A Prayer for Weary Travelers: Speaking to the Soul December 29, 2022

For all those in the midst of a travel meltdown

Beloved Savior, we come before you
seeking your grace and compassion this day:
we long for the weight of your hand upon us
as we seek to live into your witness of reconciliation.

Grant your protection
to all those who are lost, stranded, or alone.
Inspire your children to care for one another
in times of uncertainty and stress.
We thank you for those
who have shown compassion to the weary
and reassured the distressed,
caring for those who are far from home

Awaken us to your presence within us, Lord Christ,
that we remember that in your incarnation,
you remind us of our true nature and work:
to comfort the hurting
to stand alongside the oppressed
to reconcile the lost
to honor the dignity of all
to walk humbly and ever closer with our God.

Blessed Jesus, you taught us to pray and to listen,
to embody wisdom, peace, and virtue,
breathing forgiveness and mercy
in the renewal of life, holiness, and hope for all:
Today, may we set our feet firmly in this pilgrim path.

Bless and strengthen us in determination, O Messiah,
as we seek to witness to your light and truth,
and in your compassion pour out your comfort
upon those whose needs we bring before you.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 29, 2022. Written after having to drive 1700 miles to rescue my daughter after she was stranded and abandoned by Southwest Airlines on Christmas Day.

Where Love Is, There is God: Sermon for the Eve of the Nativity, Dec. 24, 2022

That gospel story we just heard cannot be surpassed. In it we have faithfulness, tenderness, awe, wonder, probably a little fear, relief, praise and joy. Through the shepherd’s example, we are encouraged to reach out to God through our God-given imaginations and not be afraid to believe the impossible. We are called to care, fidelity, and compassion, as Joseph modeled, and we are called to giving ourselves over to God in the pursuit of bringing about God’s kingdom, boldly, as Mary modelled. One thing that the shepherds, Joseph, and Mary all knew was that love had come among them, and their lives would be forever changed.

That’s it. The message of the most beautiful story in the world: where we act to bring love and warmth into the world, we encounter God.

It’s the part we don’t hear tonight that we spend our entire lives tracking down. The part that tells us “How”—how to welcome Jesus into our lives, and show that he still lives by our own witness, just like those shepherds in our gospel. How to receive Jesus not simply by saying we believe in him, but actually shaping our lives by his example.

And so, alongside the beautiful story we just heard, and that we will celebrate for these next many days, I want to offer you another story. Some of you may have read it in a book of stories by the great Russian master Leo Tolstoy. The problem is, he read it somewhere, attributed to an anonymous author, and he adapted it, thinking it was a folk tale. By the time he found out the true author, his works had already entered the public domain. So tonight, I want to share with you a version of the original story, written by a French pastor named Ruben Saillens. Even better, let me introduce to you the main character, because his name, so perfect for our congregation, was “Father Martin.”(1)

One hundred and fifty years ago, in the French city of Marseilles, there was a humble cobbler named Martin. Although he was an incredible shoe maker, his generosity and humility led him to live a simple life-- he had his tiny shop on a dusty side street consisting of a single room, and above it he lived in our studio apartment that was neat but plain. Father Martin's wife had died many years before, and their only son had been a sailor who had been lost at sea. He had a daughter, too, but for some reason they no longer spoke, and when asked about her, a single tear would leak out of his eye and run down his cheek as he shook his head mournfully. Yet even though he had known these tragedies, he was nonetheless known as a simple, kind, compassionate man.

It is Christmas Eve, and there's a sharp chill in the air as Father Martin closes his shop for the day.

He heads upstairs to his apartment, lights a stove, prepares a simple meal of stew and bread. He takes his cup of wine and goes and sits in a tattered armchair after pulling out the well-worn Bible from his shelf. He turns to the gospel of Luke, and reads about the struggle of the Holy Family to find a place to rest as they awaited the birth of Jesus. “There was no place for them in the inn,” he reads, and traces his fingers along under the words. “No place for Jesus—no place for the savior!” he exclaims in empathy.
He looks around his tiny home, noting that things may have been worn and well used, but they were neat and clean--certainly much better than spending the night out on the streets, or in a drafty barn. Father Martin thought slowly, “Oh that I could have made room for him here! I would have been glad to see him, to shelter him, and to welcome him into my home.”


