ask ourselves, "is this the Christ?"
Pace e bene,
Gerry
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