“Of course,” he continued, “I have no gifts-- certainly not like the gold and the frankincense and the myrrh that the Magi brought. But what did the shepherds bring? It doesn't say-- but perhaps they didn't have time to get anything. Perhaps they only brought themselves.” Father Martin suddenly looked up on the top of one of the shelves along the wall and saw a small tattered cardboard box he sprung across the room and got it down and looked inside, where two perfect little shoes lay wrapped in tissue paper, made for a baby long ago whose parents had never come to get them. They were the best thing Father Martin had ever made-- his masterpiece. He smiled and touched the supple leather and neat stitches. “This is what I would give to Jesus--my very best pair of shoes I ever made! Oh, I wish I could have seen him and his family!”

He smiled for a moment at his own foolishness. The old man closed the box carefully and returned it to its place on the shelf. He then walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, sighing. Soon his head nodded on his chest, and he fell asleep. His lone candle burned itself out.

A voice suddenly spoke out of the darkness. “Martin!” “Who's there?” he cried out, seeing no one. But the voice, continued gently, “Martin, you wanted to see me. Keep an eye out on the street for me tomorrow.” And then the voice ceased. Martin rubbed his eyes wearily, and heard the clock strike midnight. It was now officially Christmas Day. Surely he must have been dreaming. So he put on his night clothes and crawled into his bed and fell asleep.

The next morning when Martin awoke, he was convinced that he had heard the voice of Jesus. Surely he had nothing to lose by remaining watchful as the voice had told him and seeing if he could see Jesus walking on the streets outside his shop. surely he would recognize Jesus as Jesus passed by-- after all, hadn't he admired paintings of Jesus throughout his entire life? And so he dressed, went downstairs to his shop on the main floor, and pulled up his chair at the large front window.

It was barely dawn, and there was no one on the streets. All that Martin saw was a street sweeper working in the bitter cold. He shivered visibly as he tried to attend to his work, rubbing his hands together, and stamping his feet to keep the blood circulating. Martin, thought, while he was waiting to see Jesus, surely he could take time to offer the man something warm to drink. So Father Martin opened the door and called out to the man. “Come in, won't you? Come in and let me offer you something warm to drink and a seat by my stove if only for a moment!”

The streetsweeper turned to Martin gratefully, and came in from the cold, scraping his boots on the mat outside first. “I can only stay a moment,” the man said. “I don't want to lose my job.”

“Let me make you a cup of coffee, at least. Surely you have time for that!” exclaimed Martin, and the streetsweeper couldn’t say no. Yet even as he prepared the pot of coffee, Martin's eyes kept darting to the window to the street outside to see if anyone was passing.

“Why are you looking outside so often?” asked the street sweeper.

“I am waiting for my Master,” Martin replied.

“Your Master?” the street sweeper asked. “I thought you owned this shop.”

“Yes, I do, I was talking of another Master,” Martin replied.

“Ah, sure,” said the street sweeper, too tired to try to solve riddles. He finished his cup of coffee, wiggled his toes in his boots, and prepared to leave. “Well, good luck, I hope you see your Master today.”

The door closed behind the street sweeper, and Martin sat down again, watching the street closely. A group of children passed by, singing Christmas carols. Martin waved, and they waved back. But still no Jesus. Some people saw Martin watching from the window—he smiled invitingly, and even those who had seemed less than happy smiled back. But still no Jesus.

Martin made a simple lunch from some of his leftover stew, and sat watching carefully. But still no Jesus. A few beggars were made brave by Martin’s smile, and approached, begging for a few pennies. They were not disappointed, and left with enough to buy a small roll and some cheese. There were cheeses-- but still no Jesus.

As darkness approached, the streets grew emptier and emptier. A small, ragged brown mutt slunk by sniffing in the gutter for scraps, limping slightly. The butcher down the street acted as if he would strike the pup with his broom, and the dog yipped in alarm and scurried straight toward Martin’s door and leaned against the post. Martin reached into the stewpot and pulled out a few pieces of meat and some of the broth, putting them on a chipped plate. He took them out to the poor dog, who, after starting, carefully approached the plate in almost human disbelief. Within moments the plate was licked clean, and the dog allowed his head to be petted before he trotted off.


The streets were in twilight and empty now. Suddenly around the corner a figure appeared, and Martin’s heart leapt—but it was only a young woman, not much more than a girl really. She held a bundle in her arms, and as she got closer, Martin could see she was dressed in a threadbare smock and a ratty coat, and the bundle was an infant, about nine months old. Martin sprang outside when he saw her stagger. “Ma belle!” he called out as he rushed to her as she leaned against the wall. When he was closer he could see that her face was creased in weariness, and the baby clung to her for warmth.

“Why, you don’t look well, ma chere. Why are you out so late on such a cold night—and alone with a little one?” Martin asked.

“I’m ill, and going to the hospital, and hoping that they will have pity and admit me although it’s Christmas Eve. My husband is away at sea, and should have returned. But it’s been three months. And now I’m ill…” The shoemaker immediately though of his own son, and his heart ached.

“Please, won’t you come inside for just a moment and warm up a bit? I have some stew, and milk for the baby.” He looked so kindly she felt reassured, and she followed him inside. Martin insisted on taking the baby from her so she could eat, and found one of his wife’s old shawls he had kept for sentimental reasons and draped it around her shoulders, all while crooning to the baby. When the young woman finished eating, he poured out some milk in a cup for the baby and placed it in ront of her so she could feed the child. As he passed the baby over, the blanket slipped, and he saw that the baby’s feet were bare and cold.

“No shoes? Oh no this will never do,” Martin murmured out loud. He looked closer. Could it be that the size was right? He went over to the shelf and pulled down his masterpiece shoes, and took them from the box and unwrapped the paper. Ah, they were the best shoes he had ever made! But he had no use for them, really—shoes are made to be worn, not stored away. And so Martin came to the woman, holding out the shoes, and asked “Will you allow me?”

“I have no money to pay you,” she cried, “and those are so very fine! They are fit for a prince!”

Martin smiled, “We have your young prince here now. Let’s try them on.” And the shoes fit as it they were made for the baby’s feet. It seemed impossible but they looked even more beautiful actually being worn. The young woman clasped the old man’s hands in gratitude and got up.

“I must go,” she said. “You have been so incredibly kind! I can never repay you.”

“No need, my daughter. Just get yourself well, and I will pray for your husband to be home soon!” The door shut behind her, Martin sat down again thoughtfully. It was now night. A fog even began to roll in from the sea. No point in watching any more. Jesus had not come!

He was so heartbroken he moved to his chair and slumped down. It all must have been just a dream! “He didn’t come!” he repeated over and over to himself.

Suddenly the room filled with light. The door of his shop swung open, and he saw all the people he had seen that day—the street sweeper, the passersby, the carolers, the beggars, the young woman and the baby. Each one approached Martin and said, “Didn’t you see me?” Over and over again. Martin was astounded, and his mouth formed a small o in wonder and shock. Could it be?

And then, with one voice, they spoke in the voice Martin had heard the night before:

“I was cold and you warmed me. I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in. I was naked and you clothed me.”2)

Martin suddenly understood. Jesus had come, after all.

And so Jesus has come among us, too, and comes to us still, in all those whom we can welcome and help not just in the Christmas season, but all year through. Jesus has come, and lives among us—in the room that we make for him in our hearts and in the love that we share with those we meet, Where Love is, there is God. That’s the message of Christmas.

Amen.


Readings:

Isaiah 9:2-7

Psalm 96

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

Citations:
1) Ruben Saillens, “Where Love Is, There is God,” translated from the French by Bob Goodenough, found at his blog Flatlander Faith, from the post “Papa Panov should be Father Martin,” November 20, 2018. The story by Tolstoy is known as “Papa Panov’s Special Christmas,” which can be found here.
2) See Matthew 25:35-36.

At the Gate of Advent: Speaking to the Soul, December 22, 2022

Mary is waiting, 

   every new ache
      ironically raising a stir of hope.
Joseph is waiting,
   wide awake
      to keep those crazy dreams at bay.
The angels are waiting
   and warming up their voices for the cantata,
   the altos humming a perfect fifth
      below the melody.
The shepherds
   don’t yet know they are waiting,
      but they are, eyes darting unconsciously skyward.
The sheep and goats are waiting,
   grazing while they wait,
      in the eternal wisdom of sheep and goats.
The goats are waiting
   to see if they get written out of the tale
   at the end.
The sheepdogs are waiting
   baring their teeth at malevolent shadows
   that blink with yellowy eyes
   and slink away.

The manger
   -temporarily still just a manger,
   corncrib, not crib-
      is empty but ready for the spotlight.
Zechariah and Elizabeth
   are up all night with a three-month-old
   nicknamed “Jumping Jack,”
   smelling of curdled milk and damp nappies,
   but they are waiting too.
The Magi are scrutinizing the star-charts,
   arguing, debating, pointing furiously,
      and redoing the math to no avail,
      subconsciously preparing a shopping list
         because the signs have spoken.
The Star is waiting, flaring on cue,
   testifying to portents and prophecies
   saying all that is needed
   simply by being itself.
God rubs her hands together in anticipation,
   like all parents
   when they know they have found
   the perfect gift.

So we wait too,
   on this longest night.
And while we wait, let us
   stand in awe at the vault of stars,
      who serve as witness and stage for wonders;
   breathe in stillness and alertness in this present moment
   offer up simple gratitude for the gift of hope
   sing along with celestial concerts
   practice peace for the Prince of Peace
in gratitude that God came to dwell
   among us
   as one of us
making the Creator human
and the created holy
infusing divine love into finite flesh
that we might dance with God
and truly love one another.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 22, 2022.

Dreamer: Speaking to the Soul, December 15, 2022

Matthew 1:18-25


No, that was another Joseph.

I am not the one
in many-colored coat, braggart boy, Daddy’s pet
who told his brothers they’d grovel before him, who
dreamed that the heavens would dim
before his brilliance, who lured our ancestors west
famine dogging their heels.

I never confused myself
with the messenger,
much less the message.
I work with chisel and hammer, lathe and line,
a worker of wood and hewer of timber,
not prone to flights of fancy, feet on solid ground
even after she came into my life.

It was time for a wife. So the match
was arranged, her eyes shyly downcast,
her youth convinced me my simple life would spool on. But

now she speaks of being
the handmaiden of the Lord,
but prophet, too,
breathing revolution and a child to come
who will be God-with-us,
Eternity become enfleshed wisdom and truth.
With my pledge
--and angelic visitors’ guidance.

Now I am the Joseph-guided-by-dreams, angels
arriving on beams of light under night’s curtain, drawn aside
to unveil a new future, a choice
to smother the scandal by embracing all.
My honor will be their shield.
Helpless, from child’s first cry
my arms will open to claim and name
the One through whom all creation spins into life.

No, I am not that Joseph, either.
And so I echo her “Let it be for me
according to your will,” and I
will offer my name, my arm, my heart
to child and mother
as my God commands,
even to following the Joseph path westward,
the night banged with terror through
despotic plots and angelic commands.
At your word, Lord, I will go
led by dreams, and faith.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 15, 2022.

Great Expectations: Sermon for Advent 3A

The Christian liturgical calendar has two seasons of preparation: Advent and Lent. In the early Church, Advent was actually longer—from St. Martin’s Day through Christmas Eve, and it was known as “Little Lent.” The lessons in both Advent and Lent are centered around self-examination and repentance. But after two weeks of apocalyptic visions, this third Sunday in Advent brings us something different: Joy.

The great systematic theologian Karl Barth noted, “Joy is the simplest form of gratitude.” It may be simple, but it is not easy without mindfulness. Let’s face it: we are not hard-wired for joy. We are hard-wired in our animal brains for fear, especially the fear of scarcity—and scarcity and gratitude do not coexist with each other. We have to make a conscious effort to reset our expectations in order to get to joy rather than anxiety. We have to reset our lens to look at what we have, and the way those around us enrich our lives rather than see what we don’t have, and see others as competition for scarce resources. Yet we are also made in the image of God, and God’s beloveds. That’s why “don’t be afraid,” is repeated over 365 times in scripture. One for each day of the year.

The readings we hear this Sunday are all about defying expectations. The vision Isaiah gives us this week shows a desert blooming, the weak being strengthened, the disabled made whole, waters gushing forth in the driest of places. It’s the same vision of healing and restoration that Jesus uses to define and describe his ministry in our gospel: “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”

And where does Jesus get the inspiration of this vision of abundance where there was need? From his own mother, whose Magnificat describes Jesus’s ministry even before his birth in the same way: the lowly, including Mary, lifted up, the proud and conceited humbled, the downtrodden lifted up, the hungry filled. The Magnificat begins and ends with identifying God with mercy. Mary’s vision and Jesus’s vision align, and that’s no accident. It’s a reminder of what the gospel really means and what it tells us about living into God’s generous vision for us.

Joy begets gratitude. Gratitude begets generosity. So why are these three things so hard to find in our own lives and in the culture that surrounds us? Perhaps it has to do with our expectations.

One of my favorite shows in the last couple of years has been Ted Lasso. It’s the story of an American college football coach hired to coach an underachieving English soccer club, even though he knows nothing about the game of soccer—not even the rules about offsides. The fans of the team are rabid and also cynical, having seen defeat snatched out of the jaws of victory too many times. Ted’s greatest feature as a coach is his relentless optimism. He inspires his players to believe in themselves, to have faith in themselves as a team. This sunny outlook clashes with the culture of world-weariness of the team organization and the fan base. When Ted urges the fans to keep the faith and have hope, her gets rebuffed repeatedly with the phrase, “It’s the hope that kills you.”

That’s the thing about low expectations. They become prophecy, because they suck the life out of you.

We can almost hear that same world-weariness in the tone of John the Baptist in our gospel today. Sitting in his prison cell, where he has been placed due to his stirring up the discontent of the masses against the most powerful people of his day, he had been preaching the coming of a fire-wielding, butt kicking Messiah, as we heard in last week’s gospel. He had expected the Messiah to join him in militancy.

Last week we saw John proclaiming the coming of the Lord. So much anticipation was imbedded in that gospel, which is of course so perfect for Advent. When indeed Jesus did appear, Jesus was not exactly what John had been expecting.

Isn’t that so often the case? We dream about something wonderful happening in our lives, and then reality ends up being still so random. Not worse, but different than our expectations. John had been expecting Messiah to be obvious to him. He expected Messiah to establish a certain way of justice that would reorder society the way John thought it should be.

And that’s not what he got. Instead, like Charlie Brown trick-or-treating and only getting rocks, in Matthew 4:12, John was arrested. The prophet rots in jail for seven chapters, and now, in chapter 11, he is forced to send some of his followers to attempt to ascertain whether Jesus is indeed the Messiah.

Sitting in his jail cell, John has doubts. To find the source of his disquiet, simply look at his words of prophecy. He has been foretelling doom, and judgment, and punishment. This is not the Messiah John has been expecting. John was expecting someone who would emphasize repentance more, even though Jesus certainly did plenty of that.
John was expecting vengeance!
John was expecting a leader who would be a strong man.
John was expecting some retribution at broods of vipers!

Many people, even today, especially today, expect to see that kind of God and that kind of leadership operating in the world right now. The problem with having a leader or God who is a “strong man” is that the only way he becomes a “strong man” is by taking away agency from everyone else and gathering all the power to himself and maybe his buddies. When Jesus instead focuses on healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and caring for widows John feels like he has been hoodwinked.

John has not gotten the Messiah he wanted or expected. And yet, here is his cousin, Jesus, and he is NOT some warrior king. He is not about restoring the former glory of Israel by having it rise to new military or political or economic power.

What Jesus IS about is moving among those who have been outcast. This God, we see, emphasizes mercy over retribution, in contrast to the God that many people today still seem to expect—a God of retribution and smiting, a sender of earthquakes and famines to punish millions. This God assures us that we are enough—good enough and strong enough to do an amazing thing: change the world by living as disciples and followers of Jesus.

Jesus reminds us that his ministry will surprise us. And since we are called to follow in his path, it will also lead us in ways we did not expect. It will heal us in ways we may not even think we deserve—but that’s the forces of evil whispering in our ear. “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” Jesus says. Blessed are those who embrace and follow Jesus for who Jesus is, radical enough for the best of us, instead of trying to make Jesus fit their preconceived notions of who Messiah will be.

We too live in a culture of scarcity, a culture that celebrates the lowest common denominator, a culture that is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder with war, climate challenges, and the inability to treat those with whom we disagree not as kindred but as enemies. We are ruled by fear of not being good enough.

We have been convinced that there is not enough, even as this planet just recently welcomed its 8 billionth inhabitant. Take a step back and look at what a scarcity mentality does to us. It has been scientifically proven that living in the fear of scarcity causes us to be unable to care about the future—we cast away planning for tomorrow, even when the investment is small and the reward great when we are in the grip of a scarcity mindset. Scarcity actually bathes our minds in failure, weakening us and immobilizing us, robbing us of any feeling of agency. Scarcity whispers “there’s nothing you can do,” and makes sure that you are robbed of the will to change. Scarcity robs us of having great expectations of ourselves and our power to make a difference.(1)

There is also a scarcity of decency, compassion, and humanity running about among us. We are surrounded by forces of division who gain power by mocking, spitting upon, and demonizing those who are different. We are plunged into feelings of helplessness that leads us to disengage, to believe we have no power to change obvious wrongs, to believe that our voice does not matter. We are told that we are never enough, and that there isn’t enough to go around—and we are often told that by the very people who have hoarded more than they will ever need or be able to use—and they use their excess to keep the rest of us scampering after crumbs and attacking each other.(2)

That was very much the same world Jesus and Mary and John lived in, too. Jesus’s religious opponents controlled people by shame, and the Romans controlled people by brutality and contempt—three byproducts of the scarcity mindset. Yet if you look at how Jesus and Mary define how to conquer the scarcity mindset, they do not propose exchanging one oppressor for another. They describe a vision like Isaiah describes: one in which beauty grows where there was desolation, where there is no longer one group lording it over another, but instead, where all have ENOUGH. And the way we do that is to turn from competing with each other and seeing each other as competitors in a death match of scarcity, and instead see each other as resources.

What if we reset our expectations to quiet the screaming monkey mind drumming between our ears, and instead opened our eyes to see that there is enough? Enough and more to spare! What if we invested in each other—in fulfillment of our baptismal promise to celebrate and give thanks for the potential and worth of every person? We don’t need big flashy miracles. Joining together and making sure each other had enough would be an abundant miracle, in and of itself. And that’s the kind of transformative ministry Jesus practiced among those he encountered. It’s what we are called to do as disciples.

“God is at work in the world, healing the broken paces and inviting us to see it. Live with joy!” both Mary and Jesus urge us. Open your eyes to see the wonders of God all around you, the gifts from God poured abundantly into your life with every breath that you take! The way of faith is the way of joy and gratitude, a life we can only receive once we cast away the soul-killing “certainty” that there will never be enough. It is that certainty that keeps the world at each others’ throats— rather than living by the kingdom values this season of preparation calls us to embrace for our flourishing. It’s there already. Jesus and Mary invite us to embrace abundance, to embrace faithful living, to embrace joy.

This coming week, I invite you to dedicate some time each morning and each evening specifically cultivating a spirit of joy, a spirit of expectation, a spirit of gratitude. I invite you to live in AWE: abundance, wonder, and empowerment. That’s how to live into the joy of great expectations, of gratitude for not only what we have but what we can build with each other.

Preached at the 505 on December 10 and the 10:30 am Holy Eucharist on December 11 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 35:1-10

Psalm 146:4-9

James 5:7-10

Matthew 11:2-11

Citations:

(1) See this article from the American Psychological Association: https://www.apa.org/monitor/2014/02/scarcity; 

(2) See Brene Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, 27-29 (kindle edition).

Winnowing: Speaking to the Soul, December 8, 2022

Bedeviled by thoughts ominous and thoughts profound,

wreathing fog about my noggin, sheathing
perspective, restive, I
did not know how to spy the blue sky,
to believe it abides, though veiled,
beyond the steel-gray vault of cloud.

What to keep, what to fling away,
wheat and chaff, seed and soil, shell and sand–
I cannot clear the threshing floor of mind
nor shoulder the load alone.

My Heart’s Companion whispers, “Peace.
Be still.” Fists unfurl. And the breath of prayer
sends the draff and dregs eddying away.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 8, 2022.

Embracing the Wilderness: Sermon for Advent 2A

In October 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Wilderness Act. This new law created a system to preserve and protect over 9 million acres of untouched landscape in 800 locations, ranging from deserts to cypress swamps, pristine beaches to alpine meadows, rocky crags and verdant valleys. There are no roads, no paths but the ones the animals who live there have made. There is no potable water, no wi-fi, no electricity.

These wildernesses were preserved as a recognition that even with minimal human interaction, they nonetheless have value in and of themselves as habitats for animals, as places of inspiring beauty in and of themselves, uncommercialized. These places are not viewed as resources to be exploited, but as a gift that cannot be replaced or remade once they are gone.

These diverse wildernesses were protected from disturbance, and for people to enjoy-- so long as those people abide by the wilderness ethics code, which requires human visitors to “Leave No Trace.” It also begins with the expectation to “plan ahead and prepare.” The wilderness can be a place of danger, but it can also be a place of spiritual purification and awakening. As noted author Terry Tempest Williams describes it, “A blank spot on the map is an invitation to encounter the natural world, where one's character will be shaped by the landscape. To enter wilderness is to court risk, and risk favors the senses, enabling one to live well. The landscapes we know and return to become places of solace. We are drawn to them because of the stories they tell, because of the memories they hold, or simply because of the sheer beauty that calls us back again and again. (Williams, Refuge, loc 3550/4534)

The wilderness, in scripture, was a place of extremes of heat and cold, of arid landscapes occasionally interrupted by flash floods that suddenly created short-lived rivers and streams, animals who would suddenly appear out of holes in the ground. It was a place of danger. But it was also the place where one encountered God. The place where the covenant was sealed between God and Abraham. The place where Jacob dreamed of his ladder reaching to heaven. Moses and the Burning Bush. The giving of the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. The wanderings through the Wilderness of Sin—yes, it is actually named that—where the Israelites during their exodus grumbled against God when they got hungry. The place where David hid from Saul and Elijah hid from Ahab. The place where wild-eyed prophets roamed, either fasted or ate bugs, and contended with their God.

For here is another truth: the wilderness is the place where promises are made and kept by God.

Our scriptures underscore the reminder that the wilderness is a place for exploration of the self as much as exploration of a landscape. These are also places that can call us to question the unwritten stories that often operate to support the things we do unquestioningly. It is a place of self-examination, and a place of turning. Unfortunately, for too many of us, the wilderness is a place to be avoided. It is a place that lacks creature comforts. It is harsh and unforgiving, we think. And so we create negative associations and shun the experiences that true wilderness can bring out of us. But the wilderness whether inside us or outside us, is a place where God faithfully fulfils the promise of salvation.

On Friday we went to hear Handel’s Messiah Oratorio performed at Powell Symphony Hall—the very opposite of a wilderness you can imagine. The place was decked out to the nines. There were gigantic wreaths and ribbons everywhere. There were twinkly lights hung on those wreaths and on the garlands arranged like a huge smile beneath them.

We settled back into our comfortable seats, and for two and a half hours we listened to the choir and the harpsichords and the organ and the strings and the lone bassoon and oboe and the two trumpets and especially the four soloists. The music rolled over us in waves. The words were projected up on a screen as they were sung.

And being the Biblical nerd that I am, I noticed the scriptures that made up the first half of the oratorio were almost all from prophetic books, especially Isaiah. Isaiah, the prophet most quoted by Jesus and about Jesus in the New Testament, as we saw in our gospel today. And so, sitting in that grand building, I was left to contemplate the contradiction between the idea of the wilderness and the artful music that resonated all around the audience.

From our reading in Isaiah to our passage from Matthew’s gospel, we see descriptions of wilderness. In fact, in our gospel from Matthew, we hear a prophecy from Isaiah 40—much later in the book we attribute to that prophet. But Isaiah speaks of a king sprouting up from a tree trunk that has been struck down, and that king’s reign leading to not just a restoration of justice and but a restoration of creation in which wild animals no longer prey on tame ones, and there is no longer any need for one to suffer and die for the feeding of another. Wilderness becomes a restored garden of Eden. Most importantly, the wilderness is a place where true community and working together for the common good becomes reality.

Then Matthew describes John the Baptizer as a wild man, but a wild man with a voice. “A voice cries out from the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord; make his pathways straight.”

And how does one do that, in the place where there ARE no pathways? John answers that too, by calling those he encounters there to repentance. And there’s a word from which many of us recoil, instantly. Calls for repentance are too often associated with feelings of shame, of accusation, of being considered wrong and broken. John’s own words and description here are part of that problem, in fact. But we also get a hint that John himself may have inserted his own preferences here. Jesus will defy even John’s expectations. That is why later John will be shown as questioning whether Jesus is the actual Messiah or not. With Jesus, there was a LOT less smiting and burning than John expected, and a whole lot more healing and reconciliation.

For Jesus, repentance is about healing. It’s a place where promises are made and kept by God from tender compassion and mercy. All that repentance really means is to take time to examine our lives, and where our choices and stubbornness are not serving us, to make a decision to turn. And in this way, we are being asked to understand the wilderness not as something internal, but as something that lies within us all. All that repentance really means is to have faith in the faithful love of God for us, rather than in our own shallow, misspent scrabbling after the illusion of our own insatiable appetites for more, more, more.

Too many of us fear that wilderness within us too—or at least fear really exploring it, much less acknowledging where we might need some realignment. And this awakening to our own waywardness, our own privilege—that has become such a loaded word but it is a word that MUST be spoken if we are ever to move to reconciliation and healing in our world. That acceptance of our own benefit from injustice is there, and it must become visible by looking at life through the perspectives of others when they offer us their truth. The call to repentance is a starting point for accepting the relief of God’s incomprehensible grace.

But if we do dare to be brave enough to explore the wilderness within us, we can learn that it’s not just a place of danger, impulse, and brutality. It is also a place that calls us to contemplation of who we are as people and what our actions tell others about us and our character. The wilderness inside us is a gift, because it is a place of restoration, of purification. It is a place where we get to know our true selves. It is also the place within us that God most seeks to dwell in—if only we are brave enough to invite God in, to embrace the promise of God’s abundant love for us, yes, but also the transformative gift of living by God’s abundant economy, of straightening the pathways to our hearts to let in our savior.

Externally or internally, the wilderness is no barrier to God-- God loves the wilderness just the way it is. And God spends a lot of time in the wilderness with us. It is us who want the wilderness leveled, not God. Since when does God see the wilderness and respond with a construction crew and truck full of asphalt? God’s time is NOT our time, and God’s schedule is not our schedule. God likes to take the long way home, reminding us once again that God’s home is everywhere, wherever God is but not limited to one place.

It is in the midst of the wilderness that the people are urged to faith. And the kind of faith the people are being urged to embrace is not an easy faith. It is faith that seems to fly in the face of all evidence. The wilderness is where God’s word will be proclaimed, by Isaiah and by John the Baptist and Jesus. It’s a place that strips us bare of all our illusions and vanities and pretended pride. It’s a place where our defenses against admitting our wrongdoing are shredded, but not so that we can be punished. So that we can be moved to repentance—to the turning joyfully to a new life that is more pure and truer to God’s commandments, yes, but more importantly, to a life that is truer to God’s PROMISES.

The readings we explore during the season of Advent are meant to remind us of the glorious promises which are our inheritance as people of faith. We also begin the ingathering of your promises made to support this parish and help it to flourish and to grow in its mission of being the light of Christ in the world. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the darkness and cold of winter, we are reminded of promises made and promises kept. We are reminded that Christ came to call us to unity, not division, and certainly not fear. Confident in God’s abundant plans for our flourishing, amy we make straight the pathway of Christ into our hearts.


Amen. 

Readings:

Isaiah 11:1-10

Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19

Romans 15:4-13

Matthew 3:1-12

Citations:

Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place, loc. 3550/4534, kindle edition.

Praise Now: Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022

Inspired by Caedmon’s Hymn

O God the Maker, whose creation brings forth stuttering praises of awe and wonder
from the untutored tongues of your children,
our hearts overflow now with your marvelous love.

Holy One, you weave the silken tapestry of heaven,
glorious to drink in and refresh our faith,
spread overhead like the canopy of a mighty oak
drawn anew to contemplate the depth of your wisdom.

Our feet firmly planted among the grasses,
our eyes lifted to the spangled expanse
of the roof of the world You have made, World-Warden;
we stretch heavenward like tender saplings.

You have fashioned this Earth as our home,
and made it holy by the work of your fingers
for all to rejoice in your bounty.

Gratitude and wonder are the foundation of our prayer,
surging up like a spring of water from our souls.

And now, O Creator,
gather our swirling thoughts
within the bounds of your mercy,
and grant your blessing upon us,
and all who turn their hearts to your light.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022